Movin’ Pictures: Valkyrie

I see an inherent problem with watching films which are based off of historic events like Titanic or Apollo 13; you kinda already know what’s going to happen. The boat sinks, the astronauts make it back to Earth, and in Tom Cruise’s latest turd Valkyrie, Hitler lives.

So for movies like this to work, they need to do a really damn good job at telling you something you’re supposed to know. Although I’m sure somewhere, out there in the ether of America, is the girl I once met who didn’t know what the hell Nazi’s were. She was 17 when we met and from SoCal. I’m sure she watched this movie going, “so like, why’s everyone trying to kill that mustache guy?” So did Valkyrie deliver? Let’s review my evening.

My friends and I started off by getting drunk in a bar adjacent to the theater. Well, they didn’t get drunk; I don’t think I’ve ever seen Josh drunk and Robert doesn’t have the monetary resources to buy movie tickets AND beer all in one evening. I got drunk.

We walked over and started to watch the movie. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck the first half went by quickly. Here’s what I remember:

-Tom Cruise’s character is in a car on the African front of the war when it gets hit by heavy machine gun fire and explodes. I liked that part because I hate Tom Cruise.
-Ride of the Valkyries is played on an old phonograph long before you learn why the film is called Valkyrie. Turns out Valkyrie is the name of a contingency plan used to secure the government in case Hitler dies. The two Valkyries in the film don’t mesh well so, shit, one of them needs to go. Don’t care which one.
-I don’t speak German so aside from Hitler and Goebbels, I have no idea what each character’s name is.
-Tom Cruise is the only Nazi who doesn’t speak with a British accent.

I really want to be negative when reviewing this but aside from Tom Cruise being present I have no real complaints. Also, the guy can act so I can’t fault him for that. I can however fault him for being a fucking loon.

Valkyrie had a plot and it was executed without any mistakes. The reason this film sucked so bad was that the plot just wasn’t very interesting. It was bland. Here we have Nazis and they talk with distinction. They are stern. They are serious. They are stern, serious Nazis when they are plotting to kill Julius Caes- Adolf Hitler. They are stern, serious Nazis when dealing with the aftermath of a failed assassination attempt. They are stern, serious Nazis when they face the firing squad. But Goddamnit I just didn’t care.

It was bland. It was forgettable. It was about as dramatic as the History Channel. You don’t give a shit about any of the characters. I would have much rather watched a movie about Tom Cruise traveling back in time to kill Hitler. At least that would have made me care who dies first.

An interesting side note I learned after the fact is the descendants of Tom Cruise’s character (Ok I just looked this up; his name was Claus Schenk Graf von Strauffenberg. Um…easier to just call him Maverick) Maverick tried to bar Cruise from playing their grandfather. When that failed they tried to get the German government to prevent him from entering the country. Could they really do that? I guess they can. But this fact alone is not enough to make anyone see this stupid movie.

I'm glad I was drunk.

I give Valkyrie 2/10 corgis.

Movin’ Pictures: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

God I had such high hopes for this film. It was directed by the same guy who did Se7en and Fight Club, written by the guy who wrote Forrest Gump, and I saw the preview for it this past summer high as a fucking kite. I was really, really looking forward to seeing it.

And then I saw it.

Where to begin, where to begin? Well…let’s see. First off I need to say that the movie wasn’t terrible. It was not the most god-awful piece of shit ever. I didn’t want a refund and I didn’t walk out. I stayed and watched the entire 2 hours and 39 minutes, the whole while thinking, “What the fuck are they trying to say?!”

You can’t blame the director David Fincher for much, if anything. I took a film study (filmography?) course in college once. Got a C. With that in mind, I couldn’t find anything wrong or egregious with the directing. Isn’t that reassuring?

I place blame solely on Eric Roth, the man who wrote this…thing. Here’s the haps: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button was written by F. Scott Fitzgerald a hundred million years ago. It’s a short story about a boy who was born with the body of an old man around 1865 in Baltimore and eventually grows backwards towards infancy. Relationships for Benjamin strain for obvious reasons that I don’t think I need to explain.

OK, so we have this short story. Cool. Then along comes Eric. He decides to modern it up by having the story shift timeline-wise to a more modern setting. In fact, the movie story ends August 29, 2005. Oh and here’s the kicker; since no one in their right mind gives a shit about Baltimore anymore, he decides to have the protagonist hail from the Big Swampy: New Orleans. So…yeah. Just in case you forgot about Hurricane Katrina…here’s Hurricane Katrina.

BUT WHY?!

WHY?! It make’s no fucking sense. It makes no sense! All the other metaphors are so screamingly obvious that the screen should have flashed “MET-A-PHOR! MET-A-PHOR!” every time you saw a hummingbird or that clock that ticks backwards. But there is no reason for Katrina. It’s been a little over 3 years since the disaster. OK, I know it takes a while to write a movie and even longer to film it. So either A) Eric already had this script in the works and decided to tack in the hurricane because he’s a shill or B) he was sitting on his couch, salivating and enthusiastically watching this part of our history unfold, typing up the script in one hand and beating off with the other going “This is fucking brilliant! Why am I such a goddamn genius?!” But whatever. I like a film where everyone dies, either explicitly or implicitly, and I suppose the hurricane tied up all those loose ends.

I like Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchette. They do a good job. Brad is good people. No complaints here. And I think Cate is really super hot, plus she reminds me of an ex-girlfriend of mine who I used to have coconut-smashing sex with. They are good actors acting good.

But their characters suck. I know this movie is all about the changes they go through until they die, but why are they all physical? It’s just a bunch of static people with weird shit happening to them. The Benjamin Button you see at the beginning is the same Benjamin Button you see for 99% of the film, excluding the very end (SPOILER: he becomes a kid with dementia and doesn’t remember anything!!!!). Daisy, Ben’s love life, only has two changes from her normal “I have nothing to contribute”self. One is her mini whore phase, which isn’t really a phase and she’s not really a whore. She’s just not dating Ben. Two is when she cries temporarily for realizing she’s getting old and is no longer youthful. That’s 3 minutes out of a very, very, long, tedious film.

The ending was sad. And that’s fine. I like to curl up in a blanket with a tub of Hagen-Daz and have a Big Girl cry-fest moment every now and then. The problem is that the physical age difference between Ben and Daisy didn’t really need to be there in a movie where that difference was the whole fucking point. Dementia sucks. Period. I’m just glad that at the end of this really heavy moment they start talking about Hurricane Katrina again and you’re no longer sad. You’re annoyed. You're like "Oh Jesus not this again. Kill them. Just kill them all. I want to go home now."

Some cool shit does happen. I like the guy who gets struck by lightning 7 times. And I learned that a tug boat could take down a Nazi U-boat. So...between this and Cate Blanchette I suppose I'd watch this film again (alright I'm just going to get this out of my system. Redheads are hot. They are fucking hot as hell but there is such a fine line between a Satan's dark angel of lust and your run of the mill ugly ginger mongoloid, covered in freckles and their hair, honestly, is orange. And all redheads are insane. They...are...insane. Period.).

This is a good Netflix movie, but don’t go see it in theatres. It’s going to win an academy award.

I give The Curious Case of Benjamin Button 4/10 corgis.

Oh yeah. For those who didn’t want to know the ending...whoops.

The Drinks of Tomorrow, Today

This past Saturday Chris, the bartender over at the Arlington Cinema Draft House side lounge quit (under advice of some of the comics). Why? Because he was making dog shit working there, that’s why. Bartending in DC he could make $800-$1,000 on a weekend; he’d make that working a whole week at the draft house, if he was lucky. It seems the only time he made any good scratch there was during Saturday’s open mic.

Well if he was so keen on listening to one comic, maybe he should listen to another and heed my advice; offer customers something new. Something exciting. Something cheap and outrageously priced. Maybe some modern drinks. Like, ultra-modern. Like drinks of the not-so-distant future.

Aztec, aka El Dorado
3 parts Tequila
2 parts Goldschlager
1 part triple sec (garnish with lime slice)

A variant of the margarita. Bold yet refreshing, this drink gets you pretty riled up to the point of wanting to sacrifice someone to some non-existent pagan god. That is unless you have already converted to Catholicism, in which case the drink is now called el Altar de Christo.

Princess Diana, aka, Lady Di
1 glass red wine (Bordeaux, Burgundy, Languedoc)
1 shot of Beefeater Gin

What better way to commemorate the life of a wonderful human being and humanitarian than combining metaphors for her proud, clear, dry British resolve with her untimely end as a stain in a Paris tunnel? If you didn’t cry when you heard about her passing then you will when you drink one of these.

Poor Man’s Wine, aka, Hobo Wine
2 parts Vodka
3 parts Grape Juice

There are certain dickheads in the world called Sommeliers. They, like people selling self-help books, build their entire careers on a steaming pile of bullshit. A sommelier is a wine expert, and it’s their job to tell you what wine goes with what, which flavors (“notes”) are hidden in each one, what’s a good year, blah blah blah, and basically make you feel stupid for not knowing as much as their Asperger’s wealth of knowledge. It’s all nonsense. Make your own wine, is what I say. Most wine is pretty gnarly. I want to chug mine. Hey, I used to chug grape juice all the time when I was 5 and it was out of my sippy cup. Vodka’s neutral taste makes it ideal for mixing drinks. Hmm. If there was just some sort of logical step I could take that would combine the two…shit. Oh wait, I know. Combine the two.

Po’ Man’s Wine, aka, Juice? Nigga What the Fuck Is Juice?!
2 parts Vodka
3 parts tap water
1 packet of Shasta Grape Drink Mix powder

If you are a real “gangsta” you’ll forgo the water and mix the powder with vodka. Otherwise you’re just white.

Virgin Mimosa
Orange Juice

Given as a joke or to be enjoyed with breakfast (personally, I like it after I’ve eaten a lot of greasy Chinese food)

Unlikely Comparisons

Frankenstein vs. Jesus Christ
Both…
-Rose from the dead
-Have tool bits stuck in them
-Have creators that were playing God
-Are misunderstood monsters/Jewish

Sarah Palin’s Mouth vs. Sarah Palin’s Vagina
Both…
-Smell like moose burgers
-Are shaved
-Have retarded things coming out of them

Whiskey vs. Breastmilk
Both…
-Are administered to screaming infants
-Are the leftover by products through the anaerobic respiration of cells undergoing glycolysis; the process of turning glucose into a viable energy source
-Are delicious!
-Are “nursed”

Paris, France vs. The 7th Layer of Hell
Both…
-Have the best, fucking pastries. Seriously
-Are famous for their bloody guillotine massacres
-Are a popular destination for German Nazis

Children vs. Dogs
Both…
-Eat inappropriate things
-Can be trained with a choke chain
-Are vessels for lonely people to store their excess emotional baggage
-…like, when they act up, or break something, or shit in the house for the ga-zillionth time, you start to give serious thought to the idea of giving them up for adoption. Because let’s face it. You obviously were not ready for this much responsibility in your life. I mean, for fucks sake you work 22 hours a week at a Goddamn TGI Friday’s and have ZERO food in your fridge. Shit. Movie in with your parents while you still can and just let the state take care of “Rufus”.

How to Fight Minors Legally

I have a deep seeded hatred for anyone younger than me. Ask my friend Josh. He’s a day younger than me and I fucking hate him. I hate him, his family, his hobbies, his place of origin (England) and his new citizenship (American). I hate everything about him, simply because he lacks about 18 hours of worldly experience less than me. Fucking novice. Fucking baby.

Luckily for me, he’s 22. So when I’m over at his house and he asks if I want some hot chocolate or cookies, I can be like “Only babies like that stupid fucking kids stuff you asshole,” and then karate-chop him in the throat. All nice and legal like.

But what about minors? They are federally protected from such erroneous concepts like “abuse” and “harm”. What do you do when some kid throws up on your shoes or says “lol”, not even ironically, like instead of laughing they actually say out loud “lol” or “PWN3D” as if I’m one of their stupid little chronic masturbator friends sitting next to them in Mrs. Henderson’s class? If there was a just and mighty God He would not stand by and idly witness such unmitigated bullshit.

I don’t believe in God. I do, however, believe in Karma. And I believe sometimes Karma needs a helping hand. I’ll list them in order of increasing severity; a handy little reference for how badly you want to get these, well, I suppose they are technically “people”.

Insults
Kids are dumb. Especially kids in middle school or emotionally stunted high schoolers. They think the worst possible thing you can call someone is a fag. That is the end-all be-all, the alpha and the omega of burns to them. What they don’t realize is that 1) You’re not in school anymore and therefore not restricted to limited interaction with the same handful of people for 4 years, 2) You know and are friends with real life gays and guess what? Aside from all the dick sucking and weird clothes they’re actually normal and 3) You and your friends call each other fag so often it’s become a speech disfluency like saying “um” too much. So run with it. Next time some kid calls you a fag just be like, “Yup. That’s right. I am Mayor Gaylord Penis of the city Homopolis and I can’t wait to snap your tiny little dick off like a crouton.” Or just call them virgins. It’s 100% true and they can’t say shit. And there is no trick to destroying the emotions of a girl in middle/high school. All you do is call them fat/ugly and that no one will ever like them, dust off your hands and call it a day. Congratulate yourself; you just gave someone a life-long eating disorder.

Spit
This one is reserved for kid kids. Actual children. See, like I said before and will say until I am a sad, bitter old man recanting my life on my death bead, kids are stupid. If you spit in the face of an adult, they will understand you have committed a very serious affront. They are given the right, no, the duty to slap the shit out of you in retaliation. But not kids. Kids spit all the time. So when some kid mouths off to you or says something stupid like he’s never watched Loony Tunes before, spit right in their face. Bend down, look them straight in the eye and hock the biggest loogie square in the middle. Now run. You have just started a gross yet fun game of Spit Tag so use your long ass adult legs to get out of that scene before your clothes are stained from the rainbow candy coated sugar cereal he’s been eating for the past 3 hours.

The Finger Pincer
Your thumb and middle finger form what is the greatest martial arts move against kids; the pincer. When used appropriately it can subdue the noisiest of brats; hurt the meanest of bullies. It is your elite child assassin weapon, leaving no marks and no evidence of wrong doing. There are two key areas to attack on the body: the back of the neck and the knee. When applied to the neck, it has the effect of a dull, numbing pain, kind of like the therapy you apply to a dog or a pig that’s too wild (the next step to calming the animal is castration, which I also advocate). The subject collapses to the ground, swinging and yelling violently…but at least that little fucker’s not running around knocking over lamps and destroying things because he has ADHD and his stupid fucking mom gave him rainbow candy coated sugar cereal. When applied to the knee (on the sides, just above the knee on the lower part of the thigh), it feels like electricity. It’s actual, legitimate pain. This is best done while in the car where they can’t go anywhere and are bound to the seat. Muwahahahahaha…

Dodge Ball
If a kid is stupid enough to accept your challenge he deserves to be smacked in the face by a big heavy rubber ball traveling as fast as a light truck. Remember that bully who used to target you when you had to play this in school? You are now him x1000^satan. Game on.

Framing
One of the things I love most about my life right now is that I can walk into any store and buy alcohol and cigarettes legally. I’m still waiting for the day when I can stroll down the street, take huge riffs of a Dutch Master blunt and blow the smoke into squirrels and bees and shit. Buuuuuut kids in school don’t know that joy. In fact, I’m pretty sure even possessing any of those things on school property is grounds for immediate expulsion. Hmmmm…do you know where this future gas pumper keeps their backpack? Know where you can buy a six pack of Modelo and a pack of Camels? (hint-VA: Any gas station) Do you need me to explain this further?

Books That Never Quite Made It

I don’t read many books. I wish I did. Whenever I’m recommended a book, I find that it is always boring, gay, criminally juvenile or retarded. Let’s take a look at one of each.

An Oral History of Long Division
Despite the fact that no one is reading this aloud to you and is therefore not oral, this book could not have done more to make people hate math. As if they needed another reason to hate it. Its author Eugene Cromholtz tries to zazz-up the boring world of long division (without a calculator?!) with little quips like, “Divide and conquer, that’s your mission/find the remainder, master long division! Cooooolsville!” Too bad that’s like going to a cemetery, digging up the oldest tomb there, decorating the corpse with tensile you bought at the dollar store and calling it festive. Awesome. Now you two can rock-out all the way to Coolsville, daddy-o. Oh yeah. I don’t know how Eugene did this, but An Oral History of Long Division is considered fiction.

The Faggiest Vampire
Vampires are pretty gay looking. The male ones are always either buff, chiseled, and body hair-less versions of James Dean, or are eccentric and fruity. And every single female vampire looks like they are staring in soft core lesbian porn. The Faggiest Vampire is the story of one such vampire, Vladimir VonTrap, and his life (or whatever) as a cape wearing, show tunes listening, blood sucker. He is described as a cross between Adrian Brody and Liberace who, get this, isn’t even gay. He’s not gay! He’s just supper, supper faggy. He likes women, feeds only on women and actually gets laid pretty frequently. The problem is his lisp and how he giggles at everything when walking his very strange looking gait around the village. This causes the members of the village’s football team (go Vandals!) to fag-bash him every night. But because he can’t die, he gets fag-bashed every night, yadda yadda, catharsis, yadda yadda, suicide by stepping into the sunlight. This was written by a 16 year old goth in high school who two years after graduating brought home his first boyfriend named Rayn.

Ninja Pirates Fight Zombies at White Castle (and Then Get Laid)
DUDE! What’s cooler than ninjas? Nothing, right? Well, maybe pirates. Pirates ARRR fucking awesome! Oh man, wait. Wait. What if…you combined ninjas…AND pirates?! Holy sh-, just- DUDE! That’d be soooo cool. Just imagine a group of elite ninja pirates tearing ass. Nothing could stop them…except…maybe a hoard of the walking dead! And the ninja pirates ARRR all like “sensei always told us to attack when the moment was right, so we best find a strong hold to wait in ya land lubbers!” So they go to White Castle to find protection from the damned and live a life of opulence ‘cause who doesn’t love White Castle? Those burgers are soooo good. I made deep-fried bacon-wrapped turkey stuffed with White Castle burgers this year for Thanksgiving. Mmmm. Anyway, yeah. So the’re all at White Castle and it’s like Dawn of the Dead but not since they’re at White Castle. See, White Castle is a metaphor for strength. Oh man am I ever deep. Then the zombies break in, and they fight, and they are swashbuckling and throwing ninja stars and headshots, and stealth neck breaks and cannons and demon magic but they’re still losing until a DIMENSIONAL WORMHOLE opens up and Optimus Prime comes out and saves the day by stepping on all the zombies. Yay! And then everyone get’s laid by the Swedish Bikini Team. Yay!

Mongolian Murmurs
An expose about our shared humanity. The story of a 19th century British nurse, Elizabeth Gladstone, who travels to the Sukhbaatar providence of Mongolia on a missionary trip. There she encounters a local disfigured boy, Bath. He is unable to speak coherently and the people of his village treat him like an animal. In her infinite compassion, Elizabeth decides to take Bath back to England and culture him. The first few months prove disastrous; Bath cries whenever he steps out into the cold, British weather, he has trouble digesting their food (he, shits, EVERYWHERE), he keeps bumping his giant head into corners, and he simply refuses to learn proper table etiquette. In her desperation, Elizabeth takes Bath to the Doctors at Oxford to see what is wrong with Bath. They conclude that he is mentally and physically retarded, and it is from Bath that the word “Mongoloid” is derived. It is decided that young Bath is to be euthanized in the most humane way available in the Victorian Era. They take him into the back ally and shoot him in the head with a pistol. His brain may have already been dead but Bath’s mighty heart still beat on. It takes 7 shots (and 15 minutes to shoot and reload an old gun like that) to finally bring the boy down. In his last moments, he murmurs into Elizabeth’s ear “spoon”, alluding to their table manner lessons. In his death, he teaches us the virtues of having an extra chromosome.

Unprinted “Snapple” “Facts”

#008: People who wear loafers are either ironic or dorks
#011: No one has ever photographed 2 cats having sex
#027: When you smash a fly, you can here a tiny, blood-curdling scream
#028: Pee is totally drinkable
#029: Snapple helps you make more pee
#044: Mr. T was born in Uganda under the name M’butu Tenze
#068: We have over 100 words for “whore” but none for “girl I want to marry”
#083: Lying makes you sterile
#102: Rosie O’Donald weighs as much as the world’s heaviest hog
#110: There’s rat shit in McDonalds hamburgers
#131: Lead is delicious
#144: A modern Jaguar is nothing more than a glorified Ford Torus
#165: Bigfoot isn’t real, but giant, hairy, inbred, rednecks who want to rape you are
#168: That Sahara Desert fucking sucks
#173: A baby Frenchmen is called a “croissant”
#194: Barack Obama and Tiger Woods are the same, amazing person
#205: The more red meat you eat, the thicker and more virile your sperm becomes
#212: Fat people have 3 eyelids
#223: Justin Timberlake sold his soul to the Devil for a box of crayons when he was 7
#225: Jumping into a vat of chemical waste will not turn you into The Joker
#234: There are 62,344 dots in the ceiling tile above my head. I counted
#247: Veal is more nutritious than pita bread
#251: Pokemon cards are used as currency in Japan
#259: There is such a thing as “dick cheese”; it is similar to brei.
#270: The top 3 causes of death in America are 1) heart disease, 2) accidents, 3) me
#276: Andrew “Action” Jackson is the only President to have quotation marks in his name
#284: A penny is worth 3 pesos in Nicaragua; it is worth dog shit in America
#289: Cousin marriage is legal in 48 states; sibling fondling is legal in 12
#299: The essence of independence has been to think and act according to standards from within, not without. Inevitably anyone with an independent mind must become "one who resists or opposes authority or established conventions": a rebel. If enough people come to agree with, and follow, the Rebel, we now have a Devil. Until of course, still more people agree. And then, finally, we have ---Greatness.

The Legend of Squirrel Boy

*hic* Now, there all kinds of stories out there. Good stories…bad stories. Stories about baggin’ an impossible woman or stories about the fish who got away. But *hic* only drunks tell stories about fish ‘n’ women. And I ain’t drunk yet. ‘Cause I can drive right now and it’s not a problem, but I’m not taking you scouts to Denny’s. No. No shut up and stop asking me. We are going to tough it out here *hic* in the woods…’cause that’s what Squirrel Boy would do

What? You mean you never heard the legend of Squirrel Boy? Oh man, what do they teach you kids in school? Squirrel Boy is our very own suburban, wild-child legend like Tarzan and Mogley, but this one’s real! I swear it! *hic* It’s those others that are fake! You see, Mogley was brown and he hung out with tigers and orangutans, and the only place on earth that has brown people, tigers and orangutans is like Indonesia. I think. But there are no bears and wolves there! That’s bullshit. And baby Tarzan would have been eaten by gorillas. Soulless bastards. When I was a Black-Ops stationed in Nicaragua I…yes I so was stationed in Nicaragua as a Black-Ops, Jason. Shut up and don’t interrupt *hic* the scout leader…we ran into a coke smugglin’ racket and whole buncha those fuckers. Beat every last one of ‘em to death with my boot. But that’s a story for another *hic* time.

You boys wanna hear the story of Squirrel Boy? Well hand me a marshmallow and another beer and I’ll tell you a real life legend. *hic* Ah Jeeze, um, a “real legend” is like Clint Eastwood, Jason and if you interrupt me again I’m sticking you on latrine duty for the rest of the week. Now cork it.

They say it was prom night. ’92. Back then, a Hillbilly was elected to the highest office in the land, Goof-Troop was teaching a brand new generation how to hate Disney, and all the kids were rockin’ out to Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit and I Will Always Love You by Whitney Houston. *hic* It was a pleasant evening filled with lust and gaiety…except for the hate filled unpleasantness that was birthed in the girl’s locker room bathroom. Some say it was Becky Peterson’s, since she had been dating, or “going steady”, with Kyle Ratner since freshmen year. Others say it was Abby Summers’, since everyone knows she gave 3 hand jobs on the band trip. And some think it was one of the Latina chicks’ that no one gave a shit about but it makes sense since she was Latina. All we know is that from these humble beginnings emerged the greatest hero/monster *hic* this county has ever seen: Squirrel Boy.

There in the dumpster, next to piles of glitter-ific prom decorations and yesterday’s Spaghetti-Fish Surprise, young Squirrel Boy was unceremoniously deposited to be forgotten among the refuse. But God works in mysterious and inefficient ways. That is the same dumpster where the Glenpark Squirrel Clan was foraging for food. “What *hic luck!” they chattered in squirrel. “This meat is still warm and fresh!” Some say it was the 100 toxic squirrel bites he received; others say he was simply born a freak. But on that day a creature, not quite a boy, not quite a squirrel, found his place in the world. He was adopted right there on the spot by the Glenpark Squirrel Clan, raised as one of their own, learned the ways of the squirrel, how to survive a short, brutal existence. How to forage, how to fight off the Maplewood Street Squirrel Clan, these were the skills he learned. *hic* Not like you kids. He knows nothing of this “George Washington”, and fractions mean little to nothing to him.

And so he was raised. He grew tall and strong like a proud gray squirrel, and…Jason I’m not going to tell you again to shut up or I swear to God I’m going to leave you here and tell your parents you were eaten by a bear and when it attacked, you shit your pants. Shut. The. Hell. Up. Now hand me another beer. Squirrel Boy was the boy without fear; with a wild, unkempt mane of brown hair and a Doritos bag for underwear, he took on dogs, lawnmowers and even ran across 4 lane streets. He was an expert a stealing from garbage cans, and a genius at getting seed from bird feeders that have those *hic* squirrel stopper tube thingys on them. He was king of the squirrels. He took a mate at age 12. He fathered no offspring.

But his greatest exploit came around 2005, the events of which would rock the landscape of the sleepy little suburb of Audubon forever. We all remember the Great L’Shawna Sex Scandal that finally sank the career of Mayor James “Buddy” Hackle, right? Right? You kids, remember don’t you? You know, mayor…caught with a black prostitute in a motel with a kilo *hic* of blow…it was like 3 years ago. Oh yeah, yeah. You, don’t, vote. My bad. ANYWAY. Squirrel Boy is directly responsible for the sleaze-lord’s demise.

Story goes like this; Buddy is in the Motel 8 up on Fairview for somewhere between 3 and 4 hours, doin’ blow and L’Shawna. So he’s doin’ a line, plowin’ L’Shawna, another line, *hic* L’Shawna, on and on for a while. Obviously, this builds up an appetite. So he gets into this routine where after he’s done having limp-dicked prostitute sex, -hey don’t tell your parents you heard this story from me- he gets dressed, wipes his nose, puts on some sunglasses even though its like 8 at night, and walks over to the Red Lobster, you know, mingle with the common folk, get a shrimp platter to go, real respectable like. But little did he know that Squirrel Boy is in the back *hic* dumpster getting at all the half eaten lobster tails. Buddy leaves through the back so as not to draw attention to himself. For one thing, *hic* he was still high as a fucking kite. And two, he reeked of sex. And three, he didn’t want to answer questions as to why his shrimp platter was free.

So out the back Buddy leaves, heading back to the Motel 8. Up on Fairview…*hic*. *cough* And Squirrel Boy follows, drawn to the irresistible scent of shrimp and sex. Verrrry stealth fully, verrry squirrel-like, he manages to keep his *hic* distance without being noticed. The mayor reaches the room and goes inside. He pops a few shrimp and goes right back to L’Shawna. All the while Squirrel Boy is watching them go at it. It becomes too much for his walnut-sized brain. With the strength of *hic*…100 squirrels, he busts open the window and jumps in. Buddy freaks and runs out the room butt-ass naked. Totally dips out on that scene. *hic* Squirrel Boy eats a bunch of shrimp real quickly, you know, nibbling really fast, and then sets his eyes on L’Shawna. He rapes her. He rapes her and he *hic* doesn’t know it. ‘Cause he’s a fucking squirrel, damnit. He finishes up in like a minute and then runs off into the night. So one thing leads to another and the cops are called. *hic* and it all turns to shit. The mayor is found out, boom. Indicted. And L’Shawna gets time for being a hooker. She said it wasn’t a Squirrel Boy, but her hairy little Puerto Rican boyfriend who ate all the shrimp and raped her. But we know what really *hic* fuckin’ happened. Right? RIGHT KIDS?! Yeah thas right.

You’ll tell ‘em. You’ll tell the world *hic* our story. Th-this is our herit-age. They can’t…fuckin’…tear down these woods to make fuckin’ Jiffy Lube, ‘cause, this, this is Squirrel Boy’s home. This is his HOME! And *hic* we we’re just borrowing it. Bless you, SB. You-You’re my boy! You’re my BOY! *hic*

*barfs*

*passes out*

Don’t Touch My Animes

Anime is weird. That’s because it comes from Japan and that whole island nation is like one big neon-colored American barf on acid. Well, not the whole island. But their pop-culture sure is.

Some people really have a hard-on for this stuff. I don’t know. All anime seems so similar and unoriginal to me that it borders the mundane. But how can this be? Japan is fucking bonkers. I want to attempt to break down anime; distil it and see what it, and Japan, is all about. I get the impression that I’ll run into a “chicken or the egg” scenario, a “life imitating art or art imitating life” Catch-22. Maybe I’ll find out if Japan is the good kind of crazy – the kind that’s like that homeless wine-o bum who’s totally incoherent but creates whole genres of music out of instruments he made out of garbage, or the bad kind of crazy – the paranoid schizophrenic who stalks Britney Spears and cuts out her eyes in pictures of her from magazines.

I’m not going to pretend I know a thing about Japan, Japanese culture, Japanese pop-culture, or Anime. Hopefully I can find some reoccurring themes. My info comes from the following sources:

Anime: 15%
Greasy nerds bitching on the internet: 23%
Anthony Bourdain: 12%
Vice magazine: 11%
Porn: 30%
Other: 9%

Almost Every Anime Involves Fighting
I don’t know how to elaborate on this. Everything is about some samurai cowboy who needs to “level up” so he can enact revenge against the mafia’s power energy karate squad who killed his master. Like, that’s the whole plot. If Bruce Lee were alive and Japanese I’m sure he’d be mad as hell. Otherwise I’m sure he’s walking around Chinese heaven, looking down at these shows and going “This is bullshit”. Maybe they like fighting so much because they have to. Maybe karate and sumo is just a way for them to tout some muscle against China’s billion-man army of Xiaolin ninjas (fyi, China and Japan hate each other). Oh and one more thing. The moral behind all these fighting shows seems to be that if you believe in yourself and your friends while they are simultaneously believing in your and themselves, you can win any fight. I guess they never heard of “you and your boys just jump this motherfucker” because that’s how smart people win fights.

Their Sense of Humor is Weird
Around the turn of the 20th century two great things were invented in America: assembly line car production (thank you, Henry Ford) and humor (thank you, Jews). It’s amazing how the Japanese can excel so far at one and suck so hard at another. When I drive around in my Toyota, I’m not listening to the latest Kenji Tonegawa “Happy Parents Glorious Shame” comedy album. You know what’s big in Japan now? Vaudevillian buddy comedy acts. I’m not fucking with you. Like straight up, Abbot and Costello, straight man and foil, “who’s on first?” comedy routines. I thought these fuckers were supposed to be more advanced than us. They are so good at taking things and streamlining it down to perfection, so how could they screw humor up so bad? There’s a formula for God’s sake. Remember the first time you saw Mr. Hanky? He was funny because, while being overall nice and singing charming, wholesome holiday songs, he was also a repulsive brown lump of shit that left stains everywhere. I saw the Japanese equivalent; it looked like a big dollop of strawberry frozen yogurt with sunglasses. Sorry, shit. You don’t look like shit. You look like you should be palling around with Hello Kitty.

Little Girls are Powerful and Sometimes Evil
Did you ever watch The Grudge or The Ring? Yawn. The protagonist/villain is always some little girl who is crazy powerful and scary. Just wait 3 more points until you get to the thing about Japanese sex and then you’ll see why this is so ironic.

We Totally Fucked Them Up with Our Nukes
Our bad. But you gotta admit, that shit was pretty cool. I like how things in Anime just can’t explode. It has to be a bomb of biblical proportions. Characters can destroy cities with bombs, lasers, energy beams and even sometimes through squatting and grunting really really hard. An anime just isn’t an anime unless an entire zone is completely leveled. But anime bombs are just “big explosions”. I’d love to see them show what a nuke is really like, complete with radiation sickness and people’s skin coming off like the outer layer of a burnt marshmallow.

ROBOTS!
Yup. They sure do love robots. Fun fact: Japanese people have no hearts and wish to become robots. In anime, robots fight. Sometimes they have giant 20 foot tall robots with people inside controlling the Plasma Rifles and Rocket Punches. They even get to wield Beam Swords. Too bad the closest things we have to actual robot fights are Rock ‘em Sock ‘em Robots, Battle Bots, and when two drunk construction workers get pissed off at each other and decided to duke it out in a bulldozer demolition derby. There are also animes where it’s like Pinocchio but with robots (quick aside, the movie A.I fucking SUCKED). Did you know the CEO of the Honda Motor Company Takeo Fukui lost his son Asimo in a (Honda) car crash? This is what you get when you cross a billionaire’s dead son, a Honda Accord, and a little bit of the 6 Million Dollar Man.

They Either Don’t Know How to Have Sex or Are Fucking Lightyears Ahead of Us
First, lets just get this out of the way– Japanese vaginas are not horizontal and don’t go from thigh to thigh; they’re vertical and go from belly to butthole like normal vaginas. Good. Now we can proceed. Anime that’s porn is called Hentai. Because they are drawings, there is no limit to what is possible in Hentai porn. Yet somehow, and I really, really, regret to inform you, this does not make it any more horrible than “regular” Japanese porn. Sure, Hentai runs the gamut from boring office sex to, oh hell, I don’t know, an entire class of bug-eyed under aged girls getting tentacle raped by a demon Kraken…and then there’s the porn acted out by real live Japanese.

Let me just say, women DEFINITELY got the shit end of the sex stick in Japan. Women poop, get pooped on, poop out 100 live baby eels (NOT LYING OH GOD I WISH I WAS), fuck dogs, and basically do everything short of consensual, enjoyable sex. Even when you take out the smoke and mirrors of butt eels and dog cocks and are left with just one man, one woman, meat and potatoes missionary sex, the woman never, ever, EVER, looks like she’s enjoying it. She’s always in pain, squealing like only pigs and children can. Jesus. I don’t get off on children or rape, or raping children. But there are plenty of guys who are. They go to Japan to indulge in, literally, any sexual fantasy you wan. Like if you want to go fuck a doll in a doll brothel or grope some lady in a fake subway car you can buy it. But let me ask this: if they are so fucking advanced sexually, then why is it that birth rates are declining and the President of Japan had to come out and tell the people to fuck more? Why is it Japanese woman no longer feel romance?

(Note: I would link every one of those last few questions, the sex fantasies you can pay for and the butt eel stuff to the articles where I read about it but I’m at work right now)

Ok, now remember what I said about horror movies and little girls being super scary and powerful. Doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Or does it?

Santa’s Letter to Children

To every young boy and girl,
Merry Christmas to all!
There’s something I must tell you
That I’ve been thinking since Fall

I am Jolly ol’ Saint Nick;
The king of Christmas Season,
This year’s naughty or nice rules
Will change for good reason.

The times, they are getting tough.
With the economy in the trash,
My operation is now running
On federal bail-out cash

So this holiday season
Our shared plight will be comical.
I’m cutting all expenses.
Christmas just got economical!

To save Christmas this year
Many things must go missin’;
I laid off 2000 elves.
I put down Donner and Blitzen.

The naughty will get squat.
I’m keeping all the coal.
Punishing them is too expensive.
Keeping warm is now my goal.

The good children this year
Will get cheap old-fashioned toys;
Paper dolls for the girls, and
Wooden crap for the boys.

You want a better gift?
You’re out of luck, I’m afraid
…Unless you have rich parents,
Then I’m sure we can work out a trade

I need to make some cash.
I’ll take out ads on the sleigh!
I’ll hock Viagra and Google,
Coke, and Ruby Tuesday!

Could you leave out some cookies?
Please? I must get weighty.
I’m living off food stamps.
I’m around a lean 280

All over the world
I have different qualities and tunes.
In Japan I am “santakurosu”
And I live on the moon.

But there is one thing we all share
And it’s my saddest, deepest confession:
Christmas will suck this year, for
We are in the new Great Depression

HO HO HO! Keep on a-rockin’ in the free world!

PEACE!

The Uberman Sleep Schedule

On average, most people sleep for 8 hours, every day. That’s 1/3 of your entire life devoted to being bedridden. I don’t know about you but I have shit to do; hands to kiss, babies to shake and whatnot.

I happened to stumble upon a little thing called the Uberman Sleep Schedule. Basically, you end up sleeping for 3 hours a day, broken up into six, 30-minute chunks. I don’t know if it was named after Nietzsche’s insomnia or Superman’s speed habit, but damn if those guys didn’t change the world.

Discovered by singer Michael Stipe, your brain needs a certain chunk of time devoted to stage-4 REM sleep, the stage responsible for regenerative health, actual rest, dreams, and nocturnal emissions. The other 3 stages are just for showing off. Once adapted to the Uberman Sleep Schedule, you don’t have time to go through the first 3, so your brain is all, “aw fuck it, just give me the good stuff”. It’s making sleep more efficient; if we are all sleeping in Ford Excursions, we need to shift over to the Toyota Prius.

Here’s the best part: There are no studies that examine the long-term physical and psychological side effects. Ooooooooooooooooooh! I love science experiments. So, guess what I did…

Day 1
Shifting my sleep cycle is not easy. I don’t feel rested. I feel like I stayed up for a whole day. The naps are bullshit, too. I didn’t sleep at all during any of them. After every one I wake up and exclaim “this is retarded”, then contemplate quitting.

Day 3
Nothing has stuck and I am completely thrashed. Who the fuck thought of this? It was either a crazy person, or one of those guys in All Quiet on the Western Front who live under heavy artillery bombing for 4 days. Either way I am so grumpy and hating life that I could choke someone if I only had the strength.

Day 7
Things are finally starting to smooth out. My naps are going well and I’m actually starting to feel well. An interesting side effect of all this is that I eat like fat kid. Anything I want, in whatever quantity I want, I eat. You should see my dumps. It’s like going to the beach, sticking both hands into the shore line and pulling up as much wet sand as possible. It’s like that, but constantly. I crap like a Shetland pony. Shitland pony.

Day 15
I’m in the full swing of things and there are some interesting side effects. A good one is that my dreams have become super intense. The last one I had, I was running down a long hallway in some industrial office building with all these armed guards chasing me. They were firing, just trying to stop me. But then I was like, “hey, those insignificant worms can’t stop me!” so I turned around and beat them all to death, dodging bullets and knives. I was a one man army. Then the Pentagon blew up. I let out a maniacal cackle. Except it felt like I really was there; like I really should be doing this. That brings me to another side effect. I have the most rock-hard wood, ever. It’s not as great a thing as you would expect. Sure, my girlfriend wants to cuddle it 27/7, but I have completely lost my sex drive. Now sex just seems so…pointless.

Day 23
I have completely lost the concept of a day. Days no longer exist. Now I think in hours. “2 hours until I sleep again, 1 hour until I must feed, 7 hours until the sun rises again, 18 until the news comes on and I get to watch all the pathetic nobodies of the world scurry around in their short, pointless lives.” I watch my girlfriend sleep at night. How can she be so lazy? I’ve grown to dislike her. Usually I wander the halls aimlessly. I feel like I am in prison. When I’m not doing that, I’m either drawing up blueprints, schematics, things of that nature, salvaging raw materials (pieces of pipe, clock parts, stuff like that) or reading. Currently I’m reading Industrial Society and its Future by Theodore Kaczynski and The Book of the Law by Alister Crowley.

Day 31
I’m going to go now. My mission is clear to me, and I must leave hastily. I only have 2 hours to complete my work before I must rest again, and I figure I have a good 20 minutes to get away before the police arrive. I let my girlfriend live (although I don’t think she will want to stay in our relationship after what I did to her). I need her to live, to tell the world my story and why it must be cleansed. Otherwise what’s the point in being Jesus Christ if you’re not going to be recognized for it? Those pathetic low-lives. Those worms. I hope they appreciate what I have done. I hope they appreciate all that I have sacrificed for them. Me! I am the superior male, the Alpha Dog of this plane, and I sully my hands to save their wretched planet! Second to none, superior to all…

Day 2
Hey folks. Sorry for going all High School angst on you. I was kinda loopy. My plan to blow up the headquarters of credit card companies was not only blatantly stolen but also ill-planned. First off, I didn’t have nearly enough pipe bombs to take down one building, let alone five, and second, my pipe bombs were nothing more than pieces of pipe stuffed with clock parts. When the cops showed up they found me yelling and throwing garbage at an SUV, and the police chief later told me he had never seen a pair of underwear filled with as much crap, and frankly, he was surprised at how comfortable I (apparently) looked walking around in them. My girlfriend explained my situation with them. She’s not pressing charges because throwing a pillow at her doesn’t count for assault, and the credit card companies aren’t pressing charges because no one was hurt and they knew I was nuttier than squirrel shit. So the state is letting me peace-out for a few days in a mental health facility. It’s pretty rocking. The amphetamines they have me on to adjust to a normal sleep schedule are designed to keep me up for a while, and then have me crash. They give me a lot of gas. Which is fine by me.

I’m used to it.

2 > 1, Always

What’s better than a girlfriend? Women will tell you a boyfriend. A married man will tell you a dog. Everyone else will tell you two girlfriends, and I’m inclined to believe that.

See, this isn’t hard to prove; something is better than nothing, so two somethings must be better than one something. It works for so many things: hotdogs, guns, sexual partners. But there’s no challenge in proving this.

For today’s blog entry, I’m going to prove that two of anything is always better than just one, even bad things. See, no one has a problem with hotdogs, guns or sex. But what if you find yourself in one of life’s many “God, I wish I just never have____” moments? Nothing was better than something shitty, correct? Or can two wrongs make a right?

First up are car crashes. Jesus Christ these suck, and most importantly, are pretty likely. I’m not going to use far-out examples like clubbing baby seals or snorting coke of a stripper’s ass since you guys are pedestrian as fuck and don’t live my life. So, yes. Car crashes. Let’s say you rear-end someone. That sucks and it’s all your fault. But what if you collided with two cars? What if you hit one guy, but they hit the second guy, but then that guy hits you? Well then you can at least have a prayer of a chance of not getting stuck with the hot potato of blame. Besides, if a situation like that happened, then road conditions must have favored it. Black ice, hit two people, act of God, pass GO, collect $200.

Or how about a major financial institution going belly up? Let’s say only Freddie Mac choked on its own vomit. Ok, that’s pretty bad. Why should you suffer while your emotionally stunted neighbor still gets to live her incredibly lonely, cat-filled existence in a house? But thankfully, Fannie Mae, Leman Bros. and a whole cadre of other assholes went under. Now everyone’s screwed, together! That makes me feel a little better. Besides, this whole situation is so massive, a system that is as colossally fucked up ours really needed a cleansing fire. The old, disease filled trees of the insurance forest needed to burn so financially responsible saplings can take root. Of course millions of little squirrels will be flambéed (no bitching; remember I’m in the same situation as all of you) but if this is what it takes so that houses finally become affordable again, then it can’t be all that bad.

Don’t you just fucking hate the Olson twins? Here they are summing up their career: “Oh hey, we were born, then we’re on Full House. Wasn’t that show great? Then…we did about 15 movies for Disney that all revolve around the same 3 plots. Then we disappeared for a while but we weren’t like totally gone, like our dad invested our money into a really shitty clothing line…and hey! Now we are legal so people care about us again!” They are Lindsay Lohan, Miley Sirus Hillary Duff, all those bitches rolled into one times two. And you know what? Good. That means their faults are doubled too. Remember when one went into rehab for being anorexic (or on coke)? Or when Heath Ledger died in one of their apartments? I can’t remember which Olson twin was involved with what situation but it doesn’t matter. Since they built a shallow, superficial career on being two people, they are stuck together for life. Forever will they be a rich, bitchy albatross hung around each other’s neck, amplifying each other’s faults and shortcomings, and that makes for good, mindless TV viewing for the rest of us

The Devil sent 5 Guys to Earth to punish human beings. Those burgers…shit. Something that delicious has to be bad for you. Eating those things make my chest hurt. But what if…you are Major Alan “Dutch” Schaefer, traveling through the dense Guatemalan jungle to rescue captured CIA agents, but as you trek forward, a cloaked, IR seeing, reptilian humanoid alien stalks and brutally murders all your compatriots? And for 2 days straight you’re just running through the jungle while fighting this fucking thing, and you’re like “fuck…I am HUNGRY!” You look around and find in, shit I don’t know, an old log or something, a bag with two 5 Guys burgers with a buttload of fries. You’d eat both, wouldn’t you? And the fries. With gusto. The same question applies with two Blooming Onions, Death by Chocolates, and Deep-Fried Turduckens. If you’re going to have a heart attack you might as well fucking enjoy it, amirite?

My Hummer Still Rules

I have no idea what everyone is bitching about these days. You ever notice how the only people who complain about Hummers drive foreign made cars, or worse, they take the smelly poor-people bus? Fuck you and fuck the world. My hummer is still my golden cock-chariot of power and capitalism. It’s still the best, damn car made in America, the best, damn country in the world, so therefore, the best damn thing I can buy. And I like that name Hummer too, you know? Going to pick up some milk is like being constantly blown by a hot, chubby gal, or like riding my secretary to the store. Makes me all tingly.

Ok, ok. Everyone’s talking about how GM, Ford and Chrysler are going to congress to get bail outs for their companies, and you know what I have to say about that? Big, fucking, deal. I get money and tax breaks from the government all the time. These are men a regular, Joe six-pack like me can really relate to. I really want to take these guys out to the old country club and knock back a few martinis and Chilean sea bass sushi . Then put in a quick 9 down at the links before comparing business strategies. Oh and by the way. Theirs was NOT flawed. It’s the consumer’s fault they are going under. Everyone knows the golden rule of buying a car: its 1 for the price of 2. If you can’t afford the necessary repairs then goddamnit, get a fucking horse. These are the same shortsighted people who fucked up the housing market.

This summer I was hearing so much crap when gas prices spiked at $4.10 a gallon. “Haha, you stupid idiot! Have fun filling that fucker up!” Hey, guess what? I did. I was laying down about a hundo a week on that thing. Nothing like filling up at a station and looking over at all these poor motherfuckers, mouths gaping, and just staring at me. Total shock. It was like my whole body was giving these saps the finger. Besides, I knew the pendulum would swing back to my favor. I got an inside guy with the oil spectators union. I knew what was going to happen months in advance. Let’s just say through some creative investments, I might as well have stolen the shit. Anyway, it was still way cheaper than what I spend on blow every week. And now that gas is back to like, what, $1.70 a gallon? Shit those are Clinton prices (hate that guy). Guess who looks stupid at the pump now?

I love this country almost as much as I love my Hummer. Only in a place like America can a coked-up, ex-stripper, junior high school drop out become the CEO of a fortune 500 company through litigation. That’s why I take personal offense at any sand fucking nigger jawa that hijacks a plane and crashes it into any of my World Trade Centers. I will fucking hunt them down across the deserts, the mountains, or the torn up concrete decay that was once a city (the hummer has driving settings for all 3). Fuck them. I want their oil. There will be no mercy. This thing was built for war. I got the Hummer Imperial. That comes with a rack on top for an attachable, bolt-on gat. Although I won’t personally be going, I will send my pool boy Julio. He looks to be some sort of Spanish so that means he was either a rebel freedom fighter or in a gang. Regardless, he knows how to fire a gun. They all do.

Another thing I really hate are those hippy, tree-hugging, pinko communist, granola-and-tofu-eating, stoner, hairy armit, dirt worshipers who have the audacity to call my car “Valdez”. Fuck the lot of you. “Oooh oooh save the Earth! Animals have rights too!” No they don’t. The animal which takes the most human lives a year in America are deer through car crashes. Well I’m one young buck that ain’t going that way. My car is so fucking awesome that just last week I ran over a bear. Just try and stop me! “Wah wah, your car is adding to greenhouse gasses and the ice caps are melting and polar bears are going extinct.” Ok, 1) Global warming has been proven wrong 25 years ago, 2) As a Christian I welcome the End Times with open arms, and 3) Don’t you ever speak ill of my Hummer that way! The Hummer is a dying species. Where is the outcry for when the last Hummer rolls off the lot? I’m a conservationist; I use every part of the Hummer. Just as recent as 3 years ago, you could look out and see whole dealerships of majestic Hummers roaming the great American highways. But now? *sigh*. I’m afraid one day the last Hummer will die and wind up being silent and gawked at in a car museum, just like that shellacked whale head I have hanging over my fire place.

Well, it was nice talking to you, but I have to get going. I need to be in the south of France in 8 hours and my pilot hates leaving late. I hate going to France but damn if they don’t have some of the best beaches and runny, smelly cheese in the world. The women aren’t too shabby either. I like taking a few home with me. You know, souvenirs. The Hummer sure can hold a lot of old, dead, French hooker bodies. Again, just another reason why my hummer still fucking rules.

Drugs Are (Mostly) Bad

Let me ask you this. Have you ever had to babysit a particularly fat kid before? It’s 2 in the afternoon, you look up from you copy of Atlas Shrugged (or Teen People, whichever) and you notice the Xbox has been silent for 20 minutes? So you get up to look for Jeremy and find him sitting on the kitchen floor. His pudgy, little legs are splayed out and resting on his lap is a dusty, incredibly old, half eaten box of chocolates, and this kid is just fucking going to town on them. He is gorging himself so much that he looks like he’s doing an unintentional black-face of Fat Albert. And as you loom over him (he doesn’t hear you coming through all the chewing) he stares up at you and tries to utter “I can’t help myself” but instead burps and throws up just a little bit of semi-digested chocolate that looks not unlike diarrhea, which makes you gag even more when he promptly swallows it again. Ever have that happen to you?

Jeremy isn’t lying when he says he can’t help it. He is a Chocoholic (in addition to having Type 1 Diabetes). He is addicted to chocolate. If the urges inside him are suppressed long enough, he can go into withdrawal and die. Sure, his parents will be sad for like, a week, and the rest of the general public will be all, “hey, yeah man that’s fucked up but now I want some chocolate”, but all of this is a microcosm for the world of drug addiction.

If you have an “edgy” friend, you know, the one that LOVES Family Guy, says he would have gay sex with Jesus Christ because Jesus loves him and tells a version of the Aristocrats joke involving an aborted fetus, you know 3 things are missing from their lexicon (vocab); racial stuff because they’re scared, humor, and proper drug references. It’s always heroin, crack, meth, heroin, crack, meth, heroin, crack, meth. Pro-tip: dude, calling meth The Ice is way funnier. I’m going to run a mini gamut of lesser-known drugs and their accompanying addictions so your stupid friend can have some fresh material.

(and to inform the public, prevent deaths, save children blah blah blah yadda yadda)

Ketamine
Would you ever eat dog food? Probably not. So don’t take dog medicine. Ketamine, along with garden variety tranqs are the main reasons drug addicts break into veterinary clinics. This stuff is pretty heavy, acting on some parts of the brain and even different parts if taken in strong enough doses. It’s like having your brain ripped in half. One time I was smoking with a friend of mine. We went back to his parents place, crashed on the couch and started watching COPS. Casually he pulled out some K and did a line right off the coffee table. He’s not a bad person and is your run-of-the-mill fuck up, but he has been in so much trouble he was at a point being chased by two police helicopters.

Adderall
This stuff is like coke for rich kids. It’s a mixture of 4 different kinds of amphetamine salts, and it get’s you jazzed- supposedly. I’ve heard all sorts of stories about people who’ve taken it and gone on to perform incredible feats of human strength and endurance. Which is cool; I’d love to Hulk-out and run 5 miles and then wrestle a pack of wolves without getting tired, but when I took some (thank you, K friend) I just sat at my desk and counted out loud the 68 beats/min my heart was pounding. Maybe I should have had a goal or task or something.

Keyboard Cleaners
I don’t have to say shit because this video, on top of saying it all, is probably the biggest piece of Schandenfreude in existence. Thank you, A&E’s Intervention.

Methadone
This pisses me off. How can you say something that’s already been said perfectly? This is what happens when you have a book report and you only read the cliff notes. Well, I made it through high school English, I can write this. I know! I’ll write this the same way I passed English, by copying the cliff notes. This is an excerpt from Vice Magazine’s Guide to Rehab: “Is there a substitute for heroin? AA will tell you it’s a “higher power of your choosing.” Religion will say it’s God. Your brain will tell you it’s food, sex, and money. Every state hospital and social worker in the world will tell you it’s METHADONE. It’s an opiate that’s taken orally, so you don’t get the rush from shooting or sniffing it. Once you’re high, though, it pretty much feels like smack. And methadone totally does cure your dope habit—by giving you a whole new addiction that is way, way harder to kick! I have friends who did heroin for 2 years and methadone for the next 12. You know when you see junkies on the street with their hair and teeth falling out? It’s mostly from methadone, not heroin. On heroin you’ll pick at your face and such, but it certainly doesn’t make your teeth fall out. Since doctors regulate the methadone high, you can stay hooked on it forever. Do heroin for too long, with its wildly varying quality from bag to bag, and eventually you’re going to OD.”

We’re All Going to Hell, Especially You

Life is complicated. And confusing. And down right completely cruel. How can we cope with this cornucopia of cacophony that we call continuance?

Alliteration aside, any amateur can amass the appropriate amount of attention toward- ok fuck this.

FUCK THIS. You are going to Hell! So is your mother, your dad, your dog, your mailman, your boss (good), the guy you hit with the car, that girl on the metro you fell in love with for 20 seconds, and Barack Obama. Get down on your knees and pray, sinner. For we are all guilty in the eyes of the Lord/Lords/Deities above who clearly let out a simple set of rules to follow. But nooOOOOOooooOOOOooooooOOOO. You just had to go ignore all this good stuff from up above and fuck up your chances for eternal bliss. SHIT. Might as well know why.

The Ten Commandments came straight from the mouth of God to Moses’ chisel. Everyone’s gotten busted for at least 2 of these. I’m not even talking about the minor ones like theft or murder. I’m talking about the hard-core, raw-dog crimes that make God cry. Like bearing no false witnesses before Him. Hmm? Yeah. Have you ever watched a little television program called, AMERICAN IDOL?! Oh that’s right you fucking heathen! Some of you rooted for Clay, some Rubben. But you all forget that the true Idol is Billy Idol.

Then there are a bunch of small minor rules you can break in the bible. Technically you’re not supposed to eat meat on Fridays or bugger other men. That took care of the entire North American continent. If you don’t eat meat, then you are a vegetarian who’s going to Hell anyway for sodomy. Some places like Texas, the land of Steers and Queers, got fucked over doubly for being meat “ingesting” gays. I quoted “ingesting” because if I said “eating” then that sentence would have been redundant.

I’d type up all the rules that can get you in trouble if you’re Catholic if I knew any but I get the impression that it would be like typing up all the rules to Calvinball. That whole scene looks like one huge bag of no-no’s that will either get you raped by an old man or beaten by a penguin. But as a red-blooded, heterosexual young Jewish man, common. You gotta love Catholic girls. Half are really cute, they are ALL repressed as Hell from interacting with only other Catholic girls for 13 years, and they think Jews are “exotic” and “witty”. Can’t argue with the witty part, and hey, there may be rules about “forbidden fruits” but there aren’t any about picking a cumquat over an apple.

Muslims are hardcore because if you sin, you don’t wait to go to Hell. Nuh-uh. You’re punishment is that you get a one-way express ticket to Hell on the blunted ends of 1000 rocks. This system seems to be geared towards keeping the Muslim women-folk down. They can’t drive (it’s written in the Quran). If a lady shows a little bit too much, ie, an ankle, they are considered whores and are killed immediately. So, if they are killed because of their attire, does that mean the men are super holy or just fashion police? Which brings me to gay Muslim men. Yes, such a thing does exist, and strangely enough it’s not all that uncommon. On top of their already fruity kissing and hand holding customs and the fact that every man already has a Freddy Mercury mustache, the whole keeping-women-down thing makes it hard to get a little release. But don’t think that if a man skipped down the streets of Tehran wearing hot-pink short shorts with “Saucey” written in glitter over the ass while singing “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”, he’s not going to be murdered instantly. Oh and don’t make fun of Allah or the prophet Mohammed because they have the egos of sensitive little 5 year old girls and their feelings get hurt super easy.

All eastern religions teach is to not be a dick, so it looks like I’ll be coming back to life as colostomy bag a few times before I work my way up to athlete's foot fungus.

Gypsies aren’t a religion but since they live outside of normal society like bushmen or carnies, they are symbolic of, let’s say, “Da way we was”. Gypsies are really lax on a lot of things. Stealing and grifting are cool. So is selling your daughter to make some money (not lying). But so help you if you are a woman who isn’t a virgin come wedding night. They will shove a tablecloth violently up you coochie to see if you bleed or not. If you don’t, the wedding is off and you’re given a huge scar on your face with a butcher knife. This is the reason why anal is so popular among them. That last part does not apply to carnies since they’ve all lost their virginity at 6. They’re only rule is to do anything you want short of getting yourself fired.

Fuck I’m joining the carnie religion.

The Evil Which Lurks in the Hearts of Men

Hiya! You’re smack-dab right in the middle of this blog’s first semi-annual Depressed Writers Week. Since I’m writing about all sorts of uncouth stuff that probably isn’t funny, I’ll be joining the pantheon of absurd, fucked-in-the-head writers such as Nietzsche, Dostoyevski, Camus, and Roald Dahl. Oh, who am I kidding? Fuck Camus! Tee hee! This is the week where I explore all the things that bring suffering to the human race, shining a disinfecting, x-ray light on the open sore of humanity, eradicating the microbes of misery. Whoa that was pretty deep, man. Like, science and…poetry…and…stuff. WOAH!

Today’s installment will look at the root of all evil: The 7 Deadly Sins. Also, since I hate proof-reading and re-writes, I’m going to say that there will probably be a few additions at the end to the “traditional” 7 deadly sins, but I can’t guarantee that because I am a depressed writer and depressed writers don’t do re-writes (they’re too depressed). You’ll find out at the end. I supposed. Yeah…ANYWAY! Let’s light this candle! (the candle will burn out when you finished reading this blog, symbolizing death. SPOOOOKY!)

Lust
This one gets a pretty bad wrap but I’m not so sure of it. People say “oh well it turns girls into prostitutes and ruins the world!” Uh, no, sorry guy. Meth and heroin turn girls into prostitutes. You think they do that shit ‘cause it’s fun? The 900lb gorilla on their back makes them shack up with the obese drudges of society with dick cheese for $75. Mmm. Hell, that sounds so great I would do it if it weren’t so gay. Maybe opponents of lust are looking at it in the rape-y sense. Like that Discovery Channel song (no, not I Love the Whole World, you dunce). The one by the Bloodhound Gang from like middle school. The one where it’s all like, Hey I’m horny you’re horny let’s go fuck because that’s all cavemen did was kill and fuck so let’s do that it sounds really fucking cool. But the problem is that actually does sound like fun. We are all, deep down, nothing more than savage cave-people who feel the need to stick our spears into hot flesh. Well, that’s regression. Biologically it’s genetically beneficial to spread your seed out as much as possible. Either way we were born this completely fucked.

Gluttony
This one confuses me because hey, aren’t fat people supposed to be jolly? Common, they cook gumbo, star in Tommy Boy, and travel around the world giving gifts to everyone but Jews and Muslims (because THEY are evil. Oh! I have an 8th deadly sin). I can’t see how this one is bad. I mean, we live in America, the greatest nation in the history of nations, so something must have gone right for us to be larger than life. We are home to the Whopper, the Baconator, eating contests and Paula Dean. We have plenty of food, but don’t try this shit in a third world country or you will literally be eaten alive. The only down side is when a fat man dies. You know because you can feel the shockwaves and tremors from his fall. First off, you need a casket big enough for the body, so someone’s gonna have to sneak into Sears and steal a few refrigerator boxes. And then you gotta rent a backhoe to dig a hole big enough, hire an army of caterers to feed the deceased’s fat friends…it’s a lot of work. And think of the poor mortician who has to stitch his chest back together. I wouldn’t be surprised if they pulled out a live shrimp from his cavity. Plus, that shits gotta stink like a septic tank.

Wrath
Wrath is bad because when mixed with alcohol it makes men who watch The Steve Wilkos Show and Judge Joe Brown hit their wives. And that’s fucked.

Envy
A couple of these sins are kinda gay because they involve no action on the part of the sinner. “Whoops! I had an evil thought! I’m a sinner!” Envy is kind of like that because everyone is envious. You think I’m happy Michael Phelps, that goofy grinning, big eared doofus is the greatest sportsman of all time? Well, actually I am. I hear he’s good people. But shit I wish I had that! Fuck him, fuck the kid who made Facebook (he’s worth billions), fuck Shia LeBeouf, and fuck all successful people whether they deserve their success or not (not being Shia).

Greed
Envy’s long-term boyfriend, Greed. This is the one that makes you go out and try to take things. To be fair, most people steal out of necessity, I’d say like 60%. Most people who steal and take are not going to be like “Ima steal me one-a them big screens anna fo-ty ya feel me, cuz?” But greed usually refers to the acquisition of money. Can’t argue with that. Greed is the main reason why so many drug dealers get caught. It’s always “just one more big haul. Just one more score!” (found a 9th sin). “Man, I wouldn’t have gotten caught if I didn’t try dealing at that elementary school.” Well no shit. Kids only have like milk money. Plus the place is crawling with DARE posters. The fuck did you expect you greedy bastard?

Pride
This one used to be bad, but now its good. You want to be proud of your work or proud of someone. So, fuck this one.

OK I just wikipedia’d it. Apparently it’s bad if you turn pride inward and get all vain and narcissistic and shit. Alright, I agree. Ego bitches suck. But the only place this ever becomes a huge problem is if you’re an actor or something, and Spears is getting all drama on you, saying “Britney wants what Britney gets” because she’s on the rag and this shot is blocking her Movado watch and they don’t have Pelligrino they only have Dasani, and then the director threatens to can her and bring in Madonna, but that’s even worse because she’s like 50 and an even BIGGER bitch, so you all complain and moan for 4 hours, take a quick cig break, then get back together and make the shittiest Pepsi commercial ever.

Sloth
The definition of sloth has changed a lot over the centuries, so I’ll try to sum it up into one huge visual: A sleepy, tired sloth who listens to My Chemical Romance. Basically emo kids. I can’t imagine any one group more deserving of Wrath. I am a depressed writer living in a riddle wrapped in a paradox wrapped in a cliché. Someone snuff the flame from my life and end my turmoil for your lies leave scars on my wrists. *~XxStRaIgHtxEdGexX~*

Bonuses!
Religion: see Thursday’s update
Drugs: see Friday’s update

A Roach's Life

Hello, my name is Jeffery Paxton. I am a bureaucrat working inside the United States Government and I fucking hate your guts. You’re probably asking yourself what a bureaucrat is and does, right? And why this will inevitably affect you. Well, to answer this, I suppose I’ll just describe myself.

Do you remember that sort of weird kid in grade school, the one who wasn’t mean or anything, but never really went out of his way to say “hello”? The one who was average at math, average at history, average at English, and had absolutely zero talent for or trace of physical or artistic ability? Maybe he ate cheese sandwiches every day for 12 years, and when the opportunity came to do something mildly risky, say, skip school with friends, he chickened out or he told his parents what happened right after? That’s me.

But that’s OK. You see, there are more of us than there are of you. Lacking the drive necessary to excel in the private sector, together, we as one amassed as a series of intricate cogs which comprise the cold, heartless machinery of government. And there we sit in our cramped, confining office areas, under the bright, pale, fluorescent light, hating every single one of you.

You had a dream. Not only that but you had the balls and resources to carry out your dream. Fuck you. We hate you so goddamn much. That’s why everything is designed to make your happy life miserable. Those of us who never went to college are the blunt faces you see every day, at the DMV, the post office, the court houses; anyplace where you are forced to put up with unnecessary bullshit. We are the reason your mail gets lost. Ever received a third notice on a bill but you don’t remember getting the first two? Those men and women who serve this line are the angels of wrath and those of us who have a college degree are God. For what is more powerful than complete control over someone else’s life? Having complete control over more lives.

It is those like me who you should truly fear. We are the paper pushers. We are the handlers of sensitive information. We are the conveyor belts of policy. We handle the votes, we re-write bills, and we foreclose on your house. We don’t like you or your goddamn freedom at all. We are the reason gays can’t marry. We are the reason marijuana will never be legalized. We were the reason for this. Want to know how? I’ll let you in on a little secret; politicians are pill-popping suit dummies who don’t read what they are signing. Don’t believe me? Just keep watching the news. I think I’ll have all the tea in China banned in a trade embargo. That’s it. No more green tea. It will be surprisingly easy to blame this all on China, too. I also write politicians speeches.

Anyway, I should probably get going. My lunch break is only 25 minutes and I already spent 15 talking to you people. I’m eating shrimp flavored cup-n-noodles. The doctor says my weight problem is adding unnecessary stress to my heart, so I’m more likely to suffer a heart attack. But it’s not like my celibate wife or fag son will miss me when I’m gone. I wish my heart would explode. Right there at the dinner table. I’d sit down, say “meatloaf again?”, lean back and let my chest burst open. Cover my family with black, dark gore, just as the evening news comes on. That’s how I want to go.

The Special Olympics are Retarded

They are.

Here’s my point: Those Olympics do more harm to the egos of the participating children than good. Let me explain.

Decanting it down into its purist form, the Special Olympics are “A League of their Own” for retarded children. No one gets hurt; they all perform at their comfort level with only other like-minded/like-bodied individuals, and at the end of the day they all get trophies, regardless of how well they did. It’s this safe little, delusional, feel-good bubble.

The problem with this is that this is all an attempt to “normalize” them in a “Hey we’re not so different than you we’re just as good!” sort of way. But that’s not what children’s sports are for the rest of us. They are supposed to be entrenched in humiliation, agony and fierce competition. As kids, going through youth sports separates the weaklings from the strong; the future artists, performers, academics and thinkers from the future bureaucrats, gym teachers and military personnel.

The Special Olympics only fosters future complacent retards, with no sense of drive or responsibility since everything gets handed to them just because they are different. Um, ‘scuse me, parents of retarded children, but aren’t you trying to get them to live the most normal life possible? That’s what you get for parading them around a field like its some sort of nightmarishly awful combination of dog show with freak show.

I say if you want them to grow up normal, why not let them hang out and participate with normal kids in normal youth leagues? Will they get made fun of? Oh Hell yes they will. So will the fat kid who doesn’t want to be there, the effeminate kid who runs like a girl, the nerdy kid who doesn’t know how to play, the spazz, the crybaby, the minority, and basically every child there who isn’t the star player (fuck that kid). But you have never seen such unity and compassion as when you stick that team of misfits next to the Oakton Wildcats. Sorry, but it doesn’t matter if you are retarded, gay, nerdy, fat, stupid, smelly or a showoff. If you are a Wildcat you are fucking dead. It builds comradery and tollerance.

Kids get hurt. That’s normal. It’s part of life. By depriving pain, both emotional and physical, you are depriving that kid part of their childhood. I know everyone wants to protect kids but this is just not what life is like. If I have to explain to you how and why life is not like one big Disney Movie then I have some scary things about Santa you should really know about.

I stand by everything I’ve typed except my horribly insensitive phrasing.

Oh yeah. And I've never actually interacted with any special needs kids, let alone know what's best for them. WHOOPS.

The History of Thanksgiving

I thought for today's blog entry, I would explore the mysterious and often neglected history of Thanksgiving; the best November turkey-based holiday south of Canada. 

The first Thanksgiving was celebrated 50,000 years ago in what is now known as Detroit (then known as The Incorruptible Garden) by the first Men: Adam, Prometheus, and Vandal Savage. Back then, there were no women, no fire, and no Green Lantern. Times were bleak. 

But there were plenty of turkeys. Turkeys had lived in peaceful societies for millennia, making great advancements in technology, medicine and the arts. But absolute power corrupts absolutely. Fueled by an insatiable desire for petroleum natural resources, gradually, tension rose between the two turkey superpowers until conflict finally erupted. In the wake of the 2nd Turkey Nuclear War, the fall-out from Uranium-based weaponry had obliterated 90% of the turkey population, leaving the remaining 10% mutated and in a state of regressed, primal fury. The plains teamed with roving gangs of the damned, not unlike 28 Days Later or Mad Max. Enter: the first men of Earth. 

For years they endured the ravages of sin embodied within the turkeys. Surely, they could do better at society than the previous masters of the Earth. So they silently laid out a plan. And one day the carried it into motion. 

They prayed to God.

Vandal Savage prayed for the power to destroy the turkeys. He was granted the sword Excalibur. And lo, did he lay waste to the turkey vermin. And yay, for 3 days and nights did Vandal Savage stab, slice, bludgeon, kick, bite and murder his way to glory for the Lord. 

Adam prayed for a woman. As God made a woman out a rib bone of Adams (a very tricky medical procedure known as Femora Scapula Alderonomy), Prometheus raced up Mt. McKinley and stole fire from a distracted, omnipotent God. 

When the dust had settled, they decided to celebrate. This was the dawn of a new era, and a feast was in order. And so was the first Thanksgiving. Vandal Savage provided the meat, Prometheus the fire on which to cook the meat, and Adam the woman for who should actually do all the cooking. They all sat and dined. When it was over they all gave thanks to God for the gifts that were bestowed upon them, except Prometheus since he had to steal his gift. 

A Fantabulous Voyage Through Christian Bale’s Brain

Chicks love Christian Bale. Like, REALLY love him. They would stab their best friend in the back and then the front, and then the back a few more times, just to lick him (not even in a sexual manner). The guy stars in some really choice movies like American Psycho and the new Batman movies, but I still don’t know why that automatically indoctrinates him into the pantheon of Totally Badass 20th Century Americans along side Bruce Lee and Evel Knievel. The two girls I was with last night were just as perplexed as I was.

“What?! Why wouldn’t he be a badass? He beat the shit out of his mom and sister.”

That’s more asshole than badass. Close but waaaaaay off.

“Common he’s totally amazing. He’s fucking Batman. Why do you hate him?”

Excellent question. Let’s find out, together, just what makes Christian Bale Christian Bale, what makes Christian Bale Batman, and finally what makes Christian Bale beat his family. Maybe I won’t hate him! To do this boys and girls, we will use our

IMAAAAAAAAAGIIIIIIINAAAAAAAATIIIOOOOONS…

and climb into a teeny tiny flying yellow submarine so we can travel through the head of the man who won Best Superhero in the super posh, exclusive and revered Spike TV Scream Awards!

Hold on tight, kiddies! This is going to be rough! We are heading up Mr. Bale’s nose on the first leg of our journey. We are going to his brain Egyptian Style, which first puts us in contact with his olphactory bulb. This is the part of his brain that identifies super expensive Hollywood cocaine. Once activated, it then sends a signal out to his penis telling it to get soft and a signal to his amygdala, triggering crying and family-hitting.

Toot toot! We are heading north! Up, up, up we go! There’s gold in them thar hills! Hee hee. Just kidding. I’m not really a late 19th century California gold prospector. I’m a neuroscientist tour guide inside Christina Bale’s Brain. Aaaaaaand here we are at the frontal lobe. This is the part that does all the logic processing and heavy thinking. This part is what made Christian decide staring in Reign of Fire and Equilibrium were good choices.

As we all know, Mr. Bale is a member of Greenpeace and has been a vegetarian since he was 6 when he came of age and read Charlotte’s Web. The years of not eating meat has caused severe neuronal atrophy across the brain. If you look out to the starboard side, you can see a very wide chasm. It’s like the Grand Canyon! It spans across the superior temporal gyrus from the temporal lobe to the parietal lobe. That’s where his Wernicke’s Area should be. This is a lot of fancy nerd-talk for “nigga don’t listen”.

Here we are at the hippocampus, the area responsible for memory acquisition. If you look over to that meter, it says he repeated the phrase “I… am Batman!” an astounding 13,755 times. Unfortunately, it also tells us that he said the phrase “A little guilt goes a long way” from the Machinist just 3 times.

Well, it looks like this is the end of our journey. We learned a lot and I suppose when all’s aid and done, Christian Bale is alright for a British person. OH! That’s right! Definitive proof! He CAN’T be a Totally Badass 20th Century American because he’s not a fucking American! Or a badass!

Now get the hell out of my submarine.

Trip Report: 5-Hour Energy

We’ve all heard the promise of 5 hours of energy without the crash. That’s because 5 hour energy contains vitamins, enzymes and amino acids (uh…enzymes are made up of amino acids…). And no sugar! But aside from sounding like complete bullshit, I decided to try some. I mean, they have celebrity endorsements from professional racecar drivers and football players, the crazed truckers and coke-headed murderers of the sports world, and they would never, ever, EVER lie to me just to make a profit. I am a man of science, so I handled this situation like a true blue scientist. Oh yeah, I put some sugar in my drink because it tastes like ass. Les do dis.

Ingestion
The makers make the comparison that this stuff is “a shot of energy”. It’s more like a double shot of bile. It was thicker than water, but it had this really gross oily consistency to it. I had to use an old cough medicine trick I used when I was a kid. You pour the shit in your mouth, and raise your tongue up so it’s just sitting there, basting your bottom teeth and probably stripping them of the outer layer of enamel. Grab a huge glass of water and chug. Chug like a champion. Finally grab your stomach and think of Sesame Street. Anything to keep from puking.

Hour 1
Not really feeling the power yet, but I do start to feel a bit goofy. By now the pangs in my stomach have quieted to a dull roar. I begin to notice weird things. Like, how loud your own heart beat sounds inside your head, or that moths flap their wings 108 times a minute when it’s 25 degrees Celsius, and 120 when it’s 26 degrees Celsius. I know because I counted. I kept a notepad with me where I wrote down all my thoughts. I apparently scribbled down something about the television “being lazy”.

Hour 2
Holy shit I am off! I’m like Super Mark. It was still the same me, just me x1000. I guess this stuff isn’t bullshit. Taking full advantage of my situation, I decided to go for a sprint to see how well I would perform. I don’t remember too many details from this part. All I remember is that I ran to the next county and back, wearing out the souls of my shoes in the process. Once my feet started to bleed considerably, I finished the rest of the run walking (running?) on my hands.

Hour 3
By now my trip has taken on an edge of anger and desperation. My dog is scared of me. I forget why, but I start screaming at him. I’m just screaming and screaming, until eventually I go hoarse and collapse right where I’m standing and I begin to weep uncontrollably. “What’s happening to me!?” I sob. I crawl through the halls on my hands and knees, punching through the walls and ripping out plumbing and electric cables. I’m searching for The Borrowers, the little gnomes who live in your walls and “borrow” things like a spool of thread or an old pocket watch. Those little bastards somehow stole my soul and I wanted to drink their blood in return.

Hour 4
I need more power! That was the answer! Halfway through a self sacrificing ritual to Satan for more power, I realized that power was in my reach the whole time. I just needed another shot of 5 hour energy! I jump up and run out the door, completely forgetting to put my shirt back on. That causes problems for me when I run into 7-ll. The guy at the counter is miffed. “Hey you! You no come in here like that! You no come in here like that!” I wonder if he noticed the blood all over my hands. I killed Jesus on the way over. He was sitting on a bench, waiting for a bus or something. I just…sorta…walk up to him, you know? And just…grabbed his neck. And I’m just squeezing, and squeezing…he stops moving. And I start to cry. “You asshole…” I mutter. And I start punching and punching. Just really letting loose on him until finally I can’t recognize his face any more. I let out a piercing wail. The memory races through my head at speeds of 75,000 mph. Back in the moment, I grab a few bottles of energy, pop the caps and down them. I pause. My eyes slowly roll back. The rest of my body follows, and I pass out on the floor.

Hour 5
I’m not entirely sure what happens next. Just brief memories, glimpses of memories actually, of screams, metal bending and a feeling of jumping through the clouds. The first real clear memories I have are of me running through the desert. I’m 2000 miles away from any desert! How the fuck did I get there! I’m running from the United States Army. They really start to piss me off. They’re getting up all in my face with the 1st armored infantry. An M1 Abrams tank is staring me down. I grab the barrel and tie it into a bow. Take that, sucka! A helicopter opens fire on me, hitting my back with a few hundred rounds of machine gun fire. “FUUUUUCK!!!” I scream. I jump 70 feet in the air and punch it fucking hard. I really knock the shit off that dick! There’s no smoke. It crashes and erupts in flames. This goes on for a while until General Thaddeus “Thunderbolt” Ross makes a bold gesture and confronts me face to face. I pick him up and eat him whole like a Swedish Fish. Jennifer Connelly talks to me. “This has to end! Please! No more rage! I love you!” I eat her too.

All in all, 5-hour energy is pretty alright. I’d do it again.