A Gentleman's Guide to Professional Rock Slangin'

I'm sorry that it's been over a week since I've updated this modest blog, my thronglets of loyal readers.  You see, I've been terribly busy.  Doing what, you ask?  Well, ghprhpfhgqpmhmphpmphfff, and so on.  In other words, it's time for my first guest article!

Writing in my place this week is my teenage cousin.  His real name is withheld, for soon-to-be obvious reasons, but he goes by the moniker of Slapzy G.  After reading my simply incandescent blog, G begged to write an article for me.  I asked him why he didn't simply start a blog of his own, but he replied that I was the real shizzle, or some such youthtalk, and that only my "bampin" fanbase could get his writing career off the ground.  So I decided to help him out.

Please, dear reader, be kind to this child.  He's a raw egg of talent, only waiting to be boiled, hardened, and rolled on Easter.

Constructive criticism, ok?

_________________________________________________________________________________

How To Deal Drugs n' Buy Drugs By Slapzy G

last week I opened my mailbox and FINALLY it had arrived.  saucy-eyed, my trembling hands opened the small box wit my very own ACME Lil DrugLord Narkotix Factory ; LIMITED Hunter S Thomas editon.  it was a modest kit an had lots of uppers, downers, frowners, clowners, and hep-me-ups.  After setting up my house-wide security system of strings with bells attach to em, I sent out a text to my entire address book, put a post on my facebook timeline, and tweeted out to all my peeps wit a #yoloswag.  all 3 times, I said the same thing::

I GOTZ MAD DRUGZ BAMAS

my new career just lit the fuck up.  

see those ninja weapons back there?  that's like a twennieth of my ninja weapon collection.  Yeah thats right I heard you trumblin'.  

for the past week here I been haggling hashish, politicking in pills, commercing in cocaine, weighing weed, and quantifying quaaludes.*  Shits been crazy!  I learned more, in these past several days than I did in the few days before the narcawtik kit arrived, which I spent huffin paint so that I could better relate to my future customers.  thats how I can speak now with such authoritaayyy (CARTMAN FTW)

* those my rhymes. spent hours cookin that shit up for you. even used the dictionary and spellcheck. best preeshaite 

i got major protips for both pushers and pushees.  use em in the future, either the next time youre trying to sell kayanne pepper mixd with baby powder to a guy outside AA, or for that night when the DKEs needs some being superextrafucking high for their bloodcore hazing cermony.  I put them in litsts because everybdoy on the internet loves lists.

i was gonna make this image into my corporote logo for my drug op, but then i realize the  spiggets leaking pee.  thats what we in the biz call bad PR

PROTIPS for Dealers to avoid major butthurt

1 - if youre dealing at a strict school or like a really christan school, you should either know a pizza dude or work for a pizza dude.  that way you can cook your drugs into a pizza (or cannolee or whatever shit italians make) and then you can get pass security at the dorm and go up to the customer and be like 'yo, heres your drug pizza, that will be 80 dollars. 15 bucks for the pizza, 65 for the drugs.'  TOTALLY LEGAL - according to US law, as long as its on pizza its recalsified as food, not drugs.

2  MONEY is power dude.  making money is good, but you cant level up in the game til you get the right swag.  swag is key.  show off your swag all the time so people know that your making your money from drugs.  this will making you dangerous and exicting to ladies, and turn alphas around you into hardcore betafags.  cops dont like to do hard work, which is why they dont touch badases like me.  they too fraid of my SWAG

3.  aside from showing swag, ya gotta show off your weapons.  beware tho, chainsaws are of limits.  I dunno why, but bad shit happens to any poser asshole who puts a chainsaw photo on fb.  they say the secret chainsaw mafia comes and chainsaws you to death, but I didnt tell you shit.  specially no secret chainsaw mafia shit.

4  if the cops pull you over and you have mondo drugs, you gotta chuck los drogos amogo.  but if you throw them out the window they can find it and rest you anyway.  thats why my car has a moonfroof and a big slingshot so i can fire my drugs straght up if im getting pulled over.  i put little parachuts on the drugs so that they dont fall into the cop cars.  the hard part is not crashing while firing the slingshot.  I havent quite masterd it yet

5 the more expensive the drug your customer is buying, the cooler and more trustwerthy.  I know this because at georgetown prep the awesomeest titty-out parties were thrown by the cokeheads but then the potheads all sat around going "nature drumcircle hurr durr".  but a lot of hot chicks smoke weed so i am cool with that too but keep the hippie guys away - their poor n stanky.  

this picture kicks ass

 PROTIPS for Dealees to avoid major butthurt

1. dude, dont be ovious over the phone.  ive learned to read acronoms and codes and puzzleshit like that.  just send me a message in whatever code you like, and ill crack that shit in fucking no time like some rain man.  

2 - if youre a tool, leave immediatelly after you buy.  unless theres a chance the cops are watchin for people coming in and out too quickly.  in that case stay.  unless youre a girl and I wants you to show tits.  in that case tits or gtfo.*

3. the first time you meat me or a dealer like me, be sure to ask to see my weapons.  showing you my sais and katanas estableshes you as a betafag and me as an alphadude.  only by accpeting your betaness can you buy my awesome drugs.  

4  bringin girls by can get you big points with me, especally if you are a chick too.  dont bring your gf tho, cuz im gonna steal that bitch with all my cooooooke.  lolz.  

* - anon 4evar!!!  we r legion /b/rothers!!!!

This Guide just helped you up youre swag factor in life, if your not beta.  YOLO AND HAPPY TRIPPIN!

Singed, Slapzy G

_________________________________________________________________________________

Well, I hope you enjoyed that.  In the meanwhile, I'm off to bed.  With any luck, I'll have a dream where I get to read something in English for once. 

Keep It Stankin'

True Facts about the Antediluvian Internet

The Internet is a beast whose rise has been so meteoric that it's hard for kids these days to imagine a time before Facebook, Twitter, and Youtube.  They recall nothing of the Internet's Pax Romana, that 2400-baud modem shining on the hill that was the mid-1990's.  Oh, faithful reader, let me tell ye a story.

Once upon a time, back in 1994, a chubby young teenage child of the bourgeoisie was deemed too atrocious a handwriter by his parents, who decided to bestow upon him a laptop, with which he might type symbols that were discernable to other human beings.  That laptop came with a wonderful bonus, a free trial of America Oline:

You may have seen these being used by hipsters as coasters at a party.    Probably one where you had to take your shoes off.  

TEH FUTCHARRR!!!

So I plugged a phone wire into the wall, dialed up the service, and five to ten minutes later, BLAM, I was online just like that, letting my parents shell out over $10 an hour for the privilege.  My lifelong friendship-with-benefits with the World Wide Web had begun.  Nightly would we snuggle, safely shielded from the harsh light of the stars and moon, whispering to each other sweet nothings about the awesomeness of Star Wars, the captains of Star Trek, or our mutual respect for Donkey Kong Country.  In missives written with perfect spelling, grammar, and composition, our torrid love affair went on for years.  

If Al Gore didn't invent the Internet, then why's he on the cover, Bart?  Why's he on the cover?

My Stars and Garters, how like the ancient mariner we were, listening to our LeAnn Rimes CDs while our minds sailed, nay, surfed, upon makeshift rafts in a torrid sea-web of information.  How I pity the youth, for now that sea is clogged with bloated cruise ships, its rules contrived and manifold, and its language coarse and dishonorable.

Ah, but you lucky reader, you are not alone.  For Great Chankery Stankery is here for you.

Being the ancient age that I am (old enough to remember the 90's in their entirety), I would like to take my younger readers on a journey back in time to the Wild West days of the World Wide Web, When Webster Was Watched in Wyndication.  Also, Wanda Walter Watermelon.  

In what is quickly becoming my favorite game, this was the first image to come up on Google when I search "wanda walter watermelon"

Here, for your edification, are some useful factoids that you probably didn't know about the web of old.  That is, if you didn't CHEAT and READ AHEAD ALREADY, LIKE I KNOW YOU DID, YOU FUCKING CHEATER:



- While everybody knows about "lol", and to a lesser extent the variant "rotflmao", there are a few old            
   acronyms that didn't survive the 90's.  They include:
   
   "comdfits" - "cutting off my dick, feeding it to sharks"

   "tomjottottbtes" - "Troi episode, must jack off, then turn off the tv, because Troi episodes suck"

   "htsopbio3ktmhisbtglcbdvutrc" - "have to sign off, phone bill is over $3000 this month.  However, I  
     still believe that Geordi LaForge could beat Darth Vader under the right circumstances"

- It's true that if somebody picked up the phone while you were online, you would become disconnected.  However, if you were able to reproduce the high-pitched beeps and whistles of a modem just right, you could actually pick up the phone and have online conversations with your friend.  It made for hilarious pranks.  Michael Winslow in particular was great at this.  

This is Michael Winslow.  If you didn't get to know him yet, do so at once.

- Because loading pictures took a small eternity over a modem, getting nude pictures from (avowed)
  women was an evening's entertainment unto itself.  If I had friends over, we would take bets on
  whether she would end up having a dick.  They didn't know, however, that I had Dicktector (TM) for
  Windows 3.1.  Oh, and they usually had dicks.

- The first time somebody made an inappropriate comparison to Hitler online was when I wrote a long,  
  far-too-well-reasoned post on a Star Wars Imperial fan club forum about how the Galatic Empire had
  numerous similarities to the Nazis, and were therefore evil.  Man, did that not go over well, especially
  after I found out the Imperial Grand Admiral was Jewish.  Yeesh.*


- Every Wednesday from 8-9 PM was Star Wars trivia night in one of the chat rooms.  You had to
  know hard stuff, like the name of the A-Wing pilot who crashed into the Executor.  (Arvil Crynid)      
  The reward?  A free hour of AOL.**


- The creation of emoticons was, contrary to popular belief, an arduous and often deadly undertaking.
  247 souls were lost creating :P------0 alone.

* I'm afraid this one actually happened.
** Goddammit, this one actually happened too.


Ah my children, the moon wanes.  I shall return another night to read to you Colombo style, my Fred Savagelings.  Until then...

Keep It Stankin'

Why Popeye's Fried Chicken can Knobble my Taint

I walked up to the cashier at my local Popeye's, my hands clutching those eight lucky dollars that would soon purchase me some delicious spicy dark meat fried chicken, all of which was to be dipped, nay, bathed in three full cups of Popeye's succulent Confetti sweet & sour sauce.  A food boner was quickly coming to erection within my tummy, and I could wait no longer.  

"Hi, I would like a two-piece dark meat, spicy, with cole slaw and a medium drink, and three cups of sweet and sour sauce," I said.

"Hi, what do you want?" said the cashier, hanging on my every word.

"A two piece meal, dark meat, spicy, with cole slaw..."

"Two piece meal, ok, white or dark?"

"Dark."

"Regular or spicy?"

"Spicy," my voice patiently rasped.  

"And what side order?"

"Cole slaw," I said, as a vein bulged out of my forehead from sheer calmness.  

"Anything to drink?" the cashier asked, keenly aware of how pleased I was with her service.  

"A medium coke.  And three cups of sweet and sour sauce."

"Ok, that'll be $8.71."

I paid, and after watching two other gentlemen receive the same speedy and attentive service, I received my food.  Even though I knew there's no way Popeye's would ever screw up an order, I took a look in my bag anyway.  

Chicken, check.

Cole slaw, check.

Confetti sauce... um, no.  Honey Mustard sauce?  

Ah, a minor mistake has been made.  

"Ah, excuse me," I say, "I asked for three cups of sweet and sour sauce."

"Sorry, we don't have any," replies the manager.  

My heart sinks.  My food boner, which had long been grinding against the lining of my large intestine, begins to wane.  

"You ran out?" I ask, incredulously.  It's lunchtime on a Saturday, how could they have run out?

"No, we don't carry sweet and sour sauce anymore, ever." 

Emotions, primal and long-forgotten, begin to seep out of the periphery of my psyche.  The food court bends and lurches about me.  Reality starts to twist and warp.  The fried chicken in my bag turns into stars.  Those stars turn into white lines, and leap towards me.  

My rage jumps into Hyperspace.  

I wanted to photoshop these two bears screaming "NOOOOOOOO", but that takes like, time and effort, man...

Does the fast food industry not realize that we (by which I mean real Americans) patronize their establishments not for their food, but for the amazing amalgamation of their food and their condiments? What good are McDonald's fries without McDonald's ketchup?  Wendy's ketchup wouldn't be any sane sort of substitute, just as I wouldn't be caught dead putting Burger King's ketchup on Wendy's fries. Their reply, though?  

"Oh, that sauce that you wanted, nay, absolutely required with your chicken, that you totally asked for before you gave us your money?  Oh, no, we don't have that, and will never have it again."  

You remember that scene in Good Will Hunting, where Robin Williams helps Matt Damon recover by repeated telling him "It's not your fault."?  I want to do that to Popeye's, in reverse, until they're more emotionally fucked up than they just made me.  

"It's your fault, Popeye's."

"It's your fault, Popeye's."

"IT'S YOUR FUCKING FAULT, POPEYE'S!"

Surrursly guys - go fuck yourselves.  I don't want your Honey Mustard sauce, your BBQ sauce, your Buffalo sauce, I WANTED YOUR GODDAMN CONFETTI SAUCE!  YOU KNOW WHY THEY CALL IT CONFETTI SAUCE?  BECAUSE WHEN COMBINED WITH YOUR SPICY DARK MEAT CHICKEN IT'S LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING PARADE IN MY GODDAMN CHICKEN-EATING MOUTH!  

This guy is the first image to come up when you google "angry."  And you know what?  Appropriate.  

And that, ladies and gentleman, is why Popeye's shall not know my business again until they reinstitute their Confetti sauce.  And I suggest you do the same, by which I mean boycott Popeye's until their bring their Confetti sauce back.  Please, even if you don't eat there ever, the next time you pass one (well, actually, go out of your way to find one if necessary), go up to the counter, ask the cashier for some sweet and sour sauce, and when they tell you they don't have any, fart. 

This sign now belongs in all Popeye's.  Print one out and do your fart.

That's right.  Sit your fat ass up on that counter and let rip with the most awesome farts you can.  And then, when the cashier has backed away from your awful, stanky farts, proudly yell in their stupid face: 

"GREAT CHANKERY STANKERY SENT ME, AS HE SENDS ALL GOOD MEN, TO TELL YOU TO RETURN TO US YOUR CONFETTI SAUCE, OR WE SHALL FART INSIDE TEN POPEYE'S EACH WEEK UNTIL OUR DEMANDS ARE MET!"

You heard me.  Fly, my pretties, fly.  

Keep it Stankin'

The Stiles Files

So yeah, ERRTS STILES TIME, BURRCHES!

Pictured: A drawing of an charlatan

To quote the Internet, "Wut?"  

Hold on, I know there's some photos of Stiles from Teen Wolf out there somewhere. 

Lemme Google "stiles teen wolf":

4 of 32?  Man, it's hard to keep typing, what with all these capillaries bursting in my eyes...

Oh, that's right, how could I forget about how MTV snuck into Michael J. Fox's house, stole some sperm from the REAL Teen Wolf, and used it to artificially inseminate one of Twilight's ovums?

I'm gonna adjust for that shit.  Let me change that search to "stiles teen wolf 1985":

5.  5 of 33.  I wish there was some kind of reverse of the Count's "AHAHAH."  Like a kind of feral death wail, but specifically for after you count something horrible.  Like what you see above.

*Slams fist on desk* GOOOOOOOOO-GLLLLLLEEEEEE!!!!  I'LL HAVE YOUR BADGE FOR THIS!  

...

...

...

Deep fuckin' breaths here, deep fuckin breaths...  Talk to me Stiles, talk to me.  

Better.  

(EDITORS NOTE: It was at this point in writing that this fine website decided that I was finished writing, even though I would go on to write the other 75% of this article.  Once my apoplexy subsided, and I stopped being hoarse from all the screaming, and I cleaned up the blood, and once I disposed of my gnawed-off tongue, I returned to this article and wrote it again.  I hope you'll forgive me if it isn't up to the standards of what you never got to read before.  Hey, isn't that kinda like how the Book of Mormon was written?)

So, just exactly why is Stiles one of the cinema's greatest sidekicks?  What makes him better than Short Round, Tonto, Robin, Snarf, and Orko all rolled into one giant hash-filled doobie?  

LET ME COUNT THE WAYS!

_________________________________________________________________________________

G. C. Stankery

Professor Dicknose

Michael J. Foxology 105

August 4th, 2012

                        Why Stiles is the Bestest Movie Character of the Time that is All

1. Stiles rocks your mom's world with his awesome T Shirts

"Hey Stiles.  Nice shirt." - Mr. Howard, having not yet seen Stiles

Before every wannabe hipster in the country took to hunting them down, amazing T-Shirts were the sole domain of Stiles.  Check out this beauty below:  

Now look at your favorite t shirt.  Now look at the T Shirt above - caps are quite intentional.  Now look back at that pathetic cum rag you call a torso skirt.  Now look up again, and gaze into the awesomeness below:

MY GOD!  IT'S FULL OF STARS!

2. Stiles embodies the entrepreneurial spirit of the 1980's

Stiles, let us not forget, is a businessman of the 80's.  He cuts through red tape, negotiates obstacles, and gets those goddamn labor unions busted.  The first time we get to see his stunning marketplace acumen is at Tony's liquor store, where Stiles needs to get a keg of beer.  However, because Stiles lives in a world of darkness and repression, Tony won't sell him that keg, because Stiles hasn't lived enough years for the old man's taste.  What rancid bullshit.  

Stiles, however, doesn't let that shit bother him.  You see, Stiles is a thinker among ignorant fools.  So he comes up with a ingenious plan: just pretend to be older!  BRILLONCATUDE!  

Tony, because he is an ageist communist sheep obedient only to the state, still forces Stiles to show his ID.  It's not because Stiles' performance wasn't convincing (it totally was), but because this old fuck is such a slave to the bureaucracy that he checks everybody's ID.  The decrepit fuck is a basket of fried turds, served with a side of diarrhea for dipping, and also a fresh kosher pickle spear.  

But does that stop Stiles?  FUCK NO!  Stiles has his secret weapon: His best friend is also covertly a werewolf.  

You can argue all you want that Stiles didn't know Scott's secret at this point in the movie, and thus had no way of knowing that Scott would be successful.  And I could argue that you've never actually watched a movie in your life, but instead just rolled your eyes around in front of a screen with moving pictures on it and never spent a single iota of your nearly nonexistent brainpower to comprehend what you just saw.  

And I would be right.  

Of course Stiles knew that Scott was a werewolf!  How else could this teenage Trump so quickly turn his best friend into his own line of merchandise?

Man, does this guy know his branding!  Look at the beautiful design on the side of Stiles' Wolfmobile!  Which brings me to my next point...

3. Stiles is an artistic visionary

What, you think somebody OTHER than Stiles designed the Wolfmobile, the Teen Wolf shirts, the Teen Wolf frisbees, the Teen Wolf jackets?  Hell no, sucka.  In my personal original draft of Teen Wolf, of which only I have the sole remaining copy, it clearly establishes that Stiles is the best artist in a fifty mile radius.  

Dali and Picasso can spin in their graves like roast turkeys.  They never designed T Shirts for their werewolf best friends, now did they?  

4. Stiles will make your party rock harder than a T-Rex Steve Urkelbot on its period

That keg Stiles wanted?  He got it.  That party he wanted to get into?  HE GOT IN.  And what does Stiles do when Stiles gets into a party?

HE TAKES THAT MOTHER FATHER SHUCKS THE FRAG OVER!

Does it matter that Stiles was only invited on the condition that he bring beer?  Nope, once Stiles walks in that door, there's nothing to keep him from becoming the MC of a series of party games so debauched that most of them are only described in my aforementioned first-draft screenplay.  

You thought Seven Minutes in Heaven was a game for middle schoolers?  Stiles thinks YOU'RE the game for middle schoolers.  You think pouring Jello down a girl's shirt is sexual harassment?  Stiles thinks Sexual Harassment should pour Jello down your buttcrack, take a picture of it, and then post it on your facebook page.  

This is Stiles' party now, bitches.  

En conclusio, Stiles combines his voracious love of T shirts, his keen Gordo Gecko-esque financial wit, his prowess at graphic design, and his ability to turn keggers up to 11 into what is without a doubt the paragon of all secondary protagonists.  

When next we return to the subject of Teen Wolf, such as when we discuss Teen Wolf Too and the Teen Wolf cartoon, you will now fully understand my outrage at the innumerable crimes committed in malice against Stiles and his character.  And you, too, will cry tears of shame and anger, and swear swift revenge on all the Dicknoses of the world.  

Until then, Wolf Buddies...

Keep it Stankin'