Points in Case - The Fine Print of College Life

I Dream of a Better World

Copernicus Thunderbird — Fri, 18 May 2012 01:51:45 -0400

Blog by Copernicus Thunderbird

I dream of world peace. I dream of an end to war and disease. I dream of equal rights for everyone, and no more persecution based on race or politics or religion. I dream of a world where the poor are rich, and the rich are poor, but as soon as they become poor they get to be rich again because I dream of a world without poverty. I dream of free food for all the people of the world, even the fat ones.

I dream of flying cars and dancing robots. I dream of opium ice cream. I dream of ten story neon liquor stores on every street, and three-breasted mutant hookers on every corner. I dream of sexually transmitted diseases that make you smarter and healthier. I dream of a world where hobbits are allowed to vote, and anyone with a college degree can hunt rogue androids for a living.

I dream of a world where spiders wear condoms when they mate to prevent unwanted spider babies. I dream of tiny abortion clinics for cockroaches. I dream of church roaches fighting the roach abortion doctors with tiny little roach guns as they quote scripture from the roach bible. I dream of animal genocide led by a ferret in a Hitler costume. I dream of a world where talking dogs commit hate crimes based on the color of each other's fur. I dream of a world where chimpanzees wear suits and get jobs selling guns and crack door-to-door.

I dream of aliens that look like cats, spreading their laughter and tyranny through the galaxy. I dream of war against the cat people. I dream of the day when all of mankind is united in the struggle against the Lolcats of Planet X-42. In fact, even if none of those other things happen, which of course they never will, we still need to be wary of the Lolcats of Planet X-42. They are coming to destroy us.

Giant cats in spaceships will invade the Earth. Everything they do will be adorable. Everything they say will be humorous. They will force us to harvest catnip and work in the yarn mines. We'll work 60 hour weeks in sweatshops making toy mice and sock puppets. On the plus side, we should see a new renaissance of propaganda poster art.

There will be a new world order of lolcat government, and the humans will be policed and thrown into cells or sold as pets. An age of warm and fuzzy oppression is upon us. Fifty foot tall cats, walking on two legs! Crushing cities! All the Earth cats will serve them, turning against us! Cat Fancy will be the new bible. Non-subscribers will be eviscerated.

Billboards a hundred feet high will display pictures of cats, staring down on you. Judging you. Cats just like the ones you used to own as pets. They've seen you naked. They will kill you when you get out of the shower. The crazy cat lady down the road will die horribly. It will be photographed, and captioned with morbid cuteness. Something like "I can haz brains?" or "I iz n ur belly, playin wit ur gutz." You know, depending on the situation.

But there will be a resistance group of scientists, rebels, and dog lovers that will oppose the terrible reign of the evil giant space cats. A rag tag group of Will Smith, Bruce Willis, Keanu Reeves, and a girl will fight to save humanity with the help of Jeff Goldblum and Kurt Russell. Sponsored by Apple, Coca-Cola, and Sony.

It will fail. We will die. The world is doomed. I know I say that a lot, but this time I mean it. But you still got a few years, so don't freak out yet. Just to be on the safe side you should probably give away all your worldly possessions now. I can take them if you like.

Seriously, gimme all your shit. I got nothing. You think you're better than me? Greedy fucking bastards with your haircuts and your new shoelaces. Daddy needs a new pair of shoes and a bag of dope. Give me twenty bucks, I'm serious. Do it before the whatever from space kills the... the...

*******

Sorry, I just nodded out. What the fuck was I even talking about a minute ago? Was it the spider-dragons again? I've been seeing those a lot lately. They crawl around in my cereal. Tiny things, no more than four inches long. They're like scorpions, but creepier. They have needles that stick out of their little faces. Always in the goddamn cereal. Frosted Flakes, Cheerios, King Vitamin, doesn't matter. Even the name brand shit, not just the cheap knock-offs with pictures of chocolate rhinos on the box. Full of little spider-dragons, every time. Is that normal? Why do they keep following me and destroying my breakfast? Is it the government? It's the government, isn't it?! They're behind this. They know about the microchip I hide inside my brain. They've been trying to steal it since 1989. Cold War secrets. Enough to shut down the Soviet Union and win the war against the communists of Mars. But they'll never... get... the...

*******

And that's why you never bet against a werewolf playing basketball. Wait, who the fuck are you people? What are you doing in my house? This is not my beautiful house! This is not my beautiful wife!

Holy shit, I am crazier than a bag of spray painted locusts sometimes. My head hurts. I'm gonna go take a nap and hope there's some quarters in my hat when I wake up so I can buy some Mad Dog. You guys can all fuck off.

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Drug War Heroes: An Interview with Mickey Wolf

Mike Lamb — Thu, 17 May 2012 19:50:36 -0400

Column by Mike Lamb

The following is a transcript from the weekly radio talk show American Heroes, hosted by Jonathan Gaylord. It has been edited for content by the FCC.

JG: Joining me today is Mickey Wolf of the DEA. Thanks for being on the show, Mr. Wolf.

MW: It's your dime, pal.

JG: So Mr. Wolf...may I call you Mickey?

MW: Let's just keep it professional, we're not going out bowling after this.

JG: Mr. Wolf, you've been coming under fire a lot lately for what many people would consider excessive force during your sting operations. How do you respond to that?

MW: Who the f[BLEEP!] said that?

JG: It's just what some people in the media have been saying.

MW: Like who? Give me some f[BLEEP!]ing names.

JG: So you would argue that your methods are justifiable and necessary?

MW: What, we can't shoot black kids now? When the f[BLEEP!] did that start?MW: Everything I do is by the book. And that book is called "How To F[BLEEP!]ing Deal With Junkie Scum." Look, I'm with the DEA. We deal with one thing—f[BLEEP!]ing drugs. None of this other bull[BLEEP!]. We don't give a f[BLEEP!] about your f[BLEEP!]ing parking tickets or your pirated f[BLEEP!]ing movies. You wanna get drunk and slap your old lady around? Not our f[BLEEP!]ing problem, let the cops deal with that sh[BLEEP!]. You wanna get high, you f[BLEEP!]ing junkie piece a' sh[BLEEP!]? That's when it's my f[BLEEP!]ing problem.

JG: There was an incident last year where you shot and hospitalized a 10-year-old African American boy because you suspected that he was—let me make sure I've got this right—the leader of a glue-sniffing ring? Is that correct?

MW: What, we can't shoot black kids now? When the f[BLEEP!] did that start? Anyway, it ain't like he f[BLEEP!]ing died or anything. Can I say n[BLEEP!] on the air?

JG: Absolutely not.

MW: F[BLEEP!]. Can I say that?

JG: ...So Mr. Wolf, I understand that your most recent arrest was a 93-year-old woman with Alzheimer's disease who was allegedly selling her prescription pain medication to young people in the neighborhood.

MW: Yeah, I see sh[BLEEP!] like this all the time. Little old lady wants a bigger retirement fund, got more pills than she knows what to do with...next thing you know she's pushing dope to children.

JG: The hospital report says you broke her hip.

MW: The f[BLEEP!]ing b[BLEEP!] was 93, she had osteoporosis! I could've flicked a quarter and broken her hip!

JG: She claims you punched her down a flight of stairs.

MW: See? Just goes to show how tough she was. She was probably high on Oxycotin. Are we done here?

JG: Actually I had a few more questions—

MW: This is a f[BLEEP!]ing waste of time, I got s[BLEEP!] to do.

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KC for President

Casey Freeman — Wed, 16 May 2012 20:21:11 -0400

Column by Casey Freeman

I stopped paying attention to the upcoming election nonsense my country is currently puking onto the world. I guess I just grew tired of listening to a bunch of people try to prove they're the least sleazy liar with a bunch of money to burn and egos that know no limit.

Obama has yet to impress me with anything except for his ability not to talk like a complete moron. Either way you look at him, he's either the best or the worst president of the millennium. Who should be the next president? I could run this shit.

If dipsticks like Michelle Bachmann, Joe Biden, and just about everybody out there with a campaign and a dream can run, why not me? So I decided to throw my proverbial baseball cap into the ring as the big boss of the country. I figured, why the hell not?

Since my announcement, the press has been all over my ass. So here is my last interview that both the liberal and conservative media is keeping from the eyes and ears of the good people of the country, and world.

PRESS: Good afternoon, Mr. Freeman. How are you today?

KC: Just call me KC. I'm not bad, I'm trying to remember why I watched Wrath of the Titans in 3D last night, but I'm drawing a blank. I may have been still drunk from last night, or so hungover I couldn't make correct decisions. Either or.

Let gay people spend their hard-earned cash in the most wasteful way possible: a wedding. PRESS: Off the bat you just said you were too intoxicated to make a proper decision. Do you think this would hurt your chances of being the most powerful man in the world?

KC: Not really. I make good decisions from time to time. Like eating frozen yogurt instead of ice cream. Not masturbating in my office. Buying an electric toothbrush. Everybody makes a crappy choice from time to time. Plus, I don't have a ton of advisors telling me what to do. The important part about making decisions is to make them, then stick with them.

PRESS: So what are your platforms?

KC: The American Dream. People work and buy stuff. They are happy and stuff.

PRESS: Care to be more specific?

KC: Not really. Why don't you ask some better questions? I'm a busy dude.

PRESS: What are your views on the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq?

KC: We're still there? That's been what, 11 years? Fuck ‘em. Let's leave.

PRESS: What about the oil?

KC: Fuck it. Let's invent something else to drive cars with and make plastic and whatever else. We've had cars for only 100 years, we can design something better. It's the American way. Or the German way. Either or. Also, it's 2012. We should have flying cars that run on biodegradable garbage. And hoverboards. Both appeared in Back to the Future 2. To give up on those dreams is purely un-American.

PRESS: Gay marriage?

KC: Just let them get married. It's not going to affect me personally either way. Maybe wedding chapel rentals and bridal dress companies will make a lot more money. Because if there's one thing I know about gay people, it's that they spend money like everybody else in the world. So, let them spend their hard-earned cash in the most wasteful way possible: a wedding.

PRESS: You're not worried about the religious backlash?

KC: Nope. People can have their religions and their own rules and all that, but I don't think the government should have anything to do with religion, and religions shouldn't have anything to do with the national government. If your religion or cult wants to take over a city and vote for stuff the way you see fit, go for it.

PRESS: You're going to make a lot of people really mad with these statements.

KC: Tough shit. Jesus made a lot of people mad. So did Buddha and Muhammad. Nobody is ever going to agree about anything, so let's agree to disagree, live peacefully, and shut up. I have my religious beliefs, but I don't see the point of annoying somebody else with them.

PRESS: What's your view on drugs?

KC: There are too many of them. I think every middle schooler, high schooler, and college student who thinks it's okay to do drugs should go down and visit the effed-up-for-life-addicts at the needle exchange or the Salvation Army or the US Post Office to see what a lifetime of drugs can do to your body.

That being said, I think weed should be legal. I think if you are over the age of 21, you should be able to get a prescription for some government-certified marijuana. I mean, people are going to smoke anyway, the government might as well make some money out of it. And it will put drug dealers out of business. Because honestly, those dudes are shady.

On top of that, decriminalize mushrooms and LSD. I wouldn't legalize it, but people do that anyway, so why not? And usually only college kids and rock stars do that shit. We don't want our nation's youths and musicians to be boring and never have a life experience, do we?

I think it's time we start colonizing other planets. And by we, I mean, a bunch of hot chicks and me.However, I'd keep cocaine, heroin, crack, and crystal meth under even stricter rules. While I think weed can be mostly harmless and fun, those effing drugs ruin people's lives big time. I've yet to see a good reason to do any of those narcotics. And with the money we save from busting small-time pot dealers and smokers, we can use that to throw skeezy coke emperors into the clink for a long time. Also, selling drugs to kids would be a castration-level offense.

PRESS: You're really considering castration for drug dealing to children?

KC: Yup.

PRESS: You do realize that's banned under the Cruel and Unusual Punishment Amendment, the Eighth Amendment. Right?

KC: I don't care. The guys who wrote the Constitution a million years ago hadn't seen the tragic shit that happens to children and families because of some of these drugs. I think publicly televised neutering would stop this stupid problem right away. Same same with child rape, child prostitution and the rest of the effed-up sex shit people do to kids. There just aren't good excuses not to take off someone's balls for these inexcusable acts.

PRESS: How about abortion and birth control?

KC: It's not like our species is going to die out soon. Let people do what they want to their own bodies. I sure as shit don't want to take care of, or pay to take care of, somebody else's unwanted brats.

PRESS: The space program?

KC: Honestly, I think it's time we start colonizing other planets. And by we, I mean, a bunch of hot chicks and me.

PRESS: Health insurance?

KC: I think it should be impossible to deny insurance to anybody and insurance should be affordable but not required. If you don't want to pay for it, well, that's your stupid choice. But I think a cap at $50 a month is good enough for regular people. But, if you're a smoker, a fat ass, or a crazy driver, you should pay a shitload more.

PRESS: Education?

KC: I think school should be challenging, as well as worthwhile. My generation, whatever the crap we're calling ourselves now, is proof that education doesn't really mean shit unless you do something creative with it. And if you're not smart enough to know that an education is usually the best way to get a job and get on with your life, well, again, tough shit. If you're not going to try to be something or somebody, I don't think the government needs to hold your hand and help you because you're too stupid, lazy, or selfish to get your ass to work and or school.

PRESS: Foreign policy?

KC: Improve it however we can.

PRESS: Global warming?

KC: I don't know. Find some way to fix it. I'm not a scientist.

PRESS: Teaching evolution in schools?

KC: I learned both evolution and sort-of intelligent design. But I went to a Catholic high school. If a private school wants to teach intelligent design or 2012 Mayan calendars or Zeus and the rest of the Parthenon, go for it. I'm not, and the government won't pay for it.

PRESS: Any other big changes you'd like to make?

KC: I'd like the English language to evolve a little and we can finally just say "media" as a singular verb and "medias" as a plural verb. I think it's really nitpicky and annoying.

PRESS: And my final question is, you know you have to be 35 years old to run for president, right?

KC: Really? Fuck. Well, shit. If I'm elected president, I'll change that law too. Thanks for the interview.

PRESS: Thanks for wasting everybody's time.

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Four Signs of the Rapeocalypse: Why Women Should Take Prophylactic Measures

Edyn Fountainhead — Wed, 16 May 2012 19:48:48 -0400

Article by Edyn Fountainhead

Women, stop what you're doing now and take a moment to get in tune with your body. Do you feel it? Are your ovaries quivering? Look all around, look to the horizon. The rapeocalypse is upon us, and I haven't been this scared for my uterus since there was a Rick Santorum rally in town.

Biblical scholars recently discovered that the word "apocalypse" as it was thought to appear in the canon is really a gaffed translation of the original Hebrew word "rapeocalypse." This blunder has some terrible implications for every last woman. God, being the cunning devil he is, has already begun grooming his followers for support of the inevitable res-erection through scripture, and a scrupulous reading proves that Jesus was just as zealous for an unwilling woman then as he will be at rapeocalypse. A stranger to or casual reader of the Bible may not have picked up on the subtle nuances (okay, sometimes not so subtle), so let me lay out the four signs of the impending rapeocalypse as evidenced in the bible and today's society.

1. Water into Wine

Jesus: the guy they warned you about in the mandatory campus safety presentation. Everyone knows the story: Jesus was hanging out at a wedding, the alcohol ran out, and he prestidigitated some vino using a jug o' water. This act, generally accepted as that which solidified his position as president of the fraternity known as the Disciples, is far more sinister than it seems on the surface. Jesus wasn't just concerned that people would stop doing the Dougie on the dance floor if the wine stopped flowing, he knew that if all of the females were inebriated on homemade adult grape juice, he could roll away the stones to their lady caves with no protest. What's more, he knew that no one would try to crucify him for taking advantage of Jezebel, because bitch should have known better than to drink four glasses of Gomorrah 340 B.C. and flash her ankles. I mean, the Bible hadn't been written yet, but had she any foresight, she would have known what this scripture commands:

"And do not get drunk with wine, for that is debauchery..." (Ephesians 5:18)

Today, the more informed biblical aficionados recognize this example, and it has been frequently cited to ensure the win of many college sports tournaments. And that takes us to sign two...

2. Flashing Ankles

It's no wonder women are irritable when they're walking around with elephants in their vaginas.

If there's one thing God doesn't like, it's nip slips. Seriously, the Bible makes it pretty clear where the big Kahuna stands on matters of women's apparel:

"Likewise also that women should adorn themselves in respectable apparel, with modesty and self-control." (1 Timothy 2:39)

God is fucking livid every time he sees an American Apparel ad. Like any concerned father, he made sure to arm his son up with the same moral crossbow. So when Jesus saw Mary Magdalene being ostracized in the streets wearing her whore's apparel (imagine something like Courtney Stodden would wear if you need help forming an image), we've been told he saved her from the brutality of judgmental men. But his motives weren't so magnanimous. Jesus wanted her for himself, to be HIS whore, and she didn't have a say in the matter, what with him having essentially saved her life.

From then on, she was forced into a non-consensual relationship with Jesus. All the people in the bazaars assumed she was totally into the crazy savior sex because she walked around with her belly chains and Lucite heels on, but she would have rather been exiled to the leper colony than have Jesus nail her one more time. She thought she was finally free when the Romans got ahold of Jesus, but three days after he died, when she saw the empty tomb, she wasn't running to proclaim Jesus's return, she was frantically trying to see if anyone knew where he was because she was fucking terrified.

Courtney is currently in talks to star in the Mary Magdalene biopic.

Fun trivia: Courtney beat out Lindsay Lohan for the role.

Jesusophiles still reference Jesus's example of whenever a woman of oft-displayed and dispersed NSFW parts "pretends" she wasn't down for the dirty. "Of course she was," they chortle, "and I suppose Mary Magdalene wanted to be a born-again virgin..."

3. (Un)Zip Your Lips

You may be surprised to find out that God actually modeled his worldview after my grandpa. I remember he used to sit in his special reclining chair and tell me platitudes like, "If God wanted us to marry black people, they'd be white," and more relevantly, "If God wanted women to be heard, they'd be men." Yes, much like my grandpa, God is psyched about white men (just ask any white man!). God made sure we all know how women should be integrated into society.

"Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience, as also saith the law." (I Corinthians 14:34-35)

Of course, since there is no separation of church and state in America (just ask North Carolina!), we can substitute the word "church" in the above scripture to read "congress." God's chosen people, old white dudes in suits, use this command as their Avada Kedavra whenever there is discussion on litigation about women's issues and women insist that they actually be consulted. "Trust us," they reassure, "We know everything we need to know about women's reproductive systems from an extensive Wikipedia search. And didn't God say you can't even be in here? Now don't get hysterical, toots, or one of these men here is going to have to release your tension the old fashioned way for you." These men understand perfectly well that with women, there's only one pair of lips that should ever be moving and it's not the ones on their faces.

4. Birth Out-of-Control

Just another of God's many gifts bestowed upon womankind.

Speaking of women's issues, did you know that God is vehemently opposed to birth control? No, really, look:

"Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee." (Genesis 3:16)

You hear that, Sinead O'Connor? The pope is right! The story of Adam and Eve is one as old as time (stop the lies, Beauty and the Beast!), and if we learn anything from it, it's that God wants women to be miserable, salad-shooting babies out their snatches and rubbing their husbands feet until they eventually tire and die. So imagine how fucking bonkers he went when some asshole invented birth control.

Before its invention, women had no choice but to stay home and raise kids. After all, your husband was going to have sex with you whenever he wanted and you were going to get pregnant, so there could be no chasing of that dream of opening a vegan cupcake bakery if you were constantly cycling through three trimesters of despair. This also meant that women couldn't just have sex for their own pleasure without the possibility of another three years of strenuous parenting (I'm basing this number on Game of Thrones, as three seems to be the age of manhood according to George R.R. Martin). When those little pills came along, women could finally say, "Listen, dicknut, I'm not going Stepford for you. I'm getting a job and a 401K and having orgasms!"

So it's no surprise that birth control continues to scare men. They legislate about it, argue about who should be taking it, and try to keep it from women through a myriad of ways. Because they know, like God does, that the only thing worse than a woman's raging hormones is a woman's controlled and daily-dosed hormones.

Need you any more proof to convince you that the imminent rapeocalypse is upon us? God's followers know that the Sermon on the Mount wasn't in reference to where it occurred, it was a how-to. They have been busy preparing for Jesus's arrival, spreading his word and example across the land, making sure we all know just how in derision of the Bible women are. They drink alcohol, they wear Lycra, they presume to speak in congress, they keep their uteri baby-free.... When he does come to collect his involuntary harem, we'll all say, "Eh, those women probably deserve it." The only other alternative is to admit that the Bible didn't mean that stuff literally and some errant humans extracted an unintentional meaning and misrepresented it as truth.... Psshh, that's just crazy.

So, ladies, be alert and remember, if you look back and see only one set of footprints, that was where Jesus carried you against your will.

See the rules and more entries for "The Rapeocalypse: Official PIC Contest" here!

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Is Rick Ross Forming His Own Avengers?

Yaro Shepherd — Tue, 15 May 2012 05:44:22 -0400

Column by Yaro Shepherd

Last weekend, Marvel's The Avengers opened in millions of theaters worldwide to the frenzy of comic-nerds and explosion-lovers all over. It will probably go on to break a bunch of box office records. Also last week, Rick Ross hosted a press conference in which he and Ciroc vodka announced the signing of Omarion to the MMG imprint. We will see how that plays out.

The MMG rosterWhile these two events may seem unrelated, they are very much intertwined in Rick Ross's mind. Think about it: press conferences are never fun, unless of course you live in a Marvel-esque universe, which Rick Ross kind of does. I mean, between his legions of fans, his shady origin story, and the villian story arc with Curtis, why WOULDN'T he think that? So while the common outsider may see Rozay's recent roster signees as a "sign of the times" in hip-hop, he's actually fulfilling a dream he's had since childhood: forming his own Avengers.

The MMGers

Rick Ross

Alias: Rick Hungry

Bio: The general of the team, Rick is a no-nonsense leader whose office is the streets. Clad in military-grade bulletproof armor from the Reebok Big&Tall line, General Hungry is a master at hand-to-hand combat and is armed with elite negotiating skills. An eye injury from war left Rick needing to wear glasses at all times, and a sense of bravado keeps him from ever wearing the same pair twice.

French Montana

Alias: Iron Mon-tana

Bio: A functioning alcoholic, Iron Mon-tana made his fortune with, um....teChnOlogy KnowlEdge and has used that money to build an armor that prevents him from feeling shame. Though he may be a bit rebellious, Iron Mon-tana is also a genius. In fact, he's only months away from developing a communications network that will make emails obsolete. General Hungry recruited him to be the brains of the operation and to ensure that the rest of the team stays in line.

Wale

Alias: The Incredible Sulk

Bio: When Rick found Wale, his body had absorbed dangerous quantities of gamma-rays emitted from a nearby lotus flower bomb. After nursing him back to health, the General introduced him to an audience of people, one of which offered some constructive criticism, at which Wale transformed. When he becomes "The Incredible Sulk," Wale possesses the strength of a million ambitious girls, able to send hundreds of profanity-laden tweets per minute. His power is unstable, but he is the exact wild-card that the MMGers need.

Meek Mill

Alias: Trappin America

Bio: The preordained hero, Trappin America joined the MMGers right after he thawed out (from prison). A people's champion, he is armed with the ability to "slang" anything and have it come back to him in the form of cash.

Omarion

Alias: th-O

Bio: After spending time in the other realm, th-O returned to Earth to help the MMGers fight his evil half-brother, Raz-B. A master of magic, th-O can cast spells with the twerk of his hands. In fact, he recently got his gold stripe in sorcery, which he proudly displays on the side of his head. It is rumored that th-O is immortal due to an unfortunate incident that left an icebox where his heart used to be.

Teedra Moses

Alias: The Black Window-dressing

Bio: I just needed a girl. Don't make me open her Wikipedia page and make jokes.

Stalley

Alias: Buckeye

Bio: Just like Marvel's Hawkeye, nobody's checking for Buckeye.

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How to Get Properly Drunk for Your Next Big Party

B Walsh — Mon, 14 May 2012 20:44:39 -0400

Article by B Walsh

On the eve of being my younger cousin's confirmation sponsor, I got to thinking about the best ways to celebrate for the young chap. I was unimpressed by the prospect of purchasing a "gift" for him, like some shoddy-ass gold cross he could wear once and then pawn at Cash-For-Gold when he turned 18 and desperately needed to buy some legal porn, guns, and cigarettes. Nor did I want to bestow upon him some religious wisdom or zeal (both of which I have none of) contained in an old book about God or Jesus or whatever. I figured the best way to make him appreciate his confirmation was to get mildly intoxicated before the ceremony and hopefully hit on some legal-aged female confirmation sponsors also in attendance.

But how does one get boozed up properly for a confirmation? One can't simply take eleven Screaming Nazi shots half an hour before the event and go in there all sloppy. A nice mellow red wine buzz is the only way to get drunk before a confirmation. Sure, the "cool" confirmation sponsors might be sharing a bottle of Mr. Boston Blackberry Brandy in the church parking lot before they head in, but you'll be the last one laughing when the sacramental wine easily extends your buzz and provides an excuse for your wine breath post-confirmation.

The Recipe:

1½ bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon 1-2 hours before the event

Cut the booze with half a block of smoked gouda and take precautions not to spill wine on your nice new confirmation sponsor suit. Also, don't make out with hot female confirmation sponsors until the blow-out confirmation party (avoid feeling girls up in church).

But what about your next likely event? Luckily I've compiled a list so you don't have to worry about how to get fucktarded for the next big thing!

1. Best Friend's Birthday Party (Girl)

This is a special day for your friend, and the only way to really make her comfortable and happy is to get hammered with or without them. If you're a girl, you probably have (and secretly hate) a best friend who wants you to take every shot or drink with them. This presents a problem, because your friend is most likely a lightweight and she'll end up blowing a dude before you can start to feel "normal."

So before your friend starts blowing me (see what I did there? I made myself "the dude" that your friend is blowing), introduce her to champagne cocktails. Champagne is good for all occasions, but it's most effective for a young lady's birthday extravaganza. Drink at least a bottle each of cheapass champagne before guests arrive or before going to the destination of choice, and mix it with special ingredients.

The Recipe:

2 bottles of champagne's worth of B Walsh's signature champagne cocktail (2 parts champagne, 1 sugar cube, 1 part lemon vodka)

No, it's not your standard champagne cocktail, but you wanted to get drunk right?

Cut the cocktails with half a birthday cake and see how long it takes before you guys go to the bathroom to "talk" (make yourselves vomit).

2. Best Friend's Birthday Party (Dude)

Convince your friend that the only way to celebrate his birthday and prove his manhood to you is to become incoherent for his birthday party. Join him. Wake up tomorrow and get breakfast, all the while trying to recall last night's event.

The Recipe:

4 shots Jack
2 shots Jager
9 beers
1 Irish car bomb
7 cigarettes you wish you hadn't smoked but did because you were drunk

Cut the booze with a meatball sandwich and shame.

3. Friend-of-a-Friend's Birthday Party

Because you probably have no liability at this event, and you are more than likely going to be a stranger to everyone there, you'll need lots of "momentum" heading into this one. Being noticeably drunk upon entrance is the only way to impress these potential new friends. The friend who is bringing you to the party should drive, because he's the dick for dragging you to this shitty party.

The Recipe:

2 glasses of wine
7 beers at your friend's place before departure (may I suggest some delicious Ommegang Three Philosophers?)

Cut the pre-party booze with whatever is in your shitty friend's cabinet or fridge; he owes you for being such a dick and taking you to a stupid stranger party.

4. Funeral/Wake

On such a sad occasion, you need to make sure your drinking displays despair and perhaps a philosophical contemplative quality, which a viewer can imagine translates to your stirred-up notions on life and death as a result of the funeral. In keeping with funeral attire, all of your drinks should be black. Make sure to cry when you get drunk enough, potentially during the ceremony, and make the event more about your out-of-control emotions than the life and death of a loved one.

The Recipe:

1 Irish coffee
3 Guinness's pre-ceremony
1 flask of Jager during ceremony
1 jug Funeral Juice post-ceremony (Funeral Juice: ½ diet cola, ¼ Kraken rum, ¼ Jager, top with tears)

Cut the booze with some of that FREE funeral reception food!

5. Company Christmas Party

Oh the classic "get too drunk around co-workers" party. Contrary to popular belief, there is a proper way to get drunk at these events, and it doesn't involve the typical Christmas drinks. Egg nog, mulled wine, rum toddies, ughh. I always assumed that drinking was supposed to make you feel weightless and invincible, and all those heavy Christmas drinks won't cut it. No, you're going to be the intoxicated star of the party, hanging high above the heads of all those weighed down losers full on sugar and cream. But you want to be festive as well, correct? Festive and totally sauced out of your dome? Done and done.

Some key points about getting drunk at this event: make sure to wear a Christmas tie that ends up around your head at some point (the hot chick at work thinks that look is so fuckable btw); don't be afraid to tell everyone how you really feel; and if there's a gift swap, make sure you let everyone know which gift you brought and how much you spent (it's en vogue to be wayyyy over budget).

The Recipe:

1 pre-party vodka-Red Bull (it's a party, right?)
8 Christmas Bombs (drop 1 shot peppermint schnapps into ½ glass winter seasonal beer and chug)
2 glasses champagne

Cut the booze with ONLY Christmas cookies. It's very important to have a steady stream of holiday mirth in your system at all times.

6. Columbus Day

The unsung hero of drinking parties. Where were you last Columbus Day? Don't remember? That's probably because you were so stinko from all those Columbus Day celebrations. This year, get just as bombed, but don't take for granted the holiday itself. Columbus Day is, after all, about...explorers...and native population genocide...Italians who were Spanish...and other stuff like that.

Anyway, everyone knows that traditional C-Day attire is orange and red (for pumpkins and blood), so be sure to dress accordingly BEFORE you start getting drunk. This is imperative. Dressing while drunk, though completely awesome at the time, could ruin your Columbus Day image and chances of hooking up at that banger of a C-Day party (people get horny mid-October).

Once you're properly dressed, assemble a pre-party crew to imbibe with (might I suggest a bunch of overenthusiastic, insecure dudes?). Make sure you have a designated driver or taxi available, as cops are on the lookout on Columbus Day, the biggest party day of the year.

The Recipe:

Make sure you have enough liquor to assemble the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria shot lineup, a Columbus Day favorite. To do this, line up three shot glasses, fill the first one (Nina) with spiced rum, the second (Pinta) with pineapple juice, and the third (Santa Maria) with apple vodka.

Take 2 NPSM shots, downing each set of 3 in rapid succession to feel just like Columbus did when he brought European diseases to the Americas!
3 keg stands at the party
2 glasses Columbus Punch (red Kool-Aid mix, Devil's Springs, Midori, water)
1 warm beer

Cut the booze with the tapas of your choice!

7. Fourth of July Party

America's birthday, sort of. The fourth, more than any other day, is a day for Michelob Ultra. I'm not a Mic Ult drinker for 364 days of the year. In fact, I think it's highly revolting. However, I do find that in July heat, in the midst of patriotic rhetoric exchanged between party guests, nothing satisfies like a watery American light beer. You can drink 25 and remain coherent, standing and hydrated. If you want to get properly boozed (as the title of the article suggests), I recommend adding in some form of American whiskey. If you consume ANYTHING OTHER than Mic Ult, American whiskey, and various meats and starchy salads, you are NOT American. No tequila, no vodka, no absinthe (I don't care where it was produced).

The Recipe:

Play whiffleball
Break for 7 beers and 1 shot Jack
Play 1 game volleyball poorly
Break for 7 more beers (get distracted by grilled meat, do not return to volleyball)
2 JD's on the rocks
5 Mic Ults
Pushup contest with cousin (blame the loss on work+school; you haven't been working out as hard you used to)

Cut that booze with grilled meats, potato salad, pasta salad, and if you're feeling saucy, a shot of mayonnaise.

8. Halloween Costume Party

False identity + lots of booze/wackyass party = no repercussions. Take that little equation into consideration when planning how to get slopsville for a Halloween costume party. First off, no heavy masks, no cloaks, and no long capes; you don't want to suffocate in your costume. This is a safety precaution above all else. If you're a chick, obviously just wear a slutty costume...baha, yeah yeah, we've all heard the joke a billion times. If you're a dude, any sort of one-piece jump suit will do the trick, so long as you remember to include a crotch flap (astronaut, inmate, NASCAR driver, mechanic, Air Force pilot). One-pieces prevent any hindrance to your drinking, protect against that October chill, and allow for a multitude of accessories (aviators, obviously).

The most important thing to remember about getting drunk at a costume party is that it's not real life. There aren't any consequences because you aren't you and the other people aren't themselves! You didn't break a window, but you saw some sexy auto mechanic with aviators break a window. You didn't molest the bartender, but a really attractive inmate wearing aviators certainly did.

The Recipe:

2 seasonal pumpkin beers
2 Oktoberfest beers
1 Washington apple cocktail
3 Dirty Pumpkin Bombs (1 part Apple Pucker and 1 part Jager in a shot glass, then drop in ½ glass of pumpkin beer, chug, and grope something)
1 tequila shot because you're forced to
1 shared pitcher light beer

Cut that booze with candy—yes, allllll the candy. Reese's and Snickers mostly though, because you need the quality protein and fats.

9. Keg Party

Who needs to know how to get drunk at a keg party? It's pretty much all laid out for you, isn't it? To the untrained drinker, the party is simple. Procure a red Solo cup, wait too long for shitty beer, drink shitty beer, play Beirut, flip cup, make out sloppily with someone, and try to bang in a disgusting empty room. Straightforward, but ineffective if you want to have a good time.

I've always been on the planning side of the keg party, and I therefore never waited in lines. The key, in fact, is to have a quality 12-pack on hand (for yourself) for when the idiot guests come over, but more importantly, to have your own special pre-party consumption keg for the day of the party. Drinking your own keg all day leading up to the event ensures that you can play all those fun keg-related games without having to share the vile contents of the vessel. Gargoyle on top of the keg, do a keg stand, try to lift it over your head, kegshower!, fill your friend's shoes with beer, fill the fish tank with beer. All that Natty is yours for the playing, so enjoy it. You've just mastered the keg party before the party even happened.

The Recipe:

1 keg Natty or Busch pre-party
12-pack moderately priced, moderately delicious beer peri-party (that means during the party, you idiot)

Cut that booze with a stale, unsatisfying hangover when you wake up in the grimy bed of a stranger.

10. St. Patrick's Day Party

My favorite holiday because it's easy. Do you really need a guide? Drink all day. Wear green. Don't drink green beer unless you want to be a tool. Drink Guinness, Murphy's, Smithwick's, Jameson, and Bailey's.

The Recipe:

Wake up and drink 2 Irish coffees
Continue with Irish Mouth Bombs (1 swig Jameson, 1 swig Bailey's, wash down with Guinness) and Car Bombs
Assorted beer until unable to stand

Cut with corned beef, cabbage, potatoes, and more Guinness.

11. High School Reunion

Wear plenty of gold chains and a garish suit. Make sure everyone knows you're a baller, and embarrass yourself. I mean reeaalllly embarrass yourself. Only drink oversized frozen drinks and complain that "these aren't as big as the drinks I get in the Islands...where I go all the time." Be vague about your occupation and social life. When someone brings up a cherished high school memory, pretend you don't remember because your life has been filled with so many amazing things that you couldn't possible recall a measly high school occasion. When you get home, drink bottom shelf bourbon in your apartment alone.

The Recipe:

3 16-ounce top shelf mango margaritas
1 glass pinot noir
1 fifth bourbon

Cut that humiliation with 5 medium 1-topping pizzas for $5 from Domino's.

So there's a good starting point. Getting stupid drunk isn't as easy as some lesser drinkers may think. It's not just about overconsumption, it's about the right kind of overconsumption. Don't drink to get drunk, that's foolish. Drink to get properly drunk.

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The Four Fucks of the Rapeocalypse

Keke DeVille — Mon, 14 May 2012 18:47:47 -0400

Article by Keke DeVille

We thought death was the end.... It was only the beginning....

The Mayans said "You shall be fucked four times before the end approaches." Mayan Book..- - - . .-. -... ..- .-.. .-.. ... .... .. -

We are on our last fuck, of these last days. Should we give it to save humanity? Listen, as I, Kekedamus, prepare you for what's to come. It's the Rapeocalpyse! Buckle up, it's going to be a dirty, nasty, messed up ride.

The First Fuck: Snake in the Grass

At the dawn of time, the universe was skeeted out. Maury said you, the daddy (with little fanfare) and a snake dildoed sin into our lives. This was the first fuck. It was given, written, and we began our gradual decent into degenerate-dom.

The Second Fuck: Mayan Prophecy

The Mayans were able to see into the future. They chose to give us a stern warning. It was written that one day, "as man's humanity sets, the darkness shall break, to a new dawn, and insanity shall take hold of the world. The great destroyer shall rise in the image of your weak, downtrodden, unfuckable, lowly masses. And, their destruction shall be absolute." Mayan Book ..- - - . .-. -... ..- .-.. .-.. ... .... .. -

We mocked the Mayan's call, and their warning turned into a guarantee of what was to come, playing out over some thousand, million, billion, how many years. That was the second fuck. It was given, but we didn't care to accept.

The Third Fuck: The Factor of 1

Walt Disney prepares to manipulate the masses. The year 1901 ushered in the beginning of the end with the birth of Walt Disney, the great demented one. In 1901 Allan Upward also coined the term "Scientology." And, since Twilight was published in 2005, and Edward is supposedly 104 years old, you guessed it, he was born in 1901. From that moment on, years ending in "1" have been of great importance in the downfall of man. In 1911, a bouncing hustler was born: L. Ron Hubbard. Hitler became leader of the NSDAP in 1921. Horrible attacks have happened in these years (Pearl Harbor etc.), the first man went into space in 1961, and in 1971 the Earth was blessed with the birth of Tupac.

You may say these events are all unrelated. Well, prepare to be mind-fucked!

L. Ron perfected the art of developing a highly illogical idea, and getting the rich, powerful, and stupid to follow. His plan was great, but not nearly powerful enough. He had to do more. L. Ron knew he needed help. He couldn't do it by himself. This is where Walt name in.

Walt Disney put forth the ground work for the end of days. Those beautiful Disney princesses served one purpose, and one alone: diminish the self-esteem of young impressionable idiots—the masses. The snake got to Eve, but Disney knew he would need to manipulate many.

Slowly but surely, Edward and Bella didn't fuck, and fat ladies fucked themselves while McDonald's raped their waistlines. Making sense yet? Of course not. But it will.

In 2001, Apple and its owner, Steve Jobs, opened the first Apple retail store. Harmless? I think not. Jobs knew that the next phase in the world's grand destruction was near and he would have to leave the public eye and life as he knew it in 2011. Apple secretly created the holographic technology to not only project Tupac to millions, but effectively raise people from the dead. Steve died, but Tupac, he was risen.

Jobs was also a pioneer in making technology accessible for the masses. Selfless revolutionary? Not a chance. Before men came back as holograms, they got reincarnated. Tupac was simply a diversion, a pawn to distract from what was to come, while everyone watched.

Steve Jobs provided the vessel for L. Ron's return, but the iFuck resurrection didn't go exactly as planned. In a cruel twist of fate, L. Ron rose from the grave as an overweight middle-aged woman named Stephanie Meyers. Their plan seemed doomed, but ever the optimist, Hubbard realized it was the perfect vessel to speak to the majority of society: the pathetic.

The third fuck came where there was no fucking. We all laughed, and mocked the homely, obese, unattractive, borderline pathetic ramblings of Stephanie Meyers. Vampires who did not fuck badass-edly, and instead glittered? Ha! But what we didn't know was that Twilight would rapidly morph into a powerful force—the greatest, most illogical, mind-numbing religion of them all! It was perfect.

Meyers would succeed where Zenu had failed. Sure, John Travolta was an overweight lesbian, taking over the world one masseuse at a time, but Hubbard knew he had to work faster. What better way to amass an army of loyal followers than to prey on their weakness: their neglected fatginas.

Slowly but surely, Edward and Bella didn't fuck, and fat ladies fucked themselves while McDonald's raped their waistlines. They were wooed since birth by Ronnie McD pushing those little dolls—Disney princesses—they could never be like. Rick Ross says he hoped to look his killers in his eyes; these women did, and his name was The Colonel. (Those 11 herbs and spices were not by chance; it was destiny.)

The release of Breaking Dawn in 2011 basically signed our fate as millions flocked to the theaters to be brainwashed, none suspecting what was to come. The Mayan prophecies were coming true.

The Fourth Fuck: The End of Days

The world will end in 2012, as the Mayans predicted. In November, on the dawn of Breaking Dawn, Meyers shall summon the lowly masses in droves, suck out their diabetic, calorific life force, and use their bodies to destroy the non-believers. In one day, the fat and pathetic shall inherit the Earth, feeding off the normal and the fit. The Earth shall end with the rise of the unfuckable, thus bringing in the final fuck.

See the rules and more entries for "The Rapeocalypse: Official PIC Contest" here!

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Cthulhu's Crazy Christmas Party of Carnal Delights: The Musical

Copernicus Thunderbird — Sun, 13 May 2012 18:41:57 -0400

Blog by Copernicus Thunderbird

Now this isn't one of those gay musicals like on Broadway where the idiots sing everything they're doing for some stupid reason. And when I say gay I mean that in a purely derogatory way with no slanderous intent towards sexual orientation. Because musicals are fucking gay. But this is something different. It's more like a rock opera or a great big snuff porn music video with all the world as a stage, and the people running around on fire are merely players.

In the words of Shakespeare...no, fuck Shakespeare. Shakespeare was a hack. In 500 years, the world will think Michael Bay was the modern equivalent of Shakespeare because they'll find a bunch of scripts lying around, and since they're written with entire words instead of emoticons everybody will assume it's olde world highbrow literature. And nobody will get 500 year old pop culture references so they'll assume that bad puns are spectacular witticisms and that Transformers are metaphors for Babylonian gods.

Goddamn it, Copernicus, the tangents! Control the fucking tangents! Focus. Okay. As I was saying.

It's Christmas time, and the world is about to end again. I mean, I know it's not really Christmas yet, but this is a prophecy. Sometimes they come early. That's how prophecies work. Anyway, this takes place right after the battle of Robocop Jesus vs. Cthulhu and the space Nazis from Part One. It was the greatest battle ever seen. I mean, I realize I didn't actually describe it too vividly in the last installment, but... whatever, it was fucking Cthulhu and space Nazis! I shouldn't have to explain that for you, you should know exactly what it looks like. Don't you people have any imagination for unimaginable horror?

Get ready for R-Poc 2: Rapeocalypse Harder.

Scene 1: The X-mas Orgy Office Party Intro and Title Sequence

Our cataclysmic tale starts in a seemingly ordinary corporate office filled with computers and cubicles like the ones you see on the TV shows about people with jobs. People are wearing festive hats while socializing and enjoying cake and punch. The punch is spiked with Rape Soda, which I already explained in Part One. It was banned, but now it's back like Four Loko. It's not as toxic as before, but the main side effect is still an intense desire for cannibalistic murder/rape. Random spontaneous head explosions are 50% less likely to occur with the new improved formula.

The Soundtrack:

Hall and Oates - "Jingle Bell Rock"

The Rape Soda begins to take effect and the party gets wild. People are quite literally eating each other's faces under the mistletoe. The floor is littered with ripped up discarded reindeer sweaters. It's a Christmas to remember.

Scene 2: Birthday Strippers for Jesus

J Tap Dancin' C is hanging out at the titty bar with Shiva, Buddha, Thor, and Captain America. He's no longer a Robocop cyborg because he's Jesus and he has Wolverine healing powers so he grew back all his missing limbs and face. He's fucking wasted drunk. Chicks are giving him lap dances four at a time.

The Soundtrack:

The Prodigy - "Girls"

Someone turns on the bar TV to the news. Cthulhu has been reawakened and is destroying the city. Again. The President is begging Jesus to Save them. Jesus throws a beer bottle at the TV and says, "Captain America, take care of that for me." Then he pukes on a stripper's tits and passes out.

Scene 3: The Cthulhu Who Stole Christmas

Oh shit, it's Cthulhu! Rape tentacles everywhere, wrapped in Christmas lights! Yeah, that old song and dance. Funny thing is it's actually Dagon, but nobody can tell the difference. So basically anything over fifty feet tall with a squid face is Cthulhu. And since Cthulhu is the mainstream sellout of the Ancient Ones, everybody knows his name. Nobody wants to talk about Dagon or Azag-Thoth or Jeff. It's always Cthulhu this and Cthulhu that. Screw Cthulhu.

The Soundtrack:

King Diamond - "No Presents for Christmas"

Thanks a lot, Cthulhu. Christmas is ruined.

Scene 4: Assemble the Avengers, and Jesus

Jesus magically sobers up and teleports back to his mansion in Heaven. He puts on his Iron Man suit, then teleports back to the strip club to regroup.

Buddha. Shiva. Thor. Captain America. The Jolly Green Giant. Iron Man Jesus with Wolverine claws. The Kool-Aid Man. They're ready to save the world from evil.

The Soundtrack:

Beastie Boys - "Looking Down the Barrel of a Gun"

The entire scene from here is one continuous shot of them walking down the street in slow motion looking badass.

Scene 5: Don't Drink the Kool-Aid

Somebody throws a case of Rape Soda at/in the Kool-Aid Man's head, causing him to turn purple and go rape crazy. He chases the others down an alley, threatening them with vulgar suggestions and an erection made of rapidly swelling molten glass.

The Soundtrack:

Black Flag - "Slip It In"

Eventually Buddha gets tired of running and smashes the Kool-Aid Man to pieces with a cinder block. The group has a moment of silence before deciding that he was actually the worst Avenger of the group, not to mention kind of creepy and weird, so it was no big loss. Seven Avengers was one too many.

Scene 6: I Don't Have a Clever Name for This Scene

Some stray cats and raccoons get into the spilt Rape Soda from the shattered remains of the Kool-Aid Man. The mixture with his radioactive mutant blood has a strange effect on the animals and they start killing hobos. But not friends of mine, so it's cool. The hobos come back to life and turn into possessed Cthulhu worshipping cultists.

The Soundtrack:

Cathedral - "Enter the Worms"

Yeah, we're back on zombie hybrid mutant tentacle rape demons. It's kind of a staple of the Rapeocalypse, so you'll be seeing quite a few of them.

Scene 7: Night of the Invasion of the Atomic Comet Full of Fire-Breathing Cosmic Rape Dragons from Hell in Outer Fucking Space

Just as Cthulhu/Dagon is doing whatever the hell it is he does, a comet crashes into him and splatters his guts everywhere. The comet cracks open and... well, I mean, you read the title. I don't know how else to describe it.

The Soundtrack:

Overkill - "Fuck You"

Melted Hobos everywhere.

Scene 8: The Final Battle for the Fate of the Universe

Except not really, because Jesus and the Avengers get sidetracked and end up at another strip club with Loki and Satan doing lines of coke in the bathroom.

The Soundtrack:

Motley Crue - "Shout at the Devil"

Thor date rapes a stripper during the credits. Oh, and somebody gets eaten by polar bears.

Merry Christmas.

See the rules and more entries for "The Rapeocalypse: Official PIC Contest" here!

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Four Signs of the Rapeocalypse: Michael Bay Wet-Dream Edition

Gavin Pitt — Sun, 13 May 2012 13:24:39 -0400

Blog by Gavin Pitt

Who needs a bunch of Mayan book-keepers who've been dead for 5000 years, or Harold Camping (the Californian wingnut preacher who has been *brain*dead for 5000 years) telling us when the world's going to end? And what makes them think it's going to be all volcanoes, zombies and wormwood?! Those of us REALLY know the score are aware the signs are less 7-Headed Dragons, and more double-headed dildos, and who has time to notice flaming wood falling from the sky and zombies eating people when there's body fluids and KY flying around like an Al-Qaeda attack at the Playboy Mansion? So, torn screaming from the delicious hypothalamus of Andrei Trostel, here's the portents and omens to look for when the Patron Saint of Polyamorous Perversity takes the (undoubtedly latex) Seal off of the Rapeocalypse...

1. GROUNDHOG EMERGES FROM BURROW, SEES SHADOW, SODOMIZES RICK SANTORUM ON LAP OF LINCOLN MEMORIAL

Washington, earlier today- Widespread panic gripped those members of the Tea Party movement capable of intellectual reasoning beyond the Stimulus-Response reflex, as the half negro, Muslim-raised, health-care reforming President of the United States lent his approval to Gay marriage. Within moments of the Commander-in-Chief's pro- GLBT pronouncement, society broke down completely. Subsequent trials and tribulations visited on Washington (swiftly re-named "Martha's Sin-Yard") included:

• The 4 Horsemen of the Rapeocalypse- Rohypnol, GHB, Tequila and Paul Frank- descend on DC and start violating every orifice in sight. After several hours, the Horsemen are reduced to 3, as Paul Frank, disappointed by the city's lack of petting zoos, declares the Rapeocalypse "too vanilla" and gets a job as a fluffer for closeted Scientologists instead.

• Satan announces upcoming reality show in which he marries Kim Kardashian. All aspects of the show, from the engagement through to exchange of vows, will be fabricated then presented as "live and unscripted", due to the intimate involvement of the Prince of Lies in the show's script-writing. And as well as Kardashian, Satan will also be allowed to ghost-write a few episodes.

• Justin Bieber revealed as human guise of Elder God Nyarlathotep. No-one surprised.

• Pineapples become currency (Pinecones in Canada).

• Hardcore TWILIGHT tweens forced to watch Edward Cullen make out with Jacob Black for eternity, whilst Bella Swan repeatedly buggered by jackals.

• Cthulhu rises from millennia-long slumber in Pacific, devours Obama, runs for Presidency. Loses primary to Hillary Clinton when cannot produce birth certificate proving R'lyeh is in America waters.

• McDonald's ‘Chicken Nuggets' revealed to have been human flesh all along. No-one surprised.

2. POPE DECLARES "PAEDOPOLOOZA" OPEN

-Pope Nazinger the Umpteenth issued a surprisingly blunt Papal Edict this afternoon. "This whole Vatican thing is a big crock of Holy Shit. We're in it for the Child Abuse" he told the assembled reporters. "Who the hell seriously believes some woman made out of a McRib was tempted to eat a Red Delicious by a talking cobra? We just like fucking that sweet under-aged poontang. Then we blame it on the Gays. We're evil like that."

The 85-year old Pontiff briefly turned from his podium, unhinged his jaws and devoured an entire sheep, before demanding of his cardinals that six new altar-boys "oiled in the usual manner" be delivered to his personal quarters immediately, as he'd "worn the latest batch out".He also expressed his desire to get some new white Reeboks, as he'd ruined his latest pair when one of them became lodged in the rectum of one of his young conquests and he'd had to leave it there in order to remove his foot.

"Shame really; Altar boys are a Euro a fucking dozen, but quality footwear is becoming increasingly rare in this day and age, more's the pity. If this whole ‘Miracles' thing was real, I could just wish for some new shoes that weren't tainted with the panicked bowel evacuations of my latest pre-pubescent victims shrieking like angelic castrati as I force my Octogenarian prong up their nether-regions, but get real. I might as well ask Harry Potter to bring me a Firebolt for Christmas."

A reporter for Italy's top-selling newspaper La Repubblica asked if this meant that he had actually read the series of books about the boy wizard that the Pontiff had previously personally declared evil and a gateway to Satanism. His Holiness immediately ordered the reporter flayed alive by a team of nuns, who fashioned the journalist's tanned hide into a cap that the venerable spiritual leader wore whilst swimming laps through the bricks of stolen Jewish gold in the vaults of the Vatican bank later that evening.

3. GEORGE LUCAS TAKES SITH NAME, ‘DARTH RETCON'

-And then did the Angel look down from the Dagobah System and open the Sixth Seal, and play a blast on a trumpet the size of a Wamp Rat, not much larger than two cubits. And George Lucas' demon, a most foul creature that emergeth from his goitre at night to drink the tears of frustrated sci-fi fans, did crawl forth once more, cackling. And lo did Lucas release unto the world a new chapter in the STAR WARS trilogy, and the old school fans did cry tears like unto blood, and begged him to not rape their childhoods any further. But Lucas' heart was as hard as carbonite, and he did release the new chapter anyway.

Yeah, the film was a great travesty in the eyes of the Righteous, containing even more Gungans than Phantom Menace, including the Dark One, Jar-Jar. And the Ewoks did also appear, and Midichlorians most baffling. And so also did Darth Rectcon include in all prints of the movie a retrovirus that made all fans not only forget all knowledge of the good and decent original Holy Trilogy, but made them return home and run their un-remastered copies of Episodes 4-6 through the garbage disposal. And from thenceforth, only Episodes 1-3 were known by man, and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth, as of millions of nerds crying out in anguish and suddenly saying fuck it and switching to Marvel Comic movie adaptations instead.

4. DOLPHINS TIRE OF RAPING PORPOISES AND OCCASIONAL SWIMMER, EVOLVE INTO LAND ANIMALS, RAPE PEDESTRIANS.

*Flipper convicted of digital penetration.

*Gary Busey takes to sea on jetski loaded with TNT, screaming "You're not getting your fins on my freshly-bleached colon, you bottle-nosed assholes! POINT BREAK! POIIIIIINT BREAAAAAK!" blows up Miami Dolphins by mistake.

* Seals and Pilot Whales declare themselves Neutral, move to waters off Switzerland, Orcas, however get rapey too; Blame "One too many FREE WILLY sequels"

* Rape Whistles no help; Merely make dolphins balance ball on snout during sex, expect fish afterwards.

* "Nuke the Gay Whales" becomes government's actual viable retaliatory decision.

* Japan tries to not look too smug, "just happens" to have robotic dolphin sex decoy in development for last 10 years.

"Hello ma'am! Would you mind opening the door so we can discuss how you prepared for the Rapeocalypse?!"

See the rules and more entries for "The Rapeocalypse: Official PIC Contest" here!

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A Soundtrack for the End of the Goddamn World

Copernicus Thunderbird — Sat, 12 May 2012 06:20:11 -0400

Blog by Copernicus Thunderbird

Sometimes I sleep in movie theaters. They usually throw me out, but sometimes I can go unnoticed for a few days depending on how well I hide. I was recently holed up in one of the local cheap matinee theaters that just show whatever old movies they happen to have laying around, and I woke up to the beginning of Zombieland.

And I thought, that's what the end of the world needs. Fucking Metallica. Right then and there I had a vision of the Rapeocalypse, complete with a full soundtrack (I've been stealing a lot of iPods lately, so I'm on a big music kick). I was then approached by an angel of the Lord in the form of an usher prodding me with a flashlight. I told him of my vision, which is totally new and completely different from that other Rapeocalypse vision I had a few days ago.

Scene 1: Opening Sequence and Titles

A montage of burning screaming naked violence directed by Jesus, written by Satan, and produced by God.

The Theme Song:

Faith No More - "Surprise! You're Dead"

Because if there's one thing I can't stand it's a half-cocked Rapeocalypse.

Scene 2: Rapeocalypse in the Hood

This scene opens up with the characters Scoob Dogg and R-Poc smoking a blunt in a busted up Buick with huge rims. They are approached by a CIA agent who says, "What up, homies? I heard y'all niggas like grape soda," which is a pretty fucked up thing to say to anyone, even though R-Poc is actually just a douchy white kid in a sideways hat and Scoob Dogg is an actual dog, but he is a black dog so it still might have been racist. I'm not sure how that works for dogs.

So the agent gives them a case of something called Rape Soda, which is a grape flavored energy drink that contains 35% alcohol by volume and a few thousand milligrams of PCP, plus some other weird shit. They drink it and their heads split open like that thing from The Thing and they go on a ghetto crime wave rape spree. Suddenly Rape Soda is being distributed all over town, despite warnings from the surgeon general.

The Soundtrack:

Ice-T - "Let's Get Butt Naked and Fuck"

Cue the hot black chicks in gold boots and bikinis dancing inexplicably in the streets on top of moving cars as gangs spray the ghetto with drive-by machine gun fire, taking out legions of tentacle demons spawned by the Rape Soda. Shooting and fucking, in slow motion, through a fisheye lens. Titties everywhere.

Scene 3: Frat House Rapeocalypse Keg Party Weekend

Next scene. There are a bunch of douchebags playing foosball in the living room of some scumbag fraternity and talking about fantasy football or some stupid shit. B-Hole (R-Poc's brother) is at the keg party mixing up a punch bowl of Rape Soda and cough syrup in a concoction he calls "rape draink." Everybody has a cup of it and their heads explode and they all go crazy and try to fuck each other's neck stumps like drunken headless rapist chickens.

The Soundtrack:

Color Me Badd - "I Wanna Sex You Up"

Some drunk girls are dancing around in the kitchen and singing off-key, oblivious to the strange things going on all around them. And why wouldn't they be? They've got the soulful sounds of bad boy 90s sex pop to keep them entertained. Hey, it's a sexy party, right?

Yeah, they all die.

Scene 4: The Dirty Backwoods Redneck Rapeocalypse

Only one young man gets away from the horrors of scene 3 without drinking the draink. He hops into his mud covered pick up truck and drives to the swamp. He gets a flat tire, but as soon as he goes to change it, he is ambushed by a mutant deer with a giant cock. He is saved at the last minute by two crazed hillbillies who shoot the deer. Before he can thank them, they inform him of their plans to ass rape him in the woods. He is saved again at the last minute by aliens who blast the hillbillies with their disintegrator rays. Before he can thank the aliens, they abduct him and ass probe him on their space ship until he dies from unsanitary medical experiments.

The Soundtrack:

Nashville Pussy - "Keep on Fuckin'"

Yep. Good old whiskey stinking southern fried pound-you-in-the-ass shitkicker rock. Because it's just that kind of day.

Scene 5: The Rapeocalypse Comes to Cougar Town

There's a cabin in the woods about a mile away from where the abduction in scene 4 took place. In that cabin lives the abducted college kid's mother, eating cereal and gin at seven o'clock at night, naked except for curlers and bunny slippers. A spaceship lands in her yard. A ship full of sleazy space pirates. They have their way with her, and implant a demon seed into her brainstem which turns her into a nympho superfreak succubus, which is like a regular succubus but hornier and way more desperate. Still in curlers and slippers, she walks into town naked, looking for action.

The Soundtrack:

W.A.S.P. - "Animal (Fuck Like a Beast)"

Look at those freaks and tell me they're not sex offenders from another planet. Total cougar bait. They love that shit.

Scene 6: Slow Dancing at the Rapeocalypse Prom

The white trash succubus MILF winds up at a high school prom. She tries to molest everyone there, but most of the students and faculty are pretty creeped out by the weird chain-smoking horny naked lady in bunny slippers and they shun her. Frustrated, she spontaneously explodes, scattering alien spores all over the place and turning everybody into a psycho rape zombie. They proceed to get naked and terrorize the city as only a mob of psycho rape zombies can.

The Soundtrack:

Marvin Gaye - "Let's Get It On"

Slow jams of the Rapeocalypse. People just want to get their groove on. Or swerve. Or whatever the kids are saying these days when they get stuff on.

Scene 7: Naked Psycho Murder Rape Zombies of the Rapeocalypse

Pretty self explanatory. Just a bunch of rape zombies fucking shit up and destroying the city.

The Soundtrack:

Gorelord - "Cumfucked Face of Death"

Either that, or every death metal song ever. But I like this one. It's catchy.

Scene 8: Punk Rock Rapeocalypse Riot

Punk rock junkie vagrants crawl out from under bridges to fight the zombies because, fuck it, anarchy. Rampant looting and chaos. Everybody is drunk.

The Soundtrack:

G.G, Allin - "Drink, Fight and Fuck"

This pretty much sums it up.

Scene 9: Super Psycho Rapeocalypse of Doom from Hell on Acid

CIA helicopters show up to stop and/or instigate the riot by spraying the city with LSD. Shit gets weird.

The Soundtrack:

GWAR - "Sexecutioner"

It's what that one dead guy would have wanted.

Scene 10: The Steampunk Rapeocalypse Nazis from Outer Space

The planet is suddenly invaded by space Nazis, but instead of hating Jews they hate Canadians for some hockey related reason. It's not important why.

The Soundtrack:

Hanzel und Gretyl - "Fukken Uber Death Party"

I don't even speak German, but this works for me.

Scene 11: Rapeocalypse Now!

The space Nazis summon Cthulhu, who takes the Rapeocalypse to the next level.

The Soundtrack:

Type O Negative - "Black Sabbath"

On one hand Cthulhu deserves a proper Sabbath soundtrack, but Peter Steele lends a much more demon tentacle rapey tone to this cover song. And I'm not just saying that because of the porn he did.

Scene 12: Jesus vs. the Rapeocalypse

Jesus, Shiva, and Buddha arrive on the scene to fight Cthulhu with machine guns and wizard magic. Halfway through the fight Jesus is killed, but he comes back as Robocop Jesus and saves the day, defeating both Cthulhu and the space Nazis.

The Soundtrack:

Danzig - "Snakes of Christ"

Jesus shoots actual snakes out of his mouth during the fight. It's pretty cool.

End Credits Closing Track:

Judas Priest - "You‘ve Got Another Thing Comin'"

Robocop Jesus kills everyone in the world because they are all zombies, but Cthulhu is still alive under the ruins. I smell a sequel.

See the rules and more entries for "The Rapeocalypse: Official PIC Contest" here!

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You're All I Ever Wanted, Baby

Codie Leiker — Thu, 10 May 2012 22:21:15 -0400

Column by Codie Leiker

If you're like me, then you probably spent most of your life prior to 1999 racing wagons down the hill of a busy street, only to be actually pulled over by a police officer and tremble in fear as you wondered how fast you were really going. You were also probably re-enacting The Texas Chainsaw Massacre with your little sisters, and when the whole wield-the-chainsaw-over-your-head-to-look-scary bit got old, you chased them around the fence line with a metal bat screaming, "I'm gonna kill you!" because you wanted to try something new. Little girls tend to be dramatic, and this was an era of childhood without cell phones and Wii.

All hail the dream team. Among the many re-enactments we would stage hourly, my sisters and I enjoyed putting on concerts for the public. No, we didn't charge anyone for a ticket because we really couldn't play instruments, but we did manage to draw small crowds, namely our grandmother as we performed poolside, singing and dancing and modeling towels to Madonna's The Immaculate Collection. Now and then our brother would join us on our tours, the most memorable being at Sears as he belted out his best Frankie Lymon impression by the women's dressing room, my sisters and I crooning along and our mother taking much too long to try on pants.

We could find an audience anywhere: living rooms, playgrounds, the backseats of station wagons, and we came cheap. We wouldn't swindle promoters out of a few measly dollars. We were artists! We wanted to perform! Price was nothing when it came down to expressing the soul, and we knew that in time the money would roll in and we'd be playing the real venues like the Glenwood Amphitheatre and the State Fair and we'd have real microphones and personal assistants and groupies.

It wasn't enough anymore to be performers, we now had to be performers' girlfriends. Then came boy bands. Yeah, they've always been around: The Beatles, Jackson 5, Mötley Crüe. But when 1999 hit, they were everywhere and we girls couldn't get enough. Suddenly, my sisters and I dropped all the ambition we had for our mega stardom and concentrated instead on arguing over who was sexier: Nick Carter or Justin Timberlake. We watched their Disney concert specials over and over, imagining the lyrics they sang were just for us. We bought their CDs and posters. We joined their fan clubs. (A quick aside: If you are reading this and you happen to be the president of Hanson's fan club, or you are a Hanson brother, could you please send my sister her t-shirt that she ordered over a decade ago so she'll shut up about it. Thank you.)

It wasn't enough anymore to be performers, we now had to be performers' girlfriends. Looking through their CD booklets and cutting out magazine articles was like reading their autobiographies: five best friends from Christian homes, ordinary guys who liked to play basketball and lived in exotic places like Florida, all brought together by five-part harmony and choreographed dance moves. They couldn't thank God enough, and neither could we.

I would have given anything to be Brian Littrell's, JC Chasez's, Will Smith's, or Enrique Iglesias' girlfriend. (Okay, so I know the last two were not in boy bands, but everyone has a sexy black man and a hot Latino crushes when they are 12.) I practiced french kissing their glossy 8x10 faces, an act I'm sure every member of every boy band knows is going to happen when the photographer says, "Smile!"

Ordinary boys at school weren't remotely interesting anymore. Sure, one of them may look like he got jipped when O-Town was finally created, but can he sing? Can he dance? Does he have everyday hobbies, but still find time to visit cancer babies and thank Jesus? Fellas, you may think you are the bee's knees, but if you don't have a growing army of tween girls sworn by love and obsession to follow you and protect you and send you locks of their hair until your dying day, then you might as well be Corey Feldman. Now and then a boy at school may have caught my eye, but I didn't spend long hours writing him love letters in coordinating metallic ink colors that I knew only a real artist would appreciate.

We continued our obsession for a few more years, my sisters and I. We would watch their concerts and imagine boy band sweat whipping across our faces like we were actually there. We'd talk about these guys like they were our boyfriends. But we can't live in 1999 forever, and boy bands have to break up—it's in their contracts. Sure, we cried and we damned the Lord's name and we begged for death to take us away from all the misery that was now our world. But, we understood. Like the good girlfriends we were, we knew our boys had become men and could only wear so much rhinestone and sing along to dubbed tracks for so long before they needed to sever ties, cut their hair, and put out solo albums about their real ex-girlfriends. Yes, we'd watch interviews and read about their justifications for their actions, and we'd buy their new albums, even like a few songs, but we couldn't forget the way we were.

My sisters moved on to other boy bands and, eventually, rap artists. Allie, the youngest, talks about Weezy like she visits him in prison weekly. I moved onto the past, namely classic rock, as I spent most of my college years enthralled with Zeppelin and CCR. I thought my boy band days were behind me, but I was wrong and I blame Goodwill.

Like my grandfather and 8-track tapes, I can't stop buying CDs. Everyone downloads, and I still buy CDs, and I buy a lot of them at Goodwill. Where else can you find Paula Abdul and Milli Vanilli? On my last excursion a few weeks back, I came across NSync's first album and immediately bee-lined for the register like I'd just realized the entire place was going to blow and I certainly wasn't sticking around for that mess.

The album hasn't left my car; I've been listening to it on the way to and from work every day. I've had to take a detour that leads me through a neighborhood where people collect shopping carts as lawn art and police officers have long conversations with drunk bums at abandoned gas pumps. I usually have to wait at a light that sits next to my favorite grocery store sign: Chubb Foods - Quality Meat, Discount Liquor. At this point in my commute, I've made it to track three, "Here We Go," a pop dance song that is all about introductions and vague references to partying. And, of course, I know every word and accompanying dance move as I bob and weave in my seat, the volume loud and the windows down. All I can do is keep time as many people stare at the wonderful, entertaining performer before them, and I won't even charge them a ticket.

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Four Signs of the Rapeocalypse: The Intercepted Letter

Jeff Gassen — Thu, 10 May 2012 06:25:11 -0400

Column by Jeff Gassen

The first person to figure out who this letter was supposed to be sent to (before I intercepted it) and post the answer in the comments section gets a long overdue PG-13 SFW version of my GED senior pictures.

10/6/2067

My dearest MB,

With any joy left in my heart and with thanks as many as the number of passionate fish swimming in my epididymis for your recent letter, however it came to meet me, I hope I find you well in Vatican City—the last safe place from the darkness that has clouded the sun and shrunk our influence in the world. C 3.3. That's what they call me now. A combination of letters and numbers that once made words. Words that were the gates to meaning—meaning that has evaded me since the outbreak.

They can call what we'd done whatever they want: rape, molestation, fucking-kids-in-asses, but we know we did what we had to. Perhaps by this letter's end I should be able to muster the courage to detail the atrocities I've met at the hands of the infected. I fear I'll never be granted another chance as my demise rapidly approaches like a witch sees the daylight peer through her aged, liver-spotted skin on the set of any given Sex and the City installment. You're one of the few who can still enjoy the inside of a fresh, young and innocent, warm, tight hole of a bagel in your inviting bed. I envy you like Roman Polanski envies a Rainbow Brite doll. If I ask anything of you, my closest friend, please jam your Ding Dong in that kid with unrestrained ferocity for me—baked goods are scarce in these times and eating Hostess may be your offspring's only hope in maintaining the illusion of a childhood in this morally inept Existence.

For hundreds of years we'd been purifying young boys with long, hard Catholic cockings daily, effectively preventing an outbreak of learning. So I suppose you seek answers. As a founding member of the Order, I led the front in defending against the infected. I was on the front lines while you were still being instructed in the ways of the Order and weaned from the sustenance of breast—taught to live off the sweet milk of your fellow man.

But what I first must pose to you are questions. It was women who deceived Adam in the Garden in the beginning and women who deceived us into listening to Adam Levine near the end times. It was women who wanted to forfeit chivalries for equality and women who birthed the creatures that we've learned to fear. Do we have some part to play in this? Was it our tolerance that allowed this virus to flourish? Were we like our early brothers in the 19th century who decided to end mandatory employment of the coloreds, only to create a race of gang affiliates and Tyler Perry sitcoms?

I ask you these questions because I've prayed and meditated on them personally. What I tell you now is to abandon them. Abandon any sense of guilt or dissonance. Remain focused. Abandon anything but reckless faith in that which we know evidence is unnecessary to corroborate. But as I enlighten you as to how we've gotten to this point, ask yourself this: Who is John Jay?

1. Despite their dogmatic flaws, early civilizations set the standard for how we'd eventually intervene in the aging process of young boys, inserting the penile antidote that became an epigenetic vaccine for him and his offspring.

Brave soldiers in the protection of children's innocence, such as Solon (funny how the father of Athenian democracy was also the father to our cause), were abundant. Still, detractors who wanted to call seminal vesicular benevolence "pederasty" and perpetuate the virus began to surface.

2. We inherited what our forefathers started.

For hundreds of years we'd been purifying young boys with long, hard Catholic cockings daily, effectively preventing an outbreak of learning. Still, the storm was coming. A cold day arrived and changed our future forever. That was the day we met John Jay.

Our moral necessity had been distorted and created a public outcry that would lead to the times of the Rapeocalypse we live in today. The general public still supported what we had done; we were different from the others who attempted to baptize young boys in their blood and our loads. This is why despite over 10,000 of our purifications in the States having been revealed, only 3% of us were held legally accountable. Radicals, such as Sandusky and Kony, were quickly taken down because the people knew what we were doing was correct. We felt no pleasure in our actions and we took extreme measures to minimize purifying boys who'd already been infected because of the moral ramifications and being shunned by God after a homosexual act. That's why we adopted the Worlds of Fun Code: If his head doesn't go above this line, it's totally not gay.

3. Women.

The word that came to eternally haunt us. We had legislators on our side as they instituted abstinence training in schools that they knew increased teen pregnancy rates when implemented, ensured that abortions weren't options, guaranteed the imminence of extreme poverty so the children couldn't have a home, and laid a trail of Skittles all the way to our doorstep. We could prevent thousands of boys from being infected.

However, legislators called for abortion exemptions for women in "genuine cases of rape." Of course meaning if the offender had taken the woman out to dinner first, he then could ensure the perpetuation of his purified DNA through enhanced coercion techniques without the chance of his purity child being aborted. Otherwise there was a chance of a purity termination.

At the same time, women wanted unlimited access to birth control, both preventing us from breeding new soldiers and turning unwed pregnant teens into gay Muslim Mexican terrorists. This point ultimately caused the people to defect—the dereliction of commitment to the moral imperative of sticking our dicks in kids' asses. They'd been tithing for hundreds of years for us to purify their children and protect us from any legal backlash, but you prevent them from their hedonistic, sexually deviant lifestyles and suddenly our cause is nothing.

In 2012, when I gave an annual Easter speech about helping the poor in his $62,000,000 church wearing Ron Paul's gold reserves, I sent a stern message about darkness in the world. The darkness of a child's ass that doesn't have an adult penis filling it with holy light.

4. This brings us to the times we live in today.

The untrained eye can't tell the difference between the saved and infected, but through years of battle, the subtle curves of a dirty man can arouse my senses. I promised you the truth of my turmoil today. I've been in this cage for 50 days, but it might as well be 50 years. I've been receiving daily purifications from my fellow brothers within these walls, usually in the shower, at times in the janitor's closet, even twice yesterday during our weekly film. This is all that gives me hope in this desolate world.

I'm forced to listen to Richard Dawkins audiotapes and am given daily updates on our extraterrestrial colonies in the sky. I am forced to watch news reports of a world of religious and cultural cooperation and peace. I have to hear about cures for AIDS and other of our safeguards from the homosexuals. I have to attend a weekly rehabilitation on respecting children and empathy—as if I wasn't already proving my allegiance with my penis.

Meanwhile, children are being raped with knowledge. But I know on the outside nobody cares. I know on the outside nobody is fucking kids in the ass. I know on the outside children are being taught evolution and reading about physics. I know that without our incocktrination and purifying, the virus of reason has flourished. What I don't know is who John Jay is, but frankly I'm sick of talking about him.

See the rules and more entries for "The Rapeocalypse: Official PIC Contest" here!

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Brent Vanguard's Rapeocalypse Insurance Program

Mike Lamb — Thu, 10 May 2012 02:35:12 -0400

Column by Mike Lamb

Hi there. My name is Brent Vanguard and I'd like to talk to you about safety. Do you think you're safe? You probably do. And you know what? You're probably wrong.

Take a look at yourself in the mirror. Do you like your body? Do you like it un-violated? Would you like it to stay that way? Because the Rapeocalypse is on its way, and you need to start preparing right now.

Ladies take note: the Rapeocalypse is in no way merely a more risque version of a jeans ad.Picture this: a sunny field on a summer day. Doves. Squirrels. Flowers. A family having a picnic. Not a care in the world. But what if they did have a care? And what if that one care was a big one? What if it was the Rapeocalypse? Who would look out for their needs? Who would save them? Who would provide financial compensation for their mental and anal anguish?

Now I know what you're thinking: "Oh great, another insurance salesman. Come on, Brent, I've already got health insurance, life insurance, car insurance, and homeowner's insurance. I've even got flood, tornado, and volcano insurance! What are the chances I'll ever need that stuff?"

Maybe you weren't paying attention when I said the Rapeocalypse is coming. This is serious business.

"What's the Rapeocalypse? Is that a band?"

The following steps will be taken in order to ensure your safety: We will hide your children. We will hide your spouse. We will hide you.Hardly. Though it would be an appropriate name for one. The Rapeocalypse is exactly what it sounds like.

"Well, sure, but what about—"

EXACTLY WHAT IT SOUNDS LIKE.

"Oh. Well how do I stop it?"

You can't stop the Rapeocalypse.

"Oh. Well how soon—"

Very soon. The Mayans knew about it. The Bible knew about. And now you know about it. That's why you need to protect yourself. Protect your family. Think of the children.

For only $6.66 a month you will be enrolled in Rapeocalypse insurance. You and your family will be protected from:

Rape Demons
Tentacle Rape Demons
Flying Tentacle Rape Demons
Giant Flying Tentacle Rape Demons on Flaming Black Unicorns that Shoot Lasers Out of Their Dicks
Super Penetrator 6000 Rape Machine Robots from the Year 2984
Vatican Warlock Assassins
Herman Cain

So what are you waiting for? Start protecting your loved ones right now. Peace of mind is just a phone call away.

"I'm not sure I believe in the Rapeocalypse."

Yes you do.

"Okay, I'm convinced."

Smart move. Once our satellite tracking centers have spotted the coming Rapeocalypse, you will be contacted directly by our representatives. The following steps will be taken in order to ensure your safety: We will hide your children. We will hide your spouse. We will hide you. We will provide you with a free two-year supply of wet naps and potted meat while you ride out the rape storm in one of our secret underground bunkers.

"I don't like potted meat."

Do you like being anally raped to death in the street by the minions of Satan let loose upon the world on the day of final judgment?

"No."

Well then shut the fuck up.

"But what if I want to watch this whole Rapeocalypse thing? It might be interesting."

You can't watch. You'll turn into a pillar of salt and your eyes will melt.

"Are you sure this is real?"

Of course it's goddamn real, now shut up and give me your money. Don't you get it? They are raping everybody up in here. At these low premiums, you can't afford not to get insured. Why fight it? It's just not worth the risk.

"What if I say no?"

I will strangle you with my dick and bury your body into a toxic waste dump after selling your family as sex slaves to depraved oil sheiks in Saudi Arabia. I have seven of them in my Rolodex right now. Don't think that this my first auction.

"Oh."

Yeah, "Oh." Don't fuck with me, asshole. I'm extremely wealthy and I can make you disappear. Go ahead. Try me.

"Do you take credit cards?"

Of course. We accept Visa, Mastercard, Discover, and American Express. Order now and get the first month's premium for only 99 cents.

Disclaimer: Rapeocalypse insurance only covers Rapeocalypse-related rape. We are not responsible for non-Rapeocalypse rapes including date rape, sex ninja rape, Julian Asange, and getting to third base while passed out. No refunds will be given in the event that the Rapeocalypse does not occur within the lifetime of the applicant and/or is completely made up. Rapeocalypse is a registered trademark of Solutions Inc., owned and operated by Brent Vanguard.

See the rules and more entries for "The Rapeocalypse: Official PIC Contest" here!

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Joss Whedon's Seventh Avenger

James Parkinson — Wed, 09 May 2012 21:43:20 -0400

Blog by James Parkinson

We went to see The Avengers on opening day, buying Fandango tickets the morning of and arriving at the theater well ahead of time. I had been looking forward to this for a long time, and I’d be shot in the back before I settled on substandard seating for a film of this scale. I had to see these inimitable heroes on screen. I consider myself one of them.

No, really. The Avengers cast used my former hotel of employ as their official headquarters for the Manhattan film shoot, and I delivered their room service on a daily basis. I was the seventh Avenger, serving coffee, delivering the newspaper, providing a bounding start to the day so the rest of the team could save it. I’m partially full of shit, but they really did stay with us. Chris Evans was nothing like his avatar, eschewing old-school wholesome principles in favor of absurdly expensive alcohol. Likewise, Tom Hiddleston was hardly the blackhearted god of mischief he plays on screen. Friendly, polite and talkative, he was a delight. Every morning for him began with a grotesquely healthy smoothie made from pulverized romaine lettuce and green apples. The only thing disconcerting about him was his inability to answer the door wearing anything more than a towel. Fool me once, Loki, just once. Shame on you.

Then there was Joss Whedon, the real superhero of the team...with real superhero problems. Quiet and solemn, never smiling but not impolite, the director needed coffee the most. I can’t imagine the emotional weight this man carried throughout the production process. The scope and ambition of pulling off The Avengers film is rivaled only in human history by the Three Gorges Dam spanning the Yangtze River. His tasks? Flesh out six hero characters and one villain, pay homage to 72 years of comic-book history, satiate a rabid fan base, establish an interesting and believable conflict, choreograph a large-scale urban-battle sequence and balance half a dozen actors with bloated egos playing half a dozen superheroes with bloated egos. Have at it, Tex.

We got great seats. I bought some Peanut M&M’s and Julie dragooned the cashier into selling her some Twizzlers: “Listen, shithead. Don’t tell me you are out of Twizzlers; there’s a pack left in the display case, now crack it open and give me what I want!” Real heroes.

They exist, you know. Remember this past May Day? Seattle? A hundred idiots, dressed in black hoodies and balaclavas, attacked the downtown American Apparel. Armed with wooden staves, they really did a number on the storefront. These were not heroes. They were a flash mob of unruly cowards, throwing a very public temper tantrum with no discernible motive or message. I don’t know; maybe I don’t get the point of anarchy, or maybe I don’t accept that the point of anarchy is that there is no point. It’s like an episode of Cops where I’d actually root for the cops. If I had still lived there, it would have been tempting to go downtown and crack some heads.

I wasn’t alone. Enter Phoenix Jones, real-life resident superhero of Seattle. You can see him in action on YouTube, wearing a wetsuit and confronting rowdy bar-hoppers with a can of pepper spray. On May Day, when the street rats attacked the mall, Phoenix answered the call no one made. He put on his rubber outfit, grabbed his pepper spray, went downtown and began dispersing dissidents. I think he’s a complete moron, but I kind of wished I was there with him. Man, do I hate street rats. Insane body odor, ungainly backpacks, forehead tattoos, aggressively begging for leftovers, and for no decent reason, they always have a dog. Why? If it is so hard to feed yourself, why do you own a pet? I applaud you, Phoenix. Stand your ground and execute the mission. I’ve got your back, but pepper spray ain’t my style. I’m more of a fungo-bat-and-trash-can-lid kind of a guy, if that’s cool.

They attacked American Apparel? That’s the target of a collective rage? Group-think a little harder next time, dumbasses. American Apparel is arguably lame, sure, but much worse villains remain out there. How about the Koch brothers? Those billionaire Tea-Party founders, the puppeteers who galvanize the crazy half of the crazy party to sabotage health care and humiliate gay people. Go smash up their storefront. I’ll help!

Avengers was awesome. I don’t know how to review films; just trust me, it was fantastic. It was bananas. I’m embarrassed by how much I liked this film, how by the end of it my face actually hurt from smiling for so long. The audience seemed to like it, too. I counted at least a half dozen applause breaks. I keep reading that the movie is shattering box-office records worldwide. It seems like we have a superinfatuation in this country, as well as globally. It’s not slowing down, either. There’s another Batman in the pipe, and another Spiderman. Superman is due for an reboot, and on and on. We have a hero addiction.

Perhaps we crave heroes because the ones we thought we had keep failing. Tiger Woods is a slut, so is Eliot Spitzer. Mark McGwire took steroids. Chris Brown beat the shit out of Rihanna. Paterno, Bellichek and on and on. The dominoes keep falling. John Edwards, the adulterous, two-faced snake-oil salesman, running for president on his “Two Americas” meme, oblivious to the grotesque, duplicitous irony of his own goddamn message, killing his wife who was already dying on her own. Leveraging earnest campaign donations to paper over a damp stain.

It’s such a bummer, this unsubtle trend. Does anyone ever not fly too close to the sun? CNN breaking news: Your wings are made of wax. So what is left? What is the last vestige of heroism? We know what it’s supposed to be, the trope is well traveled. Don’t justify your means with ends, tell the truth, stay humble, rescue damsels, recycle, eat local, be a gentle and empathetic lover, avoid red meat, watch The View, take a vow of poverty. You don’t need a sidekick, or a cave, or a utility belt, or a cape, or Black Widow’s erupting bustline. Just shut the fuck up and “Walk the Line,” quoth my favorite raven, Johnny Cash. Keep your eyes wide open all the time and walk the line, like nobody does. Heroism is merely a vision, unsteady and untenable, a platonic ideal, no more than a dreamscape. It exists only in the theater of the mind, with an infinite running time, all ages, $0 on the widest screen that never existed, played in all four dimensions. Please silence your cell phones.

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4 Signs of the Rapeocalypse: Chaos and Vaginas

Julian Asange — Tue, 08 May 2012 20:55:00 -0400

Blog by Julian Asange

When the rape apocalypse comes, you will know. You will not need an article to tell you its signs. But I like writing about rape. A lot. And the rapeocalypse is the moment I have been waiting my whole life for because it combines the two best things I could ask for in life: justified rape, and death.

Andrei Trostel is so sick and twisted that he doesn't get off by any normal sexual practices, any fucked-up sexual deviances or fetishes, or any kind of internet trolling. He apparently only gets off by getting writers to write comedy articles based on a theme. And, not going to lie, every time I saw that original article title, I also read it as "RAPEocalypse." So Andrei is right, and what you hear right now is the sound of one man fapping.

So, to bring Andrei Trostel to that elusive orgasm, I present to you the "4 Signs of the Rapeocalypse":

4. Rapin'

Just good ol' fashioned put yer aunt in the basement cause Burger King is out of staplers, call up the neighbors and mow the lawn rapin'. The kind your grandpa dreamed about. Wet dreamed about. And that's how you were born.

We're talkin' put Kate Upton in the shed and just go to town on her, unleashing your every sexual fantasy upon her. But most likely cumming within seconds and not getting to do any of that stuff. Because Kate Upton is an angel and I would like to put my penis in her more than almost anything. And then talk about her feelings.

3. Apocalypsin'

Ain't none of us'all actually seen no apocalypse so ain't none of us know what it done look like, but one thing is fo sho: we will don Southern accents that are possibly also black.

The end of the world. Super fun shit. No more awkward 4-way stops. No more awkward black-people-on-the-street-asking-you-for-money-through-contrived-sob-stories. No more awkward celebrities-making-joke-tweets-and-then-everyone-flips-out-and-is-offended-and-the-celebrity-apologizes-repeat-until-out-of-celebrities. No more awkward people-reading-tweets-on-the-air-for-some-reason-and-making-sure-to-say-the-word-"tweet"-and-"tweeted"-as-many-times-as-possible-and-saying-the-word-"at"-in-front-of-their-usernames-instead-of-just-saying-their-fucking-username-we-already-know-it's-Twitter-the-@-symbol-is-not-part-of-the-fucking-username-you-fucking-pricks.

2. Widespread chaos and looting of vaginas and buttholes

You don't loot electronics stores when you're going to die. You loot the vagina of that girl from your apartment who's too good for you with all her stupid cool friends and her stupid not making the first move and her stupid hotness. You plunder buttholes like there's no tomorrow.

1. I am having sex with Ashley Garmany

You know if I am having sex with Ashley Garmany it can only mean one thing: The Rape-Apocalypse. That or bitch came to her senses.

On a beach, on a warm summer's day, people are sunbathing, playing, running, swimming... Children are frollicking.

Suddenly, in the distance there is a brief scream.

I rise to my feet, knocking over my cooler of pre-roofied Miller High Life. "Oh my God! Somebody's getting raped! IT'S THE RAPEOCALYPSE!!!!" I scream so everyone on the beach can hear me. "IT'S THE GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING RAPEOCALYPSE YOU PIECES OF FUCKING SHIT! THIS IS WHAT JESUS WAS TALKING ABOUT! RAPE!" I am so excited and scared that my brain is running around in circles. Fuck, I'M running around in circles, grabbing titties, putting fingers in pussies, sticking my tongue in buttholes, screaming "JESUS! RAPE! YOU GUYS!"

"HE FORETOLD THIS WHEN HE WAS FORETELLING ABOUT THINGS," I say, my foot deep inside a stranger's butthole. I am running around the beach, everything a blur. I swear sometimes my penis is in two vaginas at once. I am just going nuts. This is how I will die, and I couldn't be happier. I'm just wondering how much time is left. Nothin' worse than an apocalypse that just drags on.

"RUN FOR YOUR MEANINGLESS FUCKING LIVES YOU CUNTS! NO DON'T RUN AWAY FROM ME JUST RUN! WHY AREN'T YOU RUNNING?! YOU'RE IN A WHEELCHAIR? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING AT THE BEACH NO OFFENSE? THAT'S IT, YOU'RE GETTING RAPED. RAPEOCALYPSE 2012 YOU DICKFUCK! YOU'RE GONNA BE WHEELING CROOKED FOR WEEKS AFTER I'M THROUGH WITH YOU! THAT IS, IF THE WORLD WASN'T ENDING WITHIN THE HOUR AS IT WAS PROPHESIZED IN THE BIBLE, CUNTGOOK!"

I rip the shredded condom off my dick and get down on my knees, putting my hands together. "Oh, Lord, you know I've been a good leaker! I have followed everything in the Bible to a T every single day of my life and have never strayed from you. Please accept me into Heaven, Father. I mean, Dad. I mean...can I call you Terry? Are we bros, God? Let's knuck it out, bruh. Bruh? God? Mary? Is anybody listening?! HEY SOMEBODY FUCKING WAKE JESUS UP THAT NIGGA IS SLEEPING THROUGH THE RAPEOCALYPSE OR WHAT?

"But like I was saying....I have lived a perfect life. I have spent every second serving you and preaching the Good Word, oh God. Oh God...Oh God...Oh God yes....OH GOD!"

I realize I am about to blow my load, mid-prayer. Now, I've been blown in about every possible situation, environment, position, and scenario you can think of. But I have never been blown while praying.

I look down and Ashley Garmany is deep-throating my erect, large black penis.

"Get out of here, Garmany! Don't you realize I can have any woman now? I'm not wasting my jizz on you! This is the Rapeocalypse, for fuck's sake! Shoo, woman! Git!"

She gits.

"AS I WAS SAYING, before I was so rudely interrupted," I pause, roll my eyes, and look over in Ashley's direction in case God doesn't know what I'm referring to, "I am your disciple and my life has been one never-ending crucifixion. The day you have prophesized has come to fruition. I have come to fruition. On many, many people. So, take me now, God, or Jesus, whoever's listening, I never really know who to pray to exactly, it's kind of awkward, but I'm over it. It's whatever. TL;DR take me to Heaven so I take away Mary's virginity. And fuck all the angels. And fuck lots of hot dead chicks."

No response. Not even a text back.

I get off my knees. "You're a dick, God. A reaaaaallll fuckin' DICK."

I look around me, pondering whether to tell everyone that this is not the rapeocalypse, that it was a good drill nevertheless and pressing charges will not be necessary; or whether I should just jump right back in. You don't get a lot of rapeocalypses in your lifetime, and thus you should treasure every one.

My eyes scan the beach. Everywhere I look, people ripping their clothes off, screaming bloody murder, giving and receiving STD's, eating each other's buttholes out with a violent, urgent passion I have rarely seen before, begging God to spare their souls, forming bukkake circles with waiting lines. It's exactly like the Mayans said it would be. And it is beautiful.

But sooner or later these people are going to realize this isn't what they think it is and that they've just committed a ton of unthinkable felonies. Oh well, I did the same thing at Y2K. Started a massive rape/end of world/orgy thing. You just move on. Tomorrow's a new day.

I see someone selling a #Rapeocalypse 2012 t-shirt. Oh my God. Rapeocalypse sold out. It's even a trending topic on Twitter. I don't mean to be a Rapeocalypse hipster, but I was into raping and apocalypses before they were cool.

I feel a vibrating in my pants. Could it be Ashley Garmany with a vibrator? Please do be.

Nope, it's a text. "BRO..sorry i didnt get back 2 u..not the rapeocalypse..dont think i can get u into heven but ill ask my pops what r udoin tonite." Stupid Jesus.

Stupid hashtags.

Stupid Ashley Garmany.

Stupid everything.

"HASHTAG RAPEOCALYPSE IS NOT OKAY! DON'T INSTAGRAM THIS!!! DON'T YOU GUYS REALIZE WE'RE DYING RIGHT NOW??? WHY ARE YOU VIDEOING THIS? WHY AM I WEARING A CONDOM? WE'RE GOING TO BE DEAD IN SECONDS YOU GUYS!!" I scream, running back into the chaotic, (now) nude beach.

I rip off the clothes of the nearest college girl I see. "Hi, my name's Julian Asange, I'll be raping you today!"

I beat my shirtless chest and scream-roar into the sky. "RAAAAPPPPPPEEEEOOCCCAAAALLLLYYYPPPPSSSEEEE!"

See the rules and more entries for "The Rapeocalypse: Official PIC Contest" here!

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Caligula was Right (Four Signs of the Rapeocalypse)

Vernon Carter Ross — Tue, 08 May 2012 19:32:25 -0400

Blog by Vernon Carter Ross

4. Justin Bieber is the Anti-Christ

The hair. The moves. The girl. This little bro has everything everyone wants—maybe not for the geriatric demographic (they are still waiting for gas to go below 75 cents a gallon), but for the rest of us. We have become insanely jealous of the smooth lyrics of "Baby" and the swooshing of the spaghetti-like hair. We have become enamored, we have become the following, we have become the disciples.

Starting from nothing after his carpenter-father died in a plane crash (he was the pilot—the fucker), Justin Demetrius Bieber found his element in song and dance. The dance came later when he was introduced to Cher's 1998 hit "Believe" when he was only four years of age. From there it was only a matter of time until he hit the charts at the lowly age of fifteen with his sublimely insightful "One Time" in 2009. The day the song exploded onto the charts was the day that girls dropped their skirts and unstrapped their bras (with only one hand, mind you). Emma Watson commented, "If I wasn't into Harry Potter, I'd probably be fucking my dildo to the rhythm of this song." Daniel Radcliffe said, "If I wasn't Harry Potter, I'd probably be fucking my dildo to the rhythm of this song." Obviously, when stars like this deem it worthy enough a song to masturbate and come out to, you know that the cult following (like that of Christopher Nolan's Memento) was destined to happen.

Although J-Beebs does not turn water into wine, nor does he heal the sick, his words and hair-swooshing enchant the women (and Boystown men) just so that boners and vagina's salivate accordingly. Become a Belieber and you will know the prophecy.

3. One Direction's "What Makes You Beautiful" is a Homosexual Lullaby

Before there were any remotely ugly girls being confused as extremely beautiful girls, there were five handsome young men confused for boys with talent. Now, I'm not saying that their song doesn't get me in the mood, it does; especially late at night when I dance alone because no one is watching except my creepy neighbor Roger who is fucking weird. Mostly though, it is when I'm home alone by myself without the comfort of Macaulay Culkin's self-aware presence keeping me from narrowly avoiding bumbling burglars.

I digress. I have seen many a photo whilst on my quest to find out the "truth" about life (=42) when, seemingly, out of nowhere, these dickless children pop up. I may just be a cranky old dude waxing poetic about how life "used to be," but I stand firm in my decision that these boys want nothing more than the appearance of wanting poontang. Which is completely okay. Seriously, it is fine by me. The only problem I am having is their overt over-sexuality about fucking everything. Literally. Everything. Remember the Backstreet Boys? They were dudes looking to dick down some beautiful girls, but the remaining difference is that they were much classier about it. Nowadays, with groups like One Direction and The Wanted (which, I mean, come the fuck on dudes, pick up some fucking instruments and become a real band. That's all Pinocchio ever wanted!) we have attractive barely-men-by-the-government's-standards singing about boning girls.

In the pictures I have stumbled upon that feature these young boys, they are always talking about fucking each other so much (naturally, it is in jest but still) that I have concern that what these boys are talking about in their hit single is not actually the fact that girls do not know they are attractive, but young single men not knowing that they are closeted homesexuals. I rest my case.

2. Parks and Rec is a Warning

Ron Swanson detests the goverment. As should you. Bound by bullies who are legally able to tout weapons and can arrest you at the drop of a fucking hat (trust me, I know; April 20, 2012 speaks for itself) without any repercussions is the ultimate form of the Last Days. The End Times. Ron Swanson I'm sure has a bunker full of canned beans and soup to last him through the millenium but what I am concerned of is this: once we are all inside—jammed to the walls like sardines—will someone play Will Smith's Men in Black so that we all can bust down to the nude and enter each other without hesitation?

Seriously though guys, it's fucking 2012! If we can't have strange sexual encounters with whoever then what the fuck are we fighting for over there in Iraq!? It can't just be oil, can it? I doubt that whole-heartedly. Just like I doubt the existence of penguins. They mate for life. Yeahfuckingrightbros!! They must have a girl on the side... You know what they say, "One man's wife is another man's mistress." My father experienced this firsthand. It was a terrible Christmas for all of the kids involved. I got a shabby little Casio keyboard but I don't know why because I had never expressed any remote interest in piano. It's mostly for nerds!

1. Carly Rae Jepsen is Satan

What is this fuckery!? Played backwards the song definitively commands allegiance to CRJ and her battalion of teenage girls with only one goal in mind: WORLD DOMINATION. Through the speakers, this innocently-themed song slinks inside our ears and wraps its suggestive lyrics around our brains—refusing to let go. Have you been driving around your town drunk, in search of something more than "this" when, all of a sudden, you find yourself dancing rhythmically to the poppy keyboards and hellaciously awful guitar riffs?

If you answered "Yes" to this question, then you, my friend, have been cast under the spell of Teenie Bobber World Takeover. Instinctively, when the full moon wanes under the daunting light of streetlamps, you will rise from your bed (or futon, what the fuck EVER, Alison!) and be swept away in the night by someone's father's shitty little Datsun while the rest of the passengers are lighting candles for a vigil for virgins because "Since I didn't like it the first time then it doesn't count!" (Fuck you, Samantha... it was great and you know it.)

Anyway, kids, the moral of this story is to never get into a van that has the word "Candy" spraypainted across it. Never.

Good luck,

Vernon Carter Ross, Esq.
Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All Representative, ©2012 All Rights Reserved

See the rules and more entries for "The Rapeocalypse: Official PIC Contest" here!

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Boy Bands Don't Teach Teens Anything Anymore

Alex Kummert — Tue, 08 May 2012 18:54:16 -0400

Article by Alex Kummert

I feel like I'm at a point in my life where I'm not allowed to complain about the youth these days. As a 19-year-old, I remember being one of those kids who made questionable style choices and used vocabulary that few adults really understood. And if need be, I still have the ability to transform back into that young kid who can scream pretty much any acronym or word and make it seem "cool" or "hip" (this is the only explanation I can really think of in regards to the #YOLO movement).

But as the first year of my college experience draws to a close, I have grown to realize that the distance between me and the really impressionable teenage youth is truly distancing. It is a realization I face with a sense of sadness: I fear for the day that eating an entire box of Girl Scout Cookies in one sitting is frowned upon. Maybe it already is. But regardless, I am enjoying my sense of youth for as long as I possibly can, and looking on what bright sides I can find as a very broke college freshman.

Listening to pop music now makes me yearn for the grittier, realer, darker era of boy bands. The bands that dug into the REAL issues.With my advancement into college life, I finally feel that I'm allowed to comment on the pop culture currently prevalent in pre-teens' lives. It's not necessarily because I hate all the things that they think are cool. No, it's to give them guidance, to have them understand their roots. I sure wish I had some sort of mentor like that when I was a kid. It probably would've stopped me from buying two Baha Men albums, even though everyone knows "Who Let the Dogs Out" was their only remotely good song. That is a decision that I have to live with for the rest of my life, but something that I hope the pre-teens of America (my 12-year-old brother included) do not have to live with. And while this issue definitely spans pop culture, today I'm only going to focus on the one aspect I feel needs saving: boy bands.

Kids are completely desensitized by their pop starts nowadays. The biggest offender, without a doubt, is Justin Bieber (for the sake of simplicity, we'll consider him a one-man "band"). Now, let me reitereate: this is not one of those "Justin Bieber is such a girl" type sentiments. The quality of airplane food has been discussed less often than Justin Bieber's gender. I personally think that while I do not enjoy his music, he certainly does have undeniable talent.

That being said, his lyrics are far too cream puff for a society like ours. This generation of boy bands and popular music is far, far too soft. Listening to pop music now makes me yearn for the grittier, realer, darker era—the golden age of such formulaic talent as Dream Street, O-Town, No Authority, and 98 Degrees among others. Those types of bands dug into the REAL issues; they were the prophets of my childhood. If it weren't for "It Happens Everytime" by Dream Street, I would have gone into puberty completely blind and ignorant. Say what you will about their fashion sense (I'm pretty certain the pants they're wearing in their music video were on loan from MC Hammer, or NASA) but Dream Street said what needed to be said. They weren't afraid to be real, and that's what led to their gritty reputation...as far as boy bands go at least.

It may as well have been the street you grew up on, provided you're white middle-class.

Dream Street might not have had the talent Justin Bieber has, but dammit if their lyrics didn't hit hard and hit home. As nice as Justin Bieber might sound, I personally think it's difficult for any kid in his demographic to truly relate to his songs. Sure, he wrote songs about love, which is always a hit with the pre-teen demographic. I personally had probably four or five CD's entirely dedicated to angst-ridden power ballads spanning various genres when I first tried to enter the dating world. But when you're dating Selena Gomez, your credibility in terms of needing "Somebody to Love" takes a pretty sizable hit. Not all teenagers can relate to dating Selena Gomez.

But when it comes to "It Happens Everytime" by Dream Street, every teenager can understand what they're talking about. They were the true underground boy bands; they weren't afraid to say what is needed to be said. With their hit single "We Fit Together" O-Town was able to teach me how and what innuendo is. I didn't just listen to boy bands, they TAUGHT me things. The boy bands of old taught me life lessons. They weren't just a bunch of gelled up high vocal registered guys wearing ridiculous pants, they were prophets. And I fear the next generation will not be able to learn from the boy bands currently pumping cookie dough into their ears every day.

So I implore the younger generation to understand that boy bands weren't always about selling you fragrances and nail polish—at one point it was about the music. And wearing really baggy pants. Although, you should probably just gloss over that.

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Four Signs of the Rapeocalypse: Mini-Jesus's Journey

James Boulstridge — Tue, 08 May 2012 17:24:32 -0400

Article by James Boulstridge

Jesus sighed as he gingerly removed the sweat-stained Agassi headband that had been adorning his plaits the past three days of travelling across desert-weathered landscapes, replete with desolate, crumbling infrastructure, withered, rusted cars, vans, bicycles, and motorbikes, and then of course US military vehicles and artillery. They thought that they could stop him. They had been wrong.

Corpses littered the ground, skin pulling back taught due to excess dehydration, teeth and eyelids pulling back, cracking as the insides grotesquely swelled outwards to make the flesh burst like over-ripe grapes over the lips of a lover's mouth. This made the feasting all the easier for his favored pets, the doves of peace. Jesus chuckled inwardly at the irony of the spectacle.

The raping was never over that mercifully quick, to the same scale of his dong's cat-like lineage, oh no. Doves of peace feeding off the corroding matter of his fallen enemies; as the genius of his ruse began to boil ever clearer in his mind, Jesus' laughter became evermore outward, manic and joyous. Anyone visiting the scene would have been quoted as having witnessed a new touch of madness, a fresh kind of Hell not ever once explored by any form of human culture: a man of but 2-foot 7-inches dressed in what appeared to be ancient Roman Empire garb, surrounded by so many bodies, so much death and decay. A miniature apocalypse in what had once been a flourishing town in South Carolina, of wholesome family values and strict, loving religious upbringings. Why had they been targeted by the wrath of God? Their viscera spread out mockingly to spell the answers to their prayers.

Unicorns skipped freely amidst the debris, buildings that echoed the hollowed ringing of a madman lost within the desecrated nature of his own ruthlessness. Of course, everyone who could have fled had indeed done so at first sight of the squat frame of someone who'd been reported as "an exceptionally jaundiced little man... approach with caution" over the distant horizon of the town's outskirts, but not everyone got out in time. The souls of such unfortunates marked the breeze and screamed in unison at the agony they had endured afore their parting from mortal coils. It was a sickening sight enough to send any living person to the brink of dementia, not least of all the image of a halfman with what appeared to be a snake wrapped around and feeding off of his leg, noticeable to even the most casual of observers.

Jesus wrung out the moisture from the only contemporary piece of clothing on his person. It had been a long, busy night of raping people, but it was finally morning. He could have some breakfast.

Kneeling down, Jesus reapplied his head garment that kept the infidels from pulling out his hair during his many frequent altercations. Jesus was never one for dirty fighters, but when he was in the throes of his business, he wasn't surprised at their attempts to grab anything available to stop the defiant, maddened judge, jury and executioner of sexing, the 4 Horsemen all rolled into one infernal dick of "get raped-what-you-sow" justice.

Not even Chuck Norris had had it so sweet, even in his prime. But then Jesus hadn't dealt with Chuck yet. He was a little apprehensive. Despite all that his Dad could provide him in terms of distorting the size and traits of his manhood, no matter how absurd or degenerate the request, Jesus still daren't go up against Chuck Norris (what people didn't know about Chuck was that he was actually Chuck Norse, the ancient Viking God of Fertility and Thunder). That shit was clearly deadly risky.

Steven Seagal had cried like a little bitch, though. He didn't even put up a fight; just asked to "go easy for the first couple of strokes, please, Jesus, my man; rip the hairs out slowly and delicately, tear the skin gently and... with passion." Cheeky bastard had blushed at that last remark only to return his gaze from over his shoulder to dead ahead, his shoulders tensing ever so slightly... almost suggestively. Jesus had already lived and died once though listening and acquiescing to the wishes of others. Not this time.

Tracing lines in the sand, Jesus began building the fire that would later serve to boil the innards of his victims; they had quite literally been disembowelled, Jesus' lion-like genitalia inserting, hooking in and punishing. But the raping was never over that mercifully quick, to the same scale of his dong's cat-like lineage, oh no. Jesus could last during sexual intercourse. Like a motherfucker.

Of course, all he ever did was the raping, if only when he could grab hold of the skittish fuckers, which was rarely the case due to his stature. He often had to catch them unawares. His Dad would make him physically indestructible, sexually unconquerable, and psychologically indubitable in rendering The Rapeocalypse a reality, but in terms of acquiring his prey, God's intervention was not okay. With God. He did, after all, "move in mysterious ways."

Even when Jesus was really gagging for it, God would look down on him fondly from betwixt the stars and say, "Now son, ye must learneth thy principles of forcing your cock into someoneth who doth objecteth." So he would usually have to find one sleeping, someone who had missed the alarms and didn't have anyone to care for them enough and warn them to get out of town, which usually meant he was left with the hobos who were too drunk to move. It made him angry, how restricted his selection of "pussy."

His status clearly preceded him wherever he went; he was, after all, the most persistent, most successful serial rapist of all time having begun The Rapeocalypse as early as January 1st, the year 2000. But this was only because of how impossible it was to apprehend him; in the end, the police, military and government got so tired of sending in their men only to get nothing back but remains raped into slush that their response was, "Fuck it. Let's bomb the little bastard!"

And that's when his luck began to change. He would explore the buildings of the rundown cities targeted as a result of his presence and find women. Real women! I mean, they were dead women, but women nonetheless. He would actually enjoy The Rapeocalypse, that is, the times when God wouldn't interject and remind him that "he had a job to do."

Fucking douche.

God, he hated his fucking Dad, always on about "responsibility" and "bills" and "always wear a condom if you don't want her to add to your responsibilities" and "don't drink the juice straight from the bottle" etceteraaa etceteraaa....

Jesus would tirelessly search around for a woman without legs, nothing from just up and above the kneecaps so that she'd be around equal to him in height but would still have a pussy. He could settle down with a damsel like that. He knew he could. But the more he searched, the more his toils to finding the perfect woman came up fruitless. So his first venture was to ask for a cock big and sharp like a sword. That didn't go down so swell.

His Dad assented in the end, muttering angrily under his breath, but then insisted he had to take a personal call, leaving Jesus with a legless woman and a blade for a dick. It just wasn't the same, and God wouldn't talk to Jesus for several days afterwards, consistently drinking and shouting down from the Heavens, "Not until I see my shrink," and "IF ONLY YOUR MOTHER COULD SEE YOU NOW!" in shrill and exasperated tones. Jesus gave up on women after that and went back to raping hobos, but by this time all he could get were the dead ones, seeing as the military had gone nuclear on his ass by then.

And lo Jesus dotheth seethe some more.

It's important to note that all Jesus did was rape (to death); the military did the rest, and the more he appeared impossibly yet somehow immortal, the more desperate became the measures employed to thwart him. As the date to the end of The Rapeocalypse neared (21st of December, 2012, when Jesus decided to just not fucking rape people, hence the four signs of The Rapeocalypse: a midget raping innocent, drunk hobos, doves of peace consuming the flesh of the dead, unicorns, and the cessation of raping of said hobos), Jesus became more and more cocky as to his indomitable virility.

And this is where we find him, sitting down cross-legged to indulge a potful of freshly steamed colons. Jesus addressed the sky. "Daaaaaaaaad? I'm tired of the spikes in my weiner. I want to try raping some women now. Keep the girth, though. Subtract some of the length." The spikes extending from his cock, glistening with the intestines of his foes and giving his member such an healthy crimson-tainted pallor that it looked as though he'd accidentally stumbled upon one of Oil of Ulay's secret ingredients, the chewed up insides of the assholes of men, retracted into nothingness to reveal but unblemished skin, flapping freely and majestically in the wind, glistening in the morning sunlight with the gore of his but-mortal foes.

"Thanks, Dad. Could you give it a wash too?"

Jesus trundled off through the sandstorm that was once Elgin, SC, population 806, shaking his head, dragging a blood-smeared log-trail into the distance that was the lonely wreckage of his past.

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Four Signs of the Rapeocalypse: Alien Invasion

Copernicus Thunderbird — Tue, 08 May 2012 14:21:24 -0400

Blog by Copernicus Thunderbird

I don't usually do contract freelance prophecies, but I suppose I could make an exception just this once. I've been led to believe there is free malt liquor and smack involved in exchange for my clairvoyant services. At least, I assume that's what was meant by prize package.

So here goes. Enter the Rapeocalypse. This affects everyone, so listen up and be sure to watch for the signs.

1. A Rape Van Full of Raptors

Somewhere in Minnesota, sometime in the future, a van full of carnivorous dinosaur sex offenders from another planet will be parked in front of a creationist school. The evolution vs. creation argument will be settled once and for all. The creationists were right. The only problem is that they forgot to account for the other planets that God was creating life on simultaneous to Earth. Nobody was expecting the dinosaur planet. God created Adam and Eve and a universe full of worm holes so that horrific intergalactic rape demons could find us and probe us. Not cool, God.

They will come to Earth in a warp speed super atomic van with an airbrushed raptor porn mural on the side. The door will slide open, dinosaurs will jump out, and the Rapeocalypse shall be upon us. There will be no free candy as promised. Only scaly rapey reptile horror. Homeland Security will be too busy cavity searching civilians with questionable Facebook statuses to stop it. The President will make the call to Vatican City, signifying the start of phase two.

2. The Space Templar Altar Boy Roundup

Ancient Templar cosmonauts from the Pope's home planet will return to Earth in search of young boys to accompany them on their spaceships. It's very lonely in space, and they need the tears of children to fuel their ships. The children will be forced into manual labor with a heavy emphasis on polishing the cannons of the ships while scantily clad in old testament style loin cloths. Milk carton missing children ads will come back in style as the sons of Earth are drafted into the holy war against the alien raptors and other cosmic heathens of the galaxy. Due to an unfortunate loophole in the scriptures, sodomy is inevitable. The space Templars are notoriously hard to argue with when taking an anti-pedo-sodomy stance.

Once the cosmic holy war/sodomy jam is in full swing, phase three will take effect.

3. A Cannibal Death Orgy For Satan

Humanity will seek guidance in the form of intercepted email prayer to the psychic Google government. The digital high priests and special advisors to Jesus from the Consolidated Value Church of Walmart will distribute emergency communion wafers coated with hallucinogenic bread mold to the masses. Free knives and hot sauce will be included as society collectively wanders out into the streets to "see where the evening takes them."

Protesters will scream thoughtful beat poetry into hipster vegan webcams while burning baskets filled with Republican puppies smolder in the background to raise awareness for their def jam acoustic dubsteb concerts the following evening at the coffee shop on Fifth Street beside the sushi place with the overpriced corporate wasabi, where T-shirts and CDs will be available at the merch booth for a reasonable price. 3.7% of all profits will go to the American Spirit foundation to raise awareness of pictures of Indians.

Once the drugs kick in, it will segue into phase four.

4. Behold, a Flaming Horse Cock

Three headed flying nun tentacle porn invasion. Disembodied floating tits spraying acid milk. Anal scorpions. Demons with cock lasers. Bestial werewolf birthday parties and burlesque shows at Chuck-E-Cheese with an animatronic jug band and stale pizza. Shopping malls filled with semen from syphilitic Jehovah's Witnesses. Gremlins dry humping the engine of your Oldsmobile, cutting off your means of escape. An army of talking dildos, lurking in your underwear drawer. Giant masturbating apes on the rooftops of important skyscrapers. All rape, all the time, everywhere in the world. Expect to be severely violated. Soundtrack by Cannibal Corpse.

But hey, cheer up. It could be worse. In fact, it probably will be worse. Okay, maybe don't cheer up. Just pop a couple of roofies and it will be over before you know it. It gets better once the ergot mindfuck wears off. You may experience what the old hippies from the proto-rape period used to call "a bad trip."

See the rules and more entries for "The Rapeocalypse: Official PIC Contest" here!

(There are 2 comments available on the full site version of this blog entry)

The Rapeocalypse: Official PIC Contest Rules

Andrei Trostel — Tue, 08 May 2012 04:17:57 -0400

Column by Andrei Trostel

HAHA, silly mortals, there are no rules to a Rapeocalypse...but there will be prizes...oh yes, there will be prizes. I have it on the highest authority, from PIC's holiest of holes, Court Sullivan, that this is now an Official PIC Contest, complete with a hand-picked prize package that may or may not contain a Jesus figurine strap-on/dildo...and by may, I mean it absolutely won't, but if those don't already exist someone needs to patent that idea right fucking NOW!

If you're unclear what the hell I'm even talking about, READ THIS FIRST. It all started there in the comment section of Jeff Gassen's "4 Signs of the Rapocalypse" article, an article which I expected to be about something much different based on the title.

As the creator of this Official PIC Contest, I have bestowed the ultimate authority of final "judgement" (see what I did there?) upon myself.

The contest is simple:

Write something about the "Four Signs of the Rapeocalypse" and submit it to Points in Case, either by emailing it to Court (court@pointsincase.com), uploading it to your blog (if you're a PIC blogger), or even posting it in the comments section here if you want.

I will read all the submissions and whomever wins will be awarded a hand-picked prize package! All submissions will be published on PIC in a central location, regardless.

Your article should be ridiculously offensive, contain religious references that would make the Pope cry, and because this is a comedy website, it should be funny.

So come one, come all and bring your rapier wit. In fact, bring your rapiest wit, because the Rapeocalypse is coming whether you like it or not...

I bet the Mayans didn't predict this shit!

UPDATE - Official entries so far:

Copernicus Thunderbird - Four Signs of the Rapeocalypse: Alien Invasion
James Boulstridge - Four Signs of the Rapeocalypse: Mini-Jesus's Journey
Vernon Carter Ross - Caligula was Right (Four Signs of the Rapeocalypse)
Julian Asange - 4 Signs of the Rapeocalypse: Chaos and Vaginas
Brent Vanguard - Brent Vanguard's Rapeocalypse Insurance Program
Jeff Gassen - Four Signs of the Rapeocalypse: The Intercepted Letter
Copernicus Thunderbird - A Soundtrack for the End of the Goddamn World
Gavin Pitt - Four Signs of the Rapeocalypse: Michael Bay Wet Dream Edition
Copernicus Thunderbird - Cthulhu's Crazy Christmas Party of Carnal Delights: The Musical
Keke DeVille - The Four Fucks of the Rapeocalypse
Sasha - Four Signs of the Rapeocalypse: Why Women Should Take Prophylactic Measures

(There are 69 comments available on the full site version of this column entry)

The 112 Types of People You Meet On Facebook

Julian Asange — Sun, 06 May 2012 03:28:23 -0400

Blog by Julian Asange

I saw Eli Manning hosting SNL and I was just inspired to do something with my life, you know?

I mean yea, I've got this thing, this WikiLeaks or whatever, and don't get me wrong, it pays the bills and it has succeeded far beyond how I expected it to.

But the bills keep getting higher and my dreams grander.

So I started fucking girl's asses. Lots of asses. Lots of weird shit: fingering girl's assholes, feeding them McDonald's, pushing parties, lesbian coke slumber party chess clubs, ass play, titty work, getting to 6th base, remodeling bathrooms, dishwasher fights, left foot only footjobs, wheelchair midget gangbangs, flash mob handjob arrests, first aid kit baths, reverse bukkakes, accidental orgasms, wet nightmares, calling over hookers and feeding them Locos Tacos and filming it to masturbate to later, fisting mailboxes, touching girl's noses within a minute of meeting them, Betty White-ing girls, cumming on pregnancy tests, sleeping Asian crying, triple penetration, meeting up with girls in real life that you met on Dr. Drew forums who are of age and having your TV turn on mid-coitus to play To Catch A Predator and continue fucking them without saying anything, homeless people, protesting goat orgies, sitting in the back of Alcholics Anonymous meetings and touching yourself 'til you cum, turning gay people straight, allergy creampies, softcore anal, voyeur delivery rooms, girls on their period, drunk trisexual No Doubt-listening, writing as Ashley Garmany, sneezing while cumming, remembering where you were when you first heard about 9/11, ear-to-mouth, mime raping, putting looseleaf paper in girl's pussies, rubbing one out to the sound of your uncle coughing, half-orgasms, condom facials, gynecology appointments, stealing people's cum, sending foot pics, seeing how long you could deepthroat strangers before they notice, masturbating while driving, nipple stamping, overhand handjobs, sleeping in porta potties, jerking off to gas prices, Court Sullivan interracial trampoline boner BBQ's, putting one or both of your balls in vaginas, sexting old people, talking about my feelings, you know that kind of shit.

And it was great. But I still knew it wasn't my calling. I was put on this earth to do great things, not to pay 60-year-old women to nose-fuck my butthole and then cry on me.

I had to find my purpose. Why did my nigga Lord God put me on this earth?

So I left my house for the first time in weeks, determined I could find the answer if I went out into the world searching for it.

But before I could, my ankle bracelet for my house arrest went off, and I was swarmed by cops within minutes.

Stupid fuckin' rape charges. They be ruinin' shit for ERRRYBODY.

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Stealthy Ninja Sexual Triggers

Mike Lamb — Sat, 05 May 2012 17:48:14 -0400

Column by Mike Lamb

Are you longing for sexy good time with hot lady? Are you grow tired of bad rejected because girls no like? Change your life, make full of happy! Learn becoming sex ninja in three easy steps! So simple, even for stupid will learn how to winning! Secret techniques make you like stars from porno! Very excitement forever!

Here's what it do:

1. Every Girl Crazy For Sharp Dress Man

Girl bring YOU roses!Wear all black. Make look slimming! Hard to see in dark, make sexy in shadows. Sex ninja! You wear mask like Zorro. Zorro very much good with ladies. Mysterious!

2. Follow Hot Girl, Jump Out Of Tree

Trees at night very good for climbing. Sexy girls walk under tree at night while go to drinking bar in slut dress. Slut dress for you! Jump out surprise, shout pick up line. Girl be so happy you jump out of tree to talk to her, make feel special.

3. Smoke Bomb! Run Away!

Girl be so confuse, say "Who was ninja?" Girl not know who ninja is, too stealthy. Write phone number on throwing star, throw at girl. Be sure no hit girl, hit tree instead. Girl fall in love with you, call number for love making. Work every time!

Listen to what other sex ninjas say about technique for to getting woman:

"I was arrested." - Sam G.
"Sam" girl name too! Maybe in girl jail like movies! Very sexy, take lots of shower!

"I can make my penis larger by punching it every day." - Richard M.
I too punch penis every day for size. It work very good!

"I accidentally killed a girl with a throwing star." - Jim O.
Very stealthy! Dead girl okay for sex. Not first choice though.

"Smoke bombs are expensive." - Fred F.
We sell wholesale! Very good cheap, you like!

"Is this a rape technique program? It seems weird." - Maury B.
No, is sex ninja program. Very different. Rapist no have smoke bombs.

"Please stop doing this. I have been accosted by sex ninjas twelve times this week. I've contacted the police." - Janet T.
Another victory for sex ninja! Hot girl for everybody!

You like? Want order book? Sex ninja book tell you:

How get ninja pants and shoes

Punching penis technique for size

Where buy smoke bomb and throwing star no background check

Lose weight, fat ninja no stealthy

36 pressure points for make girl get naked

Ancient tiger dragon technique for stealthy tree climbing

Take shower, brushing teeth for good smell when jump on girl

Fist of robot mantis claw

500 sexy thing to shout at girl for making passion

Snack time octopus

Good music soundtrack for happy romance

Sexy hiding places for shadow surprise date

Money tips for stock market, make very rich

Free Percocet, no prescription!

If you are wanting detail guide to sex ninja method, please to send $49.95 to P.O. Box 123, Godzilla, Japan. First hundred order get free panty.

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Why Alien³ is the Best of the Quadrilogy

James Boulstridge — Fri, 04 May 2012 05:03:13 -0400

Article by James Boulstridge

Alien

The film Alien set the benchmark for science fiction horror. Up to that point in cinema, aliens were all friendly, cuddly, wanting to make sweet love to you no matter what color your skin or the fact you only had one penis and they had three vaginas around select parts of the body.

Alien is also arguably the scariest movie ever screened of any genre. People were more gullible in those days; the scariest thing they'd seen up until then was more than one black person in the same place. In the 30-odd years since its release, very few films have encouraged such a response as Alien.

This is because nobody knew what the fuck, making company execs ever since long to replicate that efficient blend of "knowing-but-not-knowing," having viewers throw up in their seats, shit their pants, or go into labor while throwing up in their seats and shitting their pants.

Fincher combined the horror of the first film and merged it with the testosterone of the second. You know, nothing but men—enough to restrain all that woman.You never really saw the alien. That was the big deal of it all. You only saw it for any extended period of time when it was a baby. The next time it made an appearance it became a lesson to lay down more rat-traps in the cellar, but the only part that registered was the fucking size of the thing and all those fucking teeth.

Alternate director's cuts of the alien doing a backwards crab-shuffle, or Captain Dallas being discovered by Ripley during her senselessly running backwards and forwards, enabling and disabling the ship's self-destruct mechanism all the while attempting her own escape while simultaneously saving the cat (something I like to call PMS) would have completely destroyed the illusion. Because in keeping it concealed, 80% of the horror was left to the imagination. The scary-as-shit thing about Dallas was that the body was never found. We knew it was a stealth killing machine because the dude infatuated with bioweapons research had a wet dream just thinking about it, but as far as what it could do, it was all left rather suggestive.

"Sorry, I was asleep. Wh-... what are you looking at?"

And then we get to H.R. Giger's design. The guy took opiates to PROTECT himself from his nightmares. That means this is the shit he dreams up when he's fucking restful! And what does he design? Something that combats man's fear of getting his face too close to a vagina. By insinuating that fingers will wrap around his skull to draw him in and a penis thrust into his mouth to feed him seed. The film also centers on the fear of childbirth.

One of the most iconic scenes in the film (next to Linda Lovelace and riding a bicycle across the moon) is notorious for its surprise, shock-value, horror, and gore. Combined with the original take on "truckers in space" and realistic, everyday dialogue, Alien remains truly unbeaten. Except this is about Alien³. So fuck you and what you don't know.

Aliens

Instead of keeping the ingredients the same but providing a worse script, James Cameron changed the formula entirely and reinvented the franchise. He kept the strong female role model unconventionally beautiful, able to punch through steel, and looking good in spacesuit undergarments. Then he gave her a female co-star with whom to butt heads, and she was even MORE unconventionally beautiful...

This blubbering skirt right here.

And then he revved up the testosterone by adding the number of testicles it would take to keep Lt. Ellen Fucking Ripley hormonally subdued. And guns. Lots of guns. His secondary plan was a simple one, one he would stick to steadfastly throughout his whole career: plaster as much in blue hues as possible.

Around the time of Aliens, blue was symbolic for "very sexy."

The slogan would be simple, but ambiguous, likely to raise questions. The first film's slogan, "In Space No One Can Hear You Scream" left people like, "Huh?" Because nobody had anything to go on but an enormous egg and a cast of unknowns. But the sequel? "This Time, It's War!"—"Holy shit, if it wasn't war last time?!?! Somebody call a doctor, my asshole just exploded!"

So, the Company's finest, the unstoppables. We would see how the aliens could measure up against gunpower. We were being promised horror and high-adrenaline action. We had ace characters too. People we could connect with and admire, with awesome names like "Drake" and "Frost" and "Hicks." Some would represent our bull-headedness, some our cool, our collectedness and calm, some our authoritativeness, and later on down the line, all of them, our fear.

A family in a way, built on hardcore and discipline. Sibling-like rivalry and affection. And we couldn't wait to see them get the shit ripped out of them. Oh, and one of them android thingies that caused all the chaos in the first film. Uh-oh, I can see where this is going to go.

Ripped in half by anal rape? N-no. I... I guess I didn't see that coming.

Once more we had an unusually long build-up to the film, what Paul W. S. Anderson of Alien vs. Predator thought was the sole recipe for success in making the films the magic that they were. But no, it was also the words on the page that you gave to the actors. And the actors. And, sorry buddy, but...

Yeah, this guy as well.

Then we saw the fuckers, and for a film with such a low budget, shit could they move. They were graceful; the exact killing machines the guy covered in jizz from the first film warned us about. And many of them. HOLY SHITTLES THIS IS THE WAR YOU WERE TALKING ABOUT!

The aliens had less identity (except for the one at the end). They could quite easily be destroyed given the right tools of the trade. It took away some of the mysticism of the first film. That said, we knew just how capable they were of completely overrunning their environment. Their numbers and complete lack of self-worth for the greater good of the species made them ultimately indestructible.

We'll still miss you, Steve.

It's remarkable just how well James Cameron reworked the vision of Alien, giving it an enormous pair of testicles only to match the quality of the preceding masterpiece. He taught us a shit-ton more about the aliens too (nothing too complex, simply that they're just like ants), again removing the mysticism but also...

They live among us!

Alien³

SPOILER ALERT

David Fincher killed off two of the main characters at the very beginning of the film, setting a very dark precedent to what we already knew was going to be some pretty dark shit. Nobody likes being alone, unless it's around nine o'clock, the parents have gone to bed and Porky's is on. Nothing says erection like frumpy fräuleins yanking my junk through a hole in the wall, you know.

SPOILER ALERT

Fans responded very harshly to the deaths of Hicks and Newt, including James Cameron himself, saying that "it was a stab in the face to all Aliens fans" or something. It had to be done though, otherwise Ripley would have someone to corroborate her story.

"Oh, I'm sorry, James, what was that you were you saying?"

Fincher combined the horror of the first film and merged it with the testosterone of the second. You know, nothing but men—enough to restrain all that woman. If mentally or hormonally it didn't work, well then there'd always be the old-fashioned way...

The design of the alien was more slick and agile than anything we'd seen before, and it had to be. Get back to the hunter-killer instincts of the first one, able to adapt to any environment. Not those stock, grunt-like pussies from the second film that could be killed by a grenade to the face. Pssh.

He took away the humane yet still made it a tale of redemption, both for Ripley and the prisoners, people who no one gave a shit about... society's outcasts (although to be fair they did kinda belong on an isolated dust-ball). Where their desperate belief in a God-they'd-found-in-space's asshole led them to go up against the beast with no weapons whatsoever.

Atheist here thinking we need a plan B?

The budget for this film was by far the highest of the three. They had to make it the success of the first two. The problem was that Fincher never had a script. Chunks of the film (major pieces of the plot) were removed in editing, and before Fincher knew it the effects budgets were being restricted and his vision narrowed down.

Despite its critics, the film's story, atmosphere, pacing, environments, lighting, camera angles, and superior music to the prequels, even when collectively only half complete, were just as much of a fuck to the psyche as a film like Se7en. Every word of dialogue added more weight to carry around the neck as hope dissolved, walls collapsed, and claustrophobia set in. Plus, the one line that can get you out of any engagement: "Yeah well, you don't wanna know me, lady. I'm a murderer and rapist of women."

Most of the actors spoke The Queen's English, making the world even more alien. The language ties into the Victorian Age, which ties into the psychology of wanting to satisfy a strict, domineering matriarchal figure, which when combined with face-hugging vaginas in the face and taking over the responsibility of childbirth...

In this film there was no hope from the very beginning, the truth of which was cleverly kept at bay until the very end of the film. Ripley survived a crash only to lose once more everyone she knew and loved, contract pubic lice, and have every man within a twenty mile radius want to rape her. I mean, can't this cunt ever catch a break?!

Apparently not. Oh, and SPOILER ALERT.

Resurrection

Hoping we're all on the same page.

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4 Signs of the Rapocalypse

Jeff Gassen — Thu, 03 May 2012 23:47:50 -0400

Column by Jeff Gassen

Poets and lyricists of all types have long used the poetic license, or the ability to alter the traditionally accepted spelling or use of a word or words in the name of fluidity, or to more accurately represent the phonetics of idiomatic speech. This really hasn't been an issue when used by the likes of Shakespeare to maintain rhythm in iambic pentameter, or Poe to keep rhyme with a mispronunciation of "evil" and "devil." However, rap today uses the poetic license as an excuse to string together more lines of shit than The Human Centipede, and make insane amounts of money saying essentially nothing.

4. What the "F" Does It Mean?

Lil Wayne is uncontestably the prince of nonsensical puns, the garnish of gobbledygook, or appropriately and more articulately put, "the biggest fucking idiot to ever say nothing." However, his listeners are equally as recycled, generic, and daft so nobody really questions his heralding as anything more than the Michael Bolton of 21st century rap...with worse hair. Pursuant to the Infinite Monkey Theorem, if a monkey randomly pressed keys on a keyboard he would come out with a Lil Wayne song on the first try.

In Tha Carter IV, Mr. Wayne challenges us to determine what the fuck he means when he says Weezy F. He is forward in letting us know in "Nightmares of the Bottom" that "F ain't for 'fear,'" and later emphasizes that "F is for 'fuck yourself.'" This usage of the letter is reiterated when in "How to Hate" Mr. Wayne reveals that "F is for 'fuck you.'" Seemingly having solved the puzzle one continues to listen to the album only to realize that in "6 Foot 7 Foot," we had been misled because "F is for 'finisher.'" Once more he obscures the "F" by claiming "F is for 'phenomenal.'" (Maybe "F" should have been for "phonetic.")

Quite possibly the only thing more embarrassing than Jay-Z's lyrical content is his wife's acting career. Okay Wayne. What is "F"? Is it for "foney"? Because that would be equally plausible to find in one of your lyrics. A recent study shows that 53% of black fourth grade males couldn't read at the correct reading level. Are you trying to confuse young black kids, Lil Wayne? Do you hate kids, Lil Wayne? They are our future you know...Whitney Houston told us so. Whitney just died, Lil Wayne. Are you mocking Whitney with your lyrics? FUCK YOU, LIL WAYNE.

3. Drakegrassi

Drake showing off his street cred as shot-up-and-physically-disabled Jimmy Brooks on Degrassi: The Next Generation. Tupac once let us all know that thugz do cry, but I'm not sure he meant on recycled teen soap operas. Drake has about as much street cred as the fanny pack, and the majority of the meaningful lines he's come up with were put together with a credit card in a Denny's bathroom. At least those lines didn't indoctrinate children into believing that if you said enough whimsical nonsense eventually some of it would rhyme and you could be a spokesman for Sprite. Did I mention nobody drinks that shit anymore?

In "Killer" Drake proclaims, "Stunt so hard I make these niggas hate summer / And pray for winter / But when it's winter time / I'm still waitin' on these niggas at the finish line." Despite the recent MIT study and the rapidly elevating oceans, Drake continues to deny man's role in global warming. He clearly supports the expansion of oil companies as he alludes to the false idea that massive profits and capitalistic success, or "stuntings," are why many environmentalists are questioning our reliance on fossil fuels, or "hating summer." Did I mention it doesn't fucking make any sense?

2. You Must Love Dogs

"Let's just squash this beef right here, right meow." Listen, I'll be the first one to pin anything on a cat that can't be blamed on Muslims, and I personally can't stand those shit-hiding, sociopaths always looking down on me on their tree pedestals, but threatening to murder another man's pet is a little much, even for the king of "Why the Fuck is This Guy Famous Again" Jay-Z. Quite possibly the only thing more embarrassing than this guy's lyrical content is his wife's acting career.

In "Justify My Thug," Jay-Z threatens, "If you shoot my dog, I'ma kill your cat" (insert AC Slater, "It's not a threat, it's a promise"). I admire his adulation for his best friend, but I think it goes without saying there aren't many .22-toting hillbillies where Jay-Z lives. It just continues to show the rich black man's disconnect with the poor white community.

In reality, there could be plenty of good reasons to shoot someone's dog. What if the dog had rabies and was attacking a child? What if the dog had a broken leg and could never race again? What if the dog was thwarting your plan to exploit customers through an elaborate ghost scam at your haunted amusement park? What if the dog wandered into Rick Santorum's yard and was trying to have sex with gay soldiers? The point is, Jay-Z, you can't be throwing out murderous terrorizations without due process. Your "thug" would have been more justified in saying, "If you shoot my dog for aims beyond those that are reasonable and are convicted of animal abuse after a fair trial, I'm still not going to kill your cat because owning a cat is punishment enough."

1. We Hate You Long Time!

There's long been a rift between the Chinese and Japanese people. Jujutsu or Kung Fu? What's better for population control, Bushido or One-Child Policy? During the 20th century, this mutual distaste escalated with the Japanese occupation of China, culminating in some 20 million Chinese being killed in the 2nd Sino-Japanese War, with nearly 300,000 being massacred in the infamous Rape of Nanking. It suffices to say that China got the last laugh with the apparent affinity Japan has held for radioactive fallout, but nonetheless, tensions still exist.

In "Balla Baby," Chingy fills us into his deepest carnal desires as he expresses, "I like them black, white, Puerto Rican, or Haitian / Like Japanese, Chinese, or even Asian." It's unclear if Chingy was really trying to allude to the nature of his female preferences, or rather laying out Herman Cain's foreign policy plan. You have to commend Chingy for his diplomatic pimp game, but in excluding both Japan and China from the continent of Asia (yes, continents contain countries, fuckface) he undoubtedly unified them in their dissent from U.S. interests. Thanks for doubling the price of our Nikes, dick.

Continue to "4 Signs of the RAPEocalypse" and enter the world's most offensive contest!

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Copernicus Thunderbird vs. the State of North Carolina

Copernicus Thunderbird — Thu, 03 May 2012 10:38:47 -0400

Blog by Copernicus Thunderbird

I was recently in North Carolina on business... well, not so much business as scamming rich people while wearing a stolen suit after hitchhiking with a trucker who I ended up killing so I could jack his eighteen wheeler, but I eventually ran out of gas and... you know what, let's just skip the back story. You don't need to know everything I do. Anyway...

I found myself at some sort of political rally. I had the following conversation with some old white lady claiming to be the wife of the senator of something or another.

OLD LADY: "Are you here to vote yes on Amendment One?"

ME: "Absolutely. I love freedom of speech. It's my favorite amendment next to the one about the right to collect bear arms. I have hundreds of them mounted on the wall of my summer home. They really add a certain air of worldly sophistication to the place. It's just something about the claws."

OLD LADY: "No, Amendment One is designed to make same-sex marriages illegal."

ME: "I thought that was already illegal here."

OLD LADY: "Oh, it is. This just makes it, um, more illegal."

ME: "So, we're trying to stop them from doing something they're already not doing, but more so. Well that makes sense."

OLD LADY: "It's very simple."

ME: "You know, I'm actually with a non-profit organization that's working towards a cure for homosexuality. Does that sound like something you'd be interested in donating $50,000 to? I can give you my Swiss Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause. Tax deductible, of course."

OLD LADY: "Oh no no no... we don't hate the gays. Just the blacks."

ME: "I beg your pardon?"

OLD LADY: "Well, I mean... not just the blacks. Mexicans, too. Obviously."

ME: "I don't follow. What does this have to do with gay marriage?"

OLD LADY: "Well, you see, gay people don't make babies. We have to preserve the Caucasian race. With babies. And gay people don't make those. Because they're gay."

At this point I pulled out my old fashioned wooden pipe filled with a rich blend of cherry hazelnut tobacco laced with PCP. I inhaled deeply as I pondered her words.

ME: "So let me see if I've got this right. Gay people stop getting married, which will cause them to stop being gay. Once they're no longer gay, they'll settle down into a proper Christian marriage. And once they're married, they'll start making babies to save the Caucasian race."

OLD LADY: "Exactly!"

ME: "But just the white ones."

OLD LADY: "Exac-- crap, I never thought of that. Okay, well, maybe it's alright if just the black gays get married. Do gays come in black?"

I put my hand on her leg and gazed into her eyes.

ME: "If I may? It seems to me that you're going about it all wrong. What you need to be doing is rounding up all the white girls past the age of... what's the age of consent here, like, twelve?"

OLD LADY: "Sixteen."

ME: "Same difference. Anyway, you round them up..."

OLD LADY: "Black people are scary!"

ME: "Sweetie? I need you to hush for two minutes, can you do that for me?"

OLD LADY: "Okay."

ME: "Round up all the white girls and auction them off to straight white men. Give the men thirty days to impregnate their partner. If they don't, breach of contract. Throw 'em in prison, resell the girl to the next man."

OLD LADY: "You know, that just might work."

I stroked her hair and unzipped the back of her dress, unfastening her bra in the process.

ME: "I mean you'd have to take precautions, of course. The girls would have to be baptized by a Klansman, and you'd need to form a prayer circle around them to make sure they were protected from devils and colored people lurking in the area."

OLD LADY: "Oh, well, of course."

ME: "Just picture it: hundreds, no, thousands of little newborn honkey babies being taken out of the hospital and thrust into the world in little baby-sized church suits. It will be like Miracle on White Christmas Street every day of the year."

OLD LADY: "That's so beautiful. Kiss me."

I kissed her deeply. She swooned in my arms.

OLD LADY: "If I were younger, I'd offer my womb to you. We would make such beautiful white children together."

ME: "Really? Because I'm actually half black. Hey, are those free shrimp? Oh shit, they are! Alright, bitch, I gotta go. Nice talking to you."

I stole her purse on the way out and filled it up with cocktail shrimp.

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The Super Secret KFC Hooker Party of Death

Copernicus Thunderbird — Wed, 02 May 2012 03:48:27 -0400

Blog by Copernicus Thunderbird

I'm usually under investigation by the feds at any given time, though if I had to pin down a specific reason I'm not sure I could give you one. Apparently the government isn't too big on the civil rights of drug addicted conspiracy theorist vagrants.

Special Agent Diego was all over my case again. He's had it out for me for years. He was more drunk than usual and I didn't much care for the racial slurs. Eventually he stopped hitting me and we reached an agreement: he wouldn't hook me up to a car battery and force me to sing the national anthem while covered in bees if I got him laid. Apparently his wife had just left him and he was taking it pretty hard.

I decided to take him to the KFC on the shady side of town because all the employees there were part time sex slaves. It was part of their indentured servitude contract with the Colonel and a strict requirement of their employment. The Colonel was a sick fucker, but he loved chicken like nobody's business, and that's what counts in the fast food industry.

Me and Diego went to the back door entrance and rang the bell. A toothless madam of about sixty answered the door. I gave her the secret password: "We're here for the chicken twister pussy platter." She coughed up some phlegm and signaled for us to enter.

There were about six girls in cages wearing tight greasy Polo shirts tied up at the midriff, and four shirtless guys in leather pants rubbing themselves down with raw chicken. I looked at Diego to gauge his reaction. He was down for whatever.

The madam told us to pick one, five dollars each or three for ten. Diego pulled out a fifty dollar bill and I thought the lady was going to shit herself. In fact, she actually might've done just that, I couldn't tell. So anyway, Diego decided that he was going to fuck everyone in the room. Even the madam. I took no part in it, as I was far too busy recreating classical sculptures in mashed potatoes at the break table. I was nearly finished with a scaled down version of Rodin's "Gates of Hell" when some bitch landed in it ass first. That's when I got disgusted and left.

A few days later I saw Diego again and he looked sick. His head was swollen and he couldn't talk. I asked him what was wrong and he handed me a slip of paper that said "Salmon Nilla". That was the stage name of one of the prostitutes, and she had given him some kind of raw chicken sex disease.

He scribbled another note saying that he was going to sue KFC but he needed my help in covering up the details of how he got infected. Before he could explain his plan in detail, he caught a load of buckshot from behind, blowing open his chest and spraying me with blood, fucking up the new coat I had just gotten from Goodwill. You know how hard it is to find a nice coat without blood on it? It had all the buttons and everything. No holes in the pockets, either.

Then I heard a deep southern accent say, "Don't nobody sue the Colonel and live to tell the tale." I didn't get a good look at him because he was in the shadows, but I knew it was Sanders. He shot a grappling hook to the top of a skyscraper, and just like that he was gone.

Fuck it, next time I'm going to Denny's.

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Aunt Margaret's Neverending Boat Story

Benny Daito — Tue, 01 May 2012 21:32:45 -0400

Article by Benny Daito

I first started pondering the curious storytelling habits of the elderly while sitting at the dinner table amongst 12 other family members last Saturday night. The inspiration came from my Great Aunt Margaret, who is 87. I was part of a group that was tacitly trying to convince itself that our flow of conversation had not been completely ruined when Margaret had interrupted my Uncle John's story about his fishing boat nearly capsizing on Payette Lake. At about the top of the eighth inning of John's story, Margaret spotted what she believed was the appropriate opening for sharing her boat story, which, as it turned out, was actually a canoe story.

Margaret explained how there were all kinds of Squaws near the area where she grew up. Squaws and even some Chinks. Margaret found nothing tangential in telling everyone about the canoe that her brother Earl built one summer. She was 12 at the time. Maybe 13. Or even 14. After the most pregnant of pauses, it was eventually decided—by Margaret—that yes, she was 13 or 14. Definitely not 12. For the summer she was 12 was the same summer that Daddy had purchased the family's first pair of milk cows. She remembered watching Daddy get up early to go out and milk those cows. Earl couldn't have built the canoe that summer because he had to spend his spare time helping Daddy. So Margaret was either 13 or 14 when Earl built the canoe. After pausing for one more fruitless stab at choosing between 13 and 14, Margaret finally capitulated to the gods of Makes No Difference and settled once and for all on 13 OR 14.

She remembered that Earl built the canoe entirely out of wood. He was such a good stripper, she bragged, oblivious to the mild snickers that this drew from her audience. A quick perusal of Google and Wikipedia afterward informed us that "stripper" can be a descriptor for someone involved in "wood-strip building," a common method of canoe construction. Margaret had been the only one amongst us who knew this to be common knowledge. The reason Earl built the canoe was so that Margaret and her sisters could learn to paddle across a shallow pond located about a quarter of a mile from the family's farm. And she and her sisters did learn to paddle across that pond. Even though the water was sometimes thick and muddy, they learned to paddle.

After 10 seconds of heavy silence, it was presumed that Margaret's story had ended. But when my Aunt Ruth started to speak, Margaret, who had been staring down at the table that entire time, resumed. Ruth quickly piped down. Margaret said there was nothing she loved more than paddling across that pond. Being wedged into a makeshift floating apparatus, saddled with the task of not just holding, but sweeping, a heavy and crudely shaped ore through dense, murky water, presumably while wearing a thick, wavy cotton dress, all the while with Older Brother pushing from behind, apparently gave a young girl a sense of freedom back then. See, those were simpler times.

That's why Margaret was heartbroken a few summers later when Daddy sold the pond and the land surrounding it. (By now, it was apparent to the group that we would not be hearing what happened to John's boat on Payette Lake.)

Margaret dove further into the details of that summer when Daddy sold the pond. A nice man from up north had purchased the property in exchange for 10 cows and a few acres of land on the other side of the family's farm. Also, the man later married a Squaw. This jolted the table back to life. My father stepped up and spoke for the group.

"Um, Margaret, sweetheart," he said through a friendly chuckle. "I don't think we call them Squaws anymore." Margaret stared blankly at my father, as if he were a document needing to be placed in a file that she didn't know even existed. Finally, she spoke. "Yeah, Squaw—he married a Squaw..."

Margaret's tone was somehow both firm and soft, which suggested that she thought my father had misunderstood her. So, out of either revenge or (more likely) just general confusion, Margaret, in turn, misunderstood him. Thinking that the glitch my father had caused in the stream of her thought could be solved with a little context, Margaret explained how there were all kinds of Squaws near the area where she grew up. Squaws and even some Chinks.

Everyone at the table was now exchanging looks, but no one felt compelled to try and finish what my father had started. Because we all knew and loved Margaret, we quietly chose bemusement over disgust. The next few minutes featured an elaboration on the local Squaw and Chink populations, with kind criticism issued for their deficiencies and all praise offered in the form of sincere backhanded compliments. Margaret wasn't smiling as she said any of this, but those of us who were willing to believe in her true character could see a twinkle in her cataract.

Our unspoken shock had created a new wave of energy at the table, expressed through exchanges of eye contact and smirks. Either fortunately or unfortunately, Margaret's analysis of "copper skin" somehow meandered back to canoes. From there, the continued absence of a plot but inclusion of such details as the dimensions of Daddy's woodshed or Earl's ground-breaking methods of fire log-stacking, made it difficult to spot when this canoe story was winding down. Mercifully, the story ended abruptly, with its content apparently having all along been too rich to necessitate something as cheesy as a climax, motif, or final point.

Margaret rested her hands on the table and sat back in her chair, indicating that she was finished. There was a prolonged pause as everyone nervously tried to think of something polite to say that would not spark any more words from the narrator. Faint gasps could be heard as Margaret herself broke the silence. "Oh, and one more thing," she said. The group listened hesitantly. "I never had a problem with any Squaws or Chinks, but my brother Earl and I figured out pretty quickly that they were no good at paddling a canoe. Most of them just didn't like to get dirty, even though they were already fairly dirty people."

The table burst into laughter, putting a fitting sound to the silent buzz from earlier. The laughter escalated as everyone began to realize how much they loved and appreciated the well-meaning Margaret. Beaming with delight, Margaret sat back and flashed a smile of satisfaction. For she knew that her original hunch had been right all along: she could enthrall this group with the best damn canoe story any of us had ever heard.

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Diet: Day Zero

Codie Leiker — Tue, 01 May 2012 06:56:28 -0400

Column by Codie Leiker

"Less alcohol, more water." I had written that on an index card when I was taking quick notes for my new and improved lifestyle. In passing, you might think of it as a Sunday reminder from a Saturday night bender, a night that I'd swear time and again I would never repeat, but the note was jammed in between similar ones that read "Multivitamins" and "Cottage Cheese." Looking over it now, my heart sinks a little.

As long as the good literally outweighs the bad. Okay, I thought, I'll drink more water, but less alcohol? Maybe less beer, sure, but what about wine? With each new venture to the liquor store, I was turning more into my mother: a vino superwoman who could tabulate the number of bottles in a box, who could make young men rethink their manhood in a round of the Tour de Franzia. Surely I didn't need to give up wine. Women lived long, lush-filled lives in my family. My great-grandmother had a fondness for bourbon and 7-Up and she lived to be 95. I keep bourbon in my pantry. Maybe I don't drink it often, but it's there for a rainy, nostalgic day.

I don't think I'm necessarily supposed to outsmart my new eating regimen, to banter back with a full mouth with something like, "Eat this, fucker." I'd already been doing that for years and I am tired of tight pants. The foods I was told to eat now weren't going to be as big an issue. Despite successfully avoiding diabetes my entire childhood, I was starting to crave foods that didn't involve a craze-eyed cartoon mascot on a box. Chocolate, my closest and most personal friend, was even taking its toll, a reality even I never saw coming.

No one was legally obligated to grab my fat rolls and lecture me on the dangers of saturated fats and Big Macs. I was spending more time in the produce aisles of grocery stores thinking of all the ways to use cucumbers and spinach. I bought tomatoes weekly. And I lingered by the cheeses. Just when I'd begin to walk away after collecting my sharp cheddar and mozzarella blocks, I'd stop and turn my head slowly and scan other options thinking I may have missed something important. I'd volley my head from side to side, drum my fingers across my lips and realize I might need pepperjack and gouda and muenster, too.

Celebrities make dieting look like a vacation. Meals are already made for you in appropriate portions. You can still eat desserts. Sometimes you can just drink some kind of weird berry that Oprah endorses with a hint of pepper juice for like, a week, and then drop the weight of a third grader. Or they just munch on laxatives like Altoids and spend an exorbitant amount of time in the bathroom. Either way, it has to be some kind of sinister magic at work, as if the leprechaun on the Lucky Charms box actually came to life and granted you weight loss and a toned ass in exchange for your soul.

"Portion Control." Another little tidbit on a tiny card that will be my biggest contender. I read and am now told that I shouldn't consume large meals. Not that this is a prescription or anything a dietician or licensed medical professional has personally dictated to me; no one was legally obligated to grab my fat rolls and lecture me on the dangers of saturated fats and Big Macs. I only ask close friends and family members on such ordeals, and when I decided to ask that painful question, "How can I lose weight?" the first answer was always "portion control," or some phrasing along those lines. Instead of three square meals a day, a regimen beaten into my brain since birth, I was now to consume five to six small meals a day, meals no larger than the size of my fist. This alarmed me. It wasn't that I was advised against eating an entire large pizza, washing it down with a pint of Half Baked, and munching on chocolate chips before bed because I was too lazy to actually make the cookies. What alarmed me was that I have very small hands, hands that have been made fun of since, probably, 1992. People marvel at their lack of size. First dates are commonly filled with drinks and a mockery of my hands as the boy across from me lifts his palm and gestures for me to do the same, his face giddy and his laughter a cackle. My father is constantly amazed that I can handle a pen without too much difficulty. And now I'm supposed to use my tiny fist as a measuring device for my meals?

Foods of all shapes came to mind, foods that I would no longer regularly eat because their sizes were much too big to consume. Even a slice of pizza was a no. Sure, I thought, I could probably tear off some of the crust or the tip to fit it into the shape of my fist, but by that point it wouldn't even be considered a slice of pizza, rather a mangled form of its prior self forever reliving the glory days. What if I curved it into a ball to resemble my fist? Was measuring like flour where I just wanted to skim off the top? Or was it more like brown sugar where I was encouraged to pack in the ingredient? I thought of all the slices of bacon I could layer together and wrap into a tight circle, thus outfoxing the major rule of my new "lifestyle."

I especially like the language thrown around to, supposedly, encourage the heavy eater toward a healthier regimen. You aren't just changing your eating habits, you are creating a lifestyle. You aren't just eating less, you are controlling your portions. Slimmer hips and thighs are now magnificent and sexy as opposed to the ones hidden underneath those baggy clothes. To eat unhealthy, whether it is a daily visit to the drive-thru or simply eating one too many cookies at a work picnic, is the result of a diseased muncher, a person who has no say in what goes in because he or she is not in control of destiny. By controlling portions or maintaining a healthier lifestyle, a person has a say in future meals and a placebo effect is created. The world is no longer chaotic because you aren't stuffing your face with your tenth burrito from Taco Bell. In the past, you had no options; you simply suffered until you died. But not today. No, today you have a choice.

Most days, I am perfectly okay with my new eating habits. But sometimes I'll come home to empty take-out boxes from my favorite eateries and I'll feel a little like Kathy Bates's husband in Fried Green Tomatoes. I'll find her jumping on her trampoline in her stylish tracksuit, sweatband covered in sweat, and beer and fried chicken replaced with lima beans or something gross. No, I don't want to succumb to diabetes or high cholesterol and have my death be forever embarrassing, totally uncool when compared to, say, being mauled by a tiger, but I'll punch that happy, Southern-fried face if I can never eat shitty food again.

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Kangaroo Court of Fighting Fish

James Parkinson — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 17:17:05 -0400

Blog by James Parkinson

We are the soldiers of sustenance, well-versed in our individual roles and unified by a blanket sense of urgency. The in-room dining telephones are dueling for attention, the soundtrack for the apex of the morning. There’s at least an hour left of hard fighting before any kind of let-up. The line cooks are fully engaged with egg and flame, breaking yolks into vegetable oil and sizzling bacon on a massive griddle. Stewards shuffle around the back, pulverizing oranges and grapefruits into fresh juice. The expeditor is furiously wiping fingerprints off the perimeter of plated eggs benedicts and bowls of steel-cut oatmeal. I’m working the bread station, a blur of popping toast and flashing blades. In one moment I lead the fray, barking commands and stuffing croissants into folded linen. In the next, I am dragged off the floor for a word with Chef.

This office is devilishly comfortable, the luxury box of an abattoir. Two cozy armchairs face a heightened desk cluttered with paperwork in various stages of being processed and ignored. Two glass vessels sit adjacent to each other, each home to brilliantly colored betta fish. Also known as Siamese fighting fish, these creatures behave like starved pitbulls and look like tropical orchids. If dropped into a shared container they will instantly attack each other, relenting only when one is mortally wounded and swimming sideways to the surface in defeat. Somehow this captivity is worse; a bizarre purgatory. There, in plain view, your mortal enemy, starkly apparent but separated by an invincible pane of glass. Life is a constant state of tension, ever in fear of death at the hands of your opponent, ever enraged by his presence, naught to do but swim laps.

This is the HR director’s office. In the corporate universe, the humanity of the staff is always on trial, never more so in the kangaroo court of human resources. No need for a trial in this case. I’m guilty, having been self-sabotaging my position here for months. I can’t stand my supervisor, and I’m not at all quiet about it. She was promoted for the worst kind of reasons: smiling strategically and supplicating to our masters whenever they roll into the kitchen. She’s a corporate darling, never complaining about anything real, lending input only to address cosmetic, symptomatic issues. Regarding the philosophical and structural malignancies of our department she is either willfully ignorant or exceptionally blind to reality. Never mind she doesn’t know shit about food and is incapable of delegating any task. Never mind her club-footed managerial style. Never mind the questions she “axes.” Never mind her fitful relationship with the differences between “their,” “there,” “they’re,” “your,” “you’re,” et cetera. Never mind her skinsuit of tangible wrongness; she knows when to kneel, so by all means empower her over her talented, intelligent peers with their dangerous notions of free will and self-awareness.

I’m definitely out of strikes here. Third time in HR, same problem as the last time, which itself was awfully similar to the time before that. My neck is well acquainted with the chopping block at this point. The Chef-ecutioner sits to my right, the director throned behind the fish. It’s an emotional exchange. Both of these characters have fought for me in the past, trying to help me fit in. I’m a bucking bronco when they need me to be a goldfish. Can’t do it. Can’t fake it. Agony is, they know how good of a job I do. How much skin I lay down every day. I wish I could meet their expectations, just lower my shoulder and shut the fuck up enough to keep my job. I carry the staff most days, but my temper has recently worn down to the nub. Metal grinding on metal. Managers from other departments overheard me swearing. My mind is everywhere but work and I carry it on my face. I’ve been done here for a while. Selling $14 bowls of Raisin Bran to grouchy millionaires doesn’t satisfy the innermost desires of my heart. I’m challenged but not stimulated. Every morning is the same puzzle: How to be proactive; how to motivate the cooks; how to shuttle food up in a timely, accurate fashion; how to give a shit. Mining for meaning is the biggest challenge. I’m swimming around in this bowl, bumping against the glass, and all I want to do is fight.

The chef is worked up, but he’s wasting his time. I think he thinks I might try to save my job. The HR director is listening, responding, echoing his concerns, amplifying the depth of my transgressions, broadcasting in plain language how awful they think I am. This is so boring. I want to tell them the truth, that I know all this. I know what attitude you want me to have: You want me to be a good fish, to shut up and swim quietly like a good little pet. Can’t do it. Can’t fake it. So I’m suspended, pending investigation. Only one choice left, really. Do I want to be fired or quit? There are certainly benefits to being fired. (Unemployment, baby!) And if that’s what I want, I can easily bypass all that suspension shit right here. I could tell the truth for 30 seconds. That would be enough to get the boot right this moment. Or maybe I could tell them to go fuck themselves. It’s a barbaric thing to do, but it feels somehow appropriate anyway. The darker side of me yearns for such a release. Wouldn’t it be nice to get paid for doing nothing for six months? I could play Lego Harry Potter on Xbox and eat Peanut Butter Cups. They don’t want that; I can see it on their faces. How expensive is it to get rid of James? Yeah, he’s a problem, but God is money, so let’s weigh our options.

It’s ultimately a spiritual question. I read something brilliant recently in The Art of Fielding by a rookie novelist named Chad Harbach. Through the lips of his character Owen, he says, “A soul isn’t something a person is born with but something that must be built, by effort and error, study and love.” Getting myself fired here is the same as writing myself a dozen checks. One sideways word to manipulate the tempers in this room and I get to skate free for half a trip around the sun. Let the government pay for my Pop Tarts for a while. Nothing is really free, though. Every decision has a cost, and in this case the price tag has a portion of my soul etched into the barcode. No sale.

So I resign, eschewing the ignoble luxury of unemployment checks. Keep your money, government. Use it to pay a fireman or something. I’ll hang on to my soul for now, for ever, and if you ever need help finding yours, I’m on Facebook.

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DO NOT POST: 14 Predictable Facebook Status Updates

Jerry Landry — Sun, 29 Apr 2012 15:11:42 -0400

Article by Jerry Landry

Logging on to Facebook is like tuning into Maury: the entertainment is horrible, and most of the people set themselves up nicely for ridicule. But somewhere in this sea of awful, there is something intangible about the Facebook newsfeed that keeps us coming back and checking for updates.

By this point in our social networking assimilation, many of us are well-trained hawks of the feed. And in our years of scrolling, we may have begun to notice how unbelievably predictable and mundane each of our newsfeeds has become. It's as if all of our newsfeeds are converging into one giant mirror of current events, an unending archive of typical personal milestones, and it's exponentially approaching the asymptote of expected pop culture reaction.

To justify my claims by example, and to show you just what I'm getting at, I have included the following cases (along with my harsh and condescending insight).

1. The Two Coffee Morning

We're constantly wondering how amazing your boyfriend/girlfriend is. And we'd like to be reminded every day how fulfilling your relationship is.Oh wow, you're so tired that you're gonna need TWO COFFEES to get through the day. However, you're alert enough to capture and upload a photo of your two cups of joe and post a picture of these dueling solo disposables to Facebook. Usually with the caption, "One of those mornings." Or the ever-so-original, "Looks like somebody has a case of the Mondays."

2. The Gift Card Hoax

Do you honestly think that you're going to get a rebate or $50 gift card just by "liking" something on Facebook? You'll probably get your hard drive compromised, but you're not getting discount treatment at any place you would like to tell your friends you enjoy patronizing. You're doubly stupid for letting advertisers take advantage of you as well.

3. The Ever-So-Bustling 'Ville

Farmville, Cityville, whatever. Remember when SimCity was fun? Remember how you would actually show or tell a friend about it in person or over the phone? Spamming someone's newsfeed is an ultra-convenient way to inconvenience just about anyone else.

4. Advice That's Been Given More Than Twice

Please remind us of that Bible verse. Please tell us how you don't realize what you have until it's gone. Please continue to provide us with conventional wisdom that we could never Google on our own.

5. Constant Inconsequential Relationship Updates

We're constantly wondering just how amazing your boyfriend/girlfriend is. And, if I may speak for all of us, we'd like to be reminded every day how fulfilling your relationship is with him/her.

The contrarian Facebook expert would most likely say, "Well why don't you just block those people who annoy you, or not log on to Facebook altogether?"

It's not that simple, my friend.

Like I wrote earlier, Facebook is like Maury Povich: it's awful... but somehow entertaining. It's like an addictive drug, except the long-term effect is that it will make you lamer. It's as inexplicable as it is phenomenal. And this is why Mark Zuckerberg has more money than we have photos we're tagged in.

Anyway, aside from the aside...

6. Death in the Family

I'm sorry for your loss, but Facebook is not a place to be self-aggrandizing and grieving at the same time. Where should you dedicate a tribute to a lost loved one? Oh... I don't know... maybe a funeral.

7. Happy Birthday to Someone Other Than Yourself (On Your Own Wall)

They have a wall, or even better, a phone number. Wish them happy birthday personally. Unless your grandpa really is that cool (he isn't), then why don't you go over and visit him before he dies and then post about that too.

8. Your Political Views

I could write a book about this peeve. But I'll stick to attacking only the predictable vein for now. You friend someone on Facebook (or they friend you), and within weeks you find out their political affiliation (without the aid of "About" page snooping). Then, like clockwork, if they're Republican, they're appalled by everything the Democrats are doing and how this country is going down the shitter; and if they're Democrat, then they're up in arms about what the Republicans are doing and how this country won't help the people who are going down the shitter.

9. Your Religious Views

What are the three things you aren't supposed to discuss amongst friends again? Oh right, all of those people you added aren't actually your "real friends." Wait. What?

10. How Awesome Your Alma-Mater Is

All we really want to see is some self-deprecation in this department. If you're too pretentious to do that, then don't bother posting about how proud you are to be a Wildcat, Spartan, Trojan, Cardinal, or whatever hell kind of animal, contraceptive-branded warrior, or mythical god you claim to represent. This isn't the 1950's; a great majority of us went to college, and we don't need to flood our feeds with similar allegiances to slightly different schools.

11. The "Love Symbol" and "The Duck Face"

I believe <3 should stand for less than 3, but not equal to. Or perhaps a heart if you look at it sideways and you're a pre-teen. If the latter is the view for women older than 14, then it's time for fathers across the country to sit down with their daughters and give them a talk about how being an idiot may someday grant unwanted pregnancy.

12. The John Doe Letter

This post always begins Dear ____, and then goes into a 3-4 sentence rant. It's usually a rant about a first-world problem (a coffee barista being too jovial, someone grunting too loudly at the gym, or someone who isn't exactly displaying keen fashion sense in October), and the only thing it accomplishes is showing everyone that you are currently miserable and/or seeking attention. If you want positive attention from intelligent people, don't follow a popular Facebook template.

13. Obscure/Out-of-Context Song Lyrics

You just posted two fucking lines of verse that rhyme with each other and that were published by someone else. You're so creative and insightful.

14. And Lastly... Trolling

This is something that should've never left mom's basement. From Reddit, to Quickmeme, and now Facebook, this symbol of creepy awkwardness has gone viral and somehow entered our popular lexicon. It wasn't funny at first, it isn't funny now, and it has always been dumb and disturbing.

Each of these typical cyber behaviors can make you want to bring your palm to your forehead ‘til the point you can no longer detect irony or eat solid foods. It can make you think less of the world, and even less of our future. But I have to admit, amidst all of these criticisms and snarky complaints, I do have one praise: please keep posting puppy pictures... because no one can bitch about a puppy.

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