Points in Case - The Fine Print of College Life

Legends of the Hidden Temple Ruined My Life

Marcus Terry — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 06:34:47 -0400

The year was 1994. I was 12 years old. It was a summer I'd never forget and an event from which I would never recover. I got the call in August. After auditioning a couple months before, I'd almost forgotten about the show. But they called and said I'd made it. I'd be taping my episode in September.

The Painful Truth is Out There

Andrei Trostel — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 06:10:06 -0400

When a company tries and sells you their product, wouldn't it make sense to first demonstrate that they live on the same planet as the rest of us? Prove to me you are human first, then try and sell me relief for my pain. If you actually reside in the twilight zone then go and peddle your crap there instead. While watching movies, TV shows, and even commercials, I find it hard to become completely engrossed like some people do. My mind is so fantastical that I mentally put myself in the same situation as the actors and it always goes very differently in my head.

I have a really hard time with commercials about pain medication such as Aspirin, Tylenol, Advil or Aleve. Have you ever noticed that the one person that is giving the other person the medication always has it still in the box? What is that all about anyway?

"Here take Tylenol, it works great for me!" Then they eagerly hold up a box of whatever medicine they are recommending.

Why didn't you tell me I was definitely going to injure my back from participating in this activity?!I would reply with, "Thanks, but um, why do you keep your medication in the box it came in and not take the bottle out and throw away the box? In fact that box isn't even opened, otherwise the flaps would be sticking up because everyone knows that they are glued shut for extra tamper resistance. The only conclusion I can draw is that you don't actually take that medication at all. What are you trying to pull here?! Plus, I just saw you get that from your medicine cabinet which was completely EMPTY with the exception of a single box of this medicine. What kind of crazy ass house is this where the medicine cabinet is empty save for one box of Tylenol?? Where am I anyway? Is this some kind of wack twilight zone ruled by Tylenol?

Are you really trying to tell me that you don't need anything else in your medicine cabinet other than one box of Tylenol? In addition, since it is still sealed and you are giving it to me, you seem to not even need it? Where is the bottle that you are currently claiming to take that works oh so well, hmmm? I mean once you give me this unopened box then you will have nothing and I mean NOTHING in that cabinet, you crazy minimalistic freak show!"

I don't know about you all but I always open the box, take out the bottle, open it, remove the cotton, and then throw away the box, seal and cotton. Yes, I know it's just advertising and a certain amount of suspension of disbelief is in order, but they could just as easily show you the bottle in the commercial and throw a few other common items into the cabinet. It just doesn't make any sense to me. I mean if they want to gain my trust and confidence in their product, they should at least demonstrate to me that they live in the same world as I do, don't you think?

To me, their unrealistic, totally bizarre scenario automatically throws into question the sanity of the person that is offering me the information about the medication, and I find myself worrying about their judgment and thus their advice on my well-being.

It equally bothers me when the scene doesn't take place in a house but rather out in the deep woods doing some activity. It'll be two people in a dense forest and all of a sudden one of them starts holding their back in excruciating pain. The other person eagerly whips out a box of Advil and says, "Here, I always take this when I get back pain from this."

To me the rest of the scene should go like this: "YOU BASTARD!! Why didn't you tell me I was definitely going to injure my back from participating in this activity?! Clearly you came ultra-prepared for it with your brand new, pristine, unopened bottle of Advil, yet you merely told me to pack a lunch and be sure to bring some water, which obviously I see now was just so that I had something to take your freakin pills with!! What kind of sadistic person are you that you take your unsuspecting friends into the woods almost certain of the fact that afterward they are going to need traction and pain relievers?! Next time a little heads up might be in order, like, "Hey, want to go FUCK UP your back with me tomorrow?" To which I would have replied, "Hell no!! I think I will go enjoy a fun activity that most certainly does not require pain medication and subsequent cortisone injections afterward, but thanks though for asking FIRST!"

The person eagerly holding the box of Advil then replies, "It acts like THIS on my back pain." Just then they turn translucent blue and their back starts glowing and pulsating a bright red and orange.

To which I reply, "AAAGGGHHHHH!! ALIEN!! DEMON!! STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!! HEEEEEEEELP!!!"

But since I'm in a dense forest my cries for help only echo through the hills sadly unanswered.

Michael Jackson All Day

Court Sullivan — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 05:40:22 -0400

Gotta love the media's inability to recognize its own faults:

You know which Jackson got the least coverage? Janet at the Super Bowl, ZING.

Stay tuned for PIC's complete coverage of Michael Jackson, including interviews with people who think the coverage is excessive and exactly which parts they think shouldn't be covered again, plus video and analysis of those parts in case you were unsure which parts you didn't need to know.

Next week, Parts in Case takes an in-depth look at all of Michael Jackson's parts, from head to toe, live from the grave. (Warning: Some images may be suitable for children.)

Bad Drivers No More

John Gillespie — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 15:06:24 -0400

Sorry for the lack of updates, but a combination of rapid fire 21st birthdays, my birthday, which was celebrated on four different days for some reason, white water rafting in West Virginia, a full time job and being on painkillers from injuries has left me with little time to write updates. But I'm trying.

Anyway, I keep a dry erase board in my car so I can write people messages in traffic. Why do I do this? Because fuck it, why not.

I started out using it to write to girls in distant cars, because blowing kisses works when they are driving fast, but in stand still traffic, a board with a personal message works way better at getting a reaction. The thing is, my board hasn't been used to get traffic sex in awhile, now it's used to slur bad drivers.

The phrase "You're a terrible driver" has been on the board for awhile. I flash it up at people who cut me off, people who run stop signs, people who run red lights, or people who accelerate to show off that they have a loud muffler, which is the dumbest fucking thing in the world. Yeah, let's bring more attention to ourselves and get pulled over more often. The amount of garbage tards I drive past in one day amazes me.

I don't quick flash the board either. I hold it up until you notice. Then when you notice, I try to get behind you and hold it up until you acknowledge that I'm there. Then when you know I'm there and I'm calling you out, I will still hold it up just so you get the message. I will hold the sign up until one of us has to depart a separate way.

Because I have kind of a god complex, you can give me the finger and scream at me, and I'll still hold the board up. You can threaten to get out your car and fight me, which doesn't bother me, because you're still a terrible driver. Plus, you getting out of your car in traffic increases your chances of being hit by another car, then I could write on my sign "You're a very stupid individual" while you were laying on the pavement.

Awhile back I was driving my mom around and someone texting on their phone cut us off, and I told her to scribble "quit texting on your phone dick," which she did, and I held it up, which caused her to start laughing hysterically. If my Mom approves of the idea of publicly humiliating bad drivers, I know I must be doing something right, because she doesn't really approve of my antics in general.

I am encouraging you all to get dry erase boards and keep them in your cars, because if we keep calling out people who suck at driving, maybe they'll man up and pay attention.

Song of the Day: My Sundown by Jimmy Eat World. It can be found on the Bleed American album.

Taco Bell Has Perfected the Pink Taco

Alex Boonstra — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 21:54:08 -0400

Taco Bell knows what men want. They know that in the past, men have suffered through nighttime snacking. And Taco Bell is a people-pleaser, which is why they've tried so hard over the years to find out, exactly, what pleases men. That is why, with the summer arriving, Taco Bell has dared to unveil its most delicious meal yet. Ladies and gentlemen, but mostly gentlemen, I am glad to present to you, Taco Bell's newest creation:

THE PINK TACO

Thank you, Taco Bell, for helping us overcome our fear of pink tacos by making them look so delicious. After all, that's what Taco Bell does. It knows that when men bite into a pink taco, they want it to taste delicious. Long before have men opened their mouths to a dripping wet pink taco to discover a wretched taste on their tongues. "Ew," the men would say, wiping their tongue on the bed sheets, "this pink taco tastes like fish." Well fuck that, because Taco Bell's new pink taco tastes delicious.

While eating this pink taco, men can observe the tightness of the shell, unlike other tacos that loosen up after being shared by multiple men.So what goes into making such a delectable pink taco? What has Taco Bell done to perfect this snack that has recently nauseated most men? It's very simple: they have revolutionized the way pink tacos are composed. In the past, pink tacos have been a cesspool of different tastes, ranging from sardines to black jellybeans to sour milk. When men went to eat a pink taco, they were confronted with a mix of disgusting flavors that ruined their appetite. Considering this, Taco Bell completely changed the way pink tacos were made. They eliminated the confusion of different tastes and stripped the pink taco to the basics.

First, there's the beef. And lots of it, all smashed together in one spot, so men don't have to dig around for it with their tongue. One bite and men find their mouths overflowing with the dripping meat. Fresh meat too, not the type of meat that makes you think, "How long has this meat been unwashed?" or "I wonder if the meat always tastes like this...." Taco Bell's pink taco has delicious meat.

Next is the cheese. No pink taco is complete without the smooth, flowing juices. The cheese, like any liquid, helps lubricate the experience of eating the pink taco. With one bite, these yellow fluids flow down your lips like sap from a tree. As the warm cheese glides down your throat you can't help but smile.

Lastly, on top of this delicious pink taco is some evenly sprinkled lettuce. This is a monumental change from the massive amounts of lettuce men have recently encountered in their pink taco. Before, the lettuce used to be smashed on top of the pink taco, overpowering the area and ruining the general appearance of the food. Many men would even refuse to eat a pink taco if there was too much foliage surrounding the meat. When men tried to bite into the pink taco, the lettuce would rub against their face, scratching their foreheads and tickling their nose. Luckily, Taco Bell has saved the recipe, adding cleanly cut pieces of lettuce on top of the delicious meat.

And finally, there is the pink shell. A magnificently kept shell that men can be sure has not been tampered with. While eating this pink taco, the man can observe the tightness of the shell and how it keeps everything together, unlike other tacos that loosen up after being shared by multiple men. There is no longer a need to worry about any lesions or warts that could cause future problems. Taco Bell has created a fresh, untouched pink taco.

So there you are, men. No longer will we be frightened by the idea of munching on pink taco. And with Taco Bell open until midnight or later, you can be sure that pink tacos will taste delicious throughout the night. So go ahead, dig in. Stuff your face with Taco Bell's scrumptious pink tacos. Have three. Have four. Share them with your friends! Never has a mixture of meat, cheese, and lettuce been so appetizing. Taco Bell considered putting a cherry on top, but grew scared it would get popped.

Bigger vs. Better: The Great Boob Debate

Casey Freeman — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 20:48:36 -0400

I am a man, and I like boobs. But not all cans are created equal. There's big, beautiful, firm, squishy, awesome, rockin'-tits-awesome, bouncy, flappy, yucky, big-nipply, too big, too small, boring, hairy and many more. Fake too.

From time to time I get asked if I like large or small bombs. Well, duh, the answer is: I like great bombs. But what makes one rack better than the other? Fantastic question, I'm glad I asked myself.

Let me start my opening argument with a story about my first encounter with breasts. They were the biggest I've ever seen. The only reason this glorious gal didn't boot me out of her room for laughing was because my mouth was full of her amazingly gigantic bazongas. As I fondled, pinched, caressed and tried to put my penis in between them I thought, "I'm going to play with these as long as I can. And when I get bored, I'll play with them some more. Then I will find a new set to play with. Because I like this game. Yay for knockers!"

Nipples are a non-issue. Rarely will crappy plugs ruin a set of inner tubes, but it happens. A woman's attractiveness doesn't make or break the awesomeness of her cleavage. You've heard dudes ask their dumbass friend, "Your girlfriend sucks, she's not fun, she's ugly, stupid and poor...why do you stay with her?" And your dumbass friend replies, "I know she's the second coming of Perez Hilton, but she's got fantastic funbags."

However, I've one-handedly removed many bras, taken one look at some disappointing chichis and mentally said, "Fuck. This game isn't fun any more. Hopefully she'll rightfully feel self-conscious and just blow me."

Big guns are cool because they're big, but unfortunately most of the time big guns are connected to big tanks of women. Suck. But small guns can be attached to big women. Double suck. But also, small guns can be attached to Asian girls. YAY!

Girls with big jubblies just kind of expect to be treated like royalty. They lay there during sex, knowing you're just staring at their mounds jiggling instead of watching them do their nails or listening to them talk on the phone. But when my pecs are bigger than my special ladyfriend's, she generally needs to find other things to do to keep me interested in her. Hopefully—for her sake—this means blowjobs, naked showers, and presents. I like presents.

Also, with small boobs you know you have a low chance of the three S's: sagging, sloppy and stretch marks. If your girl is built for comfort, eventually she'll pop a spring and your once comfortable ride is going to look like a shitty El Camino on a bad stretch of road. But when she's built for speed, all she needs is a tune-up from time to time. By tune-up, I mean—I don't know what I mean. But your sleepover woman's bantam-weight bosoms won't turn into skin and lard trying to escape from her old, crusty body.

Brassieres can be total motherfuckers. Especially those push-up bastards. I've pulled of a chick's shirt, unsnapped and all of a sudden I'm being attacked by two gelatinous tentacles. Fucking nastiness. But then there are those padded bras. Removing one of those is like running down the stairs on Christmas morning, opening your brand new Xbox 360 and finding a fucking Sega Dreamcast in the box. Women are a tricky folk and survived for centuries with their chicanery against males.

Nipples are a non-issue. Rarely will crappy plugs ruin a set of inner tubes, but it happens. Also, girls can get their nips pierced, which causes them incredibly amounts of pain—which is always a plus.

If you're a woman reading this, you might be feeling self-conscious. Well, good. Because you should probably go to the gym. Or date black dudes, they generally don't give a shit about your kitties, because they're usually ass guys—hopefully you at least own a sweet butt.

Otherwise, if you shop in the little boy's section for support, go to a plastic surgeon and get ten pounds of silicon stuffed in you. It will do wonders for your self-esteem and make you a lot more attractive—which in turn makes you a better person.

Don't let people's prejudices sway you. Fakies are awesome too! Because all boobs are real when they're in your mouth.

Or, you can do what one of my favorite girlfriends did: cycle and change your birth control as often as possible. This lass was amazing. Sometimes her cups were ginormous and I could burst my boys into her. Other times her coolness storage containers (shit, I'm really running out of words for boobs) were nice as well as firm, and I could ejaculate all over them. Seriously, every bedroom encounter was an adventure because her girly parts were always different. It was like banging a new person every night, without having to learn names, buy drinks, or pretend I cared about her class schedule.

So there you go, the debate is solved. What's better: big and fluffy hogs or small and firm hams? And the answer is? Both can be awesome, if they're awesome.

Now ladies, if you'd like me to evaluate the awesomeness of your twins, just email me a photo and I'll get right back to you after fifteen or twenty minutes of "research."

Two Chinks in Batman's Armor

Atlas Jobinson — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 21:44:39 -0400

Allow me to start by saying that Batman is the best superhero out there. This is obvious to anyone with a brain. He has no superhuman abilities, yet he still kicks ass.

That said, I have made two recent discoveries which have slightly, and only slightly, lessened Batman's reputation in my mind. The first such revelation occurred when I saw this comic strip:

The (Tasmanian) Devil's Dictionary

Gavin Pitt — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 11:25:07 -0400

Whassup, Wordsmiths?

Did you know that American writer Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914?) was born in Ohio? Or that he disappeared without a trace in Mexico in late 1913? And that arguably his most famous work was THE DEVIL'S DICTIONARY, in which Bierce presented a bitterly funny list of words in a dictionary-type format, often revolving around clever puns or sarcastic jokes?

That's neither here nor there (unless you're doing an essay on him in your American Literature course, in which case I demand proper credit) but it does both segue into the following article as smoothly as Jason Priestley's gigantic, oiled penis into your favourite orifice of choice, and serve as an appropriate disclaimer if Bierce were to suddenly reappear again and claim that I ripped him off- although given that he'd be 165 years old if he did resurface, I assume he'd want delicious brains in lieu of a century of trademark infrigement payments. And now, my "re-imagining" of the DD:

COMMODEIAN: Any stand-up performer who used to be hilarious and cutting edge but whom recently had a baby and whose routines now consist largely of jokes revolving around nappy changing, preschool, sippy cups, and how their screaming, shitting, mewling infant is precious and special and unique amongst all the other hundreds of thousands of screaming, shitting, mewling infants born daily.

HEXAM: Test paper you have no hope of passing without the aid of a voodoo doll shaped like your professor.

KEYHOARD: seemingly innocuous flakes, sprinkles and crumbs that fall from your snacks whilst you are working on your computer and slip between the spaces of the keypads, eventually becoming numerous enough to disrupt normal keyboard use, sustain a family of four for a period of not less than a year and attract enough vermin to give the term 'mousepad' a somewhat more literal meaning.

NAYCIST: Any individual who disputes their status as a bigot by writing indignant letters to their local paper beginning with "I'm not a Racist/Homophobe/Weightist/Ageist but..." then fills the next five paragraphs with hate speech that would gobsmack Anne Coulter.

JACKBLACK: A card game similar to poker in which the player disguises his total lack of talent by being very loud and obnoxious and doing the same thing over and over again.

TWIBLIGHT: A malady afflicting tween girls that causes them to become necrophiliacs and read terrible literature.

LACKCENT: The tendency for any Australian actor who becomes popular internationally to lose the strine and adopt a semi-permanent American speaking voice the moment they step from the departure lounge at LAX. Ryan Kwanten, Nicole Kidman and Anthony Lapaglia have phenomenal lackcents.

VANILLA FOLDER: A person who plays Ben Folds albums whilst fucking.

TOASTICLES: A gentleman going commando who sits too close to a campfire and has parts of his anatomy mistaken for marshmallows.

AILMO: A fatal disease of muppets.

FLASHMOUTH: Huge, toothy, completely false congratulatory smiles adopted by runners up at Beauty Pageants and Academy Awards Ceremonies who would rather be hocking venom on the winner's corpse than smiling benignly at them.

DOUBLE NEELIX: The part of a strand of DNA that makes it utterly compelling to casual viewers of CSI and completely, mind-numbingly boring to science students who actually have to work with DNA on a daily basis.

CELEBSNITTY: One who becomes famous for being mean, stupid, vindictive, and other traits that would have them held down and beaten with bars of soap inside socks in the Armed Forces. Perez Hilton is the Patron Saint of Celebsnitties.

GENTYL: A non-Jewish, heterosexual man who inexplicably still loves Barbra Streisand.

BEENIUS: A once greatly admired, nigh-revered person who is rapidly losing their charm and would be well advised to retire whilst they still have some credibility intact and people still have at least some fond memories of STAR WARS, for fuck's sake.

Ambrose Bierce: Looking not unlike Michael J Fox lip-wrestling a caterpillar:

A Zit Waits 'Til You're 12

Paul Frank — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 22:45:35 -0400

Michael Jackson, the biggest gift to late night talk show hosts and comedians everywhere, died after the world's shortest coma yesterday. But you already knew that because, I swear to God, celebrities are "tweeting" their condolences. What? What is this world coming to? Jesus Fuck.

Michael Jackson died doing what he loved best: dying.

At least he got all his decomposing over with before he died.

If you're offended by any of this, please s my fucking d. Why do people get all respectful once someone dies? This is the time when we should be making fun of Michael Jackson the most. After all, he can't hear us.

All these people on tv are talking about what a tormented soul Michael Jackson was. How being the #1 star in the history of music didn't bring him happiness. Tormented soul? Fuck that. Dude got to grab his nuts in music videos, had hundreds of fans literally follow him around screaming and crying, had the coolest disease ever (got to live every black person's dream: being a white person), dangled babies off balconies, and gave little kids their first orgasm AND GOT AWAY WITH IT. That's about as good as it gets as far as life goes.

All the bullshitting people do when someone dies is one of my pet peeves. According to every funeral, the person who died was a wonderful person and had many great years ahead of them. Probably not true, and let's ease up on the hyperboles, shall we?

My friend got shot and killed by two black guys a few months ago. (I know what you're thinking: that Paul Frank rolls DEEP. And you're right.) This kid had absolutely no future, though, and so it is not a tragedy in my eyes. He was, in most ways, a complete piece of shit. He lived off checks he got because his dad got in a plane crash and died when he was young and he spent all the money from those checks on drugs. His favorite hobbies were doing drugs, smoking drugs, and taking drugs. He may have been nice and maybe he didn't deserve to die, but I would bet 50 dollars he's rolling in his grave right now. On esctasy. Or he's doing lines off an angel's tits in heaven.

i went to his funeral extremely fucked up (out of respect). I didn't go to the service, but I was at the wake. I wrote in the book thing: "Hey Doug, what up. I believe you still owe $200 but I guess I'll never get that. Tell everyone in heaven or whatever ToxicGreen.com. Peace, Paul Frank." I don't know if he reads that book or what.

I can only imagine what they said at the service: "Doug was a...person. He thoroughly enjoyed doing drugs and had a bright future ahead of him doing tons more. It is amazing the amount of drugs his body could take, and surely his body will be donated to scientists who can do research on his superhuman, drug-resistant/tolerant body. Doug could take 10 ecstasy's and not feel anything. He has in the past taken 14 ecstasy pills and played the blackout game in a hot, dark closet. Doug is quoted as saying 'I fucking love bellringers.' For those of you who aren't familiar with the term 'bellringers,' bellringers are when you take a hit of crack so huge that your ears start ringing. He fucking loved those bellringers. Excuse me." (starts tearing up)

Alright Let's Get the Michael Jackson Jokes Over With

Nathan DeGraaf — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 16:53:30 -0400

I wonder how long it'll take all that plastic to biodegrade. I sure hope the EPA is aware of the threat to Earth.

St. Peter's first words to Michael Jackson: "Wow. Umm... Sorry about looking so shocked but you really have changed. I was expecting someone with slightly different features and without that boy-sin shine to him."

But ladies and gentlemen, the real winners in all of this are, of course, Michael Jackson's children.

And if I could be serious for a moment, my heart goes out to some of the worst plastic surgeons in the history of the practice... because they're probably now all unemployed.

We're still waiting on the cause of all this. You know, we still don't know why his heart just up and Beat It.

What's that? Oh, it turns out that Michael Jackson's premature death may have had something to do with Demerol and perhaps Oxycontin, which makes him I believe the very fist musician to die in a drug related fashion. I could be wrong though.

Michael Jackson will of course be remembered for creating the Moonwalk and wearing a glove on one hand for no damn reason. So, there's that.

Remember when his hair caught fire filming that soda commercial? That was hilarious. I don't even need a joke, his hair caught on fire while filming a soft drink commercial. I'm pretty sure that only happens to Michael Jackson. But truthfully, I don't have the stats to back that up.

If they wrote a book about Michael Jackson, and they called it Thriller, and it was actually a biography, would that be lying?

But seriously though, Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, who gave us so many headlines and weird ass stories, as well as some songs, will be laid to rest soon. He has passed away at the young age of fifty and he will be mourned... by a bunch of people who are hoping there's some cash left.

God speed and good luck you weirdo.

Where I Was When Michael Jackson Died

Court Sullivan — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 06:27:30 -0400

I was on a hot, crowded bus, riding 25 minutes to my destination.

From my seat in the middle of the bus, I heard the black woman on the phone behind me say in a somewhat hushed, but totally ignorant voice, "You said Michael Jackson died?" Not in the way you'd imagine hearing someone digest the news that the biggest celebrity you've known since Biggie just died, but in a casual, matter-of-fact tone that made you think she didn't WANT to fall for the prank, but couldn't help but take a nibble.

Then a strange thing happened. She went silent while listening to the other person talk for about 3 minutes. Only the occasional, "uh-huh... uh-huh..."

Upon hearing that, the first thing that crossed my mind was all the random other people named Michael Jackson I've seen or heard of and felt sorry for. I figured hey, if one of them died, it was probably because of the stress of not being THE Michael Jackson. Irony wins again, because apparently being Michael Jackson IS the ultimate stress. You thought you were broke? Try being $400 million in debt with nothing but a mangled Freddy Krueger face and an empty shell of a black man to show for it.

Finally, her conversation ended, with not much more from her end. But then the rumor started to take hold.

"Michael Jackson died?"

"Did she say... Michael Jackson..."

"Seriously?"

It was happening. The last thing you want to do on a MARTA bus in Atlanta is start a rumor that the most famous black person alive died. Several other black people around me were clamoring at the possibility this could be true. I say "clamoring" because Michael Jackson is black peoples' more accepted version of OJ Simpson: he may have done some bad shit, but he also did some really cool shit and he got away with the bad shit—so while they'd love to embrace him completely, there's a always a bit of hesitancy that just leaves any news of him to "let's make some ambiguously excited chatter about the fella."

So the obvious thing happened next: everyone pulled out their phones and started calling their best friend—the one person they can trust to relay urgent celebrity news.

The first report came from the guy right behind me who hung up the phone and then replied directly to the "did he really die" question from me and six surrounding people: "He stopped breathing, but they took him to the hospital."

Absolutely the worst confirmation I've ever heard. This guy was obviously in desperate need of a new best friend. He stopped breathing, BUT they took him to the hospital?? Normally when you stop breathing, it only takes a handful of minutes before death can be confirmed—either you start back or not. I doubt this guy's best friend was standing over Michael Jackson's in-limbo body on the phone waiting for MJ to remove one of the 8-year-olds' cocks from his mouth. I couldn't help but think, did they rush Michael Jackson's dead body to the hospital? What for? It don't matter if you're black or white, if you're fresh out of air, you're shit out of luck.

Eventually, a couple of white people confirmed the rumor so I knew it was true. You see, white people have no emotional involvement in Michael Jackson, even though he tried to join our team. White people are addicted to three things Michael Jackson: Beat It, Billie Jean, and trying to imagine whether they could actually picture Michael Jackson stroking pre-pubescent penises for pleasure. And believe me, white people will go all out, painting gross, vivid pictures of the last one in their mind, struggling to come to the truth. Point being, white people would never spread rumors about Michael Jackson's death because to envision Michael Jackson dead is to accept that we will never hear him finally confess to everything that went on inside Neverhand, Onlymouth Ranch.

So today, I have but one thing to say to you Michael Jackson: Beat It and Billie Jean will never make up for the fact that I will never know for sure.

My Deep Dark Secret

Casey Freeman — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 02:02:58 -0400

I don't know why, but I trust you guys. I have something in my past I'm not very proud of, but I need to get it off my chest. Most of my best friends don't even know this, but I feel like coming clean to the entire public and my millions of daily PIC readers.

Dang, this is hard. But I told myself I was going to do it.

Here goes.

I really, really suck at soccer. From kindergarten to sixth grade, I was one of the worst players in the world. Most of the time I just sat on the ground eating grass hoping the game would end so I could get my juice box and Rice Krispie treat.

I'd pretend to get screened by the other team so people wouldn't kick the ball to me. I tried to get the entire team infested with head lice so they'd cancel games. I'd claim to be Jewish and say I couldn't exercise on Saturdays. I'd tell my parents I was sick, so I could simultaneously get our team out of the C-League Playoffs, and me into my basement so I could watch "Transformers" cartoons.

But my story becomes more intriguing. I never became good at gradeschool soccer, but slowly I started succeeding at life, despite my athletic handicap. It took years of effort, ability and elbow grease to get where I am today, and I probably would have been an unemployed journalist a lot sooner if I didn't suck at "European football." I struggle everyday with that burden, but every day I come closer and closer to being as cool and important as the kids that didn't suck at sports.

Good grief, what a relief to get that off my shoulders. I hope we can still be friends.

McDonald's Fucks You at the Drive-Thru!

Andrei Trostel — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 03:21:05 -0400

Okay so first let me state that YES, I understand that we all shouldn't be eating fast food and that it isn't good for you blah blah blah just shut up. I think we can all admit that sometimes you find yourself at McDonald's regardless after a shitty day. For instance when you are hungry and only have a dollar in your pocket, or when you are too tired to slave over a home-cooked, perfectly-balanced meal, or when you crave the fries like a five dolla crack whore who just woke up and realized she forgot who she fucked to get her next fix and the room is now empty. I think we can admit that we have ALL been there.

As the fry touches my mouth I can almost feel its molecular structure change into a sad memory of what a fry used to be.My issue is that I am finding it harder and harder to justify my unhealthy little habit to myself. It used to be that I could order a "Number One" (which, let's face it, makes me feel like a winner right there), pay my money, get my food, go speeding away like the wheel man at a bank job and no one would be the wiser of my presence.

First order of business was to scarf down my fries while driving because god forbid you let them sit for more than thirty seconds and let their molecular structure physically alter before your eyes, morphing into a box of 600-calorie wax sticks. Seriously what the hell is going on there? Is that something that the brilliant scientific research and development team at McDonald's worked on for years to perfect? That way you are compelled to eat them as fast as is humanly possible so you don't think twice about the shit you are putting into your body? Why don't we just reverse engineer a minute-old McDonald's fry and solve the world's hunger problem?

I figure all we need are several boxes of Crayola crayons and the antidote to this phenomenon and PRESTO, potatoes for everyone, in a lovely assortment of colors no less. You could even sharpen them if you bought the specialty box.

So yeah, first thing to go are the fries, we all know that, and those of you who don't, well then I suggest you reverse your eating order because they are freakin' delicious (at least for the first 29 seconds). Next thing to go would be the Big Mac which I have to say nowadays always makes me shed a tear at the mere sight of the sesame seeds. I can't help but mourn the loss of Mitch Hedberg because, like him, I always wondered what the hell would grow if I planted one of those little guys.

I devour my Big Mac merrily, humming the little song, "Two all-beef patties special, special, I am special because only someone who is special would be licking this stuff off his palms! I am SO special I am NUMBER ONE!" Don't even lie people, if you have eaten a Big Mac in your life you have most certainly licked your palms and there is no shame in that when the sauce is special.

The rest of the ride home I used to happily sip my soda but that too you have to drink quickly before the ice melts and you discover that it wasn't water they made those cubes with after all. I have tasted melted ice before (it's called water) and sadly that is never what their ice tastes like when it melts. I know because one hot day I thought I would chase my soda with a cup of freshly melted ice, I don't remember much after that.

Today is very different though and sadly much more disappointing. Of course, I still order a Number One to feel like a winner, and because it comes with special sauce in it. However, it is also partly because over the years I have noticed that the Number One is the only thing on the menu that hasn't changed numbers—it is my rock, my constant, my lighthouse in the fog. I have tried to deviate, but trying to find something on the drive-thru menu that you KNOW is supposed to be there is close to impossible. Anyone else notice that? The other food seems to jump around the menu and can NEVER commit to a number.

In addition, these days drive-thru menus are minimalistic at best. I know they have certain items standard to the restaurant, but they don't seem to be on the menus anymore and unless you know it by heart then you are just screwed. I'm sure McDonald's would be shocked to know that I haven't memorized their menu for the last two decades. Luckily, Number One is holed up and fortified in its spot and I can always default in a panic to ordering that and know exactly what I am getting...or can I?

I speak as clearly as I can into the McSquawk Box, "Number One with a Coke, please!" As I start to drive away, the flurry of unintelligible questions ensues.

McSquawk Box: Marge?

Me: Simpson?

McSquawk Box: Sarge?

Me: I'm not in the Army.

McSquawk Box: HOE CHARGE??

Me: FIVE DOLLA, but I'll waive that if you throw in some extra fries!!

The McBox then displays my order, charging me separately for each item. Big Mac, Large Fries, Large Drink, which correct me if I am wrong but doesn't that defeat the whole purpose of ordering off the value menu? I thought it was supposed to be like a package deal but lately it seems they just charge you separately for everything.

I pull up to the first McWindow, hand the McPerson behind it my money and wait the five minutes it takes them to find the correct numbers on the computer to punch in so they can find out how much change to give me back. Meanwhile I have calculated correctly in my head 700 times what change I should get back. I still get the wrong amount back but I know better then to argue with them because thirty cents isn't worth the McSpit they would add to my McValue Meal for the Mcaltercation.

I pull up to the second McWindow to claim my food. First thing the McPerson behind this window hands me is the drink. Now I don't know about your car, but mine is equipped with eight different cup holders and not ONE of them will fit this cup. In my head I am screaming because in trying to angle the drink and shove it in the cup holder I am losing precious seconds of fry stability. Next she hands me my food and I ask for some ketchup and barbecue sauce (you should try the fries with barbecue sauce, yum) and the McPerson says, "Oh that will be thirty cents extra."

Wait WHAT?!?!?

I just stare at her like she has three heads or something and reply oh so eloquently, "Huh?"

McPerson: Thirty cents.

Me: For ketchup?

McPerson: No for the barbecue sauce...the ketchup is free.

Me: Huh?

McPerson: McDonald's charges thirty cents for one package of sauce.

Me: SINCE WHEN?!!

(Me in my head: TICK TOCK TICK TOCK, THE FRIES!)

McPerson: Do you want it or not?

Me: Yes because by now I will need it to hide the taste of whatever the hell your fries are currently morphing into!!

McPerson: What?

Me: Yeah!

McPerson: Thirty cents then.

Me: I already gave you thirty extra cents at McWindow Number One, but FINE here is ANOTHER thirty cents!! (practically throwing the money at them)

(In my head: McFUCK YOU!)

McPerson: What kind of sauce would you like?

Me: BARBECUE!!

McPerson: Have a nice day. (In a way that conveys "McGo to hell!")

I go speeding away as fast as possible and reach into my bag and grab the fries which I might add has about TEN fries in it so in buying the large all I really did is get a bigger drink and a larger fry container to hold my TEN fries. I put a fry to my mouth. As it touches the inside I can almost feel its molecular structure change into a sad memory of what a fry used to be.

"Son of a McBitch!" I exclaim as I reach for my Big Mac while still driving. My hand squishes into the special sauce and I look down to find that what should be a sandwich is really just a pile of various unassembled ingredients from the song I am currently humming. "Two all beef patties special, special, SPECIAL? NO I don't feel special! I feel like a McVictim!!"

I close the box so that I can assemble the "sandwich" myself at home later and start licking the special sauce off my hand like a wounded animal would lick his wounds. I don't even care about the look the driver in the next car over is giving me as I lick my palms. I reach for my gigantic, unwieldy drink precariously balanced in the seemingly tiny-in-comparison drink holder. I take a sip only to discover that the mixture of syrup to carbonation isn't even close to what it should be and I am drinking something repellent to anyone with taste buds. In my anger I accidentally squeeze the cup a fraction of a micron more, thereby dislodging the lid and spilling the drink in my lap.

Leo Getz was right, "They FUCK you at the drive-thru!!"

If there is one piece of advice some of today's most successful companies have to offer it is this, "Screw over your customers ruthlessly while shamelessly profiting from it." In a shaky economy with customer spending at an all time low, it is important for any successful company to not just provide a sub-par product but also to suck the life force out of each and every customer. After all this is a "Dog Eat Dog World" and we are all left feeling hunger pangs, but then maybe that is because we keep returning to the god damn drive-thru. Sure, I know what you are thinking, I could go inside and order at the counter but I wouldn't be caught dead setting foot inside a fast food restaurant.

A Step-by-Step Guide to Naming Your Penis and Testicles

Alex Boonstra — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 19:23:54 -0400

Ahh yeah, The Brothers. The Twins. Your Sack O' Surprises. Whatever your pet name for your scrotum is, it is very important to you. After all, you've had your ball sack for nearly your entire life, and you know it better than any other person. Maybe it has a distinctive feature that deems it unique, like a mole or a freckle.

4chan /b/: The Asshole of the Internet

Alex Willen — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 05:35:59 -0400

Hello, dearest fans. I know you have been longing for my return to PIC and waiting with baited breath for an explanation of what fantastic adventures have kept me from you. I have wondrous news on that front—I have been taken from you by a fantastic place that can make all of your hopes and dreams come true: the internet!

Seriously, though, I haven't been doing much out of the ordinary. I graduated, but not technically, because I'm going back for a master's degree due to my severe inability to find a job, and the way the master's program is set up, I get both my undergrad and my grad degree next year. This year I got a diploma case with a note inside that says "Please return to Stanford University Psychology department." I kept it. Fuck ‘em.

Anyway, I'm currently working at a summer internship which gives me a lot of flexibility. My days are divided between the gym and the beach (yeah ladies, check me out, I'm a catch), and at night I occasionally send an email or two. Since I've been sleeping too much to call any of my old friends and let them know that I'm back home, the rest of my time is spent surfing the internet.

Because I was struck by a desire to write something, and writing requires a topic, I picked the first thing in front of me. I am only somewhat ashamed to say that in a Mozilla Firefox window next to this document is http://img.4chan.org/b (with an animated Sexinyourcity.com ad flashing at the bottom of it that's quite distracting).

Everything's ephemeral, but you know however ridiculous whatever you just read was, something worse will be up tomorrow.Don't click that link. I'm going to say it once and only once, and you've probably already clicked it anyway, but it was good advice.

Not to be cliché, but 4chan is like the Matrix was supposed to be—no one can tell you what it is; you have to see it for yourself. Hey Morpheus, the Matrix is a simulation into which all humanity is plugged that keeps them unaware of their true circumstances so the machines can harvest their bodies for energy. Boom. Told you what the Matrix was. Wasn't that hard, see?

Anyway, 4chan, put in the simplest terms possible, is an image board. That is, you can post images and text, and other people can respond with other images and text. That description, however, does it little justice. For more information, let's copy shit straight off of Wikipedia:

"there are very minimal rules on posted content"

"The Guardian once summarised the 4chan community as ‘lunatic, juvenile... brilliant, ridiculous and alarming.'^"

"Gawker.com's Nick Douglas summarizes /b/ as a board where 'people try to shock, entertain, and coax free porn from each other.'"

"the site's anti-child pornography rule is a subject of jokes on /b/."

"Douglas said of the board, 'reading /b/ will melt your brain', and cited Encyclopedia Dramatica's definition of /b/ as 'the asshole of the Internet'."

How does a site get a reputation like that? I'd post some links, but because it goes through 150,000-200,000 messages a day, things disappear from the board hours after they get put up. It's part of the novelty, really—everything's ephemeral, but you know however ridiculous whatever you just read was, something worse will be up tomorrow. For example, when I first opened it today, the first thread was a picture of a girl posting naked pictures of herself and asking if /b/ would have sex with her. I believe this response summed it up best:

"ok cumbucket you're asking /b/ if they or I would fuck you.
That's like asking a 3 year wants candy.
In any case I would say use [sic] to both candy and you."

Besides that, /b/ has accomplished several notable things. They created Rickrolling and started the popularity of "Chocolate Rain." They got the swastika symbol to the top of Google's list of most popular search terms. One of them hacked into Sarah Palin's email account and changed her password, then accidentally forgot to erase it from a screenshot he posted, so hundreds of users tried to log onto it at the same time, causing Yahoo to lock the account. They habitually post the phone number of a GameStop and have hundreds of people call in requesting Battletoads. Requests for child pornography are commonplace. Pictures of penises are even more commonplace. If you type the number 7, it is automatically changed to say "over 9000."

After that, you're probably more confused about what I'm talking about than you were before you started reading. That's to be expected. Perhaps you're wondering what could possibly be funny about such a thing. Nothing, unless you're ridiculously twisted (ganja never hurt either). Perhaps you're wondering why, after so many months of silence, I would come back to post about this, of all things. I have no explanation besides the fact that I'm so bored that I'm on 4chan in the first place, so what else could I possibly have to do with my time?

I will end with a /b/ quote, only because it seems like the appropriate thing to do:

"as you can see, my PENIS is tragically undersized. How do you suggest I make it bigger? I will provide a Cheese Pizza in return for your help."

20 Things I'm Sorry For, Sort Of

Casey Freeman — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 06:33:48 -0400

Recently I woke up in the afternoon thinking, "What the hell just happened?" Then a friend called, laughing, to tell me, "You need to tell a lot of people you're sorry." So I figured here's my chance to apologize for things I've done—both drunk and sober.

And so I begin with the lamentations begging forgiveness.

Sorry I've been feeding boogers to your fish. I figured if they didn't like them, they wouldn't eat them. Same same goes for me hawking loogies in your dog's mouth. He enjoys that game more than I do.
Oops, I banged your girlfriend. Sorry. If it makes you feel any better, she was just using me to get back at you for being a shitty boyfriend.
Hey dude, I apologize for breaking your nose, orbital bone or random face part. You should have listened to me when I told you to leave the bar. Or you should have told your bitchy girlfriend to calm down and quit slapping me.
Sorry for cutting you off. I broke my neck a bit ago, so I can't turn my head to check blind spots.
I wouldn't have put my penis on your toothbrush if you wouldn't just leave it on the sink. And if you weren't such a slob. And if I didn't think you'd secretly like it. Even so, my weiner is probably the cleanest thing to touch your ancient Oral B. Sorry.
Hey NYU girl, I apologize for pooping in the toilet that you told me was broken. I was drunk and I forgot. Then it appears I stepped all over your roommate's freshly painted canvas. And I lied about not having condoms. I knew if I attempted coitus I'd just barf on you. So I settled for a sweet knobber.
To a few of my ex-girlfriends, I would have dumped you a lot sooner, but your friends and relatives kept dying or getting sick. I just have no power over a crying woman. Sorry.
I apologize, but I actually meant to hurt your business by telling everybody you're a racist, sexist, elitist and classist. But unfortunately for you it's the truth. And you're about as Irish as McDonald's.
Sorry, I, um, got gum stuck in your pubes when I ate you out. That really sucked. But hey, at least we both eventually found out how awesome a shaved vagina feels. Yay!
Guys, sorry for farting around you while you're talking to chicks, and then leaving. It's called cropdusting. And yes, I do it because I'm jealous.
I seduced you, which was my goal. I had no idea you were such a psycho though. Forgive me.
Yes, I peed in your cat's litter box. I just wanted to see if the smell could get any worse—and to my surprise, it did! Plus, your cat gave me some serious grief throughout the days and nights.
I've also peed in most bathtubs and sinks I've encountered while drunk. Sorry, but I figured I was doing the Earth a favor by conserving water. I kind of forgot that you bathe, wash, and relax while using those. My fault.
Sorry for signing you up for the Army. Or gay porn sites. Or telling the Army you look at gay porn. Or telling porn sites you're in the Army and will wear your uniform on demand.
I know it was shitty of me to tell that homeless guy you were carrying my wallet. But you seemed to like talking to him about space rubber umbrellas or whatever the hell he was mumbling about.
Technically, I guess I sort of roofied you when I told you to take two Tylenol PMs. But not to take sexual advantage of you. I just wanted you to go to sleep so I didn't have to listen to you crying about whatever was pissing you off. And who guessed it? We both woke up after a decent night of rest. You had nice drug-induced dreams, while my ears quit bleeding from your constant nagging. It was a win/win situation. YAY!
I wrote my name above your toilet because I thought it would be funny if everybody in town joined me. Then you painted over it, so I carved my name up there. Sorry about that. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
To the plane passengers, when turbulence shook the entire cabin and you all started screaming but I woke up from my nap laughing, I'm sorry for sounding like a psycho and scaring you even more. When you've almost died as many times as I have, a few bumps are actually welcome during a boring ride.
Also, sorry for laughing at you when I gave you an orgasm. I thought you were faking it to make me feel better. I didn't realize it was real. But come on, you have to admit your noises and faces were funny. I know mine are.
I crashed your work truck into a weighing station, wooden carriage wheel, and another work truck. Sorry, but I told you I didn't have any construction experience.

And those are all the confessions I can think of for now.

Do you guys have anything you're sorry for but don't really want to tell the person you're apologizing to?

KC vs. Bumper Sticker Logic: Dismembering Your Member

Casey Freeman — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 21:23:06 -0400

I have a saying, "Opinions are like exes. Everyone has them, and they're all retarded and psychotic."

I'm driving more since I've moved to Colorado, thus I'm seeing more bumper stickers. Generally I don't care if you're advertising what kind of stereo is in your car, your favorite shitty football team or where you went to high school. I really, really just don't give a damn.

And it's not even the political messages that annoy me. I'll go ahead and agree that George W. Bush was the worst president of the century...if you agree that Barrack Hussein Obama is the second worst. But I digress.

On my daily trip to the grocery store I saw a Subaru (why does it always have to be a Subaru—who are these rejects?) with these messages:

Now I don't have children, nor do I care to look at other dudes' dongs. I like women. I've been with a few handfuls of them, and never ONCE has a girl taken off my pants and said, "Oh this is as gross as shit. You don't have a foreskin!" My special ladyfriends get mad enough when I don't shave The Twins (that's what I call my balls—which is yet another euphemism for testicles).

On the real other hand, I know a lot of ladies (and nearly all of my gay dude friends) that are generally freaked out by the uncut version of a "man's movie."

Oddly enough, I've seen these anti-circumcision stickers on cars with Pro-Choice stickers. So it's okay to stuff a baby in a Cuisinart but not snip off part of his peen-peen? Now, I'll not get into that discussion, because once again, I don't care.

Now I suppose whatever hippie lady's argument is that an infant boy doesn't choose to have part of his weiner cut off, so you're violating his rights. Here's my argument: "So what?"

Did you ask little baby Moonstone if he wants to speak English? Eat canned turnips or whatever they make baby food out of? Go to school? No. There are just things that you do for your kid. Or don't do. So fuck his little baby feelings.

I don't remember how badly it hurt when the doctor chopped up my then baby-sized KC Junior (that's my penis) but I can imagine it was fucking painful as hell. And that's the point, I don't remember, soooooo who cares? However, I do remember how awesome every blowjob I've ever received feels. And seriously people, that's all that really matters.

If I could get a second procedure done that hurt even more, but made me enjoy getting knobbers even more, I'd fucking get two of them.

So there you go hippie. Paste your next bumper sticker over your eyes and drive really fast into a tree. Because circumcision is awesome and so are blowjobs. I win. Flawless Victory.

Sporting Serious (Holly)Wood

Gavin Pitt — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 13:30:23 -0400

Viva, Voyeurs!

I'm a keen movie goer. If a film features an undead maniac hacking up naked twenty-somethings with gardening tools, animation, conquest-minded aliens battling each other (said aliens possibly requiring the vocal talents of James Earl Jones) or two hot guys getting naked and horizontal and the film isn't about wrestling, then I'll probably be there, fourth from front row—close enough to the screen to appreciate Robert Pattinson's nipples 40 feet high and in stereo, but out of skittle range of any wee, ritalin-deprived hell trolls (aka "children") who decide to forcibly share their over-priced snack treats with their fellow audience members.

Alas, the other day I was tricked by a group of female friends into seeing THE PROPOSAL. They managed to get my bum on the cinema seat by uttering eight magic words: "Foul-mouthed Betty White" and "bare-arsed Ryan Reynolds". I knew I was in for a nightmare (and not the good kind that comes with a burned guy in a red and green sweater with knives for fingers) when the screen presented me with an additional four words: "and starring Sandra Bullock".

I mean, I'm sure Ms. Bullock is a lovely lady (not that I can vouch for her; I mean, she could torture Girl Scouts in her garage with rusty, white-hot orthodontic tools for all I know) but there's only one way she could have ever won an Oscar, and Jack Palance is regrettably dead, rest-his-cuecard-name-misreading soul.

With that in mind, during the car-ride home, my female friends were subjected to my freshly diagnosed case of Romcomophobia (aka Julia Roberts' Syndrome), symptoms of which include foaming at the mouth, regurgitation of popcorn into the wheel-wells of Volkswagens, cursing the genital size of Sandra Bullock's hypothetical future offspring and repeated viewings of 1985's C.H.U.D. (Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers) until I could close my eyes without visualizing Sandra Bullock in only a towel.

My friends were fed up with my Bullockism, and challenged me to come up with a better movie idea myself, giving me both an idea for a blog entry here on PIC and a vengeful plan to score them all tickets to THE LAST HOUSE ON THE LEFT and tell them it's a musical about house-sitting starring Miley Cyrus.

With that in mind, here's how I would re-jig, "re-imagine", improve or overhaul several major movie franchises if I was pulling the Hollywood purse-strings to make them more tolerable to your average movie goer. If you see any of these ideas pilfered from me and actually used in upcoming movies, by reading this, you're all automatically agreeing to be my witnesses in the ensuing legal proceedings...

TERMINATOR V: YOUR CALL IS IMPORTANT TO US
-John Connor and a young Kyle Reese must face ruthless cyborg hunter-killers sent back by Skynet to kill anyone who has a Twitter account; Our two heroes then get spammed eighteen times a day by Demi Moore twittering about the colour and consistency of her and Ashton's bowel movements, and decide Skynet has the right idea.

BATMAN: EVEN DARKER KNIGHT
-Realising that Hollywood has snapped up all of Australia's 20-40 year old actors, but still wanting to cash in on the trend, Batman realizes his only option left is to cast Kiwi actor Russell Crowe as the Penguin. Faced with both Christian Bale and Russell Crowe on the same set, the film's Director of Photography checks into Arkham Asylum for his own safety.

STAR WARS: RISE OF THE RETCON REBELLION
-The Empire freezes George Lucas in Carbonite to stop him raping anymore childhoods.

SAW VI: JIGSAW DIED THREE FILMS AGO WHY ARE WE STILL MAKING THESE?

HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL 4: PROM NIGHT
-Zac Efron and Carrie White have a telekinetic battle over whom gets to be Prom Queen.

FREDDY VS JASON VS LEATHERFACE VS MICHAEL MYERS VS CHUCKY VS PINHEAD VS WHAT THE HELL, UWE BOLL

INDIANA JONES AND THE CRYSTAL HIP REPLACEMENT
-The swashbuckling archaeologist is dismayed to find out that his Zimmer frame is made from melted down Nazi gold and he is cursed to stand on his front lawn and yell at teenagers to turn down their music.

PEREZ, JE DETESTE
-Winner of the Rosy Palme at the Cannes Film Festival, this charming European film consists of nothing but Perez Hilton getting repeatedly pistol-whipped for 3 and a half heartwarming hours.

CONFUSION: THE MOVIE
-James Marsters and James Marsden, David Keith and Keith David, Bill Paxton and Bill Pullman play sextuplets, all called "Pete." Morgan Freeman plays a character who is mute, but manages to narrate the film anyway.

Eastern Medicine on a Western Man

Jeremy Blutstein — Sat, 20 Jun 2009 00:48:03 -0400

Aside from writing, the only other thing I might be good at is being stressed out. I can be stressed about anything. If it's remotely unsettling, I can be stressed out about it. It could be something big like the CIA falsely accusing me, or something small like the way a girl on the street looked at me. You name it and I can be stressed out about it.

ANIMAL HOUS- What Do You Mean It's Taken?

Gavin Pitt — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 03:13:56 -0400

Aloha, Animorphs!

-Well if there's one thing the HARRY POTTER movies have taught us (asides from the fact that oil paintings are sentient and watching you at all times and that Robert Pattinson is sex on a broomstick), it's that no School/College Dorm/Frathouse is complete without an animal mascot. Phoenixes and Hippogriffs are, however, hard to come by in these days when there aren't that many virgins around to tame them (Although I hear your average MAGIC: THE GATHERING meeting has to be regularly fumigated for unicorns), so what Spokesanimal is right for you and your peeps?

Boiled down, the primary issue is of size and ferocity—the really kickass animals tend to be large apex predators, and whilst they will certainly bring your dorm instantaneous Cool points, they will start whittling down the number of people in your dorm almost immediately (of course, depending on your relationship with your house-mates, this is not necessarily a tick in the "Con" column).

Similarly, smaller animals can be cute and easier to manage, but in your average college environs it's only a matter of time before they are stepped on, flushed down, eaten or smoked.

Come take your friendly scribe's hand now, as I take you on a whirlwind tour of the animal kingdom to help you choose which critter bonds best with your curriculum:

FISH: Aquarium fish are usually easy to keep happy, inexpensive to own and fairly hard to kill (save the occasional drunken beer pong accident). The main problem with pet fish is that essentially, they are fucking boring. Your average goldfish is perfectly content to spend its entire life staring out one side of the tank, swimming to the other side of the tank and staring out, and then repeating step one. You could paint a baked potato orange and glue sparkly gold sequins to it and you'd get the same entertainment value from it as you would a goldfish.

A more exotic representative of the group seems to be called for—if your dorm has problems with a messy bathroom, I can't recommend the Human Parasitic Candiru Catfish (Vandellia cirrhosa) enough. These vicious little fuckers are attracted to the smell of urine, follow it to its source, and then bore into the urethra of their host and drink the genital blood. Keep one of these in your toilet and you will never have to worry about pee on the seat or the lid being left up ever again.

SPOTTED HYENA (Crocuta crocuta):This is the ideal mascot for a dorm/frathouse that is known for its high percentage of stoners. Much like stoners themselves, Spotted Hyenas tend to communicate solely via a volley of ear-splitting, sustained, hysterical cackles whenever they see anything remotely intersting. Plonk a Spotted Hyena down on a sofa next to a bunch of fratboys watching an Adult Swim marathon and you'll produce a laughtrack not heard outside of a sitcom writer's wettest dreams.

The only down side is that female hyena have a functional penis, are highly dominant and very aggressive, so you maybe woken up at night by a horny alpha bitch who wants humpy-time now and will chew off your face if you try and pull the old "I have an exam first class tomorrow" excuse.

CATS: No, no, no! Whilst the idea of a Kommunal Kitteh for your dorm may seem appealing at first, keep in mind that you are liable to wake up one night in the wee hours, bleary eyed from an all-night studying/drinking/wanking session, to see a pair of unblinking yellow eyes staring at your from your pillow. A few nights of this and you will rapidly succumb to Purranoia—the unshakable fear that your cat is waiting for you to have sex, so that just when you're about to come it can leap onto your unprotected naked body with all claws extended.

RODENTS: Easy and cheap to care for, a rodent may seem like an ideal mascot—but there are problems, again mostly related to size. If you go for a traditionally-sized rodent, such as a mouse, rat, hamster or guinea pig, not only are you issuing a mighty temptation to all the Herpetology students in your building, but it's nigh guaranteed that someone will get drunk, remember that urban legend about Richard Gere, and then whoosh~! Mr. Puffychops will be taking a colon-nap.

If you go for one of the larger rodents, such as a porcupine, yes the animal will be better able to protect itself against snake-fanciers or drunken prostate enthusiasts, but your dorm will no doubt be the future site of some spectacular puncture-based fatalities.

SPIDERS: These are easily housed in the aquarium you have on hand since you got bored with the fucking goldfish and flushed it, and can be fed on the armada of cockroaches your dorm is no doubt already home to. Spiders make great pets for Psychology majors wishing to do a thesis on chronic arachnophobia—suddenly all your friends are your case studies—but please go for a non-venomous species.

Universities here in Australia have learned the hard way that the world's deadliest spider, the Sydney Funnel-web (Atrax robustus), really doesn't take kindly to being spray-painted in your favourite sports team colours and made to wear eight tiny novelty "we're number one!" foam hands. And whilst keeping a Funnel-web in your dorm will certainly get you mentioned in your school paper, it's likely to be under the headline "STUDENT BITTEN BY EXOTIC AUSSIE SPIDER TOOK ONLY MINUTES TO DIE: FRIENDS REMEMBER THEM AS 'COMPLETE TOOL'".