Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Did you know that if you barf really hard you can give yourself not just one, but two lovely black eyes?
Neither did I! Happy to say I'm looking less racoony as I write, though... my eyeballs still hurt, though.
I'd love to say the barfing was brought on by one of the debates, but alas, no, just a reaction to one of the messes I cooked and called dinner.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Everyone hated Disco. It's a fact. Seriously, no joking, millions upon millions of albums were purchased by: a band of interplanetary pranksters, angels, demons, parallel universe interloping shenanigazers, the CIA, or two or more of those groups working in concert. They are also responsible for the popularity of the movie Saturday Night Fever. If you think you have seen it, you're wrong, that memory was planted in your mind, it's not real. Since everyone knows that every American has always and continues to hate Disco, anything that one might find Disco-esque, or even quasi-Disco; must either be redefined and euphemized as something different, or it must be rejected. Michael Jackson's Thriller? Dance music, R & B. Ninety percent of UK exports from the year 1983 to the present? Dance, Trance, Pants, WhateverTF you want to call it, just don't call it Disco. Britney Aguilera, Kylie Minogue, Spice Girls Aloud, Destiny's Chris Brown, Madge, Usher Timberlake; it's all dance/party/R & B/Pop - no Disco here.
All joking aside, Disco was, is, and will continue to be popular, and even its most vehement detractors have at least one Disco song that they not only like - they frickin adore it, even if they would rather be caught dead hanging from a rope with their johnson in their hand than admit it. Throw out some song names and soon they start dropping their denial like a wireless call in the tunnel. Sheesh, half the people my age have difficulty holding still at just the mention of KC and the Sunshine Band, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it. Throw in not-traditionally-defined-as-Disco Disco songs, and nobody makes the cut.
It really isn't anything to be so ashamed of, it's more sheep mentality than anything else. A tricky peer pressure principle, "That which is popular is denounced by all the real individuals". So, you know, if you really are one of the cool kids you hate anything popular, which will make you popular, which, apparently, is a bad thing, so go figure why someone would want to be popular. My head hurts. The point was supposed to be that Disco is kind of fun, and for kitsch sake or otherwise, people like light-hearted bebopping groove music. Why they are self-loathing about it to the point of denial is a tricky self-deception that most likely remains a mystery even to those that practice it.
Let's face facts, Disco affected everything, and you can blame the sexual revolution, cocaine, Nixon, it doesn't really matter - Disco changed the way people dressed, what they ate, it was omnipresent in its influence. When was the last time you wore your lime green leisure suit to a fondue party? The best illustration however, is how established Rock 'n' Roll acts glommed on to Disco's selling power. The Rolling Stones? Yes, they sold out to corporate sponsorship before the 1980s ended; but they sold away part of their integrity to Disco even longer ago. Tell me "Start Me Up" isn't a Disco song and I'll believe you think that, but you'd be wrong. Rod Stewart? C'mon sugar, let me know. Kiss? Hey, maybe they were made for lovin' you, baby. Van Halen? Summer is here, and the time is indeed right for dancing in the street. A case could be made that ELO wasn't all that far removed from Disco to start with, but really, they jumped in neck deep before it was over. Prince? An androgynous dwarf humping a guitar does not make it funky enough that it isn't Disco. Rick James? A cocaine-fueled sexual predator in thigh-high leather boots is not quite funky enough to make it not Disco. Even the Douchebaggy New Wave music of the early 80s; Culture Club, Duran Duran, all that other crap that we would now call EMO crybaby music - if it wasn't just repackaged Disco I guess I've missed something.
If you want to hate an entire genre of music, Techno is available. Disco music without the soul of real horns and percussion. Ugh.
The point of all this? There is no point, it's rhetorical; it's a rant. If you want to take something away from it, I suppose I would be happy if just one person came away from this embracing their inner Disco Duck. Go to your favorite file-borrowing site, get that one song you let play all the way through when you're alone, but you switch away from with disdain when anyone else is around. You don't have to play it where anyone else can hear it, but you deserve to get some joy out of life - this is not a rehearsal. The rhythm is going to get you, so turn the beat around and celebrate good times. Come on.
-- Baron Von Suckhausen
Sunday, August 24, 2008
So what can the Olympics do to bring me into the fold? After all, it’s all about me, right? Right.
Well, I’ve got two words for you Olympics:
The other word I have for you is “awesome” but I thought putting it up there would distract from the mind-blowing badassery of the word “beercathlon” and I want it noted that I made that word up and it is MINE and if you want to use it you need to ask ME because you will need to give ME money.
Actually, I better search Google before I really say that.
Not only does it return results, the first Web site is actually called Beercathlon.com. At first I’m pissed that some douchebag in the future somehow stole my idea and came back to the past and started this Web site, but I can’t be mad for long, because HOLY SHIT that jerk-off’s a genius!
I enter the Web site, and quickly find that the first official Beercathlon happened in 2005, and it’s been held annually since.
My anger rises again quickly—what the hell is the problem with the IOC? Turns out the beercathlon is not only an established event, it has a fucking governing body! Make the beercathlon an event already, IOC. We sit through the shitfest that is dressage and can’t have a little something for those of us who enjoy competitions that revolve around binge drinking?
The Beercathlon site details rules about nine games ranging from “flip the cup” to “speed beer pong,” all of them aimed at the ultimate goal of getting you as drunk as possible. In the end, the beercathlon seems perfectly suited to the Olympics: it requires strength (of stomach), endurance (whether you can drink a shitload in a short period of time) and wisdom (should I drink this?). It’s high time the IOC recognized the beercathlon for what it is: an event that offers to fuck up competitors more than Tonya Harding. Bonus: no crowbars.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Much like bonzaikittens, I really don't want this to be real. Unlike bonzaikittens, I think it is. Maybe. It's a pretty elaborate website to be a fake, and I didn't think mocking the 232 million incredibly edgy individuals on this planet that still sport a goatee would be that hilarious an idea for a parody product. I really dunno. The website has heaping helpings of stupid, no offense to chinless dorks wearing goatees, of course. Wink. It's just, well, y'know, if you're considering buying a template to keep your facial hair trimmed -- umm, maybe you shouldn't have access to anything as sharp as a razor. Maybe you should find a barber that'll finesse the edges of that mess for you. All nonsense aside, if you are a reasonably stable individual that has become convinced that a goatee is right for you; and you want to shave upwards of 14 seconds off your daily routine -- I highly recommend this item.
Friday, August 15, 2008
I've seen odd stuff. Weird stuff. But I tell you, there's one thing I find most disturbing. See ... I get Real Dolls. I mean, there's been mannequins and there have been sex dolls for a long time. It was only a matter of time until someone put two and two together.
What freaks out my shit is the fact that people eBay used RealDolls. Look folks, it's not like a used car. Unless your car has a vagina. And if it does, I'd like to know that make and model.
Real Doll, that's a monogamous kind of purchase folks. Come on.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
But I'm also the kind of guy who spreads my appreciation for a completely inappropriate dick joke by dressing up a dildo like a super-hero and putting it on the hood of your car in the middle of the night.
Meet the P.P.E - Purple Pussy Eater. That's his name in his regular, every day, do-gooder, clitoral pleasing life. But when he gets pissed off he transmogrifies into a behemoth of vaginal destruction known only as: SplatterPuss!!!!
Yes, this is the kind of shit that makes me giggle.
Okay fits of laughter is more like it.
Alright, gut busting, pant shitting torrents of Hyena like cackles that sends pregnant women into early labor...but come on, the PPE stands nearly nine inches tall and two - three inches in circumference. It was a huge veiny bastard, with balls like stones and it smelled like grape. How can you not find that funny?
My penchant for what some would gallows humor, and others would call the beginning strains of sociopathy, has only been exacerbated by the prominence of this here internets. There has never been a greater hive mind for focusing the sickness of the human condition like the world wide web. And that's why I love it so much; because the never ending supply of smut and filth allows for refinement of the very same subject matter. Take, for example, the case of smut gifts. Smut gifts used to be dirty little things that one carried out of dimly lit stores, canvassed in opaque paper sacks under the cover of darkness. Only to be unwrapped later behind closed doors with a healthy dollup of shame. But these days the ability to purchase a good gag gift is a super power to be touted and proud of. And something that the internet has made inherently easier and more accessible.
Inflatable sheep - easy.
Big Rubber Fist - no problem.
Personally molded, and fuckable, latex casts of your favorite porn stars genitals - I have an autographed collection sitting on the mantle. Proudly displayed like trophy's of my non existant children's accomplishments.
But internet, you've gone too god damned far!
This product of satan is called The Turd Twister. I used to joke, back when I was all pierced up, that one day I was going to get a bunch of piercings around my butthole so I could shit stars like a playdough fun factory but these jokers took all of the pain and piercing out of it and have designed an easily insertable novelty poop accessory. If Ron Popeil were an East German porn fetishist, this would have been on late night infomercials years ago. But not to be out done with only pooping stars these sadomasochists have created eighteen, YES 18, festive rings you can shove up the ole corn chute for any occassion.
there's even a circle...in case you wanna make poop shaped poop
If two girls one cup wasn't enough to make me want to break up with the internet - the fact that they'll make a sequel prominently featuring birthday cake shaped turds is more than enough.
It's over internet.
It's not me.
It's so fucking you.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Secret Eyes will make you look like you just stepped out of the pages of Girls Bravo. Come on, what girl doesn't dream of recreating herself to look like a prepubescent, innocent young girl? And what guy doesn't dream of having one of his own? Just put these contacts in and soon enough, you'll have hundreds of guys with Sailor Moon fetishes knocking at your door.
Go from a used up 25 to "fuck me" fourteen for just 20 bucks!