Archive for the ‘whatevs’ Category
Over the weekend I saw two things that really drove home the completely miserable state of affairs that is the human race. Whilst driving to a place that serves alcohol, Rick and I were stopped at a light when I saw two men, probably in their mid-fifties, walking down the sidewalk. One guy was carrying a metal canister that clearly read “GASOLINE” in big, red, ironic letters along the front. I will also point out they were walking away from a gas station farther up the road, so, so far, it all makes sense. The one guy, with an unlit cigarette hanging out of his troglodyte-like face, leaned forward, and with the same hand the gas canister was dangling from, he held up his hand to his mouth to guard from wind as he lit his cigarette with the other. I started yelling about what a fucking moron he was, and his friend, in a shockingly clear-minded twist, grabbed the can from him in a quick, rebuking fashion. The last thing I saw before driving off were the two, stained-yellow shirt-wearing guys, both walking side by side, with their now-lit cigarettes hanging from their mouths, and the canister hanging from the friend’s meaty hand. I took it as one of those “it can’t happen to me, gasoline only explodes in the faces of other idiots who light fires next to a large, fume-emitting can like this” moment.
The second thing I saw that made me reflect on the shittiness of humanity, was, not surprisingly, at the grocery store. Or, to be more exact, directly outside of the grocery store. A tiny sparrow kept hopping back and forth to the middle of the walkway into the store, dodging the threatening feet of oblivious, retarded humans. He was doing his damned best to eat an enormous gummy worm lying on the ground, probably dropped by some sticky, over-sugared, child. The bird, whose natural food, in part, are worms was struggling to eat this technicolor chemical-nightmare, formed into the shape of something nature actually makes in bounties. How fucked up. That bird is all of us. It’s a deep statement about us all. Stop going for the food-shaped chemical shit storms, and get back to what our bodies were intended to thrive on.
I am happy to report that the gummy worm seemed massively too big for the tiny bird to get any part of, so at least he won’t go exploding, or whatever it is sparrows do when they eat our shitty human garbage.
xposted from over at www.iceandtheface.com
Today I had to take a trip to the dark, stinking pits of human waste that is Wal-Mart. First, when did going to this place on a Monday afternoon become the equivalent of going to the mall on Christmas Eve? Holy fuck! Why are there so many handicapped spots here? I actually am handicapped, and I can tell you, this is the only store I have ever been to where half the lot is for cripples. And they’re all, always, full.
I am actually astounded at the absolute lack of both self-awareness and awareness of their surroundings that the general public seem to have. Essentially, there is a serious lack of any sense of reality whatsoever. Today, while in the overflowing waste-receptacle that is Wal-Mart, an announcement came over the speaker letting everyone know they would be giving away free kitchen-ware to all adult shoppers, right now at the end of aisle eight. I happened to be passing by aforementioned aisle just moments later, to a drove of slobbering people laughing at some ad-pitch by an overly-enthusiastic Wal-Mart worker in his mid-twenties with nothing left to lose.
First, I am not one to believe anything announced over the intercom, in the largest cesspool of human garbage, is -actually- going to be free. There’s always a catch, there’s always that something extra. Listen to a guy try to tell you why your life is incomplete without the FULL set of multicolored ceramic kitchen knives? Yeah, sure, that’s worth nine dollars and ninety-seven cents of my life. Or at least that’s what they’re hoping for. And they’d be right to hope, because the end of aisle eight was chock-full of eager shoppers just dripping to get their ham-steaky hands wrapped around their free-to-all-adult-shoppers kitchenware. Think of all the clever new things you can do with your canned vienna sausage links once you no longer have to bite them into tinier pieces for your guests. You can slice and dice until your clearance panties are full to the brim with the excretions of your domesticated satisfaction.
I saw a clearance cart, it was selling the same heap of pumpkin-spice rigamarole that I saw on a clearance rack about ten months earlier. It was still there, still on clearance. Pumpkin spice muffin mix, pumpkin spice cakes, pumpkin spice bullshit. On one hand, it is hard to imagine boxes upon boxes of artificially flavored pumpkin-like substances sitting in a clearance section for a week, let alone nearly a year. But on the other hand, looking around, you see a lot of vacant stares. A lot of dead-eyed, hopeless brick-walls of society, filling the endless pit of their gluttony with diaper cream, weird adult footie-pajamas, and free kitchenware from the end of aisle eight. It would be hard to break out of the every day fog of oblivious stupor clouding the minds, and vision, of the public, long enough for an expired nuclear sponge cake to grab their attention.
That’s why they need those over-enthusiastic twenty somethings. Those blue-vested bastions of the unkempt. Those whose goofy, yet innocent, ramblings can ring out louder than the constant low hum, droning forth from the open maws of the onlookers. They need the herding-call. The siren-like flashing of the alert light, the beeping of the speaker before good ole’ Gary’s voice takes over the announcements to tell you all about the great deals going on right now, on pumpkin spice crap of all kinds, at the end of aisle eight!
Even in the seemingly self-contained inner world of your own personal shopping experience, you are being herded. Steer your rascal on over to aisle eight for free bullshit, hey, we have great deals on scab cream in section 2-B, go check it out. You can see the invisible lines and patterns like ants following a trail of crumbs. It’s better to stay home, order your shit online (with your ad-blocker on), and have your own original thoughts not tarnished by the ever-growing insanity one must build as a defense against the monotonous encounters with the status quo. Ask yourself. Have you ever really found anything worth breaking away a piece of your dignity over, at the end of aisle eight?
…and other meaningless titles that make you feel important.
As this world is increasingly infested with the offspring of millions of vain, lonely, people, it is easy to feel lost in the slobbering, brain-dead crowd. The world has come up with ways of placing a nice, novelty band-aid of your choice, over the issue by way of useless trophies, “everyone’s a winner” rhetoric, and titles that mean nothing to anybody, but give you a good ole’ psychological hand job.
As the world gets increasingly dumber (and, it is), meaningless accolades must be handed over in droves in order to ensure complacency amongst the cattle-herd. I know your Hanes 10 for 20$ panties got all juiced-over the day you got to see your miserable smile plastered across an “employee of the month” sign in the break room. We get it, you like attention. All the pitiful humans and their constant, undying need for attention. We hoard imaginary pats on the backs from strangers over the internet, obsessively. You live in a giant, virtual trophy room. Just miles of useless, Party Fair trophies with mentions of bits of your pitiful existence strewn across them. Oh, hey, there’s that “Best smile in town” trophy you’ve had since you were four years old. All these things matter to you, on some insane psychological level, this shit MATTERS. To. You.
It’s weird how easily people fall in line with the idea of being rewarded with positive attention. That, in itself isn’t the weird part, that is the perfectly normal part. The weird part comes in when, every day, seemingly normal human beings crave the positive attention they no longer have to the point where they no longer have the ability to discern from -actual- positive attention for a valuable or appreciated thing-you-do, and just another “everybody’s a winner” gold coin.
I blame this shit on the “no child left behind” bullshit that caused everyone to run into a panic over the idea that some people are just better at certain things than others are. Our overly-sensitive culture has procured whining babies who cry when they’re not getting enough candy as the next guy. And because of this “trigger warning” mentality of the populous, we’re stuck having to affix a gold star sticker to every haphazardly put-together shit tard in the neighborhood.
Don’t be one of those people, internet folks. Rise above the screaming mediocrity that is being celebrated by the masses. Take your gold stickers and burn them. Crush your employee of the century framed gold plaque and make a mosaic portrait of your boss with smallpox lesions all over their face. Whatever, just stop being one of them. Be offensive for offense’s sake. Why? Because if we don’t pick this whining bitch of a world up out of its crib, we are all doomed to a life of censored Wal-mart cds and trigger warnings on the cover of every single thing you once held dear.
The plague of self-importance delusions social networks have spewed across the average person’s brain is spreading far and fast. I am writing this update to inform you of how little you actually matter. All of the likes you try so hard to get on that picture you posted of your perfectly-made, out-of-the-freezer-into-the-pan breakfast add up to absolutely nothing. Sadly I think most people are aware of it, yet are addicted, to what I can only describe as self-identified delusions. At this point, most people check facebook before that awful morning feeling creeps over them, reminding them that they’re still alive and their life still sucks. We KNOW that nothing has really happened since the last time it was checked (not that long ago), you KNOW you care not for the pictures of rainbows and “have a great day” memes already posted by your “early bird” friends who incessantly post cheery bullshit every morning in order to wish the world a great day. You scroll right the fuck past the glowing crucifix pictures asking you to pray for this sick kid or that battered house-cat, begging you to put your hands together, look to the sky, and do absolutely nothing at all. Moving on… scroll scroll scrolll….. Oh, a hot chick… that registered for a second… scrolling… someone I sort of recognize died? Twitter is a’blaze! Oh, they died like five years ago, and this is just some weird internet reemergence of outdated information nobody bothered to check. Well, that sucks, since you already made that heart-felt post about the first time you saw/heard/read/listened to the celebrity in question, and how torn up you are over their death. Of course, being an actual fan might mean you’d have known they’ve been dead for years, but nobody is perfect. The internet is not perfect.
The internet, as a whole, forms a giant beast, operating under the direction of possibly the most moronic hive-mind ever to be accidentally created. It is so important to your life that you actually base whether or not someone you care about is paying attention to you by the last time they commented on one of your inane status updates about your dog’s indigestion. See, the ability to take pictures of ourselves at all times, make them available to the world at all times, virtually rate and judge your pictures and others at any time of the day or night, has caused a problem. Nobody ever stopped to consider the illusion of importance this creates in the minds of every-day people. Just because you CAN post every singular moment of your mundane existence to the universe, doesn’t mean you should. But perhaps, more importantly, doesn’t mean people give a shit about it.
I would say for every person out there with a baby (there are so fucking many of you, assholes), probably .0003 percent of the people who have seen or commented on the five hundred pictures of your blubbery, wet, sack of responsibility, actually care whatsofucking ever about it. AND they are probably the person who was already there for the birth, or took the pictures themselves. If there is one thing social networking has absolutely confirmed, if television and common sense hadn’t already, it is that nearly all babies look the same, and the more we have to see them, the less appealing they are. Prefacing with “sorry for all the pics but this one is adorbsssss” doesn’t cut it here, sister. Why? Because it isn’t adorbs to us, none of us, or at least all but .0003% of us. And that person is fucking retarded.
All those things you scroll through like an anesthetized, drooling, gaytard, are the equivalent of all the things you post that others scroll through. That’s the game, folks. Always concerned with the importance of your own tedious shit while scrolling past the lives (however fucking boring they are) of others. The social network of the self. The biggest drug to the ego, ever.
And you’re all addicted. And you’re all terrible humans.
All babies are ugly, stop trying to convince yourselves of anything else by counting the “cute’s” you get in the comments. For one, they are socially-programed responses to your very bad decision-making skills. And two, there shouldn’t be an apostrophe in that “cute’s”, your friend is an idiot on account of their grammar usage, and their opinion of your harpee-like baby.
Congratulations, you failed at everything. Even your dumb fuck friends.
One of the things I hate most about communicating with the general public is their constant need to bait me into pretending I care what they’re talking about. When you say “you’ll never guess what amazing thing happened to me today!”, you’re absolutely right, I won’t. I have been met with many an uncomfortable quiet stare of those waiting for me to reply with “OH MY GOD WHAT HAPPENED?!” and instead get something more along the lines of what I imagine Hellen Keller could hear on her good days.
Anyway, as much as the internet may, at one time, have been a beacon of hope for all those, like me, who hate the annoying nuances of civilization, that time has pretty much come to a depressing, screeching halt. Things like “click-bait” articles are one of the many ways your annoying habits have transferred over into something the whole world has to deal with.
Headlines like “Burger King is keeping this popular food on the menu year-round” (nobody likes chicken fries anyway, actually I don’t think anyone likes Burger King, anyway) and “Little Girl Has Hilariously Inappropriate Reaction To Finding Out She’s Going To Be A Big Sister” (she farted, nobody gives a flying fuck) are the internet’s equivalent to your annoying friends jabbering things like “WOW you will never guess who I talked to” into your face all day. The truth is, nobody finds this shit any more interesting than they do your “insane” story of how you bumped into your gonorrhea-ridden ex at Super Wal-Mart last Thursday, and it’s crazy because you weren’t even supposed to be at Wal-Mart that day and holy shit….
They need to be dressed up, they need to be mysterious, and they need to leave people feeling unsatisfied. That’s why these things work. In all honesty, how many of you would click on them if their headlines/captions were upfront? About as many people as would actually -choose- to listen to your life stories. THAT is how many people. I bet when you read “This Plot Hole In “The Little Mermaid” Changes Everything”, you immediately, uncontrollably want to know just what WHAT could this unimaginable, hitherto unknown plot hole be? Would it be less interesting to you if someone had accurately and more concisely summed up the story with “Ariel was an idiot.” Probably not.
And just like nearly every time it has happened on planet Earth, your expectations of an amazing story are rapidly diminished as the story drones on, unchecked, for more time than it takes for a midget to change a lightbulb. This is the sad state of affairs we are currently dealing with. Your overwhelming need to feel special, despite your boring, stupid existence, has now spilled over onto the internet where the whole world has to deal with the fall-out of one of the most successful psychological traps of all-time.
If you want them listening, keep them guessing. Hey guys, when you see what you look like when you say things like “Dude, the most mind-blowing thing of all-time just happened to me”, maybe you’ll reel it in for the crowd.
Well here we are again, and I’ve dragged two guest writers into this misery with me. Fellow Smeat writer, and John from SuperTMH2.com. Yes, we will all be watching this giant mess of a show and all be ice=picking our eyes ou as soon as we’re done. Annnnddddd go:
Are You Afraid of the Dark S1 e11 The Tale of The Dark Music
That kid’s pants are way too short… I wonder if he is forced to wear all his shorter older brother’s pants because his parents don’t love him on account of his annoying disposition. I really hate the Harry Potter kid, how did he end up being the guy in charge around here? Oh look, the kid that looks like a girl is telling a story tonight.
I think Morrisey is in this episode playing a dude that moves boxes. I swear I just saw him sitting on someone’s porch. OOoh the bad kid has a skull on his shirt- that means trouble! His mom reminds me of Louis Lane. Oh boy, someone is scared of the basement. I hope the mom’s dead uncle is in there. Jerking it to 1950’s porn of women showing their giant hairy vaginas and frilly bra-cones.
I guess if this music played everytime I walked into a basement I‘d find it unsettling, too. It’s an old radio, any movie or show with an old radio inevitably ends up getting messages from dead people. Ugh… it’s playing 80’s hair metal… see, dead people on the radio.
Wow, what happened to the Harry Potter kid, he looks drastically different in this episode. He looks like a muppet-bird creature. What the hell happened to his face? His mother looks deranged. She reminds me of Zelda from Pet Semetary. He should lokc her in the bedroom and wait for her to look like a less-mutated julianne Moore.
Woah, is that fat Kid Rock? What’s with the terrible guitar solos all over this episode? Oh the skull kid has long hair, he’s up to no good. A young, know-it-all whippersnapper like that that thinks he knows what’s what. Somehow this kid managed to end up in another dark basement, really? WHY? Everytime he goes in one, some fucked up doll-murderer movie starts playing.
Oh, now his little sister is creeping on him. She is playing Q-Bert based on the music coming from her tv. I love that game, Q-Bert looks like a Dr. Suess character. I miss that game. I hate his the little sister. And I don’t get the mother’s reasons, she said she can’t go into the filthy, dusty basement at that moment because she was filthy. Yeah don’t want to get your filth all dirty, I guess.
HAHAHHAHA There is a giant doll, John is going to shit!!! Jesus, it looks like someone hollowed out a kid’s head and stuck a wig on it. I wonder if Donnie Wahlberg is in this, too. Why would the mother keep yelling for him literally right outside a door she can open?
So the mother had time to leave a note and a pile of laundry but could have put them in for the same time and not wrote the note. Another stupid reason for the kid to end up in the doll basement again. Now there’s clown music. A lot of clown music. It’s getting circusy, I hope Zebo comes out of the closet this time. Nope, it’s a popcorn salesmen inside a carnival, instead. Boring sort of ghost. Jeeez this green screen really is an abomination. A Skeleton hand is pulling him into the green screen carnival, but he escaped just in time. Way to go, ultra-gay 90’s kid.
So every time he plays a song on there, something comes out of the closet. The skull kid fake-punching faces is depressingly bad. The only thing this kid punches is his balls. Ball-punching and Styx, that’s what he’s all about.
Is this over yet? sigh… I guess not, there’s more bad music now.
He’s wiring a fuck ton of ancient stereo equipment to the basement. And now he is luring skull kid to his underground killer-doll lair. He locked the kid in and plans to hav him murdered by whatever is in the closet.
This kid is fucking nuts. Random shit appears out of the closet, no idea who or what it is, and just locks some fucktard in the room with it, with a million speakers playing the worst music ever made as loud as humanly possible.
What a terrible person this kid is, he deserved to be beat about his eggplant-shaped head. Yay for skull kid, may he live on. Go play some really shitty music in your basement and maybe a doll will pop out wearing his rotted face-skin.
The closet is talking to him. I don’t know why, but I want macaroni and cheese with hot dogs in it. Oh look, blondie is back. Wow, that story essentially just stopped with no ending at all. That was nice of them.
I hope the last episode of this series is them all being pushed into the campfire, that would almost make it worth all this pain.
S01E10 The Tale of Jake and the Leprechaun (ugh)
By the time I finish all of these I will have seen this intro about one hundred and forty times. I can never get that time back. So here is another one of me and IAMRICKSEE’s reviews of this awful show. Click” read more” to read more, dicklards.
This kid is supposed to be sad his grandfather died… well you’re not pulling it off kid, so stop letting your mother live her broken dreams out on you. And stop telling kids in lunch you’re an actor. This girl doesn’t know what a leprechaun is? Are you fucking kidding me? That’s bullshit! This kid looks like he would be in a Twizzlers commercial.
Wow, it suddenly turned into the set of the first Troll movie, the one nobody has ever seen. I think the leprechaun is being played by an 80’s metal band guitarist with a long black mullet. Wow, this kid is telling the story of a little kid that wished he was an actor. Christ what is up with her stupid clothes and hair and face and rat-toothed mouth? Oh this guy is drinking some weird mystery potion, but it’s just fireball mixed with some unicorn piss or whatever the fuck leprechauns drink while they’re sitting on a tree branch with their balls poking against their short leprechaun trousers. Wow, this is fucking weird. This midge is fucking ripped. He has Rambo arms on a tiny little body.
Uh oh, the small dude threw the recipe on the ground, now some radom 90’s person is going to stumble upon it while listening to Boys II Men on their disc man.
This crazy Irish fucker is trying to poison some purple-shirted kid, it makes his voice change and it freaks him out. I think it’s a metaphor for puberty. “Something weird is happening to me… it’s like I’m changing” Yeah this seems like a movie they’d play in sixth-grade health class.
This kid looks like a latex mask of a gorilla. Now the little dude is smoking weed. I bet he doesn’t go through his stashes very fast on account of being a tiny man. I feel like this episode has a weird inception thing going on, a storyteller is telling a story of someone in a play telling another story. Oh and the original story teller was retelling his stupid dead grandfather’s story. Dick.
They said his ears got pointy but I swear his ears were already that pointy. Now the little dude is dressed as a pimp. Silk orange velvet blouse, green tweed suit. How convenient, there is a chair directly in the middle of a hallway right where someone needs to reach something. Obviously I don’t need to tell you who can’t reach something, but anyway… The old dude is getting all scabby and weird now. I know someone with a back that looks like this guy’s. Just giant tufts of grizzly bear ass strewn across their body. Every seven years banshees need to do some shit blahblah, who makes up these rules anyway? Who decides when banshees need to do shit? Nature? I guess. How are we suddenly back in the play, this is all so convoluted.
Why is the audience clapping for this dumb shit? They must have been drugged with that leprechaun shit. This kid is so misshapen. What the hell is wrong with his face? I feel like this is the little kid from Home Improvement. They both have that annoying face thing going on and both look like they’d grow up to be in a shitty boy band.
Ugh, this bitch again. The one with the head and shit. The leprechaun has an Asian-sounding name, that was a turn I didn’t expect we’d be making. And the banshee being named Sean seems very unlikely. Is this kid dead yet or what? Ugh…
He threw a rubber snake and it turned someone into frog and now little guy is sprinkling glitter on it. How festive. I wonder if this is some sort of little-people holiday tradition. I think he brushes his long shiny eyebrow-hair with a Barbie brush.
Oh now they’re group-hugging, I think they should trip and all land in the fire, but we all know that won’t happen since there are like a hundred and fifty million more of these fucking things.
Ahhhh…“The good old days.” I’m sure you’ve heard folks utter those words as they whimsically look into the distance and think back to their boy or girlhood days of yore, skipping through fields of sunflowers and gripping buckets of fresh antibiotic-free milk for mama, donned in a papoose, and papa, working on something with clanking and cranking tools. For most of my life, I couldn’t help but feel that people are full of shit and these memories are fabrications created by crazy people who were fucked in thebarn as kids. When the hell were these “The Good Old Days?” It seems they are currently a reference to the first half of the 20th century in America. Well, I suppose if you were straight, white, and a man the old days had very arguably more potential for good. Although, it seems white men during that time were emotionless drunks who beat and owned their wives and treated their children like insects. No. It takes a lot more than some confused white people to make days good and old. Therefore, after lazily, randomly, and confusingly consulting the internet, I do believe I have pinpointed the shit out of “The Good Old Days,” AND exactly what made those old days good, and if y’all agree, I’ll do a TED TALK on the subject. Allow me to whisk you away to 1930’s London where an American-patented device jutted from the windows of buildings and high rises by the thousands like awesome mini-prisons or “smart-playpens” as I like to think of them. Yes folks, I’m talking about a little known gem they called the “Baby Cage.”
Imagine you’re a nanny, mommy, babysitter, or au pair, and you’re living in a small flat in 1930’s London. Everything is in black and white. Shit’s moving all stuttery and skipping frames and shit. No iPads or MP3 players. No Facebook or Twitter. No Likes or Up-Votes. Nothing. Just you, the destroyed economy, news of the rising Nazi Party, and to top it all off, a screaming fucking little vomit machine. Now listen here, Junior, mommy only has so many hours in a day to drink bathtub gin and crotchet the fuckin’ doilies and you’re screaming is fucking my shit up! How the hell will people in the future EVER see these as “The Good Old Days” when they look and smell and sound like THIS? There HAS to be a better way. Suddenly, you look out the window of your 40th story apartment, and there, hanging outside, as beautiful as a Vietnam-made red, white, and blue flag, bolted to the outside window frame, is your shiny new freshly lead-painted silver baby cage. Looks like your British hubby really does love you…now you know why he doesn’t bruise your face!
Suddenly, your window to the world has become a doorway to peace and quiet. All you had to do was put down some newspaper, a water bowl, some mashed food, and then shove the little bastard out there and shut the blinds. On a side note, this is why British old people are notoriously unafraid of heights. That’s not a peer-reviewed fact, just a personal astute observation. However, to be clear, admittedly, I don’t know anything about British people and even less about babies. I learned recently on the local news programs that they die if you leave them alone in the car with the windows up in the summer…babies, I mean. Not British people. Apparently, they don’t do well in excessive heat and sun. Not very sturdy. Definitely not the folks you want parachuting into the desert to shoot terrorists. Which is a shame because they’re small and can fit into any cave-nook and cave-cranny…British people, I mean. Not babies. So if this masterful invention, that makes sliced bread and fire look like some hack piece of junk your stoned one-armed uncle Billiam drunkenly nailed together in the garage one night, ever makes a much needed comeback, you’re going to want to dress that shit up for the new age. But I say, “Why wait for a comeback!? You can do it yourself!” Remember, the 1930’s in London were good and old days, but thanks to incredible technological breakthroughs, we’ve got pollution and holes in the ozone layer to deal with. But it also means we can take “The Good Old Days” of yesteryear and move on into “The Great New Old Days!”
Before we sort of build this dream together, listen up all you gents and deadbeat dads out there. This isn’t the 1930’s anymore. Women aren’t just sitting around knitting and shit. They aren’t just going to take care of your farting shitting kids while you party down at the local watering hole jabbering about that one time years ago when you did that one thing that could’ve lead to something impressive but didn’t. They are MMA fighters who run for president, and they will kick the shit out of you and throw your dick in the river. Women have important shit to do too, and I know I don’t have to say this, but you don’t want to hire someone to come over and watch your seed anymore with the tsunami of kid-fuckers in the news today. It’s time technology took over in the caretaking department in a big way to loosen up your schedge™. So, here’s how you bring the “Good Old Days” back, bigger and gooder than ever, ensuring that you can live your life the way you want and most likely not go to prison!
To begin, get yourself a bunch of iPads. There are websites that give them away for free. Just check your AOL mailbox every so often for offers. Once you have the iPads, put one on the side and turn on some party music. I recommend Andrew W.K. or Kottonmouth Kings. After you’ve accomplished this, pour yourself a drink and hit the net hard. Probably Craigs List. There’s good people giving away all kinds of weird shit on there who will totally come to your house and you’re going to need some things and the less you have to get up and go anywhere, the better. Find a hefty dog cage, one that’s large enough to rivet to the outside of your window, turning the window itself into a suspended metal outdoor domain if you will. Don’t worry about what floor you’re on. The kid should learn that in life the sky is the limit, so I say, the higher you are the more chance you have of your kid becoming emperor someday. If you suspect you’re buying your cage from a reformed dog-fighting ringleader, try to make sure there’s no pee or blood on it. Keep it classy. I know what you’re thinking; Rick, is that all?! Upon hearing you in my mind, I think-shout back, Shit, back in the day, the bulk of your job would be finished. You’d be standing there with a kid out of your hair, openly hanging out above the bustling city in the fresh air where it belongs and a “Mission Accomplished” sign over your head on a boat. BUT, as I said earlier, those days are gone. There’s more.
Next, you want to get a shitload of Plexiglas, some duct tape, and a huge water feeder, preferably something appropriate for a chinchilla or some other large adorable rodent. OH! And for fuck sake don’t forget umbrellas. I know we’re trying to avoid spending money and/or leaving the house, but you can get one of these for a dollar from a homeless dude on the streets of New York and probably other places too. My recommendation; buy a shitload because one gust of wind over eight mph and that umbrella looks like a prolapsed asshole (listen, this is your kid…sometimes you gotta spend the money to do what is right).
So to speed this up I’ll just say WHAM BAM line the thing with iPads, drill some holes in the plexiglass for air and tape all this shit and the other shit to the cage and voila! There may never be a reason for the little guy to ever come out again. Also, don’t be afraid to get creative. It’s a hip-hop world. I know I’d want my baby cage to be extreme! I’d want it to literally drip with Mountain Dew, Doritos dust, and game! TIP: Use ALL the duct tape…you can go to jail if one of these things, AKA, “babies,” dies out there! Did you know that!? I mean, fuck…it’s not like they pay taxes or anything. But you know…liberals. #amirite Hopefully, if you’re lucky and there are still birds in your town, maybe one will make a nest out there and befriend your little DNA carbon copy, so they’ll learn about nature.
You know what? I see the future, and I’m smiling a gummy smile back at myself and giving a thumbs up. I’m wrinkled, wearing a diaper, and have dementia. My 20-year-old wife is miserably trying to stop her newborn baby, whom she conceived with the pool boy, to stop crying and squirting stuff, but I’m happy. Want to know why? Because after she spends her obligatory nine minutes at the nursing home jiggling her tits at me to ensure she inherits my millions, I’ll go back to a life of apple sauce, Viagra, and hot GILFS, but she’ll have to go home to this never-ending geyser of stinky fluids and loud noise. But as I said, I’m happy…because she’ll never know what it was like when I was that age…back in 2014, or as I like to call it, “The Good Old Days.”
I’m not very good at what I like to call “normal people stuff”, and one of my worst is small talk. I hate small talk to a degree that it almost makes my eyeballs turn to goo and bleed out of my faceholes whenever I feel like it’s about to be imposed upon me. And since our country decided that “Sanrio announces Hello Kitty not really a cat” and “Tony Soprano isn’t really dead” (you know, even though the dude who played him is dead, how’s that for shit luck) are the most important goings-on in the world today, I figured I would complain about you all here on my page on the internets, and bitch and moan about some of the worst types of small talk.
1. Talking about things that are normal but a big deal to you: Okay, as unfortunate as it may seem to me, things like having kids, being nagged by your ever-annoying way-too-stereotypically-female-to-be-allowed-to-own-vocal-chords wife, or being late for some meeting nobody knows anything about because they don’t work with you- are all things most people you will be around have dealt with numerous times, or at least have heard others talk about so much they don’t need to hear it yet again. The thing is, just because it is important to you, doesn’t mean anyone else gives a fuck. YOU might be totally excited your two-month old triplets stopped throwing their gross baby shit at your wife’s face, but nobody else cares. Nobody cares about the zany debacle that ensued when little Sally couldn’t find her sandals and you were late for the little league game of the century. UGHHHH IT IS SO BORING!
2. The “how are you” walk-by: This is a really dirty version of small talk, where the perpetrator tries to sideswipe you with conversation as you innocently attempt to avoid eye contact and move past them and on with your life. They walk past you and in mid-step they vomit the dreaded “Hey, how are you” out of their infected mouth parts. IN MID STEP! And if you try to close this little session down with a “ok how are you” (the one nobody ever really means), the dude tells you, in detail, just exactly how he is, AS HE IS STILL WALKING AWAY! Please stop doing this, people. It’s bad enough you stop people you only knew for a half hour every day in English class fifteen years ago to tell them about how your little angel finally stopped licking the dog’s balls for no reason, it’s another thing to try to spark up a conversation about as someone is actively trying to escape your attempt. Seriously, no one cares.
3. Your stupid bumper stickers: Yeah I know this isn’t exactly considered a form of small talk, but in my world that’s exactly what this is an attempt at. The second I’m stuck behind your ugly tan Dodge Caravan, and have to read another ” keep the Christ in Christmas” bumper sticker slathered across the back of the dusty window smeared with slimy children’s fingerprints, you’re forcing me to have a conversation in my head. Essentially I have to have small talk with myself. I have to ask myself what kind of jackass would say something like this, then I have to do follow-up questions, who would care about this so much they’d glue it to the back of their car? Why aren’t there any “Keep the Han in Hanukkah” stickers? It’s a Star Wars themed Jewish holiday, and I’m all for it!
4. “Nice to meet you”: Goodbyes don’t escape the small talk nightmare, either. When someone says “it was nice to meet you”, you usually are expected to say “oh blahbittyblah it was oh so nice to meet you, too”. The thing is, this usually happens after you had -barely- been introduced to someone, then spent all night no where near them, then when they’re leaving they pull this “nice to meet you” shit. Well, you know what, most times it really wasn’t all that nice to meet you, at most times it was marginal -at best-. Unless meeting you was accompanied by fireworks shooting out of Russian vaginas, a parade of circus elephants or those sort of elephant-things from Lord of the Rings that gave Sam a hard-on, and the reemergence of Tupac in non-holographic form, I probably didn’t find it all that nice, at all. In fact, meeting you probably meant I was forced into the position to have even more awful small talk and aware of the fact that upon leaving, I’d have to deal with the “nice to meet you” bullshit because I’m too crippled to duck out before some stupid motherfucker decides they really want to talk to me about their shitty life and kids again.
A number 5? I don’t have one, I’m tired of talking about the type of talking I don’t want you to do. Just stop it, if all of you got together in one room it would be the equivalent of a flatlining heart machine noise repeating for hours, with over-indulgent laughter and oh-so-crazy little anecdotes about who suburbia truly isn’t the nightmare world of baby-puke and lawnmowers that we all know it truly is.
Well, well, here it is, the second part of the AYAOTD? update, by IAMRICKSEE, written at the same time as we both watched and scratched our eyes raw with glass. Cheers!
Well… I’m sitting with Sarah watching Are You Afraid of the Dark? for Smeat. I didn’t even watch that show when I was young and it was popular. I think some kid just chopped his own dick off in front of some blond whore. She looks familiar. But it figures this dumb fuck works in some creeper creepy shop.
Now we are in the OshKosh B’gosh woods apparently… this looks like the Sears catalog in the early 90’s just jacked out all over my line of vision. Nice haircut, dipshit. Your purple shirt sucks… and why is this little bitch color coordinating with his shit grape colored sweater? Fuck these people. Fart. She definitely wants to suck his dick… not the weird child molester guy who looks like a fat, taller, child molestier looking Chris Katan… the black kid… with the rad fade.
These plastic glasses are the shit. He shoulda pushed her stupid ass… now that’d been a horror show! Thumbs up! SPOOKY YOGURT! Now filled up to the brim with cocaine… or roofie dust… he’s after these arrogant ass hoes… why not? HOLY SHIT! That bitch just seriously got more annoying, if that’s even possible… how is that a worthwhile spell, dumb dick!?
The acting here is making my head crave a bullet. Nice red pants and vest, you stupid ass shit… it’s just a silhouette! AH… a little one on one with some tubular Jordans, and a basketball covered in cocaine. Cocaine IS a hell of a drug! What the hell is that bitch wearing? What is wrong with the human race? There is no God… just look…this is the best we can do? OMFG! Oh, I get it… this chick with the fucking… whack-ass vest has been eating grandma’s glaucoma cookies… that’s why she’s seeing dead people! She needs to find the “Chill-Tent”. Go fucking chill that shit off, girl. Something terribly unincredible-looking is happening.
Now, it kind of feels like I’m watching “They Live” meets “Terminator”, except there is no one cool in sight, and there is a gay pride flag vignette all around the screen… it’s making me feel confused about everything.
Great… back to old Nose-N-Glasses. This guy fuckin’ sucks. Those are the most unscary, unskilled looking ninja’s I’ve ever seen… I’m pretty sure it’s just a dance troupe in ninja pajamas… and all they want to do is “Serve” this bitch, and she keeps all running around screaming some dumb shit about spells… for god damn sakes. Back to creeper McChildhumper. I think he’s just into dumb young chicks. Or dudes… actually he’s starting to seem more asexual because he’s got this blouse on and shit… and he seems to like these young ones around… but so far, from what the audience sees, there’s been no inappropriate touching… but these strange other negotiations could be symbolic of how a patriarchal society… holy crap… that chick just stopped that other kid from flushing a whole bag of angel dust… they are fucking totally buying off this kid-fucker with angel dust… makes them seem pretty fucking self-efficient and worldly… why don’t they just sword-fuck this asshole in the stomach? Uck… fuck her and that other kid anyway. I hate them. They are just… uck.
Cool, a rave. This is leotard-hell. Someone better dance or I’m fucking leaving. Somebody get SERVED! Instead, this fat, gay, pirate with the blouse is rapping. Nice spotlight. Stupid eyes… yes, that sounds like scientific language. All of us fucktards from public schools will buy this as a believable scenario based on your absolute bastardization of the education system. FML. Look at that old goth chick… back to the glasses kid trying to get blown by telling his shit story about teenagers stuck in a ball. Looks like it’s ending in a devil’s threeway. Good for you guys.
It’s been a long fucking time since I did one of those not-really-a-review-but-more-of-a-writing-while0watching-extrvanagnxa-disaster. This time I have new Smeat writer IAMRICKSEE with me, and we’re going to watch this crazy shit together, and possibly kill ourselves before it even gets five minutes in, and if we make it, I shall post this is two parts, the second being his version of this nightmare. WoOOoo
Ooh super spooky opening… Boner Stabone’s going to cut his finger off! Aww, blondie doesn’t like it. Now she’s telling him she doesn’t like it when he makes her smell his ball-fingers. Now he’s playing 80’s techno and turning into Michael Jackson, but white, and sort of Jewy. Nobody likes the glasses dude anymore, and Metallica starts playing. Holy shit, we didn’t even get to the title yet…
Reject from Hogwarts obsessed with stupid magic tricks does some crap to some plastic glasses. Guy who owns the store is a big, gay version of a mix of Luigi, Mario, and Richard Simmons. He wears gold puffy shirts, too. And, he rolls his r’s. Now the magic glasses make you see people in those fabric suit things… terrifying! Wow, little stalker kid just stole someone’s yogurt, now he’s roofie-ing it up, I SHIT YOU NOT! He watched her eat it! Every time magic-kid’s horse-faced girlfriend puts on the glasses, she sees figures in black that look like they came out of a Fatal Frame game.
Little drug dude just roofied a basketball game, pimpin’ ain’t easy, but it’s necessary. Ohh. long-faced depressed girl throws out magic glasses but they keep coming back, being ushered in each time with terrible 80’s synth-pop, chock full of pipe organ and phone noises. She sees a phantom tea kettle, Oh shit’s about to get real! She sees a fireplace in a fireless place©. How deep is that line for the opening of your next novel? They’re coming at her, the camera man must have just fallen, now she’s being chased, only when she looked through the glasses, now they’re like a gang out of West Side Story and they’re all snapping and dancing in unison.
Wow, this dude must have arrived really late to his acting classes. I feel like he still invites people over to watch this episode on repeat while he talks about what it was like to be on Nickelodeon back when it still felt like it mattered. How do so many random grown strangers end up hanging out with elementary school children in empty houses on this show? It’s insane! Yeah random joke shop guy, just come over and put a spell on this thing and dance around in your gold puffy shirt before my parents come home, oh yeah, bring your swim trunks, I’m making brownies, and they’ll be dick-sucking and demon-conjuring right over there by the hot tub. God, this bitch is annoying, she’s like that moon faced guy that used to do the Mcdonald’s commercials. That’s this girl. Fucking over and out!
So lately I’ve been thinking about how Google is slowly taking over the whole world, and in a few years it will control every facet of our existence. It knows who we message, text, or call and what we say or send. It knows what we’re looking up, trying to learn more about, or what we’re fondling our squishy little private parts to. It knows our medical histories, what books we’re reading, where we went on vacation, and how much you just paid for your last twelve pack of color-changing heat-sensitive dildos.
So anyway, it occurred to me yesterday whilst in conversation with ole’ Jon, (whom you might remember from when this creaky old website started, in helping me with my sleeping pill comparison chart, among other updates), that Google has within it the power to rewrite history, all willy-nilly, just whenever the hell it behooves them to do so. Picture if you will the following scenario:
You and that really annoying friend of yours that you actually don’t like very much, are in the middle of an argument. Your friend insists that some random bit of information is fact, you, on the other hand, wholeheartedly believe the exact opposite is fact. What is the first thing you do? Well if you’re like millions of people across the world that no longer have any need for actual books made of paper, you go and consult your Google. So then you type in whatever it is you’re arguing about, type type type tippy type “Google” you type, “Do all llamas excrete Mountain Dew from their tear ducts every morning upon waking?”, To which a reliable Google may answer by telling you that you’re a complete ass fuck and that you should get off the Internet immediately. But what if Google wanted you to believe that? What if Google told you that you were absolutely correct? You’d hardly dispute the almighty Google. And what if you were the other party, arguing that it is, in fact, Stewarts Cream Soda that gets excreted, and Google corrected you when you went to prove your friend wrong, and told you it was absolutely Mountain Dew. It would be a game changer! You would walk away feeling dejected, and ugly all over. And why would you feel that way? Because Google told you!
Google could already be doing this, just changing facts at random, whenever it pleases. Who was the first President of the United States? Don’t know? Look it up on Google! Sam Kinison? I didn’t even know that dude was alive in… wait what year was that? *checks Google* …I didn’t even know that dude was alive in 459BC. Crazy what Google could teach you! And they have every website ever made at their disposal to back up all their claims. What the hell do you have to back up your claims? Facts? Books? Those are things of yesteryear, my silly little friends. This is the dawning of the age of Google, and Google knows everything, whether it knows it or not!
And in other news!
New Mp3 of the moment now up, take a listen to the first episode of mine and IAMRICKSEE’s new audio podcast, Ice and The Face, and if you like it (or if you don’t), find us on iTunes.
Well now that the stupid holiday season has come to a welcome close, it’s time for another installment of “Why I Probably Hate You”, and in this one, I shall tell you all why you make going to a store one of the most miserable experiences of my life. Say hello to “Why I Probably Hate You: The Shopping Edition”.
1. Cashiers that want to talk it up- Having lived in parts of the world that weren’t the East Coast, I realize that not everybody has a problem with this, but they should. If I just gimped my way through a store, listening to your screaming, fat babies, getting bumped into repeatedly by your wayward shopping carts because your stupid, fat eyeballs are too busy casing the aisles for your fave brand of Pringles, and somehow successfully managed to make it to the checkout, I am in no mood to talk to the cashier about whatever the hell it is she thinks is conversation-worthy in the short amount of time it should take for her to scan and bag and take money. I honestly couldn’t say I remember what any of them ever look like, because I don’t make eye contact, I don’t want to show any signs at all that I am open for any discussions, of any sort, about anything at all, in any way, whatsoever. The cashier that promptly checks my stuff out, takes my money, gives me change, and moves on to the next person, even without saying a word to me, is the best cashier of all.
2. The no-help helpers- Although I encounter this type of worker in nearly every type of store I’ve ever been to, it seems to be frustratingly common amongst any sort of tech related business. If I’m going to Best Buy, and it takes three people to answer my question about an external hard drive, and in the end, I have to repeatedly correct them because they’re giving me information I know is wrong, I’m just going to take a wild guess and say these people have absolutely no training whatsoever in anything computer-related. I do have one tip for you, if you need help at Best Buy, look for the small skinny kid with the messed up hair, kind of scraggly, always has his eyes to the ground, I know that he will be able to answer any, and all, technological concerns as if it was the only thing he ever truly cared about. This of course is a generalization, but it has yet to fail me.
3. Lazy shopping cart users– I am so sick and tired of lazy people leaving their shopping carts in the parking lot of the store that I am so close to getting out of my car and killing them with it. First of all, a store isn’t required to have carts, they’re put there for your convenience. But truthfully, even if there were no shopping carts, you’d still need the same things, and you’d still go to the store and get them. So why is it that so many people use this thing, placed there solely for their convenience, and then leave it in the parking lot in order to make someone else’s life harder? The amount of entitlement involved in just emotionlessly saying “Well, someone else will take care of it, they hire people for that.”, is mind blowing. If you’re one of these assholes that likes to leave their carts in parking spots, or even worse, in the handicapped parking spots, please do us all a favor and stay at home, whee you can be happy mowing your lawn and evening out the grass with tiny little scissors, taking sewing classes online, and calling your BFF up to gab about the latest gossip around town, before eating that little piece of chocolate you’ve been saving for yourself all week, and then getting to bed by 8 o’clock soyou can wake up early to fill the bird feeder, and spend the rest of the day looking through L.L. Bean catalogs. Please don’t leave your house, the world doesn’t want you.
4. Your annoying children in the store– Okay, I get it, some people have kids and they have to bring them everywhere or they’ll die, or whatever. But if your kid can’t shut up in a public place filled with people that have ears, then maybe you should tie your kid up outside to one of the bike racks while you go inside and buy whatever pointless crap you’re convinced you can’t live without. I was once in a store and all I could hear was this loud, murder-inducing, kid screaming over and over, and whining because its father wouldn’t buy something. He kept saying if the kid didn’t stop by the time he counted to ten, he would take the kid to sit in the car. He then proceeded to count to ten about five times over, which completely obliterates the counting to ten punishment rule. I was so frustrated by hearing this, I actually said, “dude it doesn’t work if you don’t actually follow through when you get to ten.” Which he may, or may not have heard me say over the shrill tones of his demonic hell-spawn. But, I assumed it’s common knowledge, based on how many parents I see constantly do that shit. I’m starting to realize that all the shitty kids are more the product of shitty parents, than anything else. So stop being shitty parents, which comes from being shitty people, so how about shitty people stop having shitty kids, and then there’s no more shitty parents because there will be no more shitty kids to bring up the completely wrong way! There’s enough fat ugly babies in the world, anyhooooo.
5. Tip jars on counters- This sort of became a thing I noticed several years ago, and I’m actually really surprised that more people don’t complain about this. Now, I understand that you’re supposed to tip waiters and waitresses, bartenders, or people that actually go out of their way to carry something to your car, but when you’re at a regular store buying some random thing, like a bottle of soda, I don’t understand exactly why there’s a jar in order to tip the cashier. They’ve done absolutely nothing outside of the realm of their job description. It seems extremely egotistical to just have a jar in front of your stupid, flapping mouth (see number 1 on the list) basically insinuating that you deserve more than the money you agree to make with your employer, and that the person patronizing your store is somehow the one that should be giving you the money. Why don’t we just tip for everything, then? If it’s that simple, why shouldn’t the cashier tip me from making my purchase, based on this logic, it’s completely sound for me to assume, and expect, that my having picked up my product and brought it to the counter for her to check it out is worth getting a tip from her, essentially I’m part of the reason why she has job, and if that doesn’t deserve a tip, well I’m not sure what does.
Thank you, and have a burgerific day!
So, starting last night, I decided to sit down and watch the entire “Rocky” anthology, starring Sly Stallone as Rocky Balboa “The Italian Stallion.” I haven’t watched these movies in MANY years. My dad was a huge fan, so therefore, growing up, I was also a huge fan. One of few items of his I received after he passed away (my POS stepmother butt-fucked me and my sister out of everything else, and hopefully, she gets catapulted into the Fukushima power plant cunt first) was his “Rocky” anthology. I recently realized that I’ve never seen the 6th one, so before I sit down and watch that (which I do not have high hopes for), I have decided to rewatch the first five movies…in doing so, I realized a few things:
Firstly, Rocky 1 is a GREAT movie. Say what you will about Stallone’s acting abilities, but he BECOMES Rocky Balboa in that movie, and that is why the first one is great. It’s gritty, low budget, easy to relate to, and full of heart. It even feels like the cast is enjoying being a part of that film. On a side note, I also realized that Mickey Avalon looks exactly like Rocky in the 70’s and that Yolandi Visser from Die Antwoord looks just like Adrian, except I’d much rather fuck Yolandi…not important, just an observation. But that movie captures the essence of a good person trapped in an unfair situation doing whatever he has to do to survive. He’s a really nice guy who is working for a loan shark and hustling motherfuckers for money because he doesn’t have a high IQ and basically has no choice. I like that. I like good people who do bad things. It adds something irking to the tale. But then, opportunity knocks, and it truly becomes a great story about legitimately pouring your soul into an endeavor and overcoming all odds in the end. What makes it even better (spoiler alert for the slouching FAR behinders) is that Rocky loses the fight in the first movie, yet manages to emerge as a different kind of winner. Awesome!
Then I watched Rocky II. It seems my youth deceived me because number 2 is exactly that: A huge piece of tumbling steaming shit on the chest of the movie industry that never stops happening. It is a Steaming Cleveland combined with a Turkish Earthquake, meaning you’re just falling down the stairs with another person who was squatting over you, who you just blew, mind you, and now, that dude is just spraying shit in the air, and you’ve got diarrhea in your chest hair, not to mention a mouthful of cum, and now THAT’S spewing all over both of you because you’re screaming, while the other dude’s recently serviced dick, which is spittling like grandpa babbling with skewed dentures right in your face, is just flopping in the breeze like the business end of bingo arms. In other words, it is not a good movie. For starters, the writing is awful, and the lines are delivered as if by people who are trying to act instead of actually acting. Bored porn stars with their clitorises removed do a better job. There are so many cringe-worthy lines it’s actually hard to watch. That said, I realize that many movie sequels back then fell victim to the movie studios’ belief that the franchise name would sell the film, and they wouldn’t have to try very hard. See Teen Wolf 2 for another example of this. That doesn’t seem to happen so much anymore, however. It seems that sequels come out now to destroy their predecessors, with the exception of Boondock Saints II, which is such a piece of shit that during the first five minutes, I wondered who set out to destroy that movie franchise on purpose. I’m a huge Boondock Saints fan, and it saddens me to see how many other Boondock Saints fans are in complete denial about the second movie. I’ve never seen the end of Boondock Saints II because I’d rather chop off my own dick than sit through that movie to its fucking poorly written, poorly acted end. Someday, I’ll eat a bunch of pills and try to slog through it like a champ in order to validate my opinion.
AND, to bring it full circle…I think that’s what happened with Rocky II. I think people at the time loved the first Rocky movie so much that they were willing to completely look past the fact that it was awful. Even the New York Post raved about it like it was some sort of Hollywood achievement (which goes to show who owns what and who’s pulling what strings). Eighty percent of that movie is Stallone walking around acting like someone thinks Rocky Balboa acts with his new found wealth, blowing his money on bullshit while his wife looks at him disapprovingly whilst simultaneously having no qualms about wearing fur coats and diamonds and shit. Hey, look, alright, I understand that the series is about the life of a man who comes from the streets and hurdles to fame and fortune over night, but there was certainly a way it could have been done that required at least some decent writing, acting, and perhaps some real action…and by action, I don’t even necessarily mean violence, though some more believable boxing scenes would have been a treat…just more than a bunch of nothingness, as we follow an idiot around the city and watch him buy cars and clothes. And for fuck sake…beat the fuck out of Pauly or just give the guy a fucking job! What’s with the song and dance?! You’re fucking the guy’s sister, he’s letting you train on his meat, so throw the fucker a bone, which I know he does…but WTF is the hold up about?! The only guy who remains consistent through the series was Mick. Mick is awesome…end of story.
Today, I began Rocky III, and even after watching only the first half hour which includes Hulk Hogan as “Thunderlips: The Ultimate Male”. I absolutely still love this movie. It recaptures everything; there are great scenes, great lines, and it captures that need to climb to the top as the first one did. Not to mention, both the plot and Mr. T are fucking awesome. Mr. T is like an angry rabid badger in that movie, and it’s so visceral, you may actually worry he’s going to climb out of the television and eat your wife. AND…there is a message that remains RESPECTFULLY intact: Never forget where you come from and watch your ego because there is always a hungry motherfucker out there in the shadows ready to take your shit from you no matter how tough you think you are.
Perhaps Boondock Saints NEEDS a third movie for some god damn redemption. Please for the love of all things fucked, someone redeem that franchise! It’s not good when a movie makes me want to get drunk and shoot my fucking T.V.
Rocky rant part 2 is coming soon my pretties.
A brand-spanking new writer has joined the ranks of this here smeatysmeat team of maladjusted ruffians. IAMRICKSEE is the new writer, so enjoy sending him naked pictures of your bondage-loving grandmother, or just spam him links to your creepy doll-collecting blog, he loves those (a lot).
New bio, new front page, new updates coming by next week. YES I ALWAYS SAY THAT! The thing I love about you assholes, is you never know whether or not I mean it this time, but you’ll check, anyway. Now that’s dedication, especially after over a decade. You’re all clearly getting old and delusional.
So, I wrote some girl on etsy about some of her “art” like a month ago and never got to post it. I plan on sending her more messages about the other stuff she has for sale and telling her that each one reminds me of a dead relative who died in some horrifically weird way.
Here is the item in question that I am referring to in the message: