Biter's Wrlock

My readers, all four of you that are left.  I'll put it to you straight - I've hit a bit of a conundrum.

You see, somehow writing about 'nothing important' has turned into an aimless task.  So, I want to focus the blog a little more, or refocus, as it t'were.

If you, that reader, are still out there, I ask you: what about this blog did you like?  What didn't you like?  Is it irredeemable crap, or should I venture on, full sail?

I'll point out, in case anybody was curious, that I've never gotten a single comment on my blog.  I'd love to hear some now!

NOW!  AT THREE IN THE MORNING!

-Great Chank da Stank

The Ten Condimentmandments

Once again, dear readers, it is Confession Time:

I am a Condiment Snob.  

Whereas the common rabble cares not about their dips, toppings, dressings, relishes, and other such food-based peripherals, I am throughly obsessed with them.  And when I say obsessed, I mean in the most demented, necro-psycho-sexual way possible.  Yes, that does look like exactly what you're imagining right now.  (Hold that image as you read this article)

What insights has such a Captain Ahab-like focus given me?  Many.  

What is the state of Condiments in the world today?  Shitty.  

Who's gonna do something about said shitty state of Condiments in the world today?  

I AM.  

The onus falls on me, my patrons, to address the manifold problems springing from the undulating world of Condimentarianism, and to declare, in these uncertain times, new rules governing the use and distribution of these Food-Enhancing Supplements (or FES, as nobody including myself calls them).

What follows are my mandatory guidelines for future Condiment conduct for everybody, everywhere, forever.  I expect them to be followed to the letter.  And yes, that includes you Burger King. (Makes me sad BK; you, me, and the Kid's Club? Used to be boys, son...)

1. Thou Needst Give Me More Ketchup

Since this is a set of rules, and not another mere online Top Ten list, I've chosen to start with the most important Commandment of Condiments, pertaining to the most Important of Condiments, the Holiest of Holies...

KETCHUP

That's a tad silly...

A bit much...

What the hell is this?

This is rank defilement and sacrilege!

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!! WHAT DARK POWER ARE YOU THRALL TO!??

Ketchup, as all good Americans should know, is the best foodstuff ever made.  That is why we, as a country, make and devour living fucktons of it all the fucking time.

So, then,  why do so many of America's fast food franchises have such a problem dealing with ketchup?

"What problem?" you ask, stupidly.

"WHAT PROBLEM!!!???" I scream, smacking you violently about the face and neck, "WHAT FUCKING PROBLEM?!!?!!!?  I'LL TELL YOU WHAT FUCKING PROBLEM!"

Most fast food restaurants nowadays have their own secret special variety of ketchups, kinds that we John Q. Publics never get to buy at the grocery store.  So when I go to get fast food, I don't count my house ketchup as a worthy gladiator in the feasting Colosseum that is my tummy.

I need that Fast Food Ketchup, and I needs it GOOD.  

Most of the time, I can get said ketchup from some manner of crude pump, from which said salty-sweet red good mayst pour out.  This is a good and righteous system, and such franchises that implement them are wellsprings of prosperity and fertility for themselves and neighboring townships.

However, shouldst one be caught in the trap of the ever-vicious Drive-Through, or, worse yet, a fast food restaurant without a working ketchup faucet, one is forced into the ever-so-awful quest of acquiring one's desired hoard of ketchup from an employee.

 You know what you get when you ask a fast food restaurant employee for ketchup packets?  Two, maybe three packets.  Four if it's your birthday, on the night of a full moon, during the airing of a rerun of the episode of Fresh Prince where Will and Carlton get pulled over and arrested, and learn a harsh lesson about 90's-style racism.

In short, what the fuck am I going to do with 2-4 packets of ketchup?  (Shift abruptly from 2nd to 1st person for no good reason?)

Nothing.  I can do nothing with that little ketchup.  Smatter a fry or two perhaps with a spinkling of flavor, but no more.

Thus, the first rule is: Give me more fucking Ketchup.

This brings me directly to my second rule of Condimentary Etiquette...

2. Really, Thou Didst Not Give Me Enough Ketchup, I Needst, Like, Twice That

ANOTHER TWO FUCKING PACKETS??? THAT'S IT??? 

That in total covers, what, 8-12 fries for me?  Am I going to have to squeeze out one packet at a time, so as to ensure that as little ketchup as possible is lost in the spreading across the surface of my wrapper?

Like, seriously, Mr. or Ms. or Mrs. Fast Food Employee, what is so precious about your damnably delicious paquets of Catsup? (I'll spell it like that when I'm huffing paint thinner, whichIamdoingrightnowthankyouverymuch.)

It's not like you're concerned about the waste of plastic, or the environment.  And if ketchup was expensive, you wouldn't let people pump out as much as they could possibly want for free.

So, is giving me a wad of 12-18 packets of ketchup with my order of small french fries such a fucking hassle?  Is it?

So yeah, from here on out, bitches, here's the rule: 

     Step 1: Take the number of ketchup packets you were about to give me.
     Step 2: Double the number from step 1
     Step 3: Add 3 to the number from step 2
     Step 4: Give me as many ketchup packets as you can fit in your two hands.  Once you've done
                 that, go back and get me another twenty packets.  Thank you.

3. Thou Shalt Not Charge For Dipping Sauces

Popeye's, I'm not sure if I brought this up before, dawg, but you charge for your dipping sauces when ordering non-dipping items, or just for extra dip.  That's cold.  I already talked about how you went and killed off my second favorite Condiment next to ketchup, but now you want to make me pay money for the scrubs you brought in to replace my beloved Confetti Sweet & Sour sauce?  For shame, Louisiana Kitchen, for shame.

The rule is: Your sauce ain't special, so don't charge for it.  

4. Speakingst of Dipping Sauces, Burger King's Dipping Sauces Need Vast Improvement

Have you tried Burger King's line of dipping sauces?

I love stock art almost as much as I love misappropriating other people's image files

Rule: For the love of fuck, do not attempt to ingest Burger King's dipping sauces.  

5. Thou Shalt Not Tellst Me When I've Had Enough 

Listen, Mr. Subway sandwich-maker, when I tell you I want more fucking jalapenos and hummus on my Meat-fucking-ball Marinara Flatbread sub, you put more fucking jalapenos and hummus on my Meat-fucking-ball Marinara Flatbread sub!  Don't tell me the sandwich won't close, or you've run out of ingredients - GO TO THE BACK AND GET MORE IF YOU MUST!

Rule: If I ask you to dump the entire bin of black olives on my sandwich, you better fucking do it.

6. Thou Shalt Stop Piling Too Much Shit Onto Nachos

I cannot understand (much less abide) people who love to pile a mountain of condiments on top of a plate of nachos.  To me, you might as well just have pulled down your pants and taken a giant Mexican-style shit all over a plate of perfectly good tortilla chips.

Pictured: Tortilla Abuse

Oh, yeah, sure, some of the upper and outer chips will remain fine, perhaps even tasty.  Some of the toppings might even not be horrible shit such as guacamole, or that brown bean paste that can't help but remind you of feces.

But then, once the best of the toppings are eaten, what are you left with?  Some fresh, condimentless chips that are ripe for scraping the leftover cheese and such?

NO, you're left with a bunch of soggy-ass chips sitting in the bottom of the bowl, moping about like the one guy who went stag to the prom.  And who the fuck wants to dance with a lump of soggy chips?

Rule: Chips are only for dipp... oh fuck... why was I the only guy who went stag to prom?  Am... am I a... *sniff* ... a soggy chip?     

7. Thou Shalt Offer Oral Sex To Thy Maker Of The "Dip & Squeeze" Ketchup Packet

Rule: OH MUH FUCK IS THAT A BADASS MOTHER-FUCKING KETCHUP PACKET, OR WHAT?

YOU CAN FUCKING SQUEEZE IT, FOR BURGERS AND SHIT!

YOU CAN MAKE IT INTO A DIPPING BASIN, FOR FRIES AND SHIT!

FIND WHO MADE THIS!  

PERFORM ORAL SEX ON THEM!

TELL THEM GREAT CHANKERY STANKERY SENT YOU!

THEY'LL KNOW WHO I AM, I PROMISE!

8. Thou Shalt Keep A Close Eye On Parmesan Cheese Shakers

I used to work in a pizza place.  We had to clean out the cheese shakers regularly, scrape out the mixture of rust and old, moldy cheese.  So uh, yeah, not really hyperbole here.  Just some good, homespun advice:

Rule: Check to make sure your cheese shaker at your favorite pizza place isn't full of rat shit or somesuch.

9. Thou Shalt Also Offer Oral Sex To Whomever Invented The Inverted Ketchup Bottle

Rule: Find the person who designed this bottle, then repeat step 7.   

10. Thou Shalt Always Make Pickles Available In Large Quantities For Free

Jerry's Pizza doesn't care if somebody absconds with several mini-containers full of pickles.  Nor does Quizno's Subs.  So why don't all these other fucking franchises pick up on the fact that A: People like Pickles, and B: Free Pickles are fucking amazing.  Man, back when I could find a Roy Roger's in my area, they let us steal all the fucking pickles we liked.

Those were the days.

Rule: PICKLES!  FREE!  NOW!

Well, dear reader, it sure has been fun outlining my ironclad laws for the future of the fast food industry, just as much fun as it will be when you join me to help enforce those laws!  But that... that is a set of subliminal orders for another day.  Until then...

Keep It Stankin'

"The Beawesomeining of Netflix" or "An appeal to Netflix for some of their money."

(WARNING: TODAY'S ARTICLE CONTAINS AWESOMENESS, COUPLED WITH AN UNBRIDLED LEVEL OF KISSING THE ASS OF NETFLIX IN A FRENCH FASHION.  IN NO WAY WHATSOEVER NO-SIREE IS SAID ASS-KISSERY A FEEBLE ATTEMPT TO GAIN SOME FORM OF SPONSORSHIP OR PITY MONEY FROM ASS-KISSEE.  ALSO, SOME OF THE STUFF I SHOW LATER MIGHT ENDANGER EITHER YOUR SOURCE OF INCOME OR YOUR APPETITE.  YOU'VE BEEN WARNED, TURDMUFFLERS.) 

Let's take a break from the bitching, shall we?  

Let's get back

TO

TEH 

AWAEEAASOMEYYY!!!

That's right, Cocktitulons (my AWESOME new name for you, my loyal readers), today I'm putting the acerbic bile aside, and in its stead putting forth...

AWESOMENESS!!!

WHEN AWESOME???

NOW!

WHAT TIME AWESOME?

TODAY!

WHAT AWESOME NOW TODAY?!?!?

NET-FUCKING-FLIX IS FUCKING AWESOME NOW TODAY!!!

When I got Netflix, I knew there were some good movies on there, like Tank Girl, maybe even a few great ones, like Robocop 3.  Movies that if I hadn't seen, I'd heard of.  Movies I know I'd want to watch at some point or another, but just hadn't gotten around to yet.  I signed up for Netflix because I wanted to see those movies.  That, and a living metric fuckton of Star Trek.  They've got lots of the TREKKAGE:  

What I wasn't prepared for, however, was all the AWESOME movies that I had never even known existed.  A Lost World, my readers, has been revealed to me, one far better than that 12-year-old-girl-kicking-a-motherfucking-veliociraptor-wow-really-how-fucking-imbicilic-does-Steven-Spielberg-think-we-are sequel to Jurassic Park.  (Oh wait, that was bitching, sorry, back on track now.)

What movies I have seen!  What joys!

Movies like... (I get slightly chubs just typing this) Air Bud: Seventh Inning Fetch:

I know what you're thinking: "Did Great Chankery Stankery just really recommend an Air Bud movie?" Well, not exactly.  You see, I just wanted to see a movie about a baseball-playing dog, not a cheesy kid's adventure featuring Al from Home Improvement.  I mean, come on, how am I gonna rub a toasty one out to Al from Home Improvement?

But with Netflix, I can just skip straight to those scintillating scenes of a dog playing baseball.  And does Air Bud: Seventh Inning Fetch deliver?  You bet my last kleenex it does!  Why, watch here as Air Bud WINS THE FUCKING WORLD SERIES!

Isn't that the best scene you've ever watched of a dog fielding a softly thrown baseball to complete  a double play to win the final game of the World Series, which is also inexplicably being played during the day?  

WELL IT SURE IS THE BEST ONE I'VE EVER SEEN! IN SPACE!

Also, if not for Netflix, I never would have seen Christopher Plummer HALT THE FUCKING FLOW OF TIME in the 1978 science fiction mega-epic Starcrash:

HAVE YOU EVER SEEN ANY OLD MAN BE SO COOL ABOUT FREEZING THE FLOW OF TIME?!?!?  MOTHERFUCKER, DO YOU THINK DOC BROWN COULD BE SO CALM IN THAT SITUATION? PROBABLY NOT!  HE'D MOST LIKELY SAY "GREAT SCOTT!" OR "WHAT'S THE PROBLEM WITH GRAVITY IN THE FUTURE?" OR SOME SHIT!  CHRIS PLUMMER DON'T FUCK 'ROUND, DAWG!  ARF ARF ARF!!!

Outside the realm of baseball-playing dogs and Space Magic, Netflix showed me Screwballs, a classic 80's teen sex romp in which a guy USES THE POWER OF HIS EJACULATE TO BOWL A STRIKE: 

(ON A TOTALLY AWESOME NOTE, THE FOLLOWING VIDEO IS PROBABLY NSFW, WHICH I BELIEVE IS INTERNETESE FOR "NAUGHTY STUFF FEATURING WANGS")

Man, the last time I had a bunch of women rub all over my naked body and call me by name, it was to get a ping-pong ball off my schlong.  Nor did it help my reputation when said ball fell limply to the floor upon my climaxing.  Ahhh, high school...

Speaking of which, by way of the 2010 magnum opus of teen drama, Cyberbully, I saw the true and AWESOME nature of bullying in the cyber fashion:

DUDE, DID YOU SEE HOW BADLY THAT SLUT GOT BURNED?  BECAUSE THE BEST WAY TO SHAME SOMEBODY IS TO WEAR A MASK AND MAKE VAGUE ACCUSATIONS WITHOUT ANY EVIDENCE!  INTERNET!  AWEEEEEESOME!  

Finally, Netflix introduced me to the world of Riki-Oh, the bruuuuutal Japanese prison movie about a guy who AWESOMELY kills and mutilates his way through half a prison:

(WARNING: POSSIBLE VOMIT/PINK SLIP VIDEO INCOMING, GRAND-PARENTAL DISCRETION IS ADVISED, BY WHICH I MEAN GET A GRANDPARENT OR GHOST OF A GRANDPARENT'S APPROVAL TO WATCH THE FOLLOWING CLIP)

WERE YOU NOT JUST AWESOMED???

I DARE YOU NOT TO HAVE JUST BEEN!!!

THANKS NETFLIX!

NETFLIX, CAN MAKE ME SPONSOR NOW?

GIVE MONEYS ME?

PLEASE?

IF YOU WEREN'T IMPRESSED MR NETFLIX, I LEAVE YOU WITH THIS:

Keep It Stankin'

NEW YURRS DURRBURR FEECHER!

It might seem to you, my dear reader, that I have once again abandoned my sacred duty here, leaving you all without so much as a post on Christmas or New Years.

It might seem to you that it would be a good time to make a New Year's Resolution - to update this young and supple blog on a more predictable basis, like, you know, once a week.

However, as is well established, the surest way to fail at something is to make it a New Year's Resolution.  It's a tale as old as time, a song as old as rhyme...

Aaaaaamanda aaaaand Nick theeeeee Beeeeeeaaaast! (Google Image Search wins again)

So while I won't make any guarantees on future returns, let me assure you, reader, that Heavy Excremetal is going to blow your shit up in 2013.  So be sure to get out of the bathroom in a hurry after you flush.

Before I get into the challenges of the New Year, I have a few loose ends to tie up and tickle mercilessly until they either die or give me the location of the kidnapped ambassador.  Enjoy, Excremities!

Why Teen Wolf Too is Not a Particularly Splendid Film, Part El Segundo

When last I wrote, I had listed off the parts of Teen Wolf Too that didn't entirely suck.  It would seem natural here that I would now list off the parts that did.  And so I will.  In due time.  Which is now.

1. The Non-Return of Coach Finstock

In Teen Wolf Good, Scott Howard is guided in the way of the hoops by Mr. I-couldn't-give-two-shits Coach Finstock, portrayed by the desquealeant Jay Tarses.  These following three minutes are the bulk of his appearance in the film:

Pretty fuckin' awesome for a character who gets three minutes of screen time, right?

I SAID RIGHT, BITCH!?

Well fuck what you think, I fuckin love this character.  He doesn't give a shit, has a shit job, probably has no wife or family to speak of, but he doesn't give a fuckin' fuck.  My kinda dude.

So yeah, look what the fuck they do with him in Tingling Wolf Balls Also:

You would be surprised how hard it was to find a picture of this dude.  

I couldn't find a Youtube clip to carry my point across, but hopefully you can tell from this still that this version of Coach Finstock, played by not-Jay Tarses, is a loser, a schlub who, in spite of being promoted to college boxing coach because of his werewolf-aided success with his... high school... uh... basketball team (because those two sports are so alike?), was somehow able to completely lose his zest for life between the two movies.  In this sequel Bobby's just a pessimistic douchebag who is incompetent and lazy and somehow doesn't see how that makes him better than everybody else.

So, uh, yeah, Boo-urns to that.

2. The crapdasciousally non-existent character connections

Remember how in Teen Wolf: The Fellowship of the Dicknoses, Scott Howard wanted more than anything to bang out Pamela Wells, the hottest girl at school?  And remember how Pamela is dating Mick, Scott's arch-nemesis in basketball?

Also, do you remember how Scott's other rival, the vice-principal, knew Scott's dad back when they were in high school?  Remember how Scott is obviously supposed to end up dating Boof, his childhood sweetheart, as they're so totally meant for each other?

No?  You weren't paying that much attention?  You were too busy enjoying life and not paying attention to stupid bullshit like the character backgrounds of second-rate 80's movies?  Well, since you're such an ignorant little shit, let me point out that the previously mentioned plot details are fairly decent scriptwriting decisions.

SURR GURRRS WHURRT DURRR SURRQURR DURRS, GURRS?

If you guessed that Teen Wolf: The Too Towers removed any and all sort of backstory or connection between the protagonist and antagonists, you'd be super fucking correct!  Todd Howard's boxing rival?  Just some dude.  The evil dean?  Just an evil dean.  Todd's object of unobtainable affection?  Two random women who are given all the characterization of wallpaper.  Todd's true love?  Some chick that he does some homework with, whose characterization makes wallpaper downright erotic.

Do you see, TWT?  Do you see what happens when you try to chop a movie into pieces and reassemble it, a la Boondock Saints 2?

3. That weird fucking makeup

Imma make this one quick.  Teen Wolf First:

Teen Wolf Second:

WHY DOES TEEN WOLF SECOND LOOK SO WEIRD?  And so... pasty white?  It just doesn't work for a werewolf, does it?  Michael J. Fox looks the part, but Jason Bateman looks like a lunatic who went around gluing wigs around his face.

4. What's up "Dog"?

Another quick one, but one that pisses me off to no end.

SO MANY TIMES in TWT they refer to Todd as a 'dog'.  I can understand the comparison, but they use the term more than 'werewolf'.  And it's a fucking WEREWOLF MOVIE.

So I guess the point is, say 'werewolf' instead of 'dog', dammit Beavis.

5. STILEEEEESSSS!

DID I MENTION THEY REPLACED STILES?

DID I????

CHEEEHHHEEEE!!! 

CHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHHHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE!!!!

SKEWWWWWWEEEEEEWWWWWW!!!

PICTURED LEFT: NO STILES I KNOW

NO STILES I KNOW

NO STILES I KNOW

NO STILES I KNOW
NO STILES I KNOW

I KNOW NO STILES
I KNOW NO STILES

I KNOW NO STILES

I

KNOW

NO

STILES!

make stop... please make stop

how did they do this to you, Stiles?

what did they do to you, Jerry Levine?

i weep bloody tears

Shit That Has To Stop, Part II - Christmas Edition

The 12 Days of Christmas

A wittier writer might attempt to write this part of the article in verse, but wittier writers also have a bad habit of smelling their own farts, whereas my fart-smelling habit comes doctor-approved.  

You see, since I skipped my first annual Christmas article, I thought I would make it up to you now, over a week later, when the very last thing you want to think about would be Christmas.  

Specifically, I want to posit this question:

WHY IN FUCK'S NAME DOES ANYBODY, ANYWHERE ON THE PLANET, STILL SING THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS?

I chose this image not for humor, but because it is soooo completely complementing my mescaline binge. 

Like, really, do I need to explain why this song is so horrible?  It certainly was a bane of my childhood,  and I'm sure it was a bane of yours.  (Batman joke... just not coming... sorry guys)    

First, we all know there aren't twelve days of Christmas.  Even if we're going by one of those old timey 1800's church calendars, it's not like we get to enjoy twelve days of Christmas anyway.  All we do by continuing to sing this song is confuse children into thinking that they're going to get more fucking presents on December 26th.  (But to be fair, if I had kids, I'd trick them into thinking they were getting presents on December 25th.  Dem tasty tears...)

Second, the song is sooooo long.  It was clearly written in a time when Christmas carols were  one of few holiday-time alternatives to such activities as freezing your ass off or watching all of your friends and family die of tuberculosis.  Could you imagine living in such horrible times?  Singing the same shit, over and over, adding one turd to the skewer each time, until, by the time you're finished, you have a turd kebab long enough to feed a family of turd-eaters?  

Finally, and perhaps most offensive to the mind of a child, is the sheer crappiness of the gifts involved.  Look over the lyrics to the Twelve Days of Christmas.  Just look at them.  

LOOOOOOK AT THEMMMM!!  

If you LOOOOOOKED AT THEMMMMMM, you'll notice that the gifts in 12DoC (as I'm now dubbing it) fall into three categories:

1. Birds - Because what kid doesn't want a bunch of birds shitting all over the new toys their got on Christmas?

2. Rings - Because children are jewelry-and/or-marriage-obsessed young women???

3. People - Slaves!  Apparently fancy slaves, because my true love got me not just some peasant milkmaids and a few musicians, but also Lords and Ladies!  I wonder what palace my true love had to sack to get those?

GREAT GIFTS FOR KIDS, RIGHT?  

GREAT SONG FOR THE HOLIDAYS, RIGHT?

Please, next year, if you are a churchgoer or caroler in any position to stop this song from being sung, please, PLEASE, I beg you, direct your fellow carolers to this blog.  Let them see the light.  

Let's get a 12DoC-Free Christmas goin in 2013.  

If not for me, than for your children.  

Unless, of course, you want your kids to be bling-encrusted slave owners who live surrounded in bird filth.  

Keep It Stankin'