Friday Primate Storybook Tales Hour

by on March 4, 2005 @ 2:25 pm

Another Friday, another installment of Friday Primate Storybook Tales Hour. Granted, primate stories are a staple of news around these parts, but we save Friday for the really, um, special news items that involve incidents with monkeys, gorillas, babboons, orangoutangs, chimpanzees. And sometimes animals that have funny names, like ocelots and lemurs, but mostly monkeys, because they’re always just so gosh darn surprising.

So this week, we have a very heartwarming tale of a San Diego couple who went to celebrate the birthday of a chimpanzee named Moe at a local animal sanctuary, only to find his friends were a little jealous of his birthday cake they brought. So jealous, in fact, that the adorable little chimps mauled one of them, eating off his face, foot, and testicles. Yeah, I saved the best piece of anatomy for last, just to sucker you into the rest of the sentence. Now that’s writing, folks.

“Dr. Maureen Martin, of Kern Medical Center, told KGET-TV of Bakersfield that the monkeys chewed most of Davis’ face off and that he would require extensive surgery in an attempt to reattach his nose.

Davis was transported to Loma Linda University Medical Center, where he was undergoing surgery late Thursday night, according to Martarano.

Kern County Sheriff’s Cmdr. Hal Chealander told The Bakersfield Californian that besides the damage to his face, Davis had his testicles and foot mauled off. Buddy, a 16-year-old male chimp, initiated the attack and after he was shot, Ollie, a 13-year-old male, grabbed the gravely injured man and dragged him down the road, according to Chealander.

‘Everybody was trying to get the chimp off,’ Chealander said.”

No word on if Moe got to eat his cake while his friends had a good helping of delicious birthday suit.

Well, that concludes Friday Primate Storybook Tales Hour. Yeah, I know it didn’t take you an hour to read this post. The hour in the title refers to how long it took to write this. Casual Friday extends to typing, too.

The Incredible Jimmy Smith scoots on

by on February 9, 2005 @ 2:20 pm

Apparently Jimmy Smith – master of the B3 and the funkiest jazzman you’ve ever heard or will ever hear again – died last night. It’s the saddest news I’ve heard in a while. It was just a couple of months back that I mentioned to my jazz-nut friend that we should go on a pilgrimage to his hometown and meet him. If you haven’t heard the incredible Mr. Smith’s Root Down set, you haven’t lived.


by on August 16, 2003 @ 7:43 pm

Holy shit I am soooo angry! I’ve got to rant!

Betty and Veronica. Always fighting over Archie. Can’t they see that Reggie is so much much better??? Archie has freckles and red hair and Reggie is so cool with his wit and charm and charisma. Betty and Veronica need to forget about Archie hook up their cabooses up with the Reggie train. Word up!

Will and Grace. Why won’t Will just get straight and tap that shit? I mean, I know the incredible irony of their chemistry being subverted by their sexual preferences is what makes the show tick, but something’s got to give! Word up!

Postmodern hipsters. Holy fucknuckles, would you people stop with the trucker hats and 70’s moustaches. I mean, I’m glad that postmodernism has finally trickled down to you bottom feeding future reality TV contestants. Really, I am. Word up!

Dogs. Gentle Jesus make it stop with the dogs. Cats are so much better, and it is so obvious why they are: because they’re not dogs. Word up!

Well enough ranting for now! I’ve got to go back to my pizza delivery job and do my homework for Remedial Math, and I have to make posters for my campaign for freshman class president! I’m soooo busy! Wish me luck!!! WORD UP!!!!

No slice you say?

by on June 12, 2003 @ 9:54 pm

Poor Sharkey can’t post a slice of the day because of his alcohol cruise. What he’s not telling you is that he’s tanked up on loads and loads of fruity, girly, non-BAMFish drinks with little umbrellas. It’s alright, dude; even the biggest mofo in the world has to be whipped by the woman on occasion.

How about a slice anyway, since he ain’t around?

Why stop there? How about eleven of them?

(That link isn’t even remotely worksafe, unless your boss is named Hef.)

Strapping Young Asshat seeking Greasy Little Fucktard

by on May 28, 2003 @ 9:51 pm

I live in a small enough town that our newspaper doesn’t have personals. However, if you travel a couple hours by horseback to a town or two over, you get a chance to read some great redneck reality drama played out in agate. The problem with hillbilly personals is that they’re pretty basic; you know, swingers, swingers, cousins, swingers. Dammit, where’s the really desperate psycho shit? The stuff that makes you double check your deadbolts at night? You’ve already guessed the punchline: right here.

If One More Woman Tells Me I’m Funny I Will Die

Im so funny im starting to bore myself, “Your so funny”, I get that ALL the time, actually im so fucking funny im starting to bore the tits of myself. I long for, your a great kisser, or jesus your hung like a donkey, or I love your sexy blue eyes, or even god forbid “I LOVE YOU” Im going to stop being funny for a while and just be serious, I am without a girlfriend and I WANT ONE. Please don’t be bi sexual, please don’t be a bitch, please don’t two time me, and please ( for the love of god! 🙂 don’t be the corporte careeer gestapo ice crotch type with no time for me. Never been told im ugly so thats good, straight laced guy, with a naughty but nice persoanality, im going thru a horney and lonely period in my life ( now that was tooooooooo fricken honest, start lieing god damm it), but i won’t settle with just anyone, i have some standards. this ad sucks. im at work, its sunny outside, and i am writing pure dribble. jesus, i wish i had a girlfriend….

[shudder]… I better check my locks just one more time.

Yeah, but does it have a CD player?

by on January 6, 2003 @ 8:09 pm

Holy crap. A motorbike with a Viper V-10. That thing gives a whole new meaning to the term “crotch rocket.” I don’t see how they’ll ever sell one of these; the thing has a “Terminator 3” aesthetic, but probably costs somewhere in the vicinity of the guy with a “crusty old businessman” aesthetic. And even if some kid gets a hold of one, imagine the insurance on the thing:

“No, sir, your premium does not go down after you turn 25, or if you get married, or paint it white. We’re just going to charge you a couple grand for every mile you put on the tachometer.” Or odometer. You know what I mean.

Solo, it looks like you might be able to buy a Viper now. Or at least the engine.