Friday, December 30, 2005

The "Be Safe" Phenomenon

Three years ago you could go to the grocery store and people couldn't give two shits whether or not you survived the drive there. Sadly, those days are no more. Now everybody is suddenly concerned that you may not make it. Pretty soon you'll be wearing a neon-orange vest to take a shit. Housekeepers will be paid an extra twenty-two cents to taste-test Girl Scout Cookies and Pepsi One for poison. Due to the rising demand, helmets will sell for hundreds of dollars and quality blowjobs. Soccer moms will wear bullet proof vests during their afternoon pussy-licking sessions with the other neighborhood wives whose husbands work too much. Everybody will be strapped. And we'll all have this little phrase to thank: "Be safe."

"Be safe" has sidled its way into our goodbyes and I'm afraid that it's here to stay. What bothers me is, unlike media violence, I doubt this is something I will ever become desensitized to. That means it will be joining the likes of Mormons, people who get offended too easily, and Joey Gladstone on my list of shit I should make an effort to tolerate. Should make an effort to tolerate. That's like saying I should try to make less jokes about those fat bitches that putter around Wal-Mart on the courtesy motorcarts, stinking up the whole damn ride with their old Tweety Bird shirts and aqua-green sweatpants.

It won't fucking happen.

No. "Be safe" has to be stopped. Safety has never been cool. I don't care what McGruff and Smokey and signs at amusement parks and neighborhood swimming pools have to say; safety is a hassle and it makes you look like a bitch. Remember when you were little and learning how to ride a bike and your parents bought you all those pointless neon-colored pads and that huge fucking helmet? What did that helmet do for you? Did you fall head first against a mailbox? No, you didn't (if you did then stop reading. You're hurting my argument). I bet that helmet is sitting in some box in your garage right now. It would cry if it could, but it can't. It's a fucking bike helmet. "But Jeff, what about motorcycle safety?" When your pink Huffy with the tassles on the handlebars can do speeds upwards of 100 mph then a helmet is acceptable, but that's only so you don't get a mouthful of insects. Insects don't splatter on your face when you're chasing down the Good Humor man at 5 mph. Especially if you still use training wheels. Especially if those training wheels have My Little Ponies painted on them.



But I'm not just talking about bike safety; I'm talking about safety in general. Next time somebody asks to borrow your pair of scissors, hand it to him blade first. Don't double-knot your shoes. Frequently change the radio station when you're on the freeway during rush hour. Jump in an elevator (that shit is scary). Sit too close to the TV. Play Goonies II on Nintendo until you develop blisters and then play Super Mario Bros 2. Cross the street without looking EITHER way. Try to pet a mean-looking dog. Drink household products in the cabinet with the Mr. Yukmouth sticker on it. Refer to a black person as your "nigga." Share needles. Skin your knee and don't show your mother. Drop in on a half-pipe with no skateboarding experience. Watch the movie Twister. Don't have an adult check your Halloween candy before you eat it. Have unprotected anal sex with someone who coughs a lot and gets jealous when you mention your high T-cell count. Forget to wear your raincoat.

Be UNsafe. Do it for spite. The next time somebody tells you to "Be safe", tell that person, "No. You can't tell me how to act." They're not your parents, so why do they think they're the boss of you?

You especially need to watch out for the people who try to sound cool when they tell you to "Be safe." Sometimes these people wear their hats backwards, sometimes they don't. Maybe they'll offer you a candy cigarette. In that case, use the broken record method. These people want to be your friends, but they want to be your friends for the wrong reason. They want to be your friends so they can say "Be safe" and sound cool. How will they do this? By attaching the words bro, buddy, pal, or man to the end: Be safe, bro... Be safe, buddy... Be safe, pal... Be safe, man... Tricky, aren't they?


Make it known that you're a fan of horseplay and swimming in the deep end without your floaties (or milk jugs if you happen to be from a poor family). Don't be bullied by people who are concerned with your well-being.

But what are you supposed to do if they don't stop bothering you? Endanger others, preferably a little brother or sister or the neighborhood kid with shit and piss running down his legs like the Jamaican track team. This is by far the quickest way to get somebody off your back. I recommend pushing the stinky kid really high on a swing. So high that he starts to cry because he realizes that the situation he's in is no longer safe. Your front deltoids (those are shoulder muscles) may get tired, but it's important that you keep pushing until a concerned adult comes along to save the day and yell at you. This is when you tell that adult to go fuck himself. Pull out a comb and run it through your hair if you really want to get your point across.

The more you practice, the better you'll get. Pretty soon people won't even want to say bye to you. But no goodbyes means no "Be safe's." That's a victory in my book. Now go take a shit and leave your neon-orange vest in the closet. A pussy may need to use it.

Meet the Girls of Elimidate!

Wan... doo... tree... ELIMIDATE! The dating show for young professionals... that's if you're a secretary, bartender, student, or just wear a tie to your job like those mall kiosk cell phone assholes who try to convince everybody they're real salesmen (what an accomplishment). Now I searched the internet (first page of Google results) to see if something like this has already been done and I didn't see anything so I said fuck it. I'll write this shit. I may eventually do a "Meet the Guys!" type of thing, but I'm not sure.

I need to establish my credentials before I write this out: I used to watch this fucking show every day. I used to skip Astronomy class my sophomore year to watch it at my friend's dorm in the afternoon and I then I'd watch more of this piece of shit at night. There, I said it. Before I begin I want to posit this little tidbit: I don't think this show is taped anywhere but the prolapsed anus that is the Jersey shore. Maybe Newark too. Don't be fooled by the exterior shots of cities like San Diego, Seattle, and St. Louis. They're merely the freelance masturbation of local struggling film students who spend most of their time in java houses discussing Fellini and being douchebags. I apologize for using so many gerunds in the preceding paragraph (and the two in this sentence).

All that being said, I'd like to present you with MY version of the Elimidate caricatures (I mean archetypes). Keep in mind they can be mixed and matched, but these, for the most part, are the usual suspects you can expect to find on any given episode of Elimidate (except for the black episodes, but those are boring anyway... no, I'm not being racist... shut up).


The Prude

"I'm not going to do anything my mother can't watch." She wastes no time starting arguments. Her insults usually revolve around the other girls's outfits while she constantly asserts her chastity and high quality of character, even though she's in a fucking bikini top with her labia hanging out of her daisy dukes like warm wax candy. The Prude often makes it to the final round, only to be chosen over the Blonde Lush or Obnoxious Minority, who in their infinite stupidity have somehow realized that the greasy guido motherfucker in the black tanktop didn't sign up for the show to find his fucking soulmate. Or maybe they're just sluts. The Prude often uses her final video interview to say something to the extent of "He could've had all this, but he picked the one night stand." Don't be fooled; the Prude is haunted by second thoughts of what might have happened if she made out with Vincent in the rooftop hot tub or VIP room. Maybe she should re-evaluate her "I don't kiss on the first date" or, alternatively, her "No thanks. I don't do sloppy seconds" policy. Seriously, who has the fucking time?


Little Miss Taciturn

This sneaky little bitch of varying attraction (usually kind of average-looking) tries to play it cool during the first round catfights in order to create the illusion that she's sweet and pleasant (A+ strategy, you dumb bitch). She's quickly forgotten when the other girls won't shut the fuck up and is the first to be cut. Regardless of how she actually feels about the dude who sent her packing, she will use her last video interview as an opportunity to dog him and say something along the lines of "I wasn't feeling him AT ALL. I'm glad it's over because now I have the rest of the day to go find a real man." What she really means is she has the rest of the day to sit in a fucking coffee shop and call her friends to tell them how the guy "wasn't even cute" and how the other girls are all sluts ("if he wants them he can have them!"). She'd be singing a different tune if she took some initiative.


Mom

She's on the show to prove men still find her attractive. The oldest one of the group, she's usually blonde and a proud mother of a bastard child (probably named Matty or Mikey). Sit back and enjoy while the other girls tear her apart for being in her late twenties, something to which she often responds with, "No, sweetie. I'm just more experienced, thank you." She's usually knocked out in one of the first two rounds and ends up at another bar down the street so as not to let that full day of child care she paid for go to waste. Kind of like going to a fast food restaurant with a friend so you can use your last two coupons. Don't forget the Sunny D on the way home.


The Lush

Character development on a dating show? Surely you jest. Well, I jest you fucking not. This timid little vixen (also usually blonde) starts off as a potential front-runner for Little Miss Taciturn, only to transform into a sorority girl once she gets a few drinks in her system. Angelo purposefully mistakes her drunken antics for a fun and lovable personality so he doesn't have to slip her a roofie later in case she suddenly doesn't feel like getting reamed. As the rounds progress, she starts to trip over herself and burp and develop a case of bi-curiousness. If you're lucky, her behavior may uncover the latent lesbian desires one of the other girls has bottled up inside. Sensing a potential threesome, Luigi will convince them to makeout for a few seconds. If the girls stop showering him with attention and begin to show more interest in one another, he will cut the one that is least likely to sleep with him. In most cases, the Lush wins because there are less roadblocks to her vagina.


Obnoxious Minority

Usually a Latina or a JAP who wishes she was a Latina. She signed on for the free alcohol and the Lebanese dude who pretends he's Italian. This bitch is looking to start a fight with anybody who doesn't respect her tough-talking persona. She likes to pretend she's "being real" or "telling it how it is" and expects the other girls to fear her. Her favorite phrase is "You don't know me." Look for her to shout it while she stereotypes her competition. She usually ends up in the final round with the Lush or the Prude. If she's pitted against the Lush then Mr. Jersey Shore 2005 will host a kissing contest. The loser gets to leave the hot tub or VIP room. The winner gets to suck his greasy dick when the cameras leave.


Fugly

Scenario: You're watching the opening lineup to see what the girls look like. Suddenly you feel your face twist and contort like you just made love to a fat chick whose favorite condiment is Ranch dressing. Fugly did that. You can't wrap your mind around how the fuck she got on this show. I'll tell you how: she mistakingly showed up to the Elimidate offices to audition for the new reality series Sideshow and the producers cast her anyway. Fugly almost always makes it to the second round. Why? Because fucking A.J. or Lorenzo wants everybody to think he's not shallow, so he cuts Little Miss Taciturn instead. In turn, Fugly becomes the Little Miss Taciturn of round two while the Lush and Prude (or Obnoxious Minority) battle it out. Fugly's not surprised when she gets booted. She's just happy she wasn't cut first and, as a result, says something nice in her final video interview. In her mind she almost won. In ours she belongs on Sideshow.


Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Eight Cartoon Bitches That Would Get Run Through


8. The Pink Snork

Imagine the blowjobs you could get from that shit on her head. Her pigtails are sexy too. What's the snork-to-human scale? Is she plankton? I fucking hope not. How is she ice skating if her home is in the sea? She's not amphibious, is she? I hope she falls... on my dick... Just kidding!



7. The Plump Chipette Theodore is Supposed To Screw

I think her name is Eleanor. Not sure. Don't care. She has the lowest self-esteem out of all the Chipettes. Throw her a few "You're beautiful's" and "I can't believe you don't have a boyfriend's" and she's yours. She may be a little on the thick side (girl you thicky thick!) but she's not really fat. Still, when compared to the all-American Brittany and sexy librarian Jeanette, Eleanor doesn't have a niche. She likes sweets and probably still listens to Hanson. I have no doubt in my mind that she's willing to try new things. Anything it takes to one-up her sisters. Ask her to sneak out of the house when David Seville is babysitting. He can't keep track of everybody.


6. Sonja

I tend not to fuck around with spoiled rich girls (or is it that they tend not to fuck around with me?), but this pampered bitch is all about slumming with the underprivileged. Her resident penis, Heathcliff, is one bad motherfucker. HNIC. He's got the block locked down. Shit, even humans are afraid of him and his potential for merckdom. Sonja's master doesn't want her fucking around with a hood cat like that, but she does anyway. She's like Timothy Dalton's homely daughter in Beautician and the Beast, except Sonja is hot. She'll go to bat and catch a case for a nigga, and that's an admirable trait. If you wear a leather jacket and comb your hair a lot, or if you have cornrows, then Sonja may be purr-fect for you (ahhahahahah!).



5. April O'Neil

Auto mechanic or cock hungry nympho? You decide. She does have one hell of a body on her. It's a shame that Channel 6 News insists she covers it up with a yellow jumpsuit. I always thought she was a bit plain in the face. Maybe a lot of people don't watch Channel 6. Maybe Channel 6 News is like the news on the local CBS stations in every city (those anchors are hurting!) Regardless, April O'Neil is desperate for some dick, and I like that. She's easier than a spelling test in an ESL class (as long as English isn't your second language). Apparently that turns a lot of guys off, because I don't think this bitch has ever been on a date. I can't blame the dudes, though. Who wants to date a female that spends her spare time in a sewer? I think the Ninja Turtles are even ashamed at how much of a loser she is. But that's what's so good about her. Nobody else wants her so she's yours by default. Take advantage of her inability to get along with humans. Understand her pain and loneliness and preference for amphibians and she's yours.



4. Babs Bunny

Lapine and underage, I still don't give a fuck. Babs has personality. She's like a pink, rabbit version of Sarah Silverman (who is so fucking sexy). I really don't think Babs's real comedy genius had a chance to shine through on Tiny Toons since it was for kids and all. She could have been real fucking raunchy given the proper venue. Babs is the type of girl who has trouble procuring dick. She's got the looks, but her persona tends to scare guys away (not me). This leads me to believe Babs probably has the largest collection of Acme Dildos this side of Roger Rabbit's asshole. She probably has an anvil sybian too. The good thing about Babs is she's not willing to compromise her personality and sense of humor for some beef root. Stick around when everybody else doesn't and you can hide your carrot in her cave. Maybe she'll do her radical impression of Phyllis Diller.



3. Princess Jasmine

I've always wanted to get with an Indian chick. Wait. Is she Indian? I'm digging on those big brown, will-be-polite-for-some-peasant-dick eyes of hers. And that ponytail too. I'm all about some brunettes with ponytails. I guarantee that every dude in Agrabah has beat it to her at least once. Even the dude that wanted to cut off her hand. Even Abu. The only problem I might have with her is her background. Indian, Arab, whatever, there's a weird smell to them that I can't see myself getting used to. I guarantee the fucking palace smells like curry or fresh martyrdom. All those spices and limbs might throw off my performance. Plus Raja, her tiger, may not want to leave the chamber while I'm trying to shove my scepter into her throne room. I can't fuck when pets are watching. I don't like it when Rover is panting while I plow his master. Is he getting horny? Is he thinking about dog stuff, like eating his own shit? I don't know. Now imagine that shit with a tiger. Iago the parrot could enter at any moment too. Fuck that.


2. Gadget

First off, I just want to say this: Gadget is a fucking slut. Chip, Dale, Monterey Jack (chee-eee-eeeseee!), the swoll green fly motherfucker -- they've all had a piece. When she's not getting dick from them she's screwing herself with her tail. She tries to play it off like she's one of the guys, tries to hide those sexy eyes of hers in her work, but she's not fooling anybody. Those goggles on her head aren't for protection when she's welding bondage devices out of paper clips; they're for role-playing. Sick, twisted, rodent role-playing. They also protect her eyes from bukkake. She'd let Fat Cat hit it from the back if he wouldn't try to eat her afterwards (literally, you perverts). As easy as she is, she still manages to retain that innocent quality. I chalk that up to the superb editing. The Rescue Rangers production team could release a compilation of deleted scenes and win a fucking AVN Award. Gadget is a shoo-in for Starlet of the Year (fuck you, Jenna Haze).



1. Ursula

"So, Jeff. Why Ursula?" Well, I'll tell you why. Yes, she may be a little on the fugly side, but beauty is only a few thousand leagues below. She has a small thyroid problem (girl you thick! you thicky thicky thick!), but that's negligible because she has eight legs. Eight legs. Eight fucking legs. That means FOUR SEPARATE VAGINAS. And since her whole lower body is an octopus, I'm willing to bet that her kegel muscles could break one of those professional grade hand-grip exercisers in half. You don't have to worry about doing anal with a chick like that.

Ursula's also a bit older, but she's still ambitious. She almost took the entire ocean from the miserly King Triton. Ambition is sexy. So is financial stability, which is what Ursula has. I'm willing to barter my young and ready body for a few of her sand dollars (ahhahahahaha! get it?). It'd be a fair trade. And shit, even if she isn't rich, at least I won't go hungry. I bet she could catch me more fish than fucking Captain Gorton. Ursula can also transform herself into a hot, olive-skinned brunette of Mediterranean descent (witchcraft, cuz!). This means lots of nude tanning on the beaches of Greece and Cyprus.


I don't doubt she can swim very fast. If we're just chilling somewhere in the Pacific Ocean and we suddenly have the urge to take a vacation in Chile, I could ride on her back while she jets us through the ocean at lightning speed. Then, when we get there, she can morph into her ultra hot land-roving body. See, that's what's good about Ursula: the best of both worlds. If I'm in the mood for a fat chick I can bone her in the sea. If I'm in the mood for a hot, tan brunette, I can be her land lubber (hahahahhahahah! omigod, I'm good!).

Either way, I'm getting laid.

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

Bluetooth Shitnology


We're all just so fucking impressed that you think you're important enough to wear this Matchbox car-looking piece of shit on your head all day. Are you a receptionist? Are you a CEO? Are you an agent? Are you a borg from Star Trek: The Next Generation? No. You're the guy standing in line at Chipotle who hasn't received a phone call in the past two and a half hours. You're the same dude that paid out the ass for a Mini Cooper when the Italian Job came out a few summers ago, rode the ever-loving shit out of it, and then traded it in for a major loss. That shit on your ear is the equivalent of circling the mall parking lot and blasting Nelly's "Ride Wit Me" on repeat. But it's cool, man. No beef... no beef.

So what does it do, homie?... Are you serious?... You mean all you have to do is say "Call Fuckface" twice so that the awesome voicewave nanotechnology can verify that you do in fact want to call Fuckface and then that pack of 25 cent gum on your ear will phone Fuckface while your hands are left free to pick your nose or re-adjust your balls?... No way, dawg. I don't believe it... Okay, okay... Does it come in different designs, like Sonic the Hedgehog's razor-sharp back?... Just futuristic colors like ice blue?... That sucks... Can it blink like those black velcro shoes that retarded kids wear?... Dude, why not?

Do you toggle the volume a lot when pretty girls walk by so it looks like you're trying to hear somebody with a bad connection?... I know. Maybe they'll notice you next time and want to fuck you because you look important and cool with that game piece from Mouse Trap stuck to your large ear. I really think it will happen for you, dude. Really, I do.

One more thing... Eat shit.

Monday, December 26, 2005

Lower Back Tattoos


Having a tattoo on your lower back is like having a trucker cap sewn to your head: they're both artifacts that are going to be a bitch to get rid of. Remember when you got the Rachel haircut from Friends? It was cute, wasn't it? It got old, didn't it? You wouldn't get it now, would you? Well guess what? You have a fucking Rachel-cut inked into your flesh and it's not going to grow out.

Shit's old now, girls. It's been old. In fact, it was almost gone until Vince Vaughn brought it up in Wedding Crashers. He breathed another year of life into it. So go out and wear your pants low and your shirts high. Get that mileage, because the furrowed brows and regret will soon follow. Laser surgery is expensive. You'll be wishing you were James Bond in the movie Goldfinger, only turned over on your stomach so the laser can vaporize that curled, flowery, iron-looking thing above your ass.

Guys are to blame for calling it a tramp stamp or, after Wedding Crashers (which isn't half as fucking funny as everybody says it is), a bulls-eye. It's neither. Be creative. Make up your own little names for them. So far I've come up with slut barcode and Tara Reid. Both are fitting.

Here's a list of other unoriginal tattoos that girls will continue to get:

Roses
Cherries
Paw prints
White trash nicknames in cursive lettering (ie Angel)
Butterflies
Ladybugs
Their boyfriend's name

I just want to say one more thing. Girls, if you have a lower back tattoo, every guy with a functioning dick thinks he can sleep with you. You could be a Christian mermaid who makes straight As. Dudes are still going to expect you to spread your flipper even though you're incapable of doing so. Some guys will say this is a lie, but it's not. You may be classy. You may be prude. But Tara Reid isn't.

Don't act surprised.

Saturday, December 24, 2005

Santa didn't die for your XBox 360...


... Jesus did. And I think that's thoughtful of him. I'll give him a shoutout from home while the rest of the family goes to church. Why? Because it's boring and I've had to go my whole life. It started out with just Sunday school. The whole thing was bad news from the start. I hated my classmates. So fucking pious and at such an early age. Dorks. All of them. Goody goodies. Fuck that shit. We had these cheap workbooks and we had to do homework. I didn't want to do homework. I wanted to watch Snick and eat junk food. I'd end up acting out in class. My stepmother was actually my third grade Sunday school teacher. My Dad met her because I was unruly.

Then, when I was older, I had to go to church after Sunday school. My Mom says it was because my Dad wanted to show the judge he was a good father (Divorce, baby!), but I think he had more genuine motives. Still, I used to get punished if I didn't go to church. My Dad would hide the Nintendo controllers and then I'd find them and then he'd hide the whole fucking console. Somehow I had trouble finding that. So usually I ended up at church because Street Fighter II just kicked so much ass (Ken, Guile, and Zangief in particular). Years of that soured me from organized religion. Ironically, I never really developed a relationship with God because everybody kept pushing him on me. Even to this day he is being shoved down my fucking throat. Ever been told you're going to burn in hell by a laconic, doe-eyed brunette? Yeah, me too.

Sometimes I feel like an average-looking white girl who has bad luck with relationships, and my BFF (the one who talks behind my back) keeps telling me she's got the perfect guy to hook me up with. Except we don't have anything in common and he's Asian and insists that we talk on IM a whole bunch before we actually see each other.

I think that, for the most part, I do believe in God. I really fucking hope there's an afterlife because I do not want to go to sleep forever. Have you ever had a dreamless sleep? That shit is scary. Imagine that for billions of hours. You won't know you're dead. You won't wake up. You get a certain amount of years and that's it? Jesus Christ. I really fucking hope there is a God. I really do.

As far as heaven goes, I think that God knows whether you're a good or bad person. Don't let these hardcore fundamentalist sons-of-bitches sit here and sell you their little four step or five step plan to becoming another blank-minded soldier of Christ. If Jesus died on the cross for your sins then why the hell are you not taking advantage of that? I'm not saying you have to murder people, but do something. Don't completely deprive yourself of temptation. There's no point. If Adam and Eve hadn't fucked up then I'd say, "Okay, fine. Don't eat fruit." But they did fuck up. Don't let Jesus's death be in vain... Or do you get bonus points if you don't sin? Is it like a flawless victory in Mortal Kombat? Do you get a more comfortable recliner in heaven if you convert so many heathens and/or skeptics? Do you get backstage passes to the Mercy Me concert?

It's hard to take these bastards seriously with websites like http://www.getsavedtoday.com:

"Look, I really have to make quota by the end of the month and you're not going to get a sweeter deal than this. No money down and 0% APR. You can't beat that. I'll even throw in the Tru Coat for free. They install it at the factory and -"

I don't want the Tru Coat.

"Yeah, but this Tru Coat. I'm tellin' ya. It's a sweet deal... Whaddaya say? Brand new soul, brand new ideology, one low price."

How much?

"Your life up until now."

Fuck that, Lundegaard.

P.S. - I googled that picture. If it offends you then please take 1000 cc's of "chill the fuck out." It's just a picture.


Merry Christmas!

Random thought...

Corky did it!
As you probably know by now, I think about the dumbest shit on a regular basis. Keeping with this theme, I was zoned out today at work when it hit me:

A retarded, blind, deaf, half black, half Cherokee female in a wheelchair who makes pretty decent grades and comes from a low income, inner city family would probably qualify for every scholarship under the sun.

Talk about some fucking opportunity. She would have no excuse to not be a nuclear physicist or president of the Motts Apple Juice Corporation.

Thursday, December 22, 2005

Chris Brown... Jesus H.

Is it already time for a new Usher? What the fuck happened to Ray J? Omarion? Nick Cannon? Lil' Romeo? Lil' Bow Wow? Mario? Marques Houston? The black kid from Sister Act 2?... What's that you say? They're all too old to be marketed to black tweens and overweight white girls? Ah! No fucking wonder.

Meet Chris Brown, the latest piece of R&B shit birthed from the bowels of the music industry. Only sixteen years old, this brash motherfucker is already crooning about clubs and hos. Sixteen. He can't even get into a fucking club without a parent or legal guardian or P. Diddy. He probably still has a subscription to Highlights magazine. With any luck he'll be consumed by his superstardom, grow some inner demons, and take the Oedipal route to coping, gouging his eye out like fellow R&B hype Houston. Mark my words -- this kid will be a fucking pastor within the next six years. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Right now, Chris Brown is hot shit on a summer's day. His number-one-smash-hit-single-club-banger-head-nodder-put-a-gun-in-your-mouther Run it! has raped the airwaves and roofied many sets of ears into consent. Even mine (but that's only so I can cry about it). You've probably heard this shit blaring from Escalades and tricked out Fast and the Furious cars for a hot fucking minute now. The dickheads bumping this shit from their two-million watt systems (The bitches love it, yo!) rest easy knowing that the song isn't complete pop or R&B. After all, Dipset's own Juelz Santana peppers the track with street cred and phat bars like "I know what girls want. I know what they like. They wanna stay up and party all night." Obviously Santana is practicing "method-rapping" and taking on the persona of a father of a daughter who's having a slumber party. Savvy move.

According to various Chris Brown fansites, he's not like the rest. He's not an image. He just happens to fit an archetypical role -- the braggadocio R&B/hip-pop hybrid. But hey, that's a coincidence... right? Let's take a look at his tracklist:

Intro
Run It
Yo (Excuse Me Miss)
Young Love
Gimme That
Ya Man Ain't Me
Winner
Ain't No Way (You Won't Love Me)
What's My Name?
Is This Love?
Poppin'
Just Fine
Say Goodbye
Run It! (Remix)
Thank You

Apparently Chris writes his own songs (I'm not fucking surprised). Does that mean the studio sends him the topics to write about? All the requisite genre songs are there. A few "You gone be mine, girl" tracks. The "My fans is ill" track. A "young G on the come up" track. Some "You my wifey" songs. And, of course, more club-banging dance shit, most likely featuring fucking Slim Thug or T.I. (they're on EVERYTHING).

But Chris isn't like the rest. He's not from Hotlanta or the Dirty Dirty or Des Moines, Iowa. He's from the burg of Tappahannock, Virginia. This means he has morals. This means that when the big time begins to take its toll, he can return home and unwind. Pet his dog or some shit. Enjoy mom's home cooking. Go back to his old high school and sign autographs for the "real" people who appreciate him for his personality. After all, he used to be one of them before some record executive realized he was good-looking enough to mold into a product.

Chris already has another over-produced single out that's starting to pick up major airplay on MTV and BET. He spends the whole video dancing on a basketball court in the hood. I don't know what song it is, but there's a very attractive girl checking him out and smiling, not sure if she should go up and talk to him. And what the fuck does Chris Brown do? He keeps dancing and repeating the chorus. Even when her friends make her leave, he dances into the backseat of her Escalade (Daddy must be a rapper). She wants to give him a kiss. Sorry, bitch, I'm singing the same fucking chorus again. Wait 'till I'm done. If you guys know me then you know that one thing I can't stand is the part in rap videos where some thugged-out flavor-of-the-moment whispers in some slut's ear while she grinds up against him. EVERY rap video has that part and now Chris Brown has one upped-them and it's even WORSE.

But he's just keeping it real. He's just KIRing it. Until this single fails. And his next album. He'll be lucky if the Disney Channel picks him up to sing with the fucking Cheetah Girls.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

MTV's "My Sweet Sixteen"


I often joke with my friends about having a "kill somebody" pass, wherein every member of society is allowed to get away with one murder. Up until now I figured I'd end up taking a blade to Ashton Kutcher or one of those Real World dickheads, but MTV's "My Sweet Sixteen" has shown me the light. After mere seconds of exposure, I was relegated to these three words and these three words only: Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Before I tread any further, let me hit you with a little backstory. This show follows bitchy, ugly, dumb, spoiled, loud, foul, slutty, ugly, ho-ish, overweight, Veruca Salt-ish teenage girls as they prepare for the omigah! greatest party of their lives. These little whores are beyond rich. $10,000 stylists. $50,000 cars. $150,000 parties. They don't appreciate shit, yet their parents will not stop showering them with gifts. The show isn't a bit entertaining. It's your utter disgust for everybody on camera that keeps you watching. You burn with hatred for these girls. You want to see them slip on banana peels. You want ACME anvils to fall on their heads. You want them to get shot with trumpet-ended Elmer Fudd rifles.

Enough backstory?


This is the girl I watched today. Her name is Jazmin (the Z is in case she ever needs to strip). It looks like somebody took a vise and squished her face down. If she jumped into a time machine and went back to the late 80s, she could have been an extra in the movie "Willow." Apparently she used to be in foster care until she was adopted by a purse and a wallet that she now calls Mommy and Daddy. This brings to mind the movie "Free Willy," starring that piece of shit Jason James Richter. The character arcs are similar, except the little shit in "Free Willy" has the moxie to enlist the help of one our nation's last remaining Native Americans (the dude from Renegade) to steal a whale that doesn't belong to him. Jaz's (isn't that soooo cute?) parents would have bought her Willy. See the similarities?

Anyway, the whole episode this bitch is flanked by her brace-faced friends who nod and giggle at everything she says. These are the same types of girls who buy shit from Abercrombie just so they can hold the bag while they walk through the mall. These girls want to be VIPs at Jaz's party and they want it so omigah! bad. They pander without knowing it. The one that actually does show a shred of personality (don't exhaust yourself, gurl!) is cast aside, the new pariah of the group. So what does she do? She cries. Her BFF is gone and no amount of smiles and hugs and "you look so hawt's!" can bring her back.

So how does it end? Well, Jaz has a "way phat" party and ends up driving off in her brand new BMW Roadster with a boy in the passenger's seat who she'll end up giving bad head to while he closes his eyes and tries to think of popularity and the puckered assholes of his JV football teammates ("States, baby!"). Meanwhile, Ms. Personality realizes that drama just isn't for her. It makes people mean and people shouldn't be mean; they should be chill.

There are no lessons here. As much as I hate MTV for giving no-name assholes celebrity status (Fuck you, Tek Money), this show is edited just the way it should be. Even though the show shouldn't even fucking exist, I applaud it for perpetuating the spoiled brat stereotype. Not one moment is captured when the little bitches aren't being greedy or jealous or hedonistic. Jaz's rags-to-riches story hasn't humbled her one bit. If she ever gets run over by a car it had better be an expensive one. Her blood is too good to be spattered all over the windshield of some '92 Subaru Legacy with a rear-left wheel that occasionally acts up and a moon roof that leaks when it rains.

Fuck it. I'll hit her anyway.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Marine Girlfriends


Dear Marine Girlfriends,

You are the most annoying creatures on this planet. Please shut the fuck up about how great your boyfriend is because he was too stupid to do anything else with his life. He may have his redeeming qualities, ones that don’t involve being a Marine, but I automatically hate him because you can't shut the fuck up about him. You are insecure and stupid. You would be lost without a patriotic cock and a big engagement ring. What would you talk about if you didn’t have your Marine? Laguna Beach? “Hawt” guys who work at Hollister or who have filled out an application to work at Hollister? How many magnetic yellow-ribbons are you planning to tattoo on your gas-guzzling SUV? By the way, don’t you find it ironic that your “boo” is fighting for oil and you’re using it all up?

I think it’s safe to say that you didn’t really start listening to country music until you met your “baby.” The days of ass-shaking to hip hop are over and the days of childbirth to fucking Rascal Flatts have just begun. Don’t worry, though. You’ll probably enjoy listening to “Bless the Broken Road” on repeat while you live the true American life as nothing more than a womb who likes to shop and get involved in pointless community activities like “cul-de-sac Arts and Crafts day at the Johnson's house.” Be prepared for the day that will come twenty years down the road, when an evil brown-looking person will ring your perfect doorbell and announce that he is the product of a rogue seed your husband planted in some shrouded Iraqi bitch like a flag in soil. Is there a country song for that scenario? And if so, does Toby Keith sing it?

So tell me, do you love him because of who he is or do you love him because of what he is? Would you love him if Marines weren't "in" right now? Does he have anything going for him other than being a Marine? Is he good at billiards and changing oil? I’m curious. You say you love your Marine so much and then you treat him like a caricature. Normal, smart women don’t go around spouting off their husbands’ or boyfriends’ professions. You know why? Because it’s just a fucking job. What if every woman went around saying, “My Cop” or “My Car Salesman” or “Mah Forklift Operator?” That would be fucked, would it not?

That’s it for now. By the way, Jarhead will be on DVD March 7. Pre-order it and tell everybody you did.

Fuck you,
Jeff

Monday, December 19, 2005

White Trash McDonalds vs. Minority McDonalds



I’ve pondered this for quite some time now. If I were walking down the street, singing a jingle, and my stomach fancied a cheeseburger and I came across two McDonalds sitting right next to each other – one run by minorities, the other by white trash – which one would I choose? Obviously this situation is very probable and will most likely happen to me tomorrow or sometime next week, so I must know what I would do. Here, today, now, I’m going to use those critical thinking skills of mine. I’m going to be a top-tier problem solver. Let’s split this shit up into categories, shall we? Remember, all assessments are going to be made on the assumption that I get hungry during PEAK HOURS.

Efficiency

You might as well fucking bring a lawn chair with you if you enter any of these establishments during the lunch or dinner rush. Apparently Juan or Kaydence has decided that the best way to combat the influx of assholes is to shut down all the registers except for one, which will undoubtedly be run by a Sudanese trainee who’s starting to have second thoughts about escaping genocide, or a fifteen-year-old girl with yellow bangs who can’t wait to get off the clock so she can go home, get pregnant, and smoke a carton of cigarettes in less than an hour. Either way, you’re left tapping your foot and sighing loudly.

Now let’s say you make it to the front of the line and it’s your turn to order. Fucking yay. The Sudanese trainee has been replaced with a large Hispanic woman; the fifteen-year-old with her ass-crotched manager who was probably born a Garbage Pail Kid. Personally, in this situation, I’d go with the ass-crotch. She’ll call me “hon” a whole bunch of times. The only downside to this is that when I order my milk (yes, I order milk from McDonalds) she’ll assume I mean chocolate milk. Then, when I tell her that’s not what I wanted, she’ll say, “ya want the white kind?” like she can’t understand why chocolate would take a backseat to anything (except for Doral Full Flavors). Now, if I were ordering from the large Hispanic cashier, she would say, “Meal? What kind?” No. Milk. “Mealk?” Leche. “Oh! Meallllk!” Then she turns around to get it and I realize that her tight black pants may have been a tarp or a Lycra parachute in a former life.

Still, all this considered, I’d have to choose the white trash McDonalds. Sure, at the minority McDonalds you can count the wispy mustache hairs on the Indian women in line if you get bored, but the grab bag of cultures operating the place make it hard for them to even understand each other.

Advantage: white trash McDonalds

Cleanliness

Both places will be dirty as fuck. Always. Salt will be scattered everywhere like broken dreams that never existed. Rogue ketchup squirted by some future prince or bastard child will be holding that salt in place. The workers are dirty, the customers are dirty, the food is dirty, you’re dirty. Cleanliness in a place like this can only be achieved on a dirty level. It’s like washing your asshole: it may be clean, but how clean can an asshole actually be? This being said, I choose the minority-run McDonalds. Why? Because I’ll get used to the strange smells emanating from the customers and employees. I will never ever get used to the choking stench of cigarettes being smoked indoors, something that white trash McDonalds don’t only allow, but encourage as well. Come in, vote for Bush, talk bad about colored folk, smoke from your soft packs. Fuck that shit, homie.

Advantage: minority McDonalds

Food Quality

Why the fuck did I come here again?

Advantage: McDonalds Corp.

Friendliness

Apparently these places are “Now Hiring Smiling Faces.” Maybe it’s because none of the ones they’ve hired thus far know what a fucking smile is. Look, I know your job is shitty, but don’t mislead me with those big signs in the window and the way hip “I’m lovin’ it!” advertising campaign aimed at the urban demographic (as if they didn’t eat fucking McDonalds in the first place). Here’s an idea, McDonalds: aim your advertising campaign at rich, white suburban families. Jared Fogle is kicking the shit out of that market. Target the stay-at-home moms who are slowly deconstructing minute by minute. Show salads and bottled water. Make McDonalds a post-gym destination. Lie even more.

Look, we all know McDonalds is not a happy place. No matter what the fuck you do, McDonalds will never be a happy place. The kids who have birthday parties at McDonalds always grow up to be farmers or suicide bombers. Depending on your perspective, these may be admirable professions, but I know I don’t want my illegitimate son becoming a martyr.

Since McDonalds gets about as friendly as a sack full of frowns, this category will be judged in the same vein as efficiency. Until employee warts and moles can smile and say Hi, being called “hon” is as friendly as it gets.

Advantage: white trash McDonalds

Winner: Nobody

Saturday, December 17, 2005

Drive Home

Wytheville, Virginia, birthplace of nothing. This hole-in-the-wall burg is one of those places you pass through without even knowing it fucking exists. The only reason you're aware that you're not passing through some time warp, some fucking blank canvas, is because the livestock on the side of the road look miserable. The fucking cows don't even want to graze in this ville of shit. They want to be slaughtered and consumed and shat into stained toilets and carried out to sea because Wytheville sucks cock for a living. Its main source of revenue is most likely the concession stand at the high school football games (Go Douchebags!). As you may have realized by now, I was ticketed for speeding through this fucking vortex. 80 mph. 15 over. $80 ticket. $51 processing free. $131 of my barter paper is going towards a new steeple for the town church. This will no doubt attract local teens who have nothing in their lives except for Sonic Powerade Slushies, soft packs of Marlboros, and the desire to marry and belch children from the womb.

Wytheville's Finest

Tell me this: what the fuck is the processing fee? Fuck that. I pay $51 so some big-haired bitch (probably named Tami or Doris) in a red christmas tree sweatshirt can slam a big "Fucked!" stamp into my paper. There, I've been processed.

Don't even get me started on the fuck that pulled me over. He's probably Doris's husband. Or cousin. Or both. I named him Jed. He's the type of asshole who wakes up at four in the morning to go talk to old people at the local diner because his job is "so much more" than harassing young drivers like me who are just trying to make it home for the holidays. He's such a piece of shit that I consider his children to be bastards, even though he'll probably buy them lots of wooden toys and cheap shit from the local cobbler or blacksmith for Christmas. Doris will buy him a magnetic yellow ribbon to stick to his cruiser so he can be a piece of shit and a patriot at the same time. It will go well with his W'04 sticker. Jed will buy Doris a few cartons of cigarettes and a Johnny Mnemonic DVD he got at the local Wal-Mart (which is 100 miles away). They'll all gather around the Christmas tree and think about football and country music.

One more observation: as soon as I hit Knoxville all the cars morphed into trucks with number 8 stickers (Earnhardt rules, you coloreds!) and UT stickers (Go Vols!). Then, once I got out of Knoxville, all those trucks transformed into SUVs with North Carolina license plates. They were driven by fratboys with goatees and blonde-girlfriends who are slowly realizing they're not as pretty as they think they are.

I'm tired. Goodnight... Badnight.

Friday, December 16, 2005

Jesus Fish and Douchebags


Before I post I just want you guys to know that I have now enabled comments. They are no longer disabled and drooling on themselves. Har, har... har. Anyway, here:


I have an enemy and its name is the Jesus Fish. Whether its cars, clothes, or cute little ankle tattoos that make me fucking want to vomit, every god-fearing, fag-hating, "nigger-avoiding" boy and girl is proud to wear one in the name of peace and unity. Why? Because they’re just so goddamn adorable… and they like stand for Jesus and how religious somebody is or something, you know? You know what I say? Fuck the Jesus Fish and its looped-string looking simplicity. It’s unoriginal – a symbol of ignorance and complacency. When I see a Jesus Fish I see people smiling through their teeth at choir practice, singing the same hymn over and over and over and over again: “You’re going to burn in hell if you don’t have one of theeeeeeese! Fa la la la la la, sodomize my face!”

One thing I’ve noticed is the girls who wear Jesus Fish attire (i.e. free shit left over from Bible Camp 2001) tend to be more homely and masculine, not to mention large, which poses the question: why do you love God so much if he made you so unattractive and boring? It’s hard enough for ugly girls to get attention from sober males. Couple that with the fact they don’t put out and quote Bible verses and there’s nothing left for them but Christian Rock and a fabricated sense of self-worth. And Jesus. Their lives are self-induced tautologies. You can never go full circle if you keep going in circles. Yet, they don’t care. It’s like they’re trapped in a Kindergarten class halfway through the semester – they have their friends, they know which blocks build the best shitty-looking block houses, it’s their turn to be line leader, and show and tell kicks some serious behind. Everyday is the same beautiful day, even if the sky is black and hailing boulder-sized clumps of hippo shit. I’m serious. A girl once said to me, “Great day, isn’t it?” when it was raining outside. I said, “It’s dark and rainy.” She said, “Every day God makes is beautiful. Besides, the farmers sure could use weather like this.” Then she walked away and I saw a Jesus Fish on her backpack.

What I want to know is if everything’s beautiful then what’s ugly? If everything’s beautiful then beautiful is average. Ubiquity triggers a loss of importance, of resonance – which means Jesus Fish aren’t the key to heaven. Then again, what’s heaven if all those assholes are floating around?

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

The Latinafication of the White Female...


This shit has to fucking stop. It's been roughly seven years since Christina Aguilera played the "brown card." Apparently her Dad was part Argentinian or Ecuadorian or whatever and she decided she'd celebrate her heritage with the flaunting of her taco meat and a stereotypical Latin-slut barrio accent ("uh uh! no yoo zin't!"). Sadly, her image failed to earn her street cred with the Rosas and Marias and Consuelas everywhere, but allowed her to capitalize on the Latin explosion of the time that produced memorable collaborations like "Nobody Wants to be Lonely," featuring Ricky Martin, and fucking "Where My Gurlz At?" or some shit, featuring Lil' Kim and her second face (I think she's on number five now).

Still, Christina has planted the bastard seed of a legacy in the cranial womb of dumb bitches everywhere. White ass-jeans, fake accents, and braids that are likely to reek of Newports and Tommy Girl. These are the same girls who hop in their fucking convertibles that Daddy's white collar, white-bred job paid for, and cruise around shopping centers and mall parking lots blasting Mariah Carey on repeat, looking for thuggish guys named Hector or Jose or Speedy Rodriguez who may or may not be affiliated with MS-13. These girls are the same girls who refuse to exercise or eat healthy so that they can be "thicky-thick" for their "men." Hector or Jose or Speedy Rodriguez wants that big Latin ass that used be reserved for black women B.J.L. (Before Jennifer Lopez, and, more recently, Vida fucking Guerra.) They don't care if it's covered in cottage cheese. As long as their girls are pushing two-twenty then they're set.

What's even more annoying is when the white girls actually claim a Hispanic heritage, the most popular being Puerto Rican. You're not fucking Puerto Rican. Daddy may own property or indentured servants in Puerto Rico, but that has nothing to do with you. This is my rule for determining heritage: if you don't look the part then it doesn't fucking matter. This goes for all the white Latinas, the blonde Italian girls, and any asshole who claims he's Cherokee (aren't we all, you lying fuck?). If you go to tanning beds and suck at archery, you're not Native American. If you put on an old school newspaper "Extra! Extra!" cap that's pink and made of leather and matches your poorly-crafted Prada bag that the Korean street vendor overcharged you for on your last field trip to Washington D.C., you're not Latina. You're a knockoff.

"Uh uh! No he zin't!" (yes I zid)

Sunday, December 11, 2005

When a fat girl sits down...

When a fat girl sits down her stomach looks like a surprised Giant's forehead.

I'm so omigod arrogant...

That's how I feel now that I have a blog. Like anybody's going to read this shit but me. Still, words are my release so I guess this blog makes me an e-cutter. I'll try not to bleed too much.

Anyway, could this possibly be the ugliest motherfucker ever?




He looks like a redneck panda bear!


By the way, if you think I have some score to settle with this kid, don't think. I don't know who he is or if he's going to be in the sequel to Twins. I pulled his picture off of Myspace.com. Don't know what Myspace is? Here's a definition I pulled from dictionary.com:

It's a website where large women post almost-nude pictures for men who are tired of jerking off to conventional porn sites and dead-end free tours.

Maybe he can get together with this chick...




The whole state of Kentucky would rejoice.

Hmmmm....

I'm trying to figure out how to configure this damn thing. Somebody told me I'd be a good blogger. I don't know if that was an insult or a compliment, but I figured I'd give it a try since I'm constantly complaining about shit that doesn't seem to bother anybody else (you guys are fucking weird).
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