Shamrocktober Sky, Part 1: The Return from Durp Space

As an internet writer of a piddling blog, I can be accused of many of the sins of internet bloggers who specialize in piddling.  I can, for example, be accused of making more and more infrequent posts.  I can be accused of making less interesting and more slapdash attempts at literary amusement.  I can be accused of loathsome sloth, as many of my fellow neckbeards so often are.

I could be accused of these things.  But such accusations would be false...

BECAUSE I BLAME OCTOBER!

Nestled as I am on the American East Coast, October is the last of the "Good Months" before the all-out ball-stomping suckaducksdongfest that are November, December, January, and that despicable old schoolmarm of a month, Febu-fuck-its-cold-and-sucks-and-if-im-single-i-get-painfully-reminded-of-being-single-and-if-im-seeing-somebody-i-have-to-do-a-bunch-of-fancy-shit-on-a-weeknight-and-id-rather-not-ary.  October is my final huzzah.  

In other words, I had shit going on.  Like what, you ask?

I'm a big baseball fan, so when my two regional teams, the Nationals and the Orioles, both got into the playoffs, I was J-ing my P's like a B on a Z.  October Baseball, at long last, was home again...

WELL GUESS HOW THAT WENT???

Lookeemee!  I didn't want to use the headsplosion from Scanners again, so instead I made this lovely piece of art!  

After the MLB became dead to me for yet another year, I blasted some "Long December" by Counting Crows on repeat, threw my tear-and-piss-and-shit-stained pants back in my dresser, and dragged my headsploded self into bed.  The resulting torpor lasted a week, and when I awoke, the world reeked of ash and sulfur.  It was at this point that I remembered that I live next to a sulfur factory, which made my abysmal melancholy only worse.  I had to seek comfort whilst I recuperated.  Which brings me to...

ERR MER GERRRD U GERRS!!!!  AH DEED ERRR PHURTURRSHURP!!!

Shhchtar Trek: Deep Schpace Nine is a show that you might imagine, given my previous articles, that I watched as a blossoming young nerd.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Simpsons took precedent, because this was the 90's, when the Simpsons was not just good, but as immaculate as The  Goose that shat crystal iPads and laid golden snowglobes filled with shimmering visions of really hot porn.  

With the advent of that wonderful American indulgence that is Netflix, I learned of the wonders and perils of DS9.  Still reeling and near-comatose from the dual losses of my beloved Nats and O's, I mustered just enough strength to nudge the buttons on my Wii remote and start the first episode.  With that, my energy was spent, and my body entered a long regenerative phase, much like Odo, one of the show's gooey shapeshifting protagonists.  And speaking of gooey, that's sure what my bed was once I was done watching all seven seasons in a row!  

And what a nougaty treat 'twas!  There were so many moments that I would unironically call "classic", but here are my top six:

1. The crew has to hopscotch for their lives!

2. Dr. Bashir falls in love with a chick in a future-wheelchair, and everybody learns a little something about respecting those with disabilities.  Also, they turn off the gravity and that bitch goes FLYIN!  

3. Lwaxana Troi visits the station and inadvertently causes everybody to make out.

4. During a picnic, O'Brien's young daughter falls into one of those pesky, run-of-the-mill time vortexes that turns girls into cavewomen.

5. Jake gets seduced by a creativity vampire and Lwaxana Troi shows up pregnant. 

6. Quark has to get a sex change because he gave his mother a heart attack, and then flashes his new tits at some dudes.  

After a solid week of watching DS9, and another solid week of digging/chewing/clawing my way out of the fetid slime cocoon that my bed had become, I was a new man.  With baseball purged from my mind, I had to breathe fresh air again.  Wear a harlequin costume again.  Stare at becleavaged women dressed as harlots of yore again.  Craft bone armor out of discarded turkey legs again.  

Off I went to live at the Renaissance Faire.  

As hard to believe as it is, Google Image Search turns up nothing funny when you search "Renaissance Fair", so, uh, yeah, I just picked one.  

TO BAH CONTAHNUAHED!

Keep It Stankin'

Magical Miscellany Tour

Much like a clip show episode of your favorite sitcom, I am about to employ one of the great blog cop-outs.  I'm not going to focus on just one vitriolic rant this time.  Naw, mothuafuckas, today we gettin more random than character names from fantasy novels.  I'm doing three, count it bitch three, muthafuckin articles.  And why not?  Everybody loves it when the Simpsons or Futurama or Family Guy does it, so who am I to not imitate shamelessly?

Luz bughun:

   "Poopeye's" tries to win back its Olive Oyl

You may recall in one of my tirades of yore that I had imposed a hefty curse on Popeye's Fried Chicken for their insolent cancellation of their cubic-orgasm-inducing Confetti Sweet and Sour sauce.

You may recall the ultimatum I gave them, and the call to action I presented to you, my loyal legionette of readers.  I asked you to fart, and fart hard.  In a Popeye's.

Well, my thralls, it seems your farts came to great stankin' fruition.  For Popeye's has attempted to appease the beast that is my belly:

I stole this picture from some guy's food site.  Hopefully he won't come waddling after me.  

Now, at long last, the whole story has come to light.

It seems, after my Confetti sauce was "Taken" and I told those bastards in Louisiana about my "certain skills, skills that make people like me a nightmare for people who hate farts", it seems Popeye's had my precious Confetti sauce executed so that it could move some new sauces up the condiment mafia hierarchy.  These cups-o-usurpury are pictured above.  To me, they look a lot like party crashers.

The Party Crashers that took my Confetti.  The bastards.  

Revenge is demanded.

But first, I had to know.  What had they taken Sweet Confetti from me for?  Was their some future parking lot so glorious that my beloved had to be paved over?  In short, was this new shit any good?

Of the three new sauces, it was clear that the Sweet Heat sauce was the Rufio of this upstart gang, flagrantly posturing himself as the newly crowned heir to the Sweet and Sour throne.  I had to face him.  Taste him.  Feel him in my mouth.

So I returned to Popeye's, forswearing my oath before God and man, and once more gave up my well-earned money that I might sup of the piquant fried fowl.

Spicy dark meat drumstick in hand, I plunged crunchy chicken skin into the amber-brown goo.  With great trepidation I drew it to my beneckbearded maw.  And I bit in.  Also, I tasted and chewed a little as well.

Aaaaaaaaaaaand...

AAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNND...

Wha???

It was allllllriiiiiight.  Spicy, sure, but not quite sweet in the way my dear Confetti sauce was.  Better than any of Popeye's remaining sauces.  But by no stretch of the imagination anywhere near on par with my pweeeeecious.

Nice try Popeye's, but no cigar.  Not even a dirty Monica Lewinsky cigar covered in fire ants.  Your failure remains unatoned for.

The farting will continue.  The farts will permeate the Popeye's.  They will permeate the chicken.  Then, the farts will permeate you.

Soon, only the fart will remain.

PNC'S XYLOPHONE TORTURE MUST CEASE!

Ok, this one's gonna be quick, but really, I had to say it:

WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THESE FUCKING PNC ADS AND THAT FUCKING XYLOPHONE TUNE?

If you don't know what I'm talking about, you're probably not in an area where PNC bank advertises.  At any point, PNC is a probably evil bank (because hey, aren't they all nowadays, amiriteguyzlol?) that features ads with this uber-annoying xylophone tune.  For your sake, I won't repost it here, but you most likely know what I'm talking about.

Take a moment to imagine that song now, or just watch tv for 20 minutes until it comes on:

Sooo, how super-annoyed did you get?  What's that?  All?  All the super-annoyed?  Well so did I!

Isn't it amazing, how such an innocuous little song can stick like chewing gum in the driver-seat doorlock to your mind?  HOW DOES IT DO THAT?  IN WORDS IT DOESN'T SEEM SO BAD:

DOO-DOO-DOO-DEE-DOO-DOO-DOO-DOO-DOO
DOO-DOO-DOO-DAH-DOO--DEE-DOO-DOO-DOO

And yet, as I write this, my eardrums are callousing over in an attempt to never hear that song again.  But it's too late, it's stuck in my soul on infinite loop.

Please, somebody out there, kill this thing, before it spreads to other worlds.

From the "Things I don't get, but do, but hate anyway" Files: Bathroom Attendants

As you probably have come to imagine from my previous posts, after my many years of being a swingin', sophisticated gentleman, I've become a fixture at all the hottest hotspots my municipality has to offer.  The scene loves me, and I love the scene.  

Except for one fuuuucking thing... er, guy... this guy:

Well, not specifically this guy.  Just fuckers like him.  Which I suppose includes him anyway.

These fuckers are the reason why I clamp my urethra shut whenever I go clubbing.  I NEVER want to use any bathroom where some grown-ass man squirts soap for other grown-ass men.  I ESPECIALLY DOUBLE EXTRA NEVER want to have to use any bathroom where some grown-ass man squirts soap for other grown-ass men, and then expects a tip for it. 

A tip?  Really?  Even a homeless guy who tries to clean my Maserati's windows moves his fucking arm a bit.  You're telling me that you expect money for the operation of a simple cleansing-foam dispenser?

Oh, what's that?  A cigarette?  Candy, nuts?  Ah, well surely a tip is justified then, right?

BALLZNOSIR!  You know what that shit is?  It's a bribe, son, a straight bribe.  They expect you, like a fool, to go all "Nurp derp dis guy dun gabe me a little bit of soap urn sum peenuts, so i gibs him all mys monay."

And before you accuse me of being a classless ignoramus, let me tell you that I get it.  I get why bathroom attendants are there.  They're there to keep strippers from banging the clientele on the sink.  They're there to give mints to the guy who just threw up in the urinal.  They are classic sources of information, especially for spies and thugs and other such popular TV things.  So, I'm not saying they're useless - I'm just saying they're useless to me.  Which, if you know anything about me, means that they're useless period.

My breath is always fresh, I always keep tons of candy on me, and I always keep at least a carton of smokes on my person at all times, so I don't need your blood goodies.  I have my iPad and Kindle Fire to keep me informed of everything, so I don't need your vaunted information.  You know what else, Mr. I'm-Stupid-And-Obsolete?  I also rock the hand sanitizer.  So I don't even need YOUR FUCKING SOAP!

Hell, I don't even care if I did have the hand sanitizer!  You could dip my hands in a Chinese river, and I wouldn't take your damn soap.  I don't need you, and I obstinately wish you gone.

So?  What are you waiting for, Push-pump the Soapy Candy Cig Man?

GET.

OUT.

Keep It Stankin'

Word Avoision, First Sequence

To write means to be a man of words.  To be a man of words, however, requires spending years upon years learning metric Piss-Tons (TM) of words.  And sadly, not all of these words are good, fun, or even useful.  Many a writer squeals in delight at listing and lambasting those strings of syllables that offend them.

Sadly, I too am such a writer.  Despite my many attempts to "come original", there are certain threads of discourse in the world of scribblery that I find myself inextricably drawn to, like a Mothra to Monster Island.  And should I be ashamed for veering toward the flock from time to time?  Am I so different, so special, so unique, that I cannot touch on a subject simply because somebody else beat me to the punch?  

Hellz no.  I too can bleed, defecate, urinate, blow my nose, and occasionally vomit, just like the rest of the common rabble of the blogosphere. (More on fucking "blogosphere" in a moment.)

In short, I really wanna talk about a few words I hate, so I'MS GUNNA!  

Without further ado, here are some sequences of letters that have successfully enraged me:

"Blogosphere"

It would take me a very long time to rattle off all of the Internet-era portmanteaus that I despise, but I would always start with "Blogosphere".  Deriving itself from the hideous word "blog", which in turn comes from the quasimodo that is "weblog", "Blogosphere" is clearly one of those terms that its inventor was smugly satisfied with.  

Why yes, I am a white man with nerd glasses who is currently doing something conspicuously similar to what this guy is doing.  The difference is that I don't like coffee and I'm a far better human being.

I often imagine travelling back in time to the moment of the word's inception, doubtlessly at a Starbucks or some other fetid hovel of caffeine junkies:

"Herp a durr, I can combine 'blog' and 'atmosphere' to make 'blogosphere'.  Blorp-a-do, look at how clever I am," crows the 30's-something hipster.  

"NRRRRRGGGG..." said I, trying desperately to fry his laptop with my mind, hopefully causing him to comically spill his latte onto his tragically tiny set of genitalia.  

"ARGGH!" says the hipster, as his MacBook spews flecks of electricity at his shaved yuppie face.  

"ARGGH!" he says again, as his coffee boils his crotch.  

"What an awful experience," says the hipster, "I should talk about it in the blogosphere!"

At this point in the fantasy my psychic abilities turn back in on myself, and I perform the world's first self-induced headsplosion.  The hipster, witnessing this, mentions it in passing on his blog.  

"Pamper"

Here's a few images that come up when I Google Image Searched "pamper".  Think of this as a photographic essay whose message is "the word 'pamper' is garbage and should be murdered."

Looking at these three images, you'll notice that the first two are cartoons of women enjoying spa treatments (and what's up both black chicks having to sit all the way to the right?  RrrrrrAY-cissst...).  

The third image is of a product that is specifically designed for babies to piss and shit in.  

Putting together these two motifs of spoiled women and infant feces, we can see what the word "pamper" really calls to mind - mud masks of baby crap and pedicured feet dipped in steamy urine.*

At least that's what I think of, and you should too, if you have any decency.  Which you probably don't.

* - If that sounded appealing to you, then, well, you should...  really???

"Preggers"

As long as we're talking about baby-related words, let's prescribe this one some birth-control.  Zing!

I shit you not, this is really the first image that comes up when you search "Preggers".  Google Image Search, I don't always say this, but Bravo.  

You notice how most words that deal with serious, life-changing things don't have cutesie synonyms associated with them?  We don't euphemize murder as "murdies", or call cancer "canci-cans".  We don't call menopause "the m-pizzles", or genocide "a bad case of the gennies."   

Now, I know pregnancy isn't usually considered a bad thing, but it is a serious thing.  Your life, your responsibilities, your EVERYTHING changes when a baby comes into the mix.  So why, WHY I ASK YOU, is a word like "preggers" bandied about in this day and age?  

Imagine, if you would, that you were a man with two girlfriends.  Being a cad, you don't wear protection, and by every fault of your own you inseminate both of your special ladyfriends on the same day.  A week or two later, Girlfriend #1 comes up to you:

"Dear, I'm pregnant!"

Not long after, Girlfriend #2 comes up to you:

"Honey, I'm preggers!" 

Now which of these two women sounds ready to actually raise a child?  Knowing nothing else, just that one of them used the word "pregnant" and the other one "preggers."  

Which one has just told you "Sweetie, a heavy but important responsibility has befallen us, and it's up to us to be adults and accept both the burdens and blessings that are about to enter our lives."?  

Which one has just told you "Babe, I have a baby growing inside me and that's totally awesome because I'll have unconditional love forever and now I won't be the odd-girl-out in my high school Preggers Club!  I don't see how the future will be anything but sunshine and ponies and funtime!"?

It is absolutely no coincidence that the spread of the plague that is "preggers" coincides with the rise of teen pregnancy in this country.  Therefore, if we want to curb this epidemic of mass stupidity, we need to correct teenage girls when they use this poison word.  Since I'm not "supposed" to advocate face-punching as an appropriate form of correction, I'm going back to my mainstay:

That's right.  Shove that stupid Bieber-loving hussy in the nearest closet, and then pump your wet farts in.

ALL YOUR FARTS. 

Keep it Stankin'

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'