Iggy Pop Ape and Ladies' Night

I promised somebody I'd make this (no I didn't) and my word is bond:

(ape body belongs to Kanzi)


On a different note, I don't think this blog is getting the female readership I'm so obviously courting. Ladies probably don't cotton to my opinions on children, so I figure I should add some potpourri to this stinkhole, maybe light some candles, eat a lot of Ben & Jerry's, and let my feminine side gallop about like the unicorns of yore.

Many women have a natural affinity for children. It's true. And women also like men who like kids. True as well. And can you blame them? I mean, they are so cute, right? What with their small, human-like features, it's like you've summoned beautiful goblins that depend on you for crap. Women like goblins, too. It's a fact. Plus, with their pea-sized intellects, children are liable to say the funniest shit ever and not even know it.


Show your lady that you care about kids by building a playground



Women also love chocolate and sweets. This is because chocolate contains phenylethylamine - the same chemical that is released in your brain when you fall in love. The sweetness in chocolate triggers the release of endorphins, which creates a happy feeling. Endorphins are also responsible for the "runner's high". But don't tell your girlfriend, because she'll quit her daily runs and gorge on chocolate, acquire diabetes, lose a leg, and roll around in a wheelchair for 3 miserable years until she "accidentally" falls in the pool when no one is around... Here's some tasty cakes that'll make your girlfriend's mouth water.





(the last two cakes are from Auckland Cake Art)

That's all for now, my labia are killing me.

Creepy and Disturbing Adult Babies

After I killed Radio Raheem, the rest of my Wisconsin lake house holiday went off without a hitch.

I went kayaking


Had shrimp and white wine on a pontoon boat



And slept in a crib


Okay, after searching for pictures of creepy men who sleep in cribs for some sort of depraved delight, I stumbled upon a vast underground network of sites dedicated to grown men dressing up in diapers, wearing adult-sized baby clothes, and playing with dolls. And then I found this site, chronicling the adventures of one very confused individual.



Discovering this site has put me in a delirious state. I feel like the kids at the end of Goonies when their housekeeper found the bag of gems. I couldn't get that specific scene, so this will have to do.


Here's Mama Fratelli getting her head sploded with a basketball... and grooving to the latest headless club anthem



These unfortunate man-babies live among us, invisible to the untrained eye. But if you learn how to spot them from a distance, it is possible to outwit them, thus saving you from the horrors of being locked in a damp, fetid basement, forced to breastfeed a 300 pound Pizza Hut manager named Phil, with Rugrats blaring in the background.

Who's a pretty girl?


In between intense weightlifting sessions, Arnold spent time with his concubine, Sofia



Weeeeeeeeeee!
via Jar Jar Sphinx, origin unknown



Brian Posehn's finest moment from Mr. Show

I Killed Radio Raheem

Before I get to the pleasant portions of this past weekend's trip to Wisconsin, I must rehash some grisly business first. Before Lindsay and I headed to her friend's Wisconsin lake house, we had to drop the dog off at her family's house, because canines have been outlawed in Wisconsin since an Animal Farm-like rebellion pitted man against dog in 1938.

In fact, this is the only dog allowed in the state, and he is an interminable prick. Someone please shoot this dog in the face before he shits on your blankets and disappears, forcing you to explain why 17 pounds of brown corn are resting on the guest room bed.
All praise be to brendan donnelly for the pic.



When we let the dog out into the backyard, Lindsay spotted an injured robin struggling in the grass.
(Photo of robin not actually in grass, but still struggling, no? Little fucker can't even do a pullup)


Possessing a higher tolerance for avian suffering than most, I felt it my duty to take a closer look at the robin, who I shall hereby call Radio Raheem.

Radio Raheem wasn't looking so hot. He was stretching his legs spastically without coordination, he was plummeting forward as if his head was heavier than the rest of his body, and was spreading his wings randomly. My diagnosis: Radio Raheem is fucked.

Lindsay handed me a towel to pick him up with, because we all know that towels are barriers to contamination. So I held Raheem up and gently thrust him skyward about 4 feet off the ground. Radio Raheem fell like a rock. He fell like he wasn't aware that at one time, he could fly. Something had gone terribly wrong inside his feathered little head, and there was nothing that could be done to cure him.


Lindsay suggested that we take him to the vet, but after some deliberation, we both agreed that the vet would probably just put the bird down. It would waste time and prolong the agony of poor Radio Raheem. I had to take care of it myself.

Lindsay went back in the house, unwilling to witness the bloodshed I had to inflict upon the brainsick bird. I figured a big, heavy rock dropped upon his head would be the swiftest method of euthanasia, and also because I didn't want to stomp Radio Raheem, leaving bird viscera coating my kicks.

As the rock hovered above his head, I told Radio Raheem that I was sorry it had come to this. I hesitated in dropping the killing rock, and tried to conjure up any past instances in which I partook in wildlife murder. I drew a blank. The only things I've ever killed were insects and my chances of getting laid.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and dropped the rock. I heard a minor thud and looked down to see if Radio Raheem had been assassinated. The killing rock had struck its target and the bird was dead. I killed Radio Raheem.

It's okay, though. Radio Raheem is in heaven now, kickin' it with triple faced Jesus.


I took hold of Radio Raheem using a plastic bag and placed him at the base of a tree in a wooded area behind the house. Later that night, I recounted my ordeal at the lake house. Lindsay's friend pointed out that due to its obvious neurological impairment, perhaps Radio Raheem had West Nile. This freaked everyone out a little, but it's been 5 days and I'm fine.

And that's how my weekend began. Luckily, the rest of the weekend was slaughter-free. Not even a wolf decapitation.

Hey Kid, Want Some Candy?

I hate kids, with exceptions for Kid from Kid 'n Play and the movie Kids. They're loud, obnoxious, need movie plots explained, and can't take a punch. And they get upset too easily, like when when a perfectly nice guy with dreadlocks tries to abduct them. For fuck's sake, grow up!


Every time I look at my testicles, no doubt chock full of my potent seed, I contemplate what would happen if I were to impregnate a purdy woman. The consequences of my fertilization would be far reaching and catastrophic to my current lifestyle, which resembles an episode of DuckTales.

It would be very hard for me to let go of that, especially for a little turd that would probably try to murder me when he's 15. But that's if the kid lives to be 15. The booby trapped playpen and general neglect will likely finish him off by the time he turns 3. And the fact that I'm gonna name him Dracula will surely make his school days difficult. The downside would be that if he survives my terrorism, then he is probably tougher and more cunning than me, thus leaving me open to the classic cobra in the pillowcase trick. He'll hover over me as I convulse and curl into a death ball, cobra venom coursing through my veins, and he'll laugh a hearty laugh knowing that justice has been served.

This is a warning to my future son, Dracula. Take note, son:







Lord give me the strength to think of something else when I look at my slightly larger left nut and its lil' buddy to the right. Sheeeeeit... I might as well resign myself to the fact that I'll eventually have more kids than Ol' Dirty Bastard.


But maybe, just maybe...my kids will turn out to be as cool as these little fuckers. Just looking at 'em gives me a shred of hope.

Where All The White Bitches At?

Just got back from Wisconsin, and I got the pictures to prove it...but I'm gonna hold off on a definitive Wisconsin adventure post until tomorrow, when I'm not tired and covered with a glistening layer of bratwurst froth. Let me just say that one anecdote is about how I had to kill a seriously afflicted bird with a big rock. I'm not kidding.

On a lighter note...
China Syndrome Pt.2





Hot dogs, the end.

Friday Smorgasbord

Going to Wisconsin on a search and destroy mission this weekend, so no posts until Sunday night. I apologize to both of my fans.


Uhhhhhhhhhhhh


Ummmmmmmmmmmm



"Ahh, yes! Lord Kragnor, as always, it is an honor. Might I remark that you smell like Lunchables this evening?"



This is why I own 14 cats, because their primal hissing and overwhelming shrieks sooth my weary bones and enable me to sit back with an English muffin and some jam and just shit all over my bed.
Via Delicious Ghost



You had me at cauldron tits




Honky Tonk Badonkadonk absolutely hilarious video. It even has that thing that country singers do nowadays where they talk over the music, like it's a fucking fireside chat with the listener. Credit goes to Brandon "BIDI" from Missouri for the find.



Blob dog Blob dog Blob dog blob dog blobdog bloodbog dog bag bog dog blood bad dog blob



It's nice to treat yourself to a vacation once in a while.


See all y'all soon. I'll be back Sunday.

Banksy Unmasked

So, maybe you heard the news already, but graffiti artist Banksy's true identity was reported to have been revealed. Whether or not it's true is besides the point. I hate to see the fog lifted on an artist who wishes to remain anonymous. Banksy's elusiveness gives him power, as his artwork takes the spotlight instead of him (although some may disagree).

I could give a shit if Banksy is a middle class schmuck, a diabetic rabbi, or a Bangladeshi mechanic. Being financially comfortable doesn't diminish the impact of one's art. And to gleefully unmask him is kind of tacky. I have the utmost respect for anyone who can successfully create a mythical persona, because that shit is hard to keep up. It's hard enough trying to hide your true awfulness to a girl at the start of a relationship. I struggle to get past the first date without showing a girl all of my knives and 47 copies of CB4.


Banksy revealed to be...

...Michael Jackson Thriller Zombie




I feel the same way about the Unabomber, who is slightly less cool than Banksy, but has a bigger fatality count.





My favorite

Suge Knight and James Earl Jones R BFF

Tomorrow, Banksy's identity revealed

Estelle Getty, R.I.P.

Estelle Getty, of The Golden Girls fame, died this morning at a local White Castle. She was 84. My babysitter used to watch The Golden Girls instead of keeping an eye on me, and for that, I was grateful. Estelle Getty, you will be missed.

At least we can rest assured knowing that she will be reunited in heaven with her lover, Brad Renfro, who died earlier this year. Watch out for that wily Jimmy Stewart, you rascals!




Remember Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot? I don't.



Estelle Getty workout video remix



After Jeep conversion surgery, she just wasn't the same Estelle



This picture of her was taken just before she died. Still sassy!