Wine Racks

The only thing I hate more than wine racks are people who own wine racks. Now for once I'm not bashing rich people who own multiple houses and by default have to buy the most expensive drink they can afford to maintain their status among people who waste their money on stupid shit. Nothing like a drink I can't afford, so I can return it to the rightful owner by shitting it out an hour later in a toilet that also serves as a water fountain. I'm also not bashing the lesser people who drink wine, even though they tend to be college graduates who dress like they're from the Bahamas, and pretend to know Asian languages and culture. They wax poetic about merlots, cabernets, and other Dungeons & Dragons character classes I've never heard of, as if I care; I don't. I'm talking about those who have small wine racks, sitting on the counter, or above the fridge, or just somewhere you will see it to think they are well cultured. Well, I drink wine and have a vintage grape Mad Dog 20/20 that I regularly rotate in my cellar, but you don't see me talking about it, or displaying it. Stop this imitation of rich people, buy a bottle of cheap wine that tastes like fruit and not feet, and kill it over dinner, making sure to toss the bottle in the trash and not saving it for an art project you'll try and sell later on Etsy. You'll thank me alter.

Bacon

The only thing I hate more than everyone talking about zombies on a daily basis are the ones who act like bacon was invented in 2012. “Bacon is awesome!" No shit, dumbass, that's why we've been eating it all of our lives. I'm glad you could take five minutes away from sipping your non-dairy, organic latte to tell me everything tastes better with bacon. Where the hell you think we've been getting the lard we cook with? Not Starbucks. This "poverty" food has been a staple of southern kitchens since before there was a southern United States. Okay, that last part might not be true, but did you know bacon was creating equality before rabid, lesbian feminists marched on Washington, D.C.? Wiki tells no lies; history says it was a gender-neutral food as it pertained to preparing it. Men and women, back to the kitchen. Everyone else who recently discovered bacon and feel the need to declare it on a regular basis because you think, incorrectly, that it makes you look cool or funny, shut up and choke on an over-priced, Venezuelan, low-fat, cheese Danish.  

Mother's Day

A typical Mother's Day for me was usually going out with my dad to pick her something out, returning home with it, and then her making me something to eat before I watched Magnum P.I. and went to bed. It was nice because I only had to impress her and no one else, not even my grandmother. My dad always bought my mom something, because he did have a hand (or penis) in her being a mom, so it made sense.

But now I'm apparently supposed to thank every woman who has kids, as if they've contributed something to the world by spreading their legs. Well, thanks for increasing the amount of carbon your child will produce, speeding up global warming, thawing the dinosaurs, and making life miserable for postal carriers that now have to fear more than just rabid pit bulls. Thanks to mothers around the world, I will soon be forced to listen to a bunch of idiots who think T. Rex should have the same rights as people. Don't get me started on the idiots that say Mother's Day should be every day and see their mothers once a month.

Everyone should be thankful for their mother who brought them into this world, unless she's a worthless whore who gave them up for adoption because she couldn't afford her drug habit, and then decided to return years later in an act of selfishness to continue failing where she left off, depriving them of being adopted by Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, who could have made all their dreams come true. I love my mom; I hate everyone else's.

The Famous 5 That Survive the End With Me

Some friends and I were discussing the end of the world the other night, so for fun we made our own personal lists of five people we could take with us that would help us to survive the collapse of society.

Who: Insanislupus

What: Leader

Where: Kentucky

When: January 27^th, 1978

Why: Has a list of 1001 things he hates and cannot be killed.

The first person that came to my mind was myself (and I don't count as one of the five.) I rule, cannot be killed, but can kill wild animals with my bare hands, although I usually just talk them down, make them come to their senses, and then we go out marauding unsuspecting people who go on to tell tales of how they were chased out of the wilderness by me and a sleuth of grizzlies. But now they can also include…

Who: Mehmet Oz

What: Doctor

Where: Wherever

When: 1986

Why: Has been helping people to survive for 25 years.

I know, you’ve probably got the oddest picture of the greatest internetist, followed by grizzlies, and then a happy, smiling Dr. Oz wielding a crossbow in one hand a clipboard in the other. But you would not live long enough to laugh. Dr. Oz is obviously a brilliant doctor and has been saving lives for half of his own, but what makes him perfect for my team is that he’s a big proponent of integrative medicine, that pseudo-science that all the physicians from around the world (and since pharmacology started) have been practicing unless they are corporate shills bending over for the drug industry. For kicks, we will probably make his shelter out of emeralds and line the path to it with yellow bricks, which were carved from the mountains by…

Who: Aron Ralston

What: Engineer

Where: Mountains of Utah

When: April 26, 2003

Why: Climbed a mountain after self-amputation, stopped to play a hand of poker and get a beer, before finding his rescuers who were lost.

If you don't know who he is, try cutting your own arm off and come back to me later. Yeah, that guy. Just in case, he was trapped by a boulder and had to self-amputate his arm, climb out of the crack he was in, repel one-handed down a 65' wall, and hike 8 miles back to his car in the mid-day sun. According to his Wikipedia article, he found a Dutch family along the way, so it's safe to say he marched all the way to the Netherlands before finding the rescuers that were looking for him (they were lost and he probably had trouble flagging them down with one arm). He also has a degree in mechanical engineering and speaks French. Sure, the French language will be as useless as the French military has been since World War II, but imagine all the wind, water, and solar power we will have once we let him loose. He can probably even make us a deep freeze just in time for the return of...

Who: Dew Claw the Lioness!!!!

What: Hunter/Scavenger

Where: South Africa’s Kruger National Park

When: Unsure

Why: Survived brain hemorrhage, damaged right eye, and a puncture wound under her neck into her mouth from a Hippo and walked it off.

You might not know who she is, but you might not want to. While hunting with her in-experienced pride, she had her head crushed in a hippo’s mouth, causing her brain to hemorrhage under the 2000 pounds of pressure, a tusk piercing past her jugular and through the bottom of her mouth. The other lionesses mourned her passing, but she decided, rather than dying, to walk it off and go back to hunting 2 weeks later in order to make my team. She’s made of all things women should be made of, tested and true, making feminist and PETA proud, so logically should have baby liontaurs with…

Who: Paul Templer

What: Warrior

Where: Zambezi River, Zimbabwe

When: On the Zambezi, where time stands still

Why: Survived punctured lungs, a punctured major artery, and a crushed foot after a hippo attack.

Ironically, my next person not only had his arm amputated, but did so after facing a hippo.  After serving in the British Army (I assume in an elite squad dedicated to the elimination of hippos and self-amputation,) he settled in Zimbabwe to lead rich, white people on river safaris. Templer jumped in head and shoulders first to a hippo's mouth after it knocked passengers out of his boat and tried to devour them. Born bad ass, he fought the hippo off with his bare hands, but only so he could make it back to the surface long enough to get cell phone service and finish his game of Words With Friends. The hippo would have none of that and grabbed Templer's foot, dragging him back in, but a second round of well-placed blows freed him back to the surface again. The hippo decided a third attack, a bite into his chest, followed by shaking him back and forth like he only weighed 200 pounds, would do the trick, but finally realized Templer was just luring him in and swam away. After raising the chances of escaping a hippo attack to .00001%, he patched himself up as best as someone with puncture wounds in their lungs and body can do and doggie-paddled to the local hospital, 270 miles away (where it is rumored he scoffed at what the cafeteria was serving and swam to a European hospital for something more palatable,) before admitting himself. He continues to offer tours on the same river, minus an arm, and riding the hippo he has since enslaved, waiting for the arrival of me and...

Who: Salma Hayek

What: Santánico Pandemonium

Where: The set of From Dusk Till Dawn.

When: January 19^th, 1996

Why: Who better to repopulate the world with?

Salma Hayek. I’m a humble man and must make huge sacrifices when it comes to picking who I will repopulate the world with. I decided it should be none other than this unattractive and impoverished actress, with small breasts. I’ve obviously chosen her strictly on her kind heart and personality and nothing else. She was also really hot in From Dusk Till Dawn (and Desperado and Bandidas and…) and I’m hopeful she knows how to cook, because I forgot to take that into consideration. I’m sure she does other stuff, too.

So there is team Insanislupus. Where is yours?

Honorable mentions:

Barrack Obama. The guy won the Nobel Prize for just existing. That rules.

Anne Hathaway. She is playing Catwoman and did not laugh once during the scenes where she had to listen to Christian Bale’s Batman voice.

Houston. Not sure her last name, but I read on Wikipedia that she took on “620 men without interruption.”

Forrest Gump. Not only can he run like the wind, but this Medal of Honor recipient can take a bullet in the buttocks while saving lives, and operate a boat better than George Clooney. He has been temporarily disqualified until I can confirm alleged reports that he is a fictional person.

Ryan Gosling. Baby Goose has been saving a life every week in a different city each time (although rumors suggest it might actually be Zach Shields). I imagine he could beat up more paparazzi than Matthew McConaughey, and I’m not alone in sharing the love: http://tonictherapy.blogspot.com/2012/04/to-extreme.html 

Double-Sided Magazines

 It is no big secret that I am a huge fan of a well-planned magazine. I subscribe to a few, usually by signing up under various names and never paying for them, or taking them from other establishments. You may think this is shady, but I attribute my love for magazines as the sole reason for their rise in popularity over the past several years; you wouldn’t even be able to buy them if it wasn’t for me.

 But something brought about by even the most prestigious of periodicals pisses me off. In fact, I received an issue of Rolling Stone just today that did that very thing. I looked at the cover, wondered how they delivered it without having my address on it, flipped it over to not only find the missing address label, but a parallel cover. It always makes me think I’m on LSD. Regardless, that shit pisses me off.

 But what pisses me off even more is the fact that sometimes the sides are not even. The first side, or at least the side I’m on that I will assume is the first side, because I have no way of actually knowing, will be drastically shorter than the other. It’s like dating a girl who has one double D breast and one B cup; if you all have twins they’ll be Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito. One is 20 pages, the other is 49, and you have no clue which one is going to be more entertaining, because whatever is on the cover is only there to entice you to buy the damn magazine, but obviously this magazine needed two covers to do that.

 This also gives some jackass the idea that they should put in twice as many insert cards. Instead of getting one every six pages, you get one every three. Brilliant strategy. Instead of relying on the content and word of mouth, combined with advertising, you now have twice as many inserts that will fall on the ground when I thumb through the mag. Your plan of people walking down the street and finding your subscription inserts, filling them out, and then doubling your reader base has succeeded. Take a bow, preferably on a sword.

 I’ve got nothing else. 

Mentioning the Foreign Language Title of a Work in an English Article

Look, I don't have a problem with foreign languages and think everyone should at least be able to ask directions in the native tongue of whatever foreign country they're travelling in. That being said, I'm not going to learn Russian so I can view Night Watch (2004) without sub-titles, or take archaic English lessons so I can read the Bible. I've picked up the basics of a handful because the people I associated with spoke them, or they were culturally relevant to myself. I even get that speaking Latin can be advantageous to understanding words you don't know the meaning to.

But this shit with being bombarded by German in mid-English-sentence needs to stop. I was recently doing work on chronotypes for the United States government's Department of Chronotype Affairs when I decided it would be a good idea to Wiki what a chronotype was. I stumbled upon this offensive line:

O. Öquist's 1970 thesis at the Department of Psychology, University of Göteborg, Sweden, marks the beginning of modern research into chronotypes, and is entitled Kartläggning av individuella dygnsrytmer, or "Charting Individual Circadian Rhythms."

You could simply say:

O. Öquist's 1970 thesis at the Department of Psychology, University of Göteborg, Sweden, marks the beginning of modern research into chronotypes, and is entitled Charting Individual Circadian Rhythms.

It's bad enough I have to trip over where the damn thing was written, but then busting my knees across a language I don't read and probably never will makes me want to stop reading immediately. In fact I did. You're also not a genius for pointing out the above was not in German. Get a life, virgin. The only thing more offensive than writing it out and forcing people to read it is when someone says it instead. Luckily I stopped watching Jeopardy years ago, so Alex Trebeck no longer offends my ears (and you can read about that in my other entry entitled, Mentioning the Foreign Language Title of a Work in an English Conversation, or "Indicación de la denominación lengua extranjera de una obra en una conversación de Inglés."

My readers know they can just click the translator to read my blog (unless they use Internet Explorer and must instead pay a professional one offered by Microsoft.) I would never intentionally put anything in another tongue to confuse the shit out of them or their translator. When I go to another country, I don't offend the native speakers with my poor understanding of their language. I force them to speak mine instead, because I'm American and it's just not right to make us speak theirs (especially since we took in everybody they were trying to get rid of.) They owe us this.

Apps That Are Really Just Links

Apps, also known as application software, are supposed to be designed for a specific task, and naturally are perfect for things like mobile devices, hence mobile apps, because no one wants to walk around with a desktop computer strapped to their back just to use MS calculator or MS Paint. Since everyone has scrapped their land-lines for mobile phones that also serve as mini-computers, it only makes sense that everything now has an app. Or do they?

Nothing pisses me off more than firing up an app on my Android tablet, or maybe even my Chrome browser, and then being whisked away to the “apps” website where I can use their service. I have a better idea. Why not instead of an app give me a link to your website and we can call them bookmarks? What idiot initially named those bookmarks anyway? They’re not in a book, they’re in a browser. Regardless, calling a link to your website is fraudulent. It’s the same as me selling you a copy of my latest album, and when you put it on it tells you where you can buy my latest album. Okay, so that’s worse, but this whole links pretending to be apps shit is pissing me off.

I have readers in a dozen countries and on six continents, so I think it’s time we declare war.  When you see an applink, rank them one star and leave a negative comment, preferably linking them to this post. They’re not apps, they’re bookmarks, and no one deserves credit for telling someone where they can play Angry Birds. I hate that shit.  

People Who Interrupt You While Reading

Nothing is more annoying than trying to read and having it interrupted. I believe there are several reasons people do this, so let’s briefly explore a few.

Some people see you reading and assume you are doing so because you’re alone. They would be correct. It is just me and my copy of The Catcher in the Rye and, sitting quietly amongst ourselves and waiting for the next famous person that catches our eye. They’re not the one, luckily. Others think you read out of boredom, because there is no possible way you can get enjoyment out of a lump of paper with ink on it. A typical conversation starts something like:

“What book you reading?”

“The Antarctic Cookbook.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

They wait for you to reply, but you keep reading.

“Did you catch that basketball game last night?”

You only have two options. Kill them, or kill yourself. Sure, there are others to consider, but they should understand why if they have ever read a book and will pat you on the back afterward.  Even if you do get sentenced for murder, at least you have done society a favor and will now enjoy plenty of reading time.

Then we have the ones who think you care to be on a superior intelligence level (and they obviously are, too!) If great minds think alike, and you’re one of them, you should know I want nothing more than for you to get lost. I read books because they sound interesting, not because my college professors read them. Book sobs love to interrupt you to inform you they read far superior authors than you and would never sink so low as reading a popular writer, ones that actually make money in their lifetime. They read maybe five authors and think they know everything. These people deserve to be smashed in the face with whatever antiquarian tome they are holding (Never use your own book.) I don’t really know what antiquarian means, but I assume it implies these people don’t like you putting fish in a tank and worse, members of PETA. Smash them again. 

Vevo

Who the hell invented Vevo? Ever notice how if you want to hear a song and you wind up going to Youtube to hear it (see entry on how I hate people who go to Youtube to listen to music instead of watch it), only to be tricked into clicking on a Vevo sponsored one? Yeah, everyone has. They take a five minute song and turn it into six. This is shocking, being as the Wikipedia article says Vevo was formed with "the goal being to attract more high-end advertisers." You'd think their goal would be to attract people who wanted to watch videos, until you actually listen to one.

A real time analysis of Smashing Pumpkin's Bullet with Butterfly Wings (or Despite All My Rage, or Rat in a Cage):

The page loads, complete with an ad to the top right, above the "similar" videos. Indeed, while thinking about this song, I want nothing more than to drive the all new Chevy Sonic, like all other Smashing Pumpkins fans, or people who just like this one song of theirs.

Do you:

a. Click the advertisement and see a video ad.

b. Continue watching the video, as brought to you by Vevo, proudly displayed beneath.

c. Google how to block Vevo videos from ever turning up on your Youtube searches.

I decide to stick with my original purpose and watch the video. But wait, there is another advertisement, this one placed at the beginning of the video. What do the Smashing Pumpkins have to do with 4G on my mobile phone? I'm watching this on a wired connection at a desktop. Now that I think about it, what does a washed up stage magician have to do with 4G? Probably about as much as Vevo has to do with bringing you a quality service. At least the ad is loud and clear.

The video starts and I still can’t believe Billy Corgan isn’t female, as he proclaims, “The world is a vampire.” At least that’s how I remember it. Sadly my speakers do not have a volume knob capable of bringing the video up to an audible level. After one minute of the actual video, approximately the same amount of time it took them to tell me about 4G, I decide to click off on another video that catches my eye. Sadly, it too is brought to me by, you guessed it, Vevo. But first this unrelated, thirty-second commercial that is guaranteed to piss you off. 

People Who Say Their Kids Are Their Heroes

Why?

Every time a profile asks, "Who is your hero?" someone has to say their kids. That takes about as much thought as listing Metallica as your favorite heavy metal band. Is your favorite heavy metal song One? Shut up. The problem with this answer, besides the obvious and blatant laziness in it, is that these people have obviously never read the definition of the word hero to begin with.

Hero, a noun, is defined as:

1. A person, typically a man, who is admired for courage or noble qualities. 
2. The chief male character in a book, play, or movie, who is typically identified with good qualities. 
3. Not your kids.

Did your kids do something courageous or noble when they were playing with their Lego Star Wars set? Maybe they put out a fire and saved the family from impending doom? But even if they did, does anyone actually admire them? They did it because they were scared, not noble and courageous, and that's not admirable at all. 

Stop being a coward and man up. Your kids should never be your hero, unless they fought off burglars, or battled cancer, or were born with no arms and legs and keep on trucking, or you're not a man at all.  

Dating Feminists

Colleges across the globe play home to free expression and the exchange of ideas. They are learning institutions that teach people about other religions and cultures. It is home to unity and oneness of a collection of individuals. If you believe any of that, please start reading my blog from the beginning, because you need to be re-educated. College is about pleasing your professors who already have their own opinion and believe it is the only correct one. Your individuality goes about as far as the clothes you are wearing, which usually determines which fraternity/sorority you can apply to, if any at all. Make no mistake, college students pretty much jump on whatever is popular and ride that wave until it crashes, at which point they ride the next one. Views other than their parents are very popular. You will meet several Vegetarian Democratic Buddhist in just about every class.

But there is one group you may or may not encounter: feminist. Now ladies, feminists, or whoever may be about to get offended, don’t get started, as this blog is not about you. Instead, I am declaring my hate for men who don’t want to date feminists. Feminists are every man’s dream. Don’t believe so? Think I’ve lost my mind? Nonsense. Allow me to demonstrate a few points about feminism you have obviously missed.

Women are from Mars, Men are from Venus, and Insanislupus is from Uranus, my latest, best-selling, relationship advice book (sold out in every country and Canada), outlined several positive things to engage in relationships with women over. But first, allow me to list the primary causes of relationship discord, purely from the male point of view. Keeping it short, my recent survey revealed that men hate when women: complain, control, are unhappy, won’t have sex, get emotional, gossip, don’t cook or clean. But the problem here is the outlook men are having on situations they have full control over. Let’s tackle these one by one. Below is the problem and how to deal with it.

Complaining: Pretend to listen, then apologize, emphasizing you didn’t know she felt that way. The next time you hear the words “We discussed this already” actually listen and then do whatever it was she asks you again.

Control: Start doing the opposite of what you like to do, emphasizing how you hate doing what you actually want to do. She’ll “make” you do that instead.

Unhappiness: She’s a fucking feminist; it goes with the territory, so accept that you cannot fix it.

Won’t have sex: Just go to bed. If she asks why you are acting suspiciously, tell her you’re just not in the mood to have sex with her. Put emphasis on the word her. Not only will she start having sex with you, she’ll be on top, which is less work for you. (Feminists always have sex on top or on their sides if it is with another woman, to feel less inferior/equal.)

Get emotional: Start crying, even if you have to rub onion in your eye. She’ll be shocked by your show of emotion and feel guilty, giving in to your other needs, which if you are a real man should be primarily food and sex, oh, and something shiny.

Gossip: Women constantly talk about men behind their backs. But honestly, we talk about other women behind theirs, so it should balance out. Even if she says you have a small penis and last a minute in bed, other women will still want to find out, so don’t sweat it.

Don’t cook or clean: Do it yourself. In fact, do a spotless job, declaring how you watched your mother do this all the time and it’s not fair that women should have this role assigned. See how little you will be cooking and cleaning then and how quickly it becomes “her” kitchen again.

Now many of you are thinking, don’t these rules apply to all women? The answer is yes, they do. However, feminists are not actually looking for equality; they want to be better than men (which is impossible; its basic biology.) Anything you do they will try and do way better. Are you telling me you’re not willing to put in a little work for a heavily magnified return? You’re not willing to clean the house and make dinner, and then start crying that nothing you do is good enough and how she doesn’t love you, and then go a night without sex, just once a month, so that you can have all of the positives outlined above the other 27-30 days? Exactly. Feminists like to prey on the strengths of men; therefore, it is only right to prey on their weaknesses.

This is why I hate men who won’t date feminists.

Those Extra Files in the Folder When You Pirate an Album

Its simple; I want a CD, I want it now, and luckily for me I could care less that I am stealing from some musician I would never pay money to listen to anyway. Music is like a drug, well, maybe an anti-inflammatory, one that when you want it, you want it, but you don’t really need it. Show of hands, how many people have ever purchased a CD to feel completely insulted by the lack of a good album? That one good song on the radio was the only good song, period. Remember the days where you had to purchase based on what the cover looked like? Man, that sucked.
With Napster came the greatest technology ever. Imagine the savings. You save time by not having to go to the store in rush hour traffic to buy the damn thing. You save gas, and potentially your life, because you could be in a car accident. Well, I guess something could fall on your house and kill you as you’re downloading, but that’s unlikely unless you live next to an airport or a mosque. If you’re smart and have a pair, you don’t waste your money and get ripped off by paying 99 cents a song. I don’t even want to question the logic of paying the same price for songs of varying length and varying quality, but rather I just want to know why when I download off some torrent site I always get these extra files that serve no fucking purpose that I can tell.
MSInfo files are the most annoying. I know, you’re saying they aren’t useless. Well, why when I click on it does it say “Windows is fucking stupid and should know by now to open this file in Notepad?” Why do I need all of the information about the CD that someone just stole off of Wikipedia anyway? SFV files are really pointless. Someone once explained that they are used to make sure files are not corrupted when you are compressing them. This means when you download off a torrent, unless the file is compressed it’s just debris left over by some lazy fucking up loader. What a fag. Then we have that text file that tells you where you downloaded it from, or who you downloaded it from. Look, if I don’t remember it, you’re doing something wrong and your quality probably sucks.

Bob Marley

Bob Marley had one thing going for him; he was the only reggae musician anyone knew by name (or has ever heard of aside from the Wailers, who, you guessed, played for Bob Marley.) Because of this, his face was plastered all over the place, and sometimes confused for Che Guevara, who shared a similar fortune, but was unfortunately shot to death and never got any money from his merchandise. Unlike Bob. But why is Marley so cool? Most people can only tell you the choruses from his songs. This is because they only listened to him while smoking weed with a friend who listened to Bob Marley. The friend, whose brain was about useless, only listened to Bob Marley because they could remember the choruses. It seems like a never ending cycle. It’s not. It’s really simple. It’s a sad existence when you get into music and only get famous for one song (Hip Hop). Even worse is when you get famous for a bunch of songs that all sound the same. My theory is that Marley was deaf and the Wailers were talentless hacks that worked at some Caribbean, reggae restaurant similar to Chuck E. Cheese, where they filled in playing only one song over and over whenever the robotic band malfunctioned. When they finally bought a back-up robotic band, they fired them, and as luck would have it, they worked the same corner as Bob. If you would for one minute stop trying to be cool (you weren’t and won’t be anyway,) you would actually hear the songs, which consist of the same basic melodies found in all reggae (one). Have I heard all of his songs? No, I just downloaded one and looped it for forty minutes. The effects were the same; I still hate Bob Marley.

One-Star Reviews

If you’re like me and like saving money, and have realized that you will actually save more money by switching to Progressive, then you will shop Amazon. More often than not, Amazon is amazing in their deals. It is nothing to get something half off on there. Sure, people complain, but these are the same whiny bitches who make a waitress return their drink because they didn’t ask for ice.

Even cooler is the Super Saver Shipping. Most people don’t realize that Amazon, like every other fulfillment center, has a ship schedule. Orders come in, are processed, then shipped. Guess what? Unless you over-nighted it, that 2-day mailing choice you selected and paid a shit-ton more for will ship on one of two days, along with Super Saver Shipping. Might as well not pay for shipping; trust me.

But then come the reviews and the one thing about them I hate. Why is there always some cocksucker who rates something 1 star? Even more important, why is it always over the stupidest reason?

Here are a few examples:

Taken from a book review entitled On Writing Horror:

“This book is written very poorly. Editors and Publishers expect our work to be 10 or 12 font size, and double spaced. This book, I am not being sarcastic, but I can barely read the writing!!! If you like books that are written so small you can't even see the words; but this book!!! I have 20/20 vision to by the way, and it's just pitiful. Thanks for Nothing.”

Yeah, the foremost horror authors in the world can’t put together a book on writing horror. Thanks for pointing this out, genius. Also, I was confused on if the book, by your specifications, had to be double spaced, or just the manuscript. Maybe you’re the editor and you came a little bit too late to the dance. Finally, we get to your complaint; the size of the print. Well, I own this book, and while the writing is small, if you have 20/20 vision like you claim, you should have no trouble reading it. This dick rated the product 1 star, which is like saying it has no value because he is the only person with standard eyesight that can’t read it. I saw no examples whatsoever on how it was poorly written.

Taken from a product review entitled WD External HDD:

"Do not waste your money on this product. I ordered it a month ago and it has not arrived. UPDATE: Still waiting six weeks total.”

Amazon! Quickly! Fire the customer service rep that is not doing their job by reading every single review on your entire site to ensure every single order is processed. Are you fucking kidding me? You cannot be that stupid. Well, okay, you are. I wanted a fucking product review, not a review of your customer experience in dealing with Amazon’s shipping. UPDATE: You’re still fucking retarded. Call Customer Service to be told the same.

In the future, I hope you find this blog entry helpful when writing a product review. If you have five stars to rate, well hand them out based on enjoyment of the product. Don’t take all of them away because of one minor problem or your own stupidity. Well, I guess if you’re stupid you won’t realize it.

Abercrombie & Fitch

Abercrombie & Fitch cologne has been a secret ingredient of mine (and Abraham “Fuck you, my dick is bigger” Lincoln) for years. In fact, I once modeled my manly pecs as their poster boy, until they decided a hairless, unmanly chest was more suitable. But then an atrocity happened, (one that I did not notice for over a year.) But first, a little story.

The first A & F cologne was 2 parts manliness, 1 part animal, made from the sweat of the aforementioned former president and a North American mammalian hybrid called a Bealf. This is still true today, only knocked down a notch so that people would not die upon first contact. It went on to become Fierce, and I started wearing it in 2002 when a girl I lived with loved the smell of it. The fact that it was a predominantly gay male’s cologne was wiped from the history books the first time I wore it, and today it is the Sword in the Stone of fragrances, only wieldable by the most powerful.

Then the horror happened. It was pointed out to me that the man on the bottle now came complete with plumber’s crack. Yes, topless and hairless was bad enough, but nothing could prepare me for a man’s waxed ass hanging out. Luckily, the sticker can be removed with a belt sander. But this whole ad campaign violates the 28th amendment to the U.S. Constitution which states that no one shall ever put male nudity on any male products. Lawsuit forthcoming.

Brett Michael's Lips

Taken from Wikipedia:

"April 22, 2010, Bret Michaels was again rushed to the hospital, this time with an "excruciating" headache. Doctors discovered that he had suffered a massive subarachnoid hemorrhage."

Now many of you may not know what a sub-Antarctic hemorrhoid is. Some of you may not know who Bret Michaels is. All of you know Insanislupus (I'm biblical). Well, Insanislupus + Bret Michaels = Subarachnoid Hemorrhage.

Brett Michaels is that guy who sings for that band Poison. No, you're thinking of that Alice Cooper song they put out twice. I'm talking about that glam band that everyone forgot about once the 90's hit. Yeah, that one. If you bought a metal magazine back then, hoping to see articles about bad ass musicians like Slayer, you always had to see centerfolds of this guy and his lips that look like an abomination to all of mankind, or a dressed up transsexual. They are so offensive that if you Google search Bret Michaels lips under images, half the entries are not there until you change your view to un-moderated. Fact. But why does it bother me so much I have to make a list about it?

It all started when I saw Blue Oyster Cult. I was hit by a laser, and expecting to see a huge, gnarly eyeball staring right at me, I instead saw something more horrific. No eyes at all, it was Bret Michaels lips, that stupid, gay pucker he always makes in every photo you ever see him in. Had I a gun, well, I would have shot the illusion. I was unarmed, so I just watched porn for twelve hours to get the image out of my head. It worked, for the most part, but it returned intermittently without warning throughout my life.

My first attempt to remove those lips was at the 2009 Tony Awards. I took out his non-offensive nose instead. A year later I tried again, but apparently gave him some weird sub fear of spiders. I don't know how his brain works. Please, makers of collagen, stop! If I see Mr. Pouty again, fist to the cocksucker.

UFC

I remember back in the day watching UFC 1, a video a friend of mine had acquired. In the crowd stood a massive 3,000 people (okay, that figure includes the fighters, trainers, security and everyone working the venue that night, and let us also include the people who worked the pay lots nearby.) 8 men in 4 matches, followed by the 4 winners in 2 matches, followed by the 2 winners in 1 match. No weight classes back in the day. To summarize, people lost a shitload of money betting against some short and skinny Brazilian guy dressed like the Karate Kid who kicked everyone’s ass.

Due to the fact that no one wanted to actually show up at the event and that the only money being made was selling videos, they doubled the amount of fights to make sure the total fight time was longer than it took you to take a shit after eating Goldstar Chili. Essentially, people liked the fights, but they didn’t appreciate seeing the fighters, trainers, ring girls, etc. three times as much as the fighter actually fighting. Did I forget to mention it was style versus style? Yes, you had the chance to see Taekwondo against Ninjlupu (the later of which would always win.) In the second video the same guy won.

Video 3 was somewhat controversial. The same guy who won the last two would have went on to the finals, but his team threw in the towel against his wishes. Scam. People lost a shitload of money once again because by now they were convinced that Rio De Jamacchio would win. Of course, he would go on to win the fourth, and drew on the fifth against the man who changed the UFC forever, Ken Shamrock. In case you’re curious, these two just fought each other, the actual tournament was won by Dan Severn (who lost to Rolls Royce Graycie the previous time.

But more on Ken Shamrock. To me, UFC used to be a great tournament, the ultimate fighter, which was a battle of pure skill and application. Once Shamrock showed up, it was a battle of two camps. On one side you had guys who were loud (think the film 300), had too much testosterone (think the film 300), and homosexual tendencies (again, think the film 300). On the other side you had fighters who were just trying to be tough guys, wanting to prove they were better than their opponents. Then they stick each of them in a cage and start the showers, dropping the soap on the ground. Essentially, a bunch of repressed homosexuals take all of their rage out in the octagon, and you are treated to a real manly display of… men.

But you’re probably asking, why do I hate the UFC? Well, it’s simple. I get tired of people who for whatever reason (small penis) take a few lessons in Brazilian Jiu-jitsu and all the sudden think they are a walking badass. Worse, many of these people seriously think they are competitors to actual UFC fighters, when in reality they couldn’t beat a retired, drunk and bound Tank Abbot, of they were aloud to use a hammer. They show up (single) at places wearing Tapout shirts (not laid in months), thinking they are going to score a woman because they are badass.

So now what’s your favorite sport? UFC? Good, sit yourself down next to all the other retards who have no clue UFC is not a fucking sport. UFC is a brand name for Mixed Martial Arts. Worse, it’s only been successful for the past four years. Before that, it nearly went bankrupt repeatedly and they had to practically beg fighters to fight for them. It’s not synonymous with the NFL or NBA or MLB or even fucking MLS. Well, maybe Major League Soccer; I will give them that. These are just some of the reasons I hate UFC.

Legion (2010)

Personally, I hope God does a much better job of directing the end of the world.

I won't waste time reviewing this film, but I will say that if future technology like this holds up, all of us will be able to make movies by cutting and pasting from every single horror film we have ever seen and making our own films. Exorcist III diner scene, what? Okay, a review (taken from my blog), just so none of you see it.

Tagline: A whore in the desert. Angels falling from the sky. Tyrese Gibson. It's the end of the world.

I once read this article about speed dating, where people all get together and switch seats every ten minutes with a new partner. I guess it’s kind of like an orgy for celibate people. Well, this film was speed directed. Every five or ten minutes is directed by someone else. Luckily they all consistently used ‘Camera Angles 101’ for filming.

The story is a reimagining of the last book in the bible, Revelations (Prequel, anyone?) Instead of angels coming down and making us all pay for our sins in what can be imagined as the worst possible pain and suffering, we are instead forced to pay and see the leader of God’s army rebel against him in order to save some pregnant chick whose son will somehow save humanity (obviously covered in Revelations 2: The Revenge). They also skipped all the other cool elements of the story that would have been spectacular if taken literally or metaphorically. The writing may have been done by a ten year old. I am still investigating that. But my ten-year-old nephew writes far superior films.

The cast can be divided into hopes and fears.

Hopes

Dennis Quaid

Charles S. Dutton

That kid from Sling Blade

Adrianne Palicki will get naked

Tyrese Gibson will drop out due to other commitments.

Fears

Paul Bettany

That other angel that looked like Cameron off of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off

That girl on the OC

Adrianne Palicki will NOT get naked

Tyrese Gibson will NOT drop out due to other commitments.

In the end, I got a mix of both hopes and fears. Quaid and Dutton did great at playing two veterans now running a diner. The kid from Sling Blade further etched his immobile career into stone. The Angels were from ....England..... No nudity, too much Tyrese Gibson. Christopher Walken did not reprise his role as Gabriel.

I rate this film 10 stars out of 10 stars, if you add the overall rating for each director’s segment. In short, don’t even bother.

Seagate

Seagate is a manufacturer of hard drives and “storage solutions.” Yes, this is exactly the same as saying Seagate is a manufacturer of hard drives and hard drives. I know, you’re probably thinking “storage solutions” could refer to flash drives, servers, etc. Well, they’re hard, so they are hard drives. Shut up; I win.

A little history, my first computer, bought for us by my grandmother, was a Packard Bell. That was the computer equivalent of the Space Shuttle Challenger, only seven people didn’t fall out of space, living through the entire ordeal, until crashing into the ocean and dying instantly. My second computer was an IBM. Hell of a machine, I must say, and it went strong for five years, its only limitation was the drastically increasing demand of programs. Then came my Dell. Dell has a history of making low cost computers and providing awesome customer service. After figuring out what each model number meant and learning some Hindi, I realized that Dell was nothing but a scam. Sure, you want a machine that costs little and does just as much, well, Dell is your baby. But when one of the main components fail and you lift the hood to find an abomination (Maxtor hard drive), well you would understand.

This brings us to where I learned about hard drives. Everyone knows that guy who constantly brags about the size of his penis. Hell, he may even have a big penis, but he can’t parallel park worth a shit and the only way he’s parking anyway is if it’s a pull through. Analogies aside, Maxtor sounds tough, looks tougher, but has the performance of the Cincinnati Bengals; they are good about 1 in 20 seasons. Then I bought me an external Western Digital. I know, WD sounds like a high tech phone company and not someone who specializes in “storage solutions.” Yet I have had one of their drives for two years now without problem. Hitachi, despite sounding like an old and respected Japanese actor, also sent me a “storage solution” that performs well to this day, and I’ve been using it for about two years.

The first of the year offered me the opportunity to not play it so safe. It was a time for adventure. Most people vow to lose weight. I vowed to find 365 new things to hate. So far I have 422, the last being Seagate. You see, I like to build my own computers. It’s funny, rednecks can build cars out of tomato cans and ball bearings. Yet they can’t put a PC together which consists of around ten parts fully loaded, and annoyingly refer to the internet as the computer. I first obtained a pirated version of Windows Vista. I figured, hey, I’m a pirate, how ironic that they sell Seagate hard drives. So I have this thing up and running, I’m trucking along for fifteen days. When the Seagate “Storage Solution” decides it’s going to die. I repeat, it was in service for fifteen days. Ever seen that episode of Andy Griffith where that guy breaks into the Mayberry bank, only to find Andy Taylor waiting for him, where he explains that they haven’t been able to get into the bank safe for several years so they had someone install a door on the side? Well, I’m waiting for that bank robber to come along and retrieve my precious files from my impenetrable “storage solution.” Angered, but not finished, I decided to try another Seagate I had lying around (which came free with a bare bone kit I bought). It was dead right out of the package. 2-0.

Yes, I normally back things up. I do this about once a week. Unfortunately for me, I have been so busy with everything I didn’t back up anything on this drive. Gone are Chapters 6, 7, 8, 9 and 10 of my yet to be titled novel. Gone are the second and third parts of my graphic novel. Gone is the Reanimated Dossier. Gone are all those memories, and Seagate’s 5 star rating at Tiger Direct. I fucking hate you, Seagate. I hope your company is bought out by Packard Bell.

Update, five seconds later: In the pro section, I failed to mention that both Seagate drives are completely quiet as advertised. Obviously they are taking full advantage of non-moving parts.

13

I could have saved this for a Friday, but instead I decided to just do it for this particular blog. Aside from the sun, moon and stars, oh, and wolves, the number 13 has significance in every single culture across the world. In Hinduism, a feast is prepared on the thirteenth day of the dead. Oddly enough, there were thirteen people at the Christian Last Supper (Judas being last), as well as the Norse Banquet (Loki being last), not to mention my thirteenth birthday. But who gives a shit? Apparently a lot of people. Superstition leads people to believe this number has more significance than any other. They’re wrong, stupid, and piss me off. I hate them.

No one really knows how it all started, this is true, but I can tell you of the Thirteen Club. It was Friday the 13th, 1881 at 8:13 p.m. when William Fowler invited 12 other guests to dinner in room 13 of the venue. They walked under a ladder, at amongst piles of salt, and thirteen-million other things that were supposedly bad for you. These clubs sprang up all over North America and five future presidents joined their ranks. They did not believe in the ridiculous superstition of unlucky 13. In a cruel twist of fate, none of them survived and it is a documented fact that all of them are dead today. Ironically, the 13 stars of the 1983 film Diner all lost their careers within a thirteen year span. Okay, Steve Guttenberg never had a career.

Fear of Friday the 13th is called paraskevidekatriaphobia or frigganshuthefuckuphobia. Now don't get me wrong, I was a kid once, and I have seen every Friday the 13th film, but unless you're being chased by an undead psycho with a hockey mask and machete, well, nothing to worry about. Right? A study done by the Dutch concluded that accidents on Friday the 13th were fewer than other Fridays, presumably because the Dutch are less intelligent than Americans (which isn't saying much.) In contrast, a British study said the exact opposite, but did not rule out how many of the Brits were driving on the wrong side of the road. Right hand side, idiots.

Even more annoying are people who pretend like the number 13 is lucky. It's not. Colgate University, where they make and study new types of toothpaste and have a rivalry against Crest College, was founded by 13 men with 13 dollars and 13 prayers and 13 articles, blah, blah, blah. There is a huge list of sports celebrities who have worn the number 13 (none of which were the best at anything). The United States had 13 colonies and plasters 13 all over our symbols and currency, yet we're in a recession every 20-30 years. There was also Apollo 13, considered unlucky by many, but they made it back from fucking space, where no one is coming to get you, so I think that is pretty lucky. Serves you right for sending actors into orbit.

In conclusion, I would just like to say that 13 is the age when you become a young man according to somebody. It is also a film about two slutty jailbait junkies. Let us not forget the Glenn Danzig written/Johnny Cash composed song, either. Now taking everything you have learned here, you should be well equipped to go out into the world and disregard the number 13 as just another number lacking any significance whatsoever. If not, well, you're a dumb ass.