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.

Christmas

There are many conflicting accounts on the birth of Christ. Historically, read them and weep, bitches, Jesus is real. You heard that right, historians wrote about him, even before they had blogs. He himself did not write anything, preferring the spoken word. However, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John all contributed to ‘1001 Things I Love’, the first ever blog. Back to the birth of our Lord and Savior and why I hate Christmas, it was that time in the middle of BC and AD where they decided to not keep track when He was born. His mother, Mary, had a virgin birth (a tradition kept alive to this day by Catholic schoolgirls). Joseph, who had never laid a hand (more likely a penis) on his soon-to-be-wife, hired a private detective to get to the bottom of it. He never did, and now we are left with a religion that hinges on books written with more holes and conflicting information than any other ever published.

Regardless, Jesus went on to be a great teacher and brought us some of the greatest words of wisdom ever written, ones that would make our lives perfect should we only abide by them. Instead, we decided to destroy entire civilizations, appropriating any cause we felt the notion to uphold at the time, in His name. But in the dickest move of the last 2000 years, He delivered unto us the end of the world, without giving us a date as to when it will come (this is why He has topped my Biggest Dick list five years in a row and is my personal hero.) In the name of Jesus Christ, bringer of wisdom, destroyer of demons, who died for our sins, we shall set aside one day each year to honor him. This blog is about the one holiday I hate most, Christmas.

Not even a paragraph away, I still find it awesome that doomsday slowly balances above our heads, dropping low to whisper in our ears, “What, bitch? Should I end it now, make you wait, oh, yeah, that’s my decision. Not tellin’.” When doomsday comes, it will hit you in the balls, laugh, then hit you in the balls again. The same can be said for Christmas, only it hits you in the ass, laughs, then hits you in the ass again. Christmas is a bullshit holiday that no one can even remember why it is celebrated. Kids think it is about some old, fat guy in a red suit. Teens think it is about new cell phones that they can take naked pictures of themselves on to send to their boyfriends of one week and get upset when they hit the internet after the breakup. Parents, well, who the hell knows what they are thinking. My great-grandmother had it all figured out. She gave each of her great-grandchildren a dollar. Trust me, that is a lot of money. It also brings me to the “thought that counts” bullshit.

Why is a gift about the giver? You notice this shit? People buy you a gift because they want to be the one who gave you something you wanted, so they can feel special because they bought it. Even worse, sometimes they buy you something they wanted you to have, even though you didn’t want it. Why don’t they just buy it for themselves? But it’s the thought that counts, right? Well, I’ve thought about it and I’m pretty sure you can go fuck yourself with the present you wanted, but bought for me to feel less guilty about wanting it for yourself. If you would have admitted that to begin with, no complaints. But you didn’t.

You see, people are selfish and care about themselves more than anything. In fact, the only reason people care about their kids is because genetics forces them to. If you don’t care for your kid, you cannot pass on your DNA and die. In short, and because I promised I would make my blogs shorter for the reading impaired, quit pretending Christmas is all about others. It’s all about yourself. What did you get for Christmas?

Wal-Mart(s)

There is no need to do a long paragraph about Wal-Mart. You already know what it is. Hell, China does, too. What you do need to know is that this blog originates from the state of Kentucky. Why is that important? Well, allow me to tell you. People from Kentucky are some of the stupidest people in the world. To make us look smart, we boast statistics like this: “Percentage of high school graduates in college, vocational/trade school, the military, or currently employed? 95.27%” That’s about as slick as saying, “Percentage of living people in Kentucky still breathing? 100%”

There are other statistics to brag about, Kentucky has a higher percentage of tooth loss than the National Hockey League. Kentucky has 100% of its public water systems fluoridated.* Kentucky has more horses than people. Kentucky has more horse carriages than horses. Kentucky grows more marijuana than everyone else, combined. Kentucky has more high horses in carriages than marijuana. Even more amazing as how we invent things, such as measuring distance in time (Wal-Mart is ten minutes from here) and adding an s to every store (which makes up for us dropping the g on words that end in –ing, so Wal-Marts is ten minutes from here.) Now don’t get me wrong, we are finally above the national average in graduation rates, and we’re certainly not as stupid as Nevada, but I assure you, one stay in Kentucky will confirm that we do have a percentage of our population that stands out as the dumbest people on the planet.

Rather than go on and on, I present you a list:

12 Ways to Not Get Shot By Me, by me.

01 Don’t go to Wal-mart(s).

02 Don’t get bent out of shape because you were behind me and I took “your” parking spot. First come, first serve. Just ask your girlfriend.

03 Don’t pretend like it is your cart when it is clearly next to me and I have items in it and a loaded gun in my hand.

04 Don’t reach for the same item I am when there is an entire shelf of them. I’m going to hit you in your teeth after I hit your boyfriend in the teeth. Then I’ll shoot you.

05 Don’t run out of the aisle not expecting to run into someone with a loaded gun.

06 Don’t bring your bratty, unbathed, filthy kid. I’ll be tempted to shoot you.

07 Don’t bring yourself when you’re covered in filth and smell like the bathroom of Goldstar Chili. I’ll be even more tempted to shoot you.

08 Don’t walk like a penguin and make sure you walk in straight lines. This annoys me and I will shoot you.

09 Don’t cut me in line, especially if you are buying gift cards. I’m already over on the 20 Items Or Less and will be forced to lose the bullets.

10 Don’t argue with me in Spanish (or any other language I don’t know), because I will assume you called my mom a whore and shoot you.

11 Don’t brag about having a gun. Everyone does. You’re in Wal-mart(s) where they sell them.

12 Shoot yourself first, that way I won’t have to.

That is why I hate Wal-Mart.

*These statistics in no way correlate. Repeat, in no way, shape or form does fluoride eat away at enamel, bone, or any other calcium-based part of your body and slowly destroy it. In fact, despite Kentucky’s percentage of fluoridated water being the highest and matching the amount of tooth loss, as well as incidences of high blood pressure, high cholesterol, osteoporosis, etc. etc. there is no link to fluoride and ill health effects. Nothing to see here.

Final Exams

According to the Department of Labor, people who earn a college bachelor’s degree make $1,000,000 (one- million-dollars) more in their lifetime than someone without one. Add another million to that if you get a master’s degree, and I didn’t bother to look up a PhD, so we will pretend it is ten times that. For those of you who make $20,000 dollars a year, you’re probably contemplating suicide; college is a better alternative and not as hard as you’re probably thinking. Yes, even after taxes, that’s a lot of money.

There are a few things that I hate about college. For one, they have a general core. I don’t hate that, as it is basically two English classes and a Speech class and a Math class, all of which will help you with all of your other classes. Then you have the liberal arts core. Then the diversity core. I’m pretty sure this is leading deeper and deeper into your ass, because this is all a crock of shit.

Liberal arts degrees are for people who have no clue what the hell they want to do with a college degree. There is no shame in it; it actually helps round you out as far as an education goes. However, if I know what I want to do for the rest of my life, American History isn’t going to help me breed Spanish horses. Still, the liberal arts core (which comprises over a quarter of the classes you need for a bachelor’s,) is lauded as required for teaching students to be diverse and open-minded. Then they force you to take a diversity core. Okay, free-thinkers, open your minds to other cultures that we are forcing you to study. Better yet, study them from a distance, because we don’t want them coming to our schools. You would think they would prefer you spend your focus on whatever field you plan on going into, but out of the 120-130 credit hours schools require 45 of them to be on a major. You read that correct, the majority of your college career will be spent studying something you never wanted to, something the school made you.

Finally, we get to finals. Allow me to paint a scene where finals will play out in real life. All of your life you have studied to be Dr. House. Perfecting your gimp leg, looking like the guy from Beastmaster on crack, smoking crack, and being eccentric have all paid off and you are trying to diagnose a patient with a rare and crippling disease. Is it: a) Septic Arthritis b) Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease c) Guillain Barre Syndrome d) Lupus e) None of the above. You decide it has to be b) Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease. The family immediately wants a definition of the disease with the underlying symptoms. The medical board wants an essay on why you think it is Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease, discussing your three major points as to why it is this disease, how to treat it, and a bibliography of all sources used. They will get back to you within two weeks. This is how relevant finals are to the career you have decided to go into. Why should anyone have to remember a bunch of shit they will never use again?

Now I propose a new idea, tentatively titled the Final Solution. Remember how some textbooks had questions at the end of the chapters? Why not just have students answer them as they finish each chapter, thus putting an end to the finals once and for all. In doing this, I present to you the above paragraph as done by the same doctor who used the Final Solution. All of your life you have studied to be Dr. House. Perfecting your gimp leg, looking like the guy from Beastmaster on crack, smoking crack, and being eccentric have all paid off and you are trying to diagnose a patient with a rare and crippling disease. You Google the symptoms and realize it is not a) Septic Arthritis. You further your Google the symptoms and realize it is not c) Guillain Barre Syndrome. In a last ditch effort, you even further Google the symptoms and realize it is not b) Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease. You finally Wiki d) Lupus and realize that obsessive blogging about pointless and useless things is a symptom, coming to the conclusion that it is indeed what you are looking for. The family immediately wants a definition of the disease with the underlying symptoms, which you tell the to find by Googling Lupus Wiki. After spending hours reading my blogs, they hit the back button and select the second link on the search page, Lupus Wiki. The medical board does not question your medical degree from FU and even if they did you would get angry and shoot all of them, then blog about how you murdered seven people and saved someone from Lupus, all in the name of medicine.

Now if you are sent to the chair and executed for murdering the medical board, please come back and confirm if there is an entrance exam to get into heaven. If so, I will blog about that.

Richwood, KY

It is rare that I hate something with so much passion (see entries 1-6), but finally I have found something. A little background. As a child, I had problems hearing. After a successful doctor visit, it was decided that I had to have my adenoids taken out due to an infection. I remember going into the operating room and being gassed as the doctors partied like it was 1939. I was later fished from the river Ohio and I woke up later to apple juice and a small collection of red fire trucks from the nurses. I went on to lead the Convingtonians away from the evil pharaoh of Cincinnati, but I loved doing that, so no need to cover it here. Back to the hospital, I was left with a void. I had no adenoids and would later grow up with week math skills. The question that always haunted me was “where are my adenoids?” Follow me on an investigative blog to the truth about organ donation.

Nothing pisses me off more than what the Egyptions started millennia ago. Yes, out of spite, I spelled their name wrong. The Egyptionianthals, those who predated the Egyptions, thought organ transplants could save lives. To do this, they decided to place organs of famous people in mason jars (made of brick at the time, hence the name). The problem with this was that the little rubber seal on a mason jar only lasted a few years, thus the organs were no good after that. To further insult them, the Egyptions built houses in the desert. Oh, I wonder how their kingdom fell? Moving along, today organ donation is big business. So much that people are harvesting kidneys from Mexicans. One kidney will get you across the border with a green card. I decided to do a little research and found the Top Ten Myths about Organ Donation from the Mayo clinic. Rather than post the myths and reality segment and boost the number of hits their site gets, I will instead post their myths, followed by my personal opinions on them.

Myth- If I agree to donate my organs, my doctor or the emergency room staff won't work as hard to save my life. They'll remove my organs as soon as possible to save somebody else.

Reality- This happens all the time on ER. Even George Clooney let someone die in order to save two people. While I respect anyone who can make this decision and only on television does such an instance occur where two people need transplants and some unlucky organ donor is on the table dying, this man obviously never read this blog before he signed that card. Character on a TV show or not, I apologize for procrastinating.

Myth- Maybe I won't really be dead when they sign my death certificate. It'll be too late for me if they've taken my organs for transplantation. I might have otherwise recovered.

Reality- In an episode of the Twilight Zone, this very thing happened. Well, a guy was dead, couldn’t move and all we heard were his thoughts and how everyone ignored him, until he let out a single tear and the organ extractor realized he was still alive. Even recently, a guy in the news they thought was in a coma wasn’t, for over twenty years!

Myth- Organ donation is against my religion.

Reality- Okay, how is this arguable?

Myth- I'm under age 18. I'm too young to make this decision.

Reality- This isn’t a fucking myth. It’s a law. Since when did the Mayo Clinic start hiring military recruiters to write for them?

Myth- I want my loved one to have an open-casket funeral. That can't happen if his or her organs or tissues have been donated.

Reality- I assure you, if you read the reality behind “myth” 1, and you used the half a brain you haven’t donated to marijuana research already, there is no need for that funeral. Just don’t sign that card.

Myth- I'm too old to donate. Nobody would want my organs.

Reality- The original script to the 2002 film, They, written by Brendan Hood and then rewritten to not resemble the original script, involved a race of organic machines who harvested body parts off of humans. However, this film was never produced, and instead we had an awesome film bombarded with horrible acting and plot holes, making it a less than enjoyable one. In short, these beings, protected by Hollywood devil-worshipers, will take any and all organs.

Myth- I'm not in the greatest health and my eyesight is poor. Nobody would want my organs or tissues.

Reality- You don’t’ take care of your own health and you want to help someone else with theirs? Please do not donate your brain. The costs to find it will be more than the transplant.

Myth- I would like to donate one of my kidneys now, rather than wait until my death. But I hear you can't do that unless you're a close family member of someone in need.

Reality- I have two answers to this myth. One, the reality is that the one in need of that kidney will be you when one fails, dumb ass. We can survive with one kidney, yet we have two. I’m pretty sure it was intended for you to keep both of them in case one of them quit. Second, you’re donating your kidney to companies that sell chili. Learn to read.

Myth- Rich, famous and powerful people always seem to move to the front of the line when they need a donor organ. There's no way to ensure that my organs will go to those who've waited the longest or are the neediest.

Reality- Organ donation is a scam. It’s a big money one, too. In fact, the 2002 film, They, was financed completely from the harvested organs of college students, Mexicans and cans of chili.

Myth- My family will be charged if I donate my organs.

Reality- You’ll be dead, so why do you care? Normally, people are only charged for “donating” their sexual organs. Sadly, they’re usually charged twice. $20 the first time, Soliciting the second.

Myth- Ancient organic machines, who run the world and harvest organs from the living and the dead, have covered up their secret existence and their link to organ donation, all while making their existence seem completely fictional because Wes Craven had the script to the 2002 film, They, rewritten to suck.

Reality- It’s true.

In closing, I would advise against taking advice from the Mayo Clinic. Miracle Whip is better anyway. Also, and you may not agree, but you’d be better off donating your body to a more worthy cause, such as science-fiction. This way, you will not only stay alive longer, you will even be posthumously famous when some geek writes a novel about you.

Disclaimer: These are all facts and not bullshit from some shadow organization covering for organic machines living deep within the Earth, oh, and these are also the views of Google, Myspace, and everyone else.

Organ Donors

It is rare that I hate something with so much passion (see entries 1-6), but finally I have found something. A little background. As a child, I had problems hearing. After a successful doctor visit, it was decided that I had to have my adenoids taken out due to an infection. I remember going into the operating room and being gassed as the doctors partied like it was 1939. I was later fished from the river Ohio and I woke up later to apple juice and a small collection of red fire trucks from the nurses. I went on to lead the Convingtonians away from the evil pharaoh of Cincinnati, but I loved doing that, so no need to cover it here. Back to the hospital, I was left with a void. I had no adenoids and would later grow up with week math skills. The question that always haunted me was “where are my adenoids?” Follow me on an investigative blog to the truth about organ donation.

Nothing pisses me off more than what the Egyptions started millennia ago. Yes, out of spite, I spelled their name wrong. The Egyptionianthals, those who predated the Egyptions, thought organ transplants could save lives. To do this, they decided to place organs of famous people in mason jars (made of brick at the time, hence the name). The problem with this was that the little rubber seal on a mason jar only lasted a few years, thus the organs were no good after that. To further insult them, the Egyptions built houses in the desert. Oh, I wonder how their kingdom fell? Moving along, today organ donation is big business. So much that people are harvesting kidneys from Mexicans. One kidney will get you across the border with a green card. I decided to do a little research and found the Top Ten Myths about Organ Donation from the Mayo clinic. Rather than post the myths and reality segment and boost the number of hits their site gets, I will instead post their myths, followed by my personal opinions on them.

Myth- If I agree to donate my organs, my doctor or the emergency room staff won't work as hard to save my life. They'll remove my organs as soon as possible to save somebody else.

Reality- This happens all the time on ER. Even George Clooney let someone die in order to save two people. While I respect anyone who can make this decision and only on television does such an instance occur where two people need transplants and some unlucky organ donor is on the table dying, this man obviously never read this blog before he signed that card. Character on a TV show or not, I apologize for procrastinating.

Myth- Maybe I won't really be dead when they sign my death certificate. It'll be too late for me if they've taken my organs for transplantation. I might have otherwise recovered.

Reality- In an episode of the Twilight Zone, this very thing happened. Well, a guy was dead, couldn’t move and all we heard were his thoughts and how everyone ignored him, until he let out a single tear and the organ extractor realized he was still alive. Even recently, a guy in the news they thought was in a coma wasn’t, for over twenty years!

Myth- Organ donation is against my religion.

Reality- Okay, how is this arguable?

Myth- I'm under age 18. I'm too young to make this decision.

Reality- This isn’t a fucking myth. It’s a law. Since when did the Mayo Clinic start hiring military recruiters to write for them?

Myth- I want my loved one to have an open-casket funeral. That can't happen if his or her organs or tissues have been donated.

Reality- I assure you, if you read the reality behind “myth” 1, and you used the half a brain you haven’t donated to marijuana research already, there is no need for that funeral. Just don’t sign that card.

Myth- I'm too old to donate. Nobody would want my organs.

Reality- The original script to the 2002 film, They, written by Brendan Hood and then rewritten to not resemble the original script, involved a race of organic machines who harvested body parts off of humans. However, this film was never produced, and instead we had an awesome film bombarded with horrible acting and plot holes, making it a less than enjoyable one. In short, these beings, protected by Hollywood devil-worshipers, will take any and all organs.

Myth- I'm not in the greatest health and my eyesight is poor. Nobody would want my organs or tissues.

Reality- You don’t’ take care of your own health and you want to help someone else with theirs? Please do not donate your brain. The costs to find it will be more than the transplant.

Myth- I would like to donate one of my kidneys now, rather than wait until my death. But I hear you can't do that unless you're a close family member of someone in need.

Reality- I have two answers to this myth. One, the reality is that the one in need of that kidney will be you when one fails, dumb ass. We can survive with one kidney, yet we have two. I’m pretty sure it was intended for you to keep both of them in case one of them quit. Second, you’re donating your kidney to companies that sell chili. Learn to read.

Myth- Rich, famous and powerful people always seem to move to the front of the line when they need a donor organ. There's no way to ensure that my organs will go to those who've waited the longest or are the neediest.

Reality- Organ donation is a scam. It’s a big money one, too. In fact, the 2002 film, They, was financed completely from the harvested organs of college students, Mexicans and cans of chili.

Myth- My family will be charged if I donate my organs.

Reality- You’ll be dead, so why do you care? Normally, people are only charged for “donating” their sexual organs. Sadly, they’re usually charged twice. $20 the first time, Soliciting the second.

Myth- Ancient organic machines, who run the world and harvest organs from the living and the dead, have covered up their secret existence and their link to organ donation, all while making their existence seem completely fictional because Wes Craven had the script to the 2002 film, They, rewritten to suck.

Reality- It’s true.

In closing, I would advise against taking advice from the Mayo Clinic. Miracle Whip is better anyway. Also, and you may not agree, but you’d be better off donating your body to a more worthy cause, such as science-fiction. This way, you will not only stay alive longer, you will even be posthumously famous when some geek writes a novel about you.

Disclaimer: These are all facts and not bullshit from some shadow organization covering for organic machines living deep within the Earth, oh, and these are also the views of Google, Myspace, and everyone else.

Ghost Hunters

It is the season twenty-seven debut of Ghost Hunters. We are promised evidence beyond belief that, indeed, ghosts are real. We sit through the entire show, the arguments between cast members, the cliffhangers, the commercials, and finally we arrive at the last segment. We get exactly what we always knew was true; Ghost Hunters is a crock of shit.

According to the overwhelming majority of shows about ghosts and hauntings, there are only two places in the world that are haunted; the United Kingdom and Pennsylvania.

The United Kingdom has a bloody past. Aside from the Spanish, the English are the only people capable of killing everyone and everything, and they had the money to do it. Add to the fact that the UK also contains the Scottish, Irish and Welsh, and you have a whole country devoted to killing. Well, maybe not the Welsh. Of course the UK is haunted.

Pennsylvania has a long history of important political figures and events. For instance, Denzel Washington cured Tom Hanks of AIDS so he could be the first gay astronaut. The Pittsburg Penguins had their asses handed to them by the Detroit Red Wings in the 07-08 Stanley Cup Finals. Kevin Bacon, born and raised. More befitting, Rocky Balboa defeated Apollo Creed in a rematch there in one of the hugest upsets in boxing history. It is said that after the deaths of both Apollo Creed at the hands of Ivan Drago and Mickey Goldmill at the hands of Clubber Lang, their spirits still haunt the arena.

Unsolved Mysteries was the first show I remember that covered ghosts. It was hosted by that creepy guy who was scarier than the ghosts, but I liked it all the same. Following this was Sightings, a show that featured 55 minutes of UFO’s and the Loch Ness Monster and 5 minutes of ghosts. It was at least a good five minutes. Then came Ghosthunters, not to be confused with Ghost Hunters, which featured, well, ghost hunters. Then there was Haunted History, Most Haunted, Most Haunted History, and my personal favorite, the best ghost show ever, A Haunting. These shows all had the same format. A camera rolls over a haunted place and a creepy narrator tells you a tale. The music makes the story scarier than it actually is and the spooked guests interviewed make this a great show to explore paranormal folklore.

Then came Ghost Hunters. The show revolves around two guys who bitch and complain and cry and we have top put up with their families and basically it is a non-stop add for Roto-rooter. You’ll need to call them because you will have a drain backed up with so much bullshit it’s not funny. This show has been on for five seasons, with over 100 episodes. During this time, they have proven that beyond a shadow of a doubt, two guys who work for Roto-Rooter cannot find ghosts. They come with all kinds of equipment, all of which combined cannot compare to a single Proton Pack from the Ghostbusters. But here is where Pennsylvania comes into play.

Following Ghost Hunters was shows like Paranormal State, about a college group of paranormal researchers or investigators, or whatever bullshit title you can throw on yourself to make you sound legitimate. It just so happens to be at Penn State. Just the other day I watched a show (which I actually liked because it followed the same format as A Haunting) called The Haunted, about animal ghosts. In Pennsylvania. Yes, I blame Ghost Hunters. Why? Because Ghost Academy, its spinoff, takes place in, yes, you are correct, Pennsylvania, and has the exact same premise as Paranormal State. Then there is Ghost Adventures, where a team of investigators run around Pennsylvania and explore haunted houses. Then we have another Ghost Hunters spinoff, Ghost Hunters International, where some of the best ghost hunters across the world are flown into Pennsylvania so they can explore it.

To summarize, Pennsylvania is not haunted anymore than any other location, but evidence (in the form of equipment that makes noises, records sounds, captures images of nothing, etc.) suggests that it is about as haunted as the Ghost Hunters show. I’m thinking about starting a porn film studio where no one ever has sex. The actors just make out, get ready to do it, then we cut to commercial. We return to find out that the actors just had sex and we accidentally forgot to turn the camera on. We do have small bits of audio, but there is just too much static to hear anything. People believe in ghost, no problem there, but the popularity of a show that claims to do something it has never down just baffles me. If nothing else, they could at least contact Patrick Swayze.

Contemporary Christian Music

You’ve been mauled by a Bengal tiger (not the football team, because they can’t maul shit), your heart beats slower and slower, while no amount of adrenaline can help you escape it’s clutches, despite what you learned in Sunday school. As you feel what’s left of your body start to tingle and go cold, calm comes over you. You see a white light at the end of the tunnel. Unlike all those douches in the scientific community, you know this is in fact good enough evidence that at the end is heaven. Despite all the times you walked past those annoying bucket holding bell ringers at Christmas and the fact that you knocked up the preachers daughter and paid for her out-of-county abortion and cheated on your pre-calculus test, etc. etc. etc. you have reached the pearly gates (oddly made out of steel from nirvana). You are judged and accepted to the afterlife, for the sole point of Christianity is forgiveness, and for once you agree, it is divine.

Inside, you are overcome with warmth, love, peace, and there is grandma, making fried chicken and mashed potatoes, as grandpa sits, smoking his non-cancerous pipe and reading the paper he never could in life. Dad pops out from underneath the hood of his old Ford Bronco, smiling now that the transmission is fixed. Mom whistles off in the distance, while she feeds the birds in the back yard. Your sister throws a water balloon at you, and while now drenched, you are not angry at all. You’re like a kid again, no worries, no anger, frustration, nothing to make your day go wrong, or your afterlife. Then Amy Grant comes over an ethereal PA. You question where you actually went.

I’m not knocking religion here. I’m knocking Contemporary Christian music. First, let me compile a list of famous Contemporary Christian artists:

Amy Grant.

Second, let me compile a list of their accomplishments:

Married Vince Gill.

As you can see from my in-depth research, there is a strong correlation with Contemporary Christian musicians getting famous by marrying Vince Gill. As an experiment to test my hypothesis, I took the Oliver sisters, Janis and Kristine, allowing the former to marry Vince Gill and not play Contemporary Christian music, while the latter was not allowed to marry Vince Gill, but allowed to play Contemporary Christian music. Janis Oliver never got famous and apparently faded from even the dimmest of streetlights once replaced by Amy Grant. This research proves my findings.

With this research in hand. I question why anyone wants to play this garbage, let alone listen to it. When I get laid I’m usually thinking about who I am screwing, or Eva Mendes, and God/Son of God comes in dead last until she mentions him (which is why I never rule out sex with a mute.) When driving to work, I think about what exit I’m going to take, going to McDonalds to get a number 9, and stopping at Shell to play the Powerball. Until I win that Powerball, I’m not thinking of God/Son of God. When listening to music, I want to hear some good guitar, with a good beat, filled in with a warm bass, and some lyrics that make me think. I don’t want to hear Amy Grant.

My version of heaven is much as described in the bible. I sit upon a throne, and four naked, female angels sit around me, and… whatever else is in the bible, also female and naked. Hell, even Amy Grant is in heaven with me, naked, of course, and mute to boot. In closing, I would just like to say that I hate Contemporary Christian music, unless sung by naked, female angels.

Those Damn Dots On Myspace Blogs

A blind man comes to my blog and wonders what I am writing about. On the other side of the world, a man trapped inside a cave can only communicate via Myspace and Morse code. I’m caught in the middle, unsure of what to do.

 Back to the blind man, he must know why I am so angry. It is a question that has taken over his life. Only thing is, he can’t read my blog to find out. The only person to help him out is none other than Tom from Myspace. In case you don’t know, he’s that douche that auto adds you when you get an account, and when you delete him, he still shows up in your bulletins and sends you messages, or whatever the fuck he wants. Oddly enough, despite not even being an owner anymore, he seems to be their spokesperson.

 On the other side of the world, a man is trapped in a tea mine. I assumed they mined tea because it comes in powder form now, much like salt. The inhalation of the fine-grains makes him have to piss severely, only he can’t because someone has him locked in the mine and there is no bathroom. He opens up his laptop, the Wi-Fi connects, but because of the interference, his Google search for eHow’s “how to get out of a tea mine” only brings up a list of things I hate. He clicks it, reads, learns, then sends me Morse code asking for my help.

 These are the annoying dots you see in my blog. I didn’t put them there. At first they made sense. I guess, since Myspace is a huge mess of coding that should be outlawed, that the spacing on Microsoft Word, when imported into it, comes up as two dots. I can get that. What I can’t get is the ellipsis in various places. My entries now read like a 56K modem trying to connect. You’re going, going, waiting, waiting, going, waiting, waiting… fucking primitive.

 I have other theories as well, such as burnt out pixels in my high def monitor that just so happen to be dead in the same exact areas. Or it could be the world’s smallest painting, un-viewable by the naked eye, painted by the world’s smallest expressionist and I could be rich right now. Either way, I hate it. If Myspace was a small dog in a pink sweater with bells on its collar, I would kick it. No, that’s not the next blog entry.

Cyber Monday

Let us cut right to the chase. Cyber Monday is not real; it's bullshit. It’s not an actual day, like Black Friday, because it was created by some bullshit retail trade association. That’s right, it was created by the very people who wanted you to spend even more money, just three days after you go broke. It is billed as the busiest ecommerce day of the year. It isn't.  Its website claims to have the best deals anywhere. It doesn't.  How many times can I say bullshit before you get the idea?

I decided to make a scale of all the “Hallmark Holidays” just to see where Cyber Monday sits. Here were the results (with comments and replacements):

01 Boss’s Day – Unless you are screwing your boss or an ass kisser, no one celebrates this holiday. Instead, I propose Kill Your Co-Worker Day, because everyone has at least one co-worker they want to kill.

02 Administrative Professional’s Day – This is the politically correct term for Secretary’s Day. Apparently, too many guys who were secretary’s complained, thus this day is a celebration of men and women who are secretaries. Let us not forget the men. Instead, Crybaby Bitch Day should suffice.

03 Grandparent’s Day – I don’t remember even a commandment in Sunday school saying honor your mother and father’s mother and father. How about Drive Half the Speed Limit Day, because we all know old people remember the good ol’ days when cars went 20 miles an hour.

04 Father’s Day – Celebrate the one person who has the highest likelihood of screwing you up permanently. Also, on the average, he did about 2-6 minutes worth of work to bring you into this world, not 9 months. Also, there can always be doubt, so I say Possibly Your Father’s Day.

05 Mother’s Day – In all honesty, how can anyone replace this day? Love her, hate her, she brought you into this world and did a lot of work in the process. On Mother’s Day, please make sure you go see your mom bright and early, bring your laundry, demand breakfast, lunch and dinner, and make a huge mess before you leave; she’ll clean it up.

06 Sweetest Day – This whole day was built around selling the most useless crap. In reality, it should be ranked higher, because let’s face it; on Cyber Monday, you at least buy shit that may have a purpose. On this day, however, you buy shit that has little value for ten times the price, and isn't healthy to eat. I propose just skipping it altogether and instead celebrating Easter, when all the candy is on sale.

07 Valentines Day – High on the list, I know, but everyone acts like it's a huge deal; it isn't  What's sad is it is the day of lovers… in a generation of people who only hook up because they get knocked up by someone they were having sex with. I have a real holiday to replace it with this time in Lupercalia. Essentially, it traces its roots back to when people were afraid boys going through puberty would turn into werewolves and eat everyone. Instead, they made a festival where someone sacrificed a goat, ate, and then screwed. The beauty of it all is it was celebrated from February 13th to 15th, which sandwiches Valentines Day. Okay, the whole wolf thing is awesome.

08 Cyber Monday – Monday, just Monday, because Monday is a real day, unlike Cyber Monday.

Now you may have been expecting a top 10 list, or even a climatic number 8, but let this lesson in being screwed over help you, because I also hate top 10 lists. Also, let me enlighten you that by calling holidays Hallmark Holiday’s, you’re endorsing the very thing you’re supposed to be bashing. Instead, call them Bullshit Holidays.

This will be expanded with greater detail some day. I just feel it.

Black Friday

July 20th, 1993, the music world was taken by storm in the form of Cypress Hill’s second album, “Black Sunday.” This was the first ever rap album to gain crossover success into the rock/metal world. “Insane In the Brain” was a hit, and it was backed by awesome songs such as “I Wanna Get High,” I Ain’t Goin’ Out Like That” and “When the Shit Goes Down,” (not to mention the next ten songs on the album.) But this isn’t a blog about things I like. No, it’s about things I hate, which leads us to five days later, Black Friday.

Now most people shudder at the words ‘black’ and ‘hate’ in the same sentence, but I hate Black Friday. For one, it advertises “insane” prices on things they are just trying to get rid of. For example, Best Buy is selling a netbook for around $200. Well, I will sell you a laptop for the same price. They both will be shitty. By offering something that doesn’t cost them anywhere near $200, they will sucker you in to buy their junk, including their extended service plan on this junk, which you will buy because you think the item you are purchasing has the potential to be junk. Then we get to the peripherals. Only $10 dollars for a USB printer cable! (That they paid $2 for.) Ask yourself this, if Black Friday is such a great time to go shopping, how come you can’t go and buy a car for 30-50% off? Because automakers are the kings of screwing people out of cash, that’s why. Their prices are already so ridiculously high (and they collude with the banks on loans so you can pay for your car twice), that offering you a grand or two doesn’t hurt the salesman, the lot, or the franchise in the slightest bit. My car was blue booked at $17,000. I saved over $4000 (read: paid for close to what the car really cost.) Why? Because I walked in and gave them the price I would buy the car for. They caved, instantly. Who got screwed? The banks. They expect you to pay ridiculous finance charges for their loans. I expected them to go fuck themselves. In short, cars are never up for Black Friday, so why do you expect to get anything else for cheap?

For two, it is completely inhabited by people who once attended the Who concert in Cincinnati and can’t wait to relive those eleven crushing deaths thirty years ago. Last year they only crushed one at Wal-Mart (and two people shot and killed each other in an incident “unrelated to shopping” at Toys ‘R’ Us, where hit men usually take down their targets.) Where are we as people when getting toys and gadgets is more important than a human life? Not only was it a human life, but some sorry human life barely scraping by working at a crappy store that is trying to globalize. Someone died so you could have your stupid discount, which if you read the last paragraph, you may realize it’s not really a discount. People in stores at this time are far worse than being caged with a lion and wrapped in bacon. Ever seen a mother, with her kids, at four in the morning trying to run you down with a cart? How about some huge, beast of a woman being pursued by Captain Ahab as she rips the $50 dollar Blu-Ray player out of your hand and says, “mine!” We will never know if the guys who shot each other at Toys ‘R’ Us were bloodthirsty killers, acting in self defense, or from rival toy stores.

For three, you can order shit online, usually actually saving money, usually free shipping, no gas, no hassle, and no annoying, rabid, people. Fact: No one has ever been shot online. I do the majority of my shopping online anyway, why not Christmas? I like how people say that shopping it a timeless tradition and so much thought goes into walking around a store and picking up a present. You will believe this if you a.) have never been Christmas shopping and b.) didn’t read my second point. Take that movie ‘Big,’ with Tom Hanks. Here we have a guy doing Christmas shopping. To go back, he couldn’t ride a rollercoaster or something with some girl because he was too short, so he makes a wish and ages by twenty years, shags some girl old enough to be his mother, enlists in the Army and storms the beaches of Normandy, only to uncover that Amelie is really the descendent of Jesus Christ, your Lord and Savior. Somewhere in there he meets Robert Loggia and they play a giant piano. Holiday shopping is nothing like this. Shopping online helps you to avoid being killed, or killing people, unless you wax your mailman. Truth is, no one gives a shit about the thought, they want something they will like. Buy them a gift card and get over it.

In conclusion, I leave you with a preview of the next thing I hate. One hint, it’s on Monday.

Thanksgiving

Today, so far, has been a good day. Normally, I wouldn’t waste my time dwelling on any negativity. However, this is exactly what led to the anger in my life before. As a special holiday treat, I give to you the second thing I hate, Thanksgiving.

It was 1621 when the white settlers new to America had run out of food. Neighboring natives took pity and taught the Europeans how to survive. They celebrated with a huge bounty called Thanksgiving, where the Native Americans shared their food, were slaughtered in their sleep by greedy white people, and cursed them to celebrate that day every year, or else the angry Indian zombies would rise from the grave and eat them. We still celebrate it today.

That isn’t what pisses me off about Thanksgiving. Instead, it’s Macy’s bullshit parade.

Macy’s Parade started on Thanksgiving Day, 1924, when the citizens of New York City decided they would no longer celebrate the holiday because it would, get this, “offend the Indians.” Not being ones to study history, New Yorkers had forgotten the sacred tradition and what would happen in the event they didn’t celebrate it. Hours passed once the sun rose, but by 9am, when the air was without the smell of succulent turkey, creamy mashed potatoes and gravy, pumpkin pie, etc. the Indian zombies rose from the grave.

They walked through the streets, stumbling, bumping into people, kind of like other New Yorkers. By noon, the Indian zombies had had enough. They began to devour everyone they saw. Thousands of people died. Thousands more sadly lived, turning into zombies themselves, from their wounds. A plan needed to be hatched.

The local Indians, still alive after selling their land and moving to Cleveland, made a stand against the white zombies (who had nothing to do with Rob Zombie). They did this on Wall Street, which was ironically named after a large wall built to stop Indian attacks on settlers centuries before. Armed with bows and arrows, tomahawks and Thompson machineguns, the Indians drove the new zombies back, but instead of retreating, they decided to turn around and attack the whites who they expected to have forgotten about them already.

It was then that a young Rudy Giuliani, just back from his stint at Notre Dame University where he played a full minute in a football game after being on the team for four years, led the whites in a battle against the forces of Mordor. During the battle, a poultry farm caught ablaze, killing over a thousand turkeys and charring their flesh, which miraculously sent all the Indian zombies back to their graves. The white zombies, unsure of what it was exactly they were killing people over, decided to just follow them. It is said they evicted the Indian zombies from their ancestral burial grounds and took it for themselves, but that is probably just Zombie folklore.

As odd as this story sounds, the owner of Macy’s who I never bothered to look up, established the store over 150 years ago. Vampire.

Now you know the true supernatural history of Thanksgiving, as presented by yours truly, and why I hate the one we celebrate today. Think about this the next time you decided to be a bitch and have Chinese food, or Lasagna, instead of Turkey.

An Introduction and Entry

Awhile ago I got sick and tired of doing a blog because they became a pointless distraction in my life. I grew tired of logging on, writing a blog, and then not having anyone respond to it. Then everyone started responding to it. I grew tired of logging on, writing a blog, and then having everyone responding to it. It was a vicious cycle, much like life and death, or that season of Good Times, where the dad died and we finally found out that it was actually JJ we all hated for his retarded “Dyn-O-mite” catch-phrase and lack of character depth. Speaking of cycles, am I the only one who noticed that the Danny Boyle horror film, 28 Days Later, is actually a metaphor for a woman’s menstrual cycle? That’s why I’m smarter than you.

Now while I was sick and tired of doing these blogs, I noticed an increase in anger. Many will argue that writing does not relieve pent up rage, but I beg to differ. Men like to get rid of any and all stressors with their hands or their penis, and sometimes (read: usually) both. This is where writing comes in. Well, minus the penis. Guys get angry and like to beat on things. Punching bags, walls, women, children, each other, and they kick animals, but only because they are too lazy to bend over and punch the cat. Well, typing is the same thing. You concentrate all your emotions, all your anger, all your love, all your hate and push it way down into those little punches. Essentially, you’re punching ten times as much. Okay, so that’s a crappy number based on the fact that you have ten fingers; some people don’t.

This new blog will be a list of 1001 things I hate, ambiguously titled, 1001 Things I Hate. It will focus on 1001 things I hate. Upon completion of it, I will have listed 1001 things I hate. It will be ongoing, and probably followed by a trilogy. Notice I didn’t say sequel. If you did, you’re smarter than I thought. Stop lying to yourself, you didn’t. So let us begin the first thing I hate.

The first thing I hate is 1001 of anything. There is no greater offender of the first thing I hate than books, one of the things I happen to like. Notice the foreshadowing up there when I mentioned the vicious cycle.

Everyone has heard of the book “1001 Arabian Nights”, or Alf layla wa layla in Arabic, which literally translates as The War On Terror. You have magic carpet rides, genies, Arabs, the Beastie Boys, and not one funny, furry, fucking alien that eats cats and hunts down giant, blue-eye cockroaches. False advertisement should be the name of this volume, being as it doesn’t even have that many stories, or pages, or nights. To add insult, it is subtitled Abridged, but doesn’t have a bridge anywhere in it.

Other books are even more worthy of my hate: “1001 Pelargoniums”, by some guy who’s never been laid, “1001 Animal Quacker Jokes”, by someone whose attempt at humor has already failed, “1001 Ways to Relax”, by Go Fuck Yourself and read my new blog instead, and my personal favorite, “1001 Things To Spot In The Sea”, by a dick who didn’t put sharks on the first page, found in all ocean floor bookstores.

Some even greater offenders are “1001” books of something you must do “Before You Die!” The biggest error is that not one mentioned living in any of them. Instead we are bombarded with sad attempts at entertainment. “1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die” excluded the revised second edition of “1001 Things To Spot In The Sea Including Sharks.” As a general rule, I never listen to anyone’s list of top books without an issue of “Tomb of Dracula” on it. This tome also featured ten books by J.M. Coetzee. While he wrote that awesome “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” song, he never got famous for writing shit else.

“1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die” will kill you as soon as you learn it features an album from Christina Aguilera. I guess I can stop writing now. But how can I before mentioning “1001 Gardens You Must See Before You Die”? Celebrate coming out of the closet by visiting 1001 gardens across the world and have your picture taken with a rainbow in the background.

Since it is late and I am preparing for bed, I will conclude with the biggest offender of all “1001” books: “1001 Golf Holes You Must Play Before You Die.” I’m pretty sure that, using my club and two balls, I am still attempting to play 1001 holes, none of which involve golf. Now if you’ll excuse me...