I’ll be bahk!

by on August 18, 2003 @ 8:28 pm

So we’ve got a sequel to Copycat. About time, goddammit.

CAMPBELLS CREEK, W.Va., Aug. 18 Investigators have identified 100 suspects in three killings that have raised fears that a serial killer is stalking residents of this West Virginia mountain valley, the sheriff said Monday.

AT A NEWS conference in Charleston, where one of the three killings occurred, Kanawha County Sheriff Dave Tucker said that a task force assembled to investigate the slayings had arrived at the list by using known information to make a reasonable decision.

He said that the suspects were being interviewed by authorities but added that none has been taken into custody.

I bet he’s in contact with John Allen Muhammad just to make sure the technique is right.

So let’s cast the made-for-TV sequel!

Harry Connick, Jr
Out. Clearly. And not just The Closet tm.
Since we’ve got 100 (usual) suspects, that must mean Kevin Spacey is in as the mastermind-Lecter-Cullum-Soze-John Allen Muhammad.

Sigourney Weaver
She won’t sign on to reprise her role: she just has to emulate her bosom body, Jodie Foster (best known as “Tiny Titties” Nell).
Since one (Julianne) Moore replaced Foster, that makes the other (Demi) Moore the replacement for Sigourney. She has bigger boobs, and looks better in a thong anyway.

Holly Hunter
In. End of story.

The Sniper dun dun dun
This leaves us with our sniper. Clearly (there’s that word again!) it has to be someone stupid enough to get caught. It can’t be someone dark and tortured like Matthew Modine (e.g. In The Shadows). That means we’re stuck with a Baldwin.

We’ll have to amputate Paulie Shore from his cock, but Stephen Baldwin (with that added Suspects flavor) is just the man for the job. Assuming our project can be fit into his very busy straight to video schedule.

So there you have it. A made-for-TV sequel in just a few career re-treading steps.

Fair, balanced, and not in the least sensationalist!

by on @ 2:03 pm

I guess I spoke too soon:
FOX: Thar might be terrorists in them thar hills!

Although government and energy-industry officials have continued to state that Thursday’s massive power blackout was not an act of terrorism, they are unable to rule out the possibility that a computer hacker plunged 50 million people into darkness, a source told Fox News Monday.

There were also reports that Al Qaeda had claimed responsibility for the outage, although U.S. officials said Monday that those claims should be taken with “a giant grain of salt.”

So in less than a week we’ve gone from ‘teh terrrrrists haff not vun’ to ‘maybe they did.’

Next thing you know, Peter Gammons will be talking about trade rumors of al-Qaeda swapping Osama and a bag of peanuts for Ari Fleischer and the pole up his ass.

It’s getting dark in here, so take off all your clothes

by on August 14, 2003 @ 8:45 pm

I guess we finally get to find out how many New Yorkers it takes to screw in a lightbulb.*

But seriously, news anchors alleviating fears of terrorism every time something abnormal happens is getting a little over the top. It’s honestly getting to the point I expect Rob Dibble to chime in on Baseball Tonight to assure everyone that Curt Schilling ‘adjusting himself’ was just a natural thing that every ballplayer, even Dibs himself, does and is not a result of an al-Qaeda plot to put itching powder in his jock.

I can just see it now, we invade the Dominican Republic for sabotaging our national pastime.

*note to Leno: if you steal that one you little fuck, I’ll cut your heart out with a dull, rusty spoon like a Puerto Rican whore. Why a spoon? Because it’s dull you twit, it’ll hurt more. And rusty so that if you truly are a heartless bastard, the tetanus will get you.

I smell sex and candy

by on August 6, 2003 @ 9:24 pm

Speaking of candy and vomit: I once had a baseball game and they gave us all gelooze (that faux kool-aid drink with the gelatin inside) afterwards. So I drank one, maybe two.

Then my family took me to eat at Bennigan’s. And I love French onion soup, so I ordered a bowl and a buffalo chicken sandwich.

I ate the soup. No problem. 5 minutes later…oh I don’t feel good. So I walked to the bathroom with my bro and made it inside the door but then puked all over the floor. And by all over the floor, I mean all over the floor.

I felt much better.

Ate my buffalo chicken sandwich, too.

Best tasting vomit, ever.

It’s foolproof, Jerry! Foolproof!

by on August 4, 2003 @ 5:48 pm

Real American Hero
Cheers to you airport announcer woman. Without you I wouldn’t know that I have to keep my baggage attended at all times while in Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. And any and all other airports. Without your cheery voice, Sherry Perry and Mr. & Mrs. Bob O’Connor would not get their calls on the white courtesy phone.

You keep our national infrastructure lubed like a well-oiled Shannon Elizabeth.

Airport Personalities:

Haggard Business Man
Typified by rumpled suit, loosened tie, and dress shoes. Carries an attache case. Often seen at airport watering holes hitting on transvestites and lushes. Technique: wears wedding ring, sobs over row of whiskey shots about ‘dead’ wife or ‘cheating’ wife. Pleads for sympathy or revenge sex.

Up and Coming Business Woman
Found wearing pant suits, with jacket over one shoulder. Sleeveless blouse. Fashionably sensible heels. One-hand on wheeled carry-on bag. Seen strutting to and from gates and baggage claims with cocksure, Gloria Steinem feminist confidence. Likely to knee Haggard Business Man in the balls. Carries Mace for the homeless.

The Ride Home
Arrives at least an hour early. Schmucks that they are, they forget to check whether the plane is on-time. Constantly checks arrival screens for updates. Sits as far away from other Rides Home as possible. Steals any seat you might think is open, seconds before you get there. Smells of despair. If not sitting, paces in a circle like a pussy-whipped lion in a cage.

Chickenshit “Inconspicuous” Airport Security Supervisor
Wears sharp, tailored suits. Close-cropped hair. Possibly gelled. Shitty shoes are a must. 5 year old shoes that have been dragged through every season (all 2 of them) and gutter Chicago has to offer. Can’t afford better shoes because all money was spent on the suit. Walks with elbows in like a chick, not elbows out like a cowboy. Uses “sir” and “ma’am” in most offensive way possible, especially to children. Nose is angled up at such a degree as to make French waiters turn a darker shade of green than their frog legs.

Vacation Girls
Travel in groups of at least 3. Dark tan. Tank-top. No bra. Braided hair. They’re 10s so long as they keep their mouth shut except for consensually agreed upon (or not) activities.

Low Income Ride Home
Spends all airport time at Midway. Can’t navigate O’Hare. Constantly asking for directions. Permanently unsure of surroundings, always asking nearest SkyCap for verification. Would feel more comfortable at Ford City Mall.

Guy Looking For Bathroom
Walks quickly. Easily mistaken for Knows Where He’s Going Man. Always ends up choosing the wrong door. Not the exit door for the bathroom. No, the security stand with the flashing lights, large DO NOT ENTER sign, and armed guards that is right next to the bathroom. Invariably sets off the alarm and gets yelled at to back the fuck up lest he receive a Chicago style beat down from the 5-0 and National Guard.

Foreign-looking Traveler
Shifty eyes. Not because they’re guilty of anything, but because they don’t want to share the same fate as Bathroom Man…only with the added prize of Cavity Search Man.

Leaving Over-the-Hill Las Vegas
Everything stays in Vegas. Except for her cheap whore make-up and clothes too-tight and too-skimpy for J.LO, let alone some leathery, malignant melanoma freckled tanning bed jockey.

Custodial Personnel
Wears rubber glove. Carries garbage bag with optional dustpan and broom. Thrilled to clean up all your tourist slob shit.

Gutterloving 12-13 Year Old with Mom
Kids just have to be getting stupider. That’s the only explanation. You little shit, I hope you fall out of the jetway.

Fat People
There are loads of them. They are inescapable. They have the gravity of a neutron star. No wonder there’s so little room on the plane. Also explains the cost of tickets: you’re paying to fly their fat asses and their XXXXXL muumuus.

Ernie: “You’re my bitch, Bert”

by on August 3, 2003 @ 11:16 am

For anyone to rate a blowjob anything less than swank they must be some kind of rumploving homoqueer (not that there’s anything wrong with that). You all gotta be the kind of homoqueer rumplovers who walk around with poles up their ass for the principle of it. You tightasses need to loosen up.

What kind of sickfuck would prefer having shitcrusted, asschafing mandingorod piledriven 9″ up their poopchute by Prison Bubba instead of knobslobification by the slice of their choice? A dickless sociopathic bitch, that’s who.

This post brought to you by the letters ‘A’ and ‘Compound Wordification’.

It’s not the size of the prize, it’s the motion in the ocean

by on August 1, 2003 @ 3:16 pm

American English pretty much sucks. The Irish cornered the market on linguistic ingenuity.

There is one upside to American English: the compound word.

I daresay we would not be anywhere without such gems as ‘asshole’ ‘fuckbutter’ ‘chucklefuck’ ‘sonuvabitch’ and many others.

But there is only one word that matters.

I submit for you consideration: blowjob.

More barren than Calista Flockhart’s shriveled womb.

by on July 31, 2003 @ 4:11 pm

I am completely and utterly devoid of any creative ability. Not just now, but always.

So I’ll just have to rip off someone else’s clever bleatings. Clever bleatings which were in turn ripped off from a forum. And then ripped off by Fark. And what’s more, I’ll rip it off second-hand from Fark!

300+ proofs of God to warm an atheist’s heart.

(1) No sane person could have thought up Christianity
(2) Therefore, it must be true
(3) Therefore, God exists

You all can bitch at Sharkey for leaving so much blank space in the quote box. And he will go and kill some of the monkeys at their keyboards for failing to pound out Shakespeare-worthy CSS HTML formatting.

Sometimes investing in headline stock at Fark pays comedy gold dividends.

So fuck you all.

That’s just gotta be jelly cuz jam just don’t shake like that

by on July 30, 2003 @ 4:36 pm

We all thought Fox had the market cornered on shittacular reality television (and reality reporting for that matter). But we were wrong.

NBC is currently airing a new reality series about marriage. Only not about married couples, but people wanting to get married. They call it “Race to the Altar.” Joy.

Now, you might think this is about how quickly you can knock up your girlfriend to have a shotgun wedding. I certainly did. But I guess that’s reserved for ShowTime’s fall lineup. It will replace “Family Business.”

No, this is about something entirely different. Road Rules meets marriage, or something like that.

NBC pushes romance to the breaking point with this reality series featuring eight engaged couples competing through elaborate physical competitions and smaller non-physical games that force them to work together as a team. Host Lisa Dergan puts love through the ringer as she forces these hopeful brides and grooms to face their fears and test their knowledge of their potential spouse – with one couple voted off in the end.

Now, I actually watched some of this tripe. Ordinarily I wouldn’t, but yet again I am putting off writing a paper. In fact, I’m putting off writing 3 papers. One of 250 words (piece of cake, 10 minutes start to finish). One of 1,000 words (a pain in the ass). One of 3,000 words (a royal pain in the ass), but at least it’s based off the other paper you already know about. All of that is besides the point. The point is that I actually spent 2 minutes of my life watching that network boobtube vomitus on my television.

The first contest? They suspended the 8 couples 100 feet above a hotel pool and had them hug each other in an endurance contest. Now, what does this have to do with marriage?

I have no fucking clue.

The worst part is that they were supsended using the wire-fu setup, but they didn’t jostle them around at all. And when they let go, they just swung apart. No 100 foot plunge into a pool. Where’s the razzle-dazzle splish-splash?

At least they had some stereotypical minority representatives. “Baby, don’t you dare let me go. Hold on tighter you son of a AAAaaaaghhhh!”

Well, maybe the test did actually prepare them for married life. You just know that the first couple to let go will have a cold bed tonight. Frigid, even. The first of many frosty marital mattresses.