tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6093866177449695412024-03-19T15:24:07.410-07:00Strange Times"Riveting articles about creatures, cults, and crazies"Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.comBlogger108125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-2217431733517184782018-08-14T07:53:00.000-07:002018-08-14T10:29:38.270-07:00Man Loses Identity, Doesn't MindDICK, MI - These days, it's hard to be yourself. With identity thieves, body snatchers and masters of disguise running rampant, it seems like everyone is trying to get a slice. Whether that slice be of your proverbial pie, or simply your flesh, deviants are out there just waiting for you to slip up.<br />
<br />
And slipping up is precisely what John Rondo, 33, did. Does? Done? That's it. Slipping up is precisely what John Rondo done. During a routine ATM withdrawal for thirty bucks, Rondo managed to let his credit card number, security pin number and social security number<i> </i>fall into the wrong hands.<br />
<br />
Also stolen was his waist size, condiment preferences and the number of times he's watched <i>Bicentennial Man,</i> which would cause such panic in society that we cannot reveal it here.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who would have thought this face would spell mankind's doom? ...Us. We did.</td></tr>
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<a name='more'></a>"I don't miss being me," confessed Rondo. "Honestly, this new guy is doing a way better job at it than I ever did."<br />
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Who among us has not felt the pang of envy of another's life? Who has not dreamed of stepping out of their tattered, stinking, shit-covered shoes and into the sweet, cloud-like embrace of some hotshot's Italian loafers? Well, Strange Times hasn't, but we totally understand how a person like you would.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shown: Your Wildest Dream</td></tr>
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"Good riddance. He can have it all," said Rondo over a cup of coffee while comparing airline ticket prices to Guam. "Take the cheating ex-wife and ungrateful kids. Take the two mortgages, credit card debt and the loud-ass air conditioner. Now if only he could take my hemorrhoids too."<br />
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At first, friends and family implored Rondo to call his bank, cancel his cards, change his passwords and ultimately recover ownership of his identity. However, John Rondo is a man of conviction. Also, he really hates his life.<br />
<br />
"I told him my information got stolen last year," explained John's friend of two decades, Tony Schwo. "It literally took one phone call to fix. They were like, sorry that happened, here's your new card. That was basically it. John has always been pretty dramatic though. Plus his wife and I have been fucking for the past five years, so there's that."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can pick your friends, but they also might fuck your wife.</td></tr>
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So who is this mystery thief that saw something so desirable about John's life that he would steal it? Fortunately for the sake of this article, Strange Times employs several hundred private eyes across the globe. Some chew toothpicks, others smoke cigarettes, but all of them wear trench coats and speak like they're in <i>The Maltese Falcon</i>.<br />
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Luckily, Detective Ray Blueberry, 56, followed a series of odd purchases on John's bank account straight to the perpetrator. "Now Mr. Rondo was a pretty ordinary guy. The kinda guy who you ask what he does for a living, but by the time he opens his mouth to tell you, you've stopped paying attention. Suddenly I start seeing purchases for electronics, gift cards and condoms that, if you spied on Mr. Rondo like I have, you would know to be comically over-sized."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's a size bigger called Bazooka, but you can't buy them without a CDL.</td></tr>
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Det. Blueberry traced these purchases to Rondo's very own city of Dick, MI. Not only that, but he was able to recover video footage of the transactions being made. Caught on camera was none other than some guy that looks almost identical to John Rondo himself aside from one small detail.<br />
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"That damn mustache," lamented Blueberry. "We've got a crystal clear shot of who appears to be John Rondo, but then there's this bushy mustache loosely clinging to his face. It's bizarre. Almost looks fake, but to my knowledge that kind of prosthetic technology doesn't exist."<br />
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So that's that. Man's life gone up in smoke and no culprit held accountable. Blueberry followed this mystery man to the local airport where faux-Rondo boarded a plane bound for origins unknown. When we asked Blueberry why he didn't confront the man, he replied "I was tired", which was adequate for us.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We get it, work is hard.</td></tr>
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When we reached out to the real John Rondo, his phone had been disconnected. Friends and family have not seen him, or his doppelganger, for weeks.<br />
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"Don't get me wrong, I miss my father" admitted John's son Chumbus Rondo, 17. "But the other guy stopped by before he left and gave me a PS4 and a bunch of cash. Plus we tossed the pigskin around for a little while, which was more than my real dad ever did. I feel like I'm going to be pretty well-adjusted."<br />
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Strange Times doubts it.Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-23041230636671766932016-04-26T07:07:00.001-07:002016-04-26T07:29:51.074-07:00Local Man Disputes Motel BillCRUMBO, TX - Panic struck Wilmer Pance (38) during checkout from the Humble Inn, a reasonably priced motel off Interstate 17. The reason? An unexpected charge on the bill. "My heart just sank," recalled Pance of the tense moment in his otherwise blissful life. "This is what all those bad reviews are about online. Not about the Humble Inn specifically, just in general. People are always having things go wrong at restaurants and gyms and motels. I'm not one of those people." The disputed charge? A meager $8.95 for what the Humble Inn's staff could only classify as "an exorbitant amount of toilet seat covers".<br />
<br />
We had the chance to speak with the Humble Inn's Operations Manager Hubert Sagna who was able to shed some light on the situation. "This was out of ordinary for us, but we really had no choice. The guy used probably 400 toilet seat covers in the day and a half he was here. We had to do something," lamented Sagna. "Obviously we want everyone to have a comfortable stay here, but if Mr. Pance had a preexisting bowel condition that would have caused this gross overuse of bathroom supplies, he should have detailed that in the 'Additional Comments' section of the website while placing his reservation."<br />
<br />
Pance would not accept this bill sitting down, despite that being how it was accrued. "It's nobody's damn business but my own what I did in that bathroom," Pance said, loudly in the lobby. Wilmer's wife, Bethany Pance (36), stood by her husband's side, unashamed of his childish tantrum. "My husband is a good man," explained Bethany, clutching a tote bag stuffed with what appeared to be Humble Inn embroidered hand towels. "He just needs a lot of toilet seat covers. What can I say? At home we have a drain in the floor so we can just hose everything down afterwards. We're just working with the hand God dealt us."<br />
<br />
The Humble Inn attempted to make amends by only charging Pance a fraction of what a replacement pack of toilet seat covers would cost. "They're $19.95 for 500. By our calculations, Mr. Pance used approximately 376 toilet seat covers, before searching underneath the sink for a new pack, which he used exactly 62 covers from, before replacing it under the sink," explained On-Site Private Eye Johannes Burgleberger. "As if we wouldn't find out."<br />
<br />
The issue is ongoing. Strange Times was going to see it through, but just couldn't stomach another second of reporting on this one. Last we heard, Mr. Pance would agree to pay the bill as long as he was compensated with "at least a couple keychains and a mini-flashlight".Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-49915867738329374982013-10-28T10:21:00.001-07:002013-10-28T10:24:07.102-07:00Recent Study Yields Startling Results!So you ordered a salad instead of a steak and you're feeling pretty good about yourself. Not only are you slimming down the waistline, but you're protecting those cute animals from meeting the grim, chunk-covered face of death's bloody hammer. Well think again, gordo.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
It turns out fruit, vegetables and nearly all forms of plant life experience excruciating pain during their harvesting, cooking and ingestion. "There's no denying nature is a brutal place," confessed Dr. Mike Mustache at a press conference some time ago. "We simply cannot ignore these lifeforms' pleas for peace any longer." Mustache resumed tossing a fruit salad for a family reunion later that day. He took great pleasure in caressing the strawberries' tips before adding them to the bowlful of carnage.<br />
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Can you believe it? Plants got feels. Not only that, they have minds, personalities and relationships. Fucking <i>feelings</i>. What we mistook for harmless agriculture is actually the longest-running massacre of helpless victims since mankind's inception. Even blades of grass remember the screams of their ancestors from the Great Mowing of Two Weeks Ago.<br />
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"I had to watch my entire family skinned alive and devoured by giants," remembered a banana one of our interns brought for lunch. "Humans cannot come close to picturing the kind of agony we have endured for centuries. Not even the Jews."<br />
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"They slice us open, scoop out our guts, stuff us full of rice and stick us in an oven," listed a green bell pepper, fed up with the ignorant killing. "That sound fun to you? How'd you like if a bunch of Brussels sprouts broke into your place while you were sleeping, raped your daughter and used your wife as mulch? Yeah, that's what I thought."<br />
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Cucumbers and carrots have complained of being used as prop phalluses in many comedic charades. Potatoes are tired of having forks stuck in them and kicked around like that Charlie Chaplin bit. Oranges are outraged that they're being fed to children during soccer matches. <br />
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Other plants are reluctant to get on the bandwagon, fearing it will upset the delicate cycle of life. "It's bad, I'm not disputing that," said an asparagus that has chosen to remain neutral. "But a lot of people don't like asparagus, so I'm not too worried. Now watermelons on the other hand...those poor sons of bitches got the worst of it. Did you know people fuck them? I mean really <i>fuck</i> them. Oh yeah, all the time. Pop 'em in the microwave, drill a hole and you're good to go. Sure beats the hell outta getting syphilis from an Albanian prostitute."<br />
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Many protesters have dropped their causes in order to focus their full efforts on protecting plants. However, the public has not been receptive. "What? Now I'm supposed to give a shit what food thinks?" complained a man who has not purchased a piece of fruit for nearly thirty years. "I'll eat what I want, <i>when</i> I want. God put humans on this planet to eat everything in sight. That means fruit, veggies, your wife's pussy, whatever we fucking want!" A nearby crowd cheered after this, breaking out into a buffet/orgy that ravaged a small town community center.<br />
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What society nearly mistook for a vegetarian ploy to sway the masses has become a global uprising after a farmer in Tallahassee claimed to be able to speak with plants after years of snorting crystallized mule butter. Days after the announcement, Jed Clumberton, 47, ran naked and screaming into his crops. He heeded the call of those who cannot speak for themselves.<br />
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"From that day on, I became a vessel for their message," said Jed. "'Stop killing us'. That's basically their message. They just want to stop dying all the time. Or at least sprayed with less poison. Or not carved for holidays. Or smashed with baseball bats. They said some other stuff, but I'd rather not repeat it."<br />
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So there you have it. Next time you're forcing broccoli down your child's throat, think about if it were one of your own. If you were boiling, steaming and salting your mother's eyes. Or your dad's dick. Because plants have all of those things and more.<br />
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So much more.Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-30234560362541825392013-10-23T12:55:00.000-07:002013-10-23T12:59:55.091-07:00Shitty Young Adult Author Publishes Shitty Young Adult SeriesNowadays it seems that everyone and their limbless brother has a book deal with options for a film franchise and soft drink ad campaign. The latest vile worm of the written word is Cynthia Winterson, a 26-year old graduate from some school you can't afford. Armed with a Master's degree in Making Shit Up, Winterson has stormed the youth literature scene, scoring a major contract with WangDang! Publishing out of Manhattan just last week.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>The <i>The Dark Crag </i>series focuses on a girl who is not
quite a child, but not an adult either. She's stuck somewhere right in
the middle. In the year 3033, Carlie Mooncruiser is struggling to find
out who she is and what "it all" means, just like all people ever.
Despite her naive sense of existentialism and long-winded inner monologue that
indulges every infantile emotion, she still knows how to party. A
dangerous new drug called CrazyGood has hit the streets and all of
Carlie's friends are suffering horrible bug-eyed deaths from it. When an irresistible heartthrob, Jake
Saturn shows up on the scene, Carlie must decide whether or not to keep
getting banged by her junky boyfriend Johnny Knifehands or settle down with this new guy
she barely knows. Oh, and they all have superpowers because of an
irradiated hunk of alien shit. <br />
<br />
"What
we found most impressive was her spelling," said George Tudder, CEO
of the company. "She spelled almost everything
right and has a really good grasp of where to put commas. In today's
competitive industry, it takes more than a pretty face and rich parents to make it. You gotta be
willing to put out too." Tudder proceeded to gyrate in his chair and vigorously dig in his pockets.<br />
<br />
Though this is Winterson's highest paying project to date, it is far from her first rodeo in the writing world. During her college years, she wrote for multiple student publications including <i>Good Not Great Monthly</i> and<i> The Bozo Gazette</i>, where she primarily penned helpful relationship tips for the misshapen and mush-mouthed. She discovered her first dose of mainstream success with a viral article about the pros and cons of selling your pride to increase marketability.<br />
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"It's not stealing if you admit to it," claimed Winterson in an interview with <i>WhatchaReadin'?!.com. </i>"If I come right out and say that I implement unaltered copyrighted characters, overused plot devices and a voice devoid of substance or soul, I can't be prosecuted." After weeks of analysis, our legal team has concluded that "she's totally right". <br />
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Strange Times caught up with Winterson to discuss her most recent series.<br />
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<b>ST: </b> We appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedule to meet with us in this abandoned sausage factory.<br />
<br />
<b>CW: </b> Oh, it's not a problem. I had to cancel a charity event for terminal children, but I was looking to get out of that anyway. <br />
<br />
<b>ST:</b> You're a rotten bitch. We hope that you feel safe and unsuspecting standing there beneath those rusty meat hooks.<br />
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<b>CW:</b> I do, very much.<br />
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<b>ST:</b> Tell us a little bit about <i>The Dark Crag</i> books you're working on.<br />
<br />
<b>CW: </b> This is definitely my most complex story to date. It's sort
of Shakespearean, Orwellian and Kafkaesque, but also accessible to total morons. I thought that by combining a sixth grader's sense of romance
with rambling descriptions of teenage boy bodies, I could not only create
something stupid, but make bank doing it. <br />
<br />
<b>ST:</b> So basically the whole thing is a giant
dick metaphor?<br />
<br />
<b>CW:</b> Sort of. I was trying to being feminist <i>and</i> misogynist at the same time. I hope for Carlie to be a role model to little girls out there. Someone they can look up to that spits in their faces and gets railed by futuristic drug addicts. <br />
<br />
<b>ST: </b>You're slime.<br />
<br />
<b>CW: </b>And rich too.<br />
<br />
<b>ST: </b> Thank you so much for taking the time, now please, get the hell out of our sight you bloated wad of pigshit. <br />
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Look forward to the first installment of this thrilling new adventure, <i>The Dark Crag: Frozen Yogurt Heartbreak </i> hitting the shelves sometime after you see a million fucking billboards of some hunky guy standing next to a pale girl. Then, hurry up and read it because <i>The Dark Crag: Beyond Millennium's Ass</i>, a prequel to the third book <i>The Dark Crag: Against All Clods</i>, will be released shortly after the highly-anticipated sequel <i>The Dark Crag: A Nard Avenged </i>drops a week from a month from Tuesday. Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-3804225184448098432013-03-06T06:33:00.001-08:002013-03-06T06:33:59.127-08:00Local Man Wants To Do EverythingAs children, our minds become quickly crammed with limitless possibility. We believe we can do anything with enough elbow grease and tit milk. As we grow older, life happens. By "happens", we mean it grabs you by the cheek skin and repeatedly rams a titanium fist into your lower abdomen until every shred of aspiration seeps out of your gaping wounds.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anyone else wanna kick this guy?</td></tr>
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While the rest of us might crumble beneath the unyielding, hydraulically-powered deathtrap called existence, one man has remained untouched by this world's cruel touch. Phillip Nebb has not lost sight of the horizon. Phillip Nebb wants to be everything when he grows up. Strangely enough, Phil is already 37 years old.<br />
<br />
"I'm just trying to keep my options open," said Phil, sitting on his porch whittling a stick into a thinner, smoother stick. "I don't want to rush into anything because I have so much potential." Psychologists blame Phillip's procrastination on his parents babying him as a child. They believe he received entirely too much love, attention and support growing up, resulting in him being a self-confident, optimistic lollygagger.<br />
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He's walkin' on sunshine. We're treading on ground up diapers and soggy tortilla chips.</div>
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During his infancy, Phillip was a social butterfly. "He always wanted to know what other kids were doing, then go do it himself," remembered Phil's father, Chebb Nebb, while burying his freshly deceased wife's headless body. "I always knew that boy could do damn near anything. It's a shame he wound up doing jack shit, but y'know. Fug it."</div>
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Blossoming into a young man, Phillip discovered that of all the professions he had learned about, he wanted to be a fireman more than anything. For show and tell, he brought in a hose. He couldn't imagine doing anything else. Extinguishing flames was his calling. Something about saving lives and playing cards with a bunch of sexy dudes really resonated with him.</div>
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Firemen make love like they put out fires: hot, suffocating, and while wielding an axe. </div>
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Soon, little Phil's room was filled with toy firefighting gear and memorabilia. He even got an
official Ash and Widow Tear Stained Cloth from the online Tragedy Collector's Collection. One afternoon while
watching his favorite movie, <i>Fiery Hole: What If The Grand Canyon Was Filled With Fire?</i>,
he took notice of the strange cars rushing alongside the firetrucks. They were
white and boxy with backwards letters. They were
majestic. From that moment on, Phil wanted nothing more than to become
an ambulance driver. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A true martyr.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidGo-7dq-q9fRrovyFPJotcDU98tqwmt_aA40myzXOY0vi4_P6vTBDbTpY8It5obTDwJTeN8wmdAiQ1ZQKL_gOCE8FGzHDSnKihspU1Cq4Gjpy1_RCUjKoKuT0MIxClYUU9vYJAs2LVjpY/s1600/Ambulance_Drivers_Threaten_Industrial_Dispute_2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
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Phil began taking EMT classes, practicing CPR on his stuffed animals and even painted his first car like an ambulance. He would pick up gunshot victims whenever he got the chance. One day while letting a drug addict come down from a heroin overdose in his trunk, Phil got pulled over. </div>
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The cop strolled over, tapped on the window and commanded with a voice full of such authority that Phil couldn't contain his elation. He began weeping, exclaiming how he had "found his true purpose". Upon exiting the vehicle and attempting to hug the officer, he was beaten within an inch of his life and spent a night behind bars with a particularly handsy zookeeper. It was settled. Phillip would dedicate the rest of his entire life to becoming the most justice-glazed policeman to ever uphold the law.</div>
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The law
has always been good to us. They better keep it up if
they ever want to find Deputies Burk and Shaw.</div>
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Strangely enough, after completing basic training with flying colors, Phillip removed himself from the program, much to the surprise of his fellow cadets. "That boy showed promise I haven't seen in ages," reported a flabbergasted Deputy Dan Dank. "Right from the get-go, Nebb knew exactly how to ignore basic human rights while maintaining an air of professionalim. Not to mention the kid could run right through a bunch of tires like they were nothing." </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A gun and a degree await.</td></tr>
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Years went by and Phillip drifted through various careers. Mailman, milkman, businessman, macho man. Rockstar, astronaut, athlete and most recently, a philosopher. "All those other jobs...they weren't for me," admitted Phillip while staring blankly out his bedroom window. "I'm <i>sure</i> that this is what I want to be doing. Essentially what I do is sit around and think all day. I think about stuff I see, like on TV or whatever. Um, just the other day I noticed that whenever I watch a sitcom, I laugh at the same time that those other people laugh. Coincidence? Not a chance."</div>
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After only a few short weeks, those close to Phillip have already noticed signs of his interest waning. "He claims to be this great mind of our generation, but then I catch him leaving the faucet on while brushing his teeth," said a mustachioed voyeur that lives next door. "Who is that helping? God knows it's not the environment. And when I was picking through his trash the other day I found an unsettling amount of expired coupons. If he's so wise, he'd take advantage of those deals."</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Use these scissors to get 100% off your next suicide!</td></tr>
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Until Phillip can finally settle on one goddam way of life, it appears he will continue flip-flopping between interests, hobbies, infatuations and unpaid internships. "My five year plan is this," revealed Phillip to our eager, lubed up ears. "I figure I'll dabble, tinker and basically dick around. If I can't find what profession is right for me, I'm going to do nothing. At all. Ever again."<br />
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Strange Times wishes Mr. Nebb well in his pursuit of contributing nothing to the world whatsoever. It has worked out well for us. We can only hope that he stops breathing as well.Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-307477584572013832013-03-04T10:57:00.001-08:002016-04-26T08:47:08.834-07:00So You Wanna Be An Assassin: How To Kill With ClassAre you tired of hotshots like Martin Luther King Jr. and John Lennon
traipsing around your town, making your life look mediocre in
comparison? So what if they're more talented and courageous than you? Who cares if they can enunciate well in front of thousands? None of that matters when a bullet drills through their cranial cavity, splattering innocent bystanders with blood and brain fragments. That's where you come in!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4O5xBLkl-izDBGVR8GtgwVgIMyC6iA7yfPyXQkaUirXD8nAoEYI26qARGWt1ICi5xDKCP2jk2MPl8U3wve2NEoOQEltXUKo_MpVWAHKQT31NF7mrk2AUZjI8OOzSkq2VwJs_TieqDOwyd/s1600/jfk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4O5xBLkl-izDBGVR8GtgwVgIMyC6iA7yfPyXQkaUirXD8nAoEYI26qARGWt1ICi5xDKCP2jk2MPl8U3wve2NEoOQEltXUKo_MpVWAHKQT31NF7mrk2AUZjI8OOzSkq2VwJs_TieqDOwyd/s320/jfk.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">President in a convertible? You're practically asking for it.</td></tr>
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For as long as revolutionaries have attempted to inspire, there have been guys looking to snuff them out like a candle in the wind. Like a match in a cave full of moist bears. Like piss in the ocean. If any of that sounds appealing even in the slightest, a career in the wacky world of contract killing may be for you! Executing powerful public figures has been our primary source of income for decades and we think that you're just the right kind of drone for the job. <br />
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By following these quick and easy steps, you will be hacking, slashing and blasting your way to super stardom in no time. Now, before we start, you need to stop and ask yourself one question. Do you have an umbrella? If so, could we borrow it? Thanks, we really appreciate it. We swear we have one, but can't seem to remember where we put it. Okay, let's begin...<br />
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<i>Step 1: </i> <b>Create A Persona</b><br />
<br />
Every great killer has a trademark. Whether it's as simple as positioning corpses around a card table or something weird like sticking baby carrots their ears, you need to stand out. If not for the recognition, what's the point? After any given slaying, you want to be able to flip open the newspaper and point directly to your handiwork. This is a rapidly changing industry and we've seen plenty of fine young psychopaths get swallowed up in the competition. We'd hate to see that happen to you. <br />
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In regards to fashion and overall style, there are a few important things to note. Masks, though great identity concealers, will only obstruct your vision and make your lips all sweaty. You may have seen assassins in movies and video games wearing flowing robes or slick suits, but that's just unrealistic. If we had a nickel for every time we saw a guy get sucked into an industrial sized paper press because he wore a tie, we'd have about a dollar.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwLvY4cYrKzmCV7WJh13VPo_SiZdMn6SDeqsKL3S_adDLv-gunnBdBpX3WUBCiSlDIs5m8O6NA8prTfs_bQolKKWAGFnfa4I4DwQQAxC4A70XrFpFsaPOHboH0QTf5P6JWSRuwDFUOriPB/s1600/Altair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwLvY4cYrKzmCV7WJh13VPo_SiZdMn6SDeqsKL3S_adDLv-gunnBdBpX3WUBCiSlDIs5m8O6NA8prTfs_bQolKKWAGFnfa4I4DwQQAxC4A70XrFpFsaPOHboH0QTf5P6JWSRuwDFUOriPB/s320/Altair.jpg" width="286" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Yeah, we're looking for the guy dressed like a dominatrix swan."</td></tr>
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<i>Step 2:</i> <b> Decide Who Needs To Die</b><br />
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If you discover that you're the one who needs to die, kill yourself and you can skip the rest of this article. But if somewhere out there is your own personal white whale just asking to be harpooned through the blowhole, then continue reading. Every memorable murderer had something they were looking to get off their chest. An arch rival. Someone that stands for everything you want to cripple. With most top secret government agencies, your target will be selected for you. Though if you're lucky enough to handpick who will receive your hatred, choose carefully. Nothing causes indigestion like a misinformed mangling.<br />
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If you're struggling with this step, try to think of what makes you
different. Make a list of features, physical or otherwise, that help
you stand out in the day-to-day grind. Hate your face? Steal one from
your favorite celebrity or prime minister. Teased about your weight?
Only target swimsuit models and fitness gurus. Avoid cliches like necrophilia
and mommy issues. Become a harbinger of death, but keep in mind this is
the digital age. Your actions will be recorded, reviewed and assigned
an appropriate trending hashtag. Stay original, even if it means slitting the throats people you otherwise wouldn't have an issue with. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcS3AmiPWgul6NrZlgycqr9KU0RPMWsVvvpTa8ZirhzjU2Q_t29MkemDAnLy5wp3ik4Rd_us65wR5a_HQLbtDsLKq2hoWXb7jSmmcyHbRSzOb-eSOT4hzVQPoOBoWuaUxOepAhQtOGKkFS/s1600/mature_grocery_clerk_working_in_produce_aisle_of_kby23055.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcS3AmiPWgul6NrZlgycqr9KU0RPMWsVvvpTa8ZirhzjU2Q_t29MkemDAnLy5wp3ik4Rd_us65wR5a_HQLbtDsLKq2hoWXb7jSmmcyHbRSzOb-eSOT4hzVQPoOBoWuaUxOepAhQtOGKkFS/s320/mature_grocery_clerk_working_in_produce_aisle_of_kby23055.jpg" width="311" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">#dead #dying</td></tr>
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<i>Step 3</i>: <b>Kill Someone</b><br />
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This is the fun part.<b> </b>Where all of your training pays off. Where you finally get to bury the barrel of your gun into that sobbing priest's mouth and exact your vengeance on him for not molesting you all those years ago. It's a thing of beauty that, if you're lucky, will go down in history. Ledges, ladders and open windows are your best bets for penetrating any type of defense. Don't be afraid to get dirty when utilizing disguises. Some rookies will tell you that if you knock out a security guard and steal his uniform, you don't need to put his underwear on. Don't listen to that loser talk. Slip into those skivvies and assume the role. It's all about dedication.<br />
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Whether it takes place in the bathroom, bedroom, kitchen or gym, you must be prepared for any number of variables. Also, depending on your location, you are allotted a certain degree of spontaneous creativity. Perhaps you had banked on hurling a toaster into their bathtub, but discover that it'd be way cooler to smash their head in a car door. If deviating from the plan means the difference between a good or grisly crime scene, by all means go for it. The key thing is: no open caskets. You want to not only destroy their presence in this mortal realm, but whatever lies beyond. Butcher, brutalize and bastardize their memory. After all, this is your show. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGUSdhWUgmXTN4-dYqnPy5qj3abb8EhyphenhyphenLhxeFoT0XXsw1igMni5UJeemMIHats4ra7A5Posz3ctPTwI4ntnKrZiSShfCrriqXL2UQLGP0wZ6JN78uKkT7z1Rl3J0NoyyFysxHSWZzWyESM/s1600/large_Russia_Michael_Jackson_Reax.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGUSdhWUgmXTN4-dYqnPy5qj3abb8EhyphenhyphenLhxeFoT0XXsw1igMni5UJeemMIHats4ra7A5Posz3ctPTwI4ntnKrZiSShfCrriqXL2UQLGP0wZ6JN78uKkT7z1Rl3J0NoyyFysxHSWZzWyESM/s320/large_Russia_Michael_Jackson_Reax.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teddy bears and candles? Bitch, I'm dead.</td></tr>
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<i>Step 4:</i> <b>Handle The Press </b><br />
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In our experience, letters written in blood, breathy phone calls and leaving the police chief's severed head on the steps of city hall seems to get your point across more than any manifesto ever could. Then again, you don't want to seem like a drama queen or tabloid grubber. You wouldn't call a girl you met at the bar right away, so why drop by the victim's funeral to say what's up? Play it cool. Keep your distance. In today's blogosphere, you can get the skinny on damn near anything. Read testimonies from people who knew the victim, participate in message boards and post anonymous photos to gore fetish websites.<br />
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Along the way there might be that one renegade reporter or takes-no-guff detective that tries to throw a wrench in your gears. Someone from your old life that has been trailing you ever since you started down this path of blood money. Fret not. The best part about being investigated by humans is that they have a practically bottomless well of emotions and attachments to prey on. Dismantle their life from the shadows. Leave clues that lead absolutely nowhere. Crucify one guy as a distraction, then turn around and decapitate their pregnant fiance. Really, just go nuts.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl8Abm-miSkOpOQA-UWTHi_p8723wcnGiVLLTpCABFWvPdpkjyf0cjeRgoCQ5Mz-UFMhKD19A-_QovijIwZGxUaTaHwZ715Gj1MOyqGGPucv8OsvABzI2ZJMWJI-f5SD7TgfqoRswkvZrV/s1600/seven-box.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl8Abm-miSkOpOQA-UWTHi_p8723wcnGiVLLTpCABFWvPdpkjyf0cjeRgoCQ5Mz-UFMhKD19A-_QovijIwZGxUaTaHwZ715Gj1MOyqGGPucv8OsvABzI2ZJMWJI-f5SD7TgfqoRswkvZrV/s320/seven-box.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A head is good, but a carrot cake would really confuse 'em.</td></tr>
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<i>Step 5:</i> <b>Disappear</b><br />
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Well, it was fun while it lasted. After you've garroted your fill of throats and amassed a decent collection of hilarious sketch artist portraits, it is time to get off the grid. With any luck, you have made connections with contacts around the globe. The ponytailed computer hacker in London, the corrupt army general in Moscow or the whorehouse owner in Tahiti. Use some of that money stored away in an offshore bank account and get the hell outta here. <br />
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We understand that you may have gotten accustomed to your lavish lifestyle in your time as a scoundrel for hire, but all good things must come to an end. Don't be too bummed about it. Every decade or so you can send a bomb or some anthrax to the motherland, just to keep things fresh. And when the day comes for you to pass on to that glorious firing range in the sky, take a moment to reflect upon all the good that you dealt with. All the hope you extinguished. Reminisce on all the begging and bargaining for their pathetic lives. Stick a middle finger in God's face and tell him to shove it right up his holiest hole. For us.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmXj6nsMUNIn7p0RY4knemSxhEi5UwnPeloVftxR2IyyEeIz-bb5COELLLYuqCn8YHzTjwsGVWAvHeeasaWQmWgoaB7JmJqfStpWnRykxd3giwhKr8B-JZv1Le_uspZEeaUKepxztsd3xH/s1600/2012-12-17-ImageofGod.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmXj6nsMUNIn7p0RY4knemSxhEi5UwnPeloVftxR2IyyEeIz-bb5COELLLYuqCn8YHzTjwsGVWAvHeeasaWQmWgoaB7JmJqfStpWnRykxd3giwhKr8B-JZv1Le_uspZEeaUKepxztsd3xH/s320/2012-12-17-ImageofGod.jpg" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He'll pretend he doesn't like it, but trust us, he does.</td></tr>
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It's been a wild ride, amigo. We sincerely hope you can adjust back into a normal life. Not everyone has an easy time with that. Oh, and watch your back. We're not trying to scare you or anything, but you did a lot of bad shit. That beloved custodian you dropped from a helicopter? Though awesome, it probably wasn't the best use of your time. You didn't really expect to get away with all of this, did you? What? We told you to do it? Nah, man. You're on your own with this one.Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-24660177664322933372013-03-02T19:58:00.004-08:002013-03-02T20:00:37.201-08:00Gangs: They're The Best!Standards. Hard work. Reward. What does it all <i>mean</i>? We struggle every single day to make something of ourselves in this crazy, mixed-up world and what do we get? Jack Shit. John Poopy. We go to school for years to get an easily burnable piece of paper designating us professionals and in the end we all wind up rotting away in a cubicle, silently twisting and tugging on our own nipples. Homeless men ejaculating on our sleeves and tree stump worshipers spitting in our eyes. No loot, no swag, no hoes and no respect. That is unless, you wise up and join a gang! <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.kalamu.com/bol/wp-content/content/images/kool%20&%20the%20gang%2002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="http://www.kalamu.com/bol/wp-content/content/images/kool%20&%20the%20gang%2002.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shown: Smart.</td></tr>
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But where to begin? How does one assimilate into a counterculture that they know nothing about? We aren't impoverished or underprivileged. We don't come from broken homes or inner city dance crews. So where can we go to maybe get our foot in this very lucrative door. Why, the local YMCA!<br />
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Community centers have been birthing gangs since before it was the hip thing to do. It provides a stress-free stomping ground for you to test out all of your tough guy skills. You can meet your future cellmates and sew whatever kind of patch you want on your vest. (Tip: Flames, Skulls and Upside Down Crosses are in. Regular Crosses, Mother Mary's and Dairy Lovers Support Group pins are out.)<br />
<br />
Most importantly, you can choose what weapon is right for you. Maybe you're the kind of bare-knuckle brawler that lets his fists do the talking for him. Or maybe you've always dreamed of sliding a stiletto into the back of someone's skull. Heck, maybe you just want to shoot an unsuspecting mother in the face with a 9mm. Whatever kind of death rap fantasy you want to fulfill, there is a cold piece of steel to help you get there.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiout9ibsmh5N3yDItEXPQ7XfQEwaZV9IHaZnHFWZfVn2Sh91jn4_fnzEocCwIf-nf8I4o2XJsSOvLX34hkVy_5kZ5ViQpiRUeHGbGe86RvZg0nlzv_1yHRZHCrXypp1rk5zDwxAGJR9Yye/s1600/flamethrower.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiout9ibsmh5N3yDItEXPQ7XfQEwaZV9IHaZnHFWZfVn2Sh91jn4_fnzEocCwIf-nf8I4o2XJsSOvLX34hkVy_5kZ5ViQpiRUeHGbGe86RvZg0nlzv_1yHRZHCrXypp1rk5zDwxAGJR9Yye/s320/flamethrower.jpg" width="320" /> </a></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Or a hot sea of flames, but you know, whatever.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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After you have decided what your sick specialty will be, you might be wondering how to go from being a common creep to a veteran of gang warfare. Sure, you could spend your time running errands, mugging nuns and doing similar bitchwork until the top dogs give you a shot at the big leagues. Yeah, you could also slap a dress on, tuck your wiener back and go pierce a cow's udder with a railroad spike. But let's be real here. <br />
<br />
Crips, Bloods, Latin Kings. These guys, while undeniable barons of badassery, are only going to demand ludicrous amounts of loyalty and use you to pick up their dry cleaning. And boy, you mix that up and you've got some answering to do. If there is one thing we have learned in our time on the streets, it is that if you really want to make your mark upon the earth's crust, you start your own dang gang.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijP9-9l3Tj5SJlHLbT7QsgIvuvog3c4HkPoZfIxpY9S7bHECdWHTcRrhHp4EbB-Pj44LxxKfTFsB7m8AlDfghisXgHdNxUGvZX80ekDpJm021sCyD-Vki_PgMldiXN-uoP1N2xbuW4Ge5Q/s1600/desmond-bryant-mugshot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijP9-9l3Tj5SJlHLbT7QsgIvuvog3c4HkPoZfIxpY9S7bHECdWHTcRrhHp4EbB-Pj44LxxKfTFsB7m8AlDfghisXgHdNxUGvZX80ekDpJm021sCyD-Vki_PgMldiXN-uoP1N2xbuW4Ge5Q/s320/desmond-bryant-mugshot.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Searching for members? Look for people like this!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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If we know you, and we like to think that we do, right about now you are thinking, <i>"But I'm not nearly cool or dangerous enough for that? I'm just a loser idiot with low self-esteem and an inherently unpleasant body odor. Who would be gullible enough to follow me into a turf war?"</i> And while yes, you are at times a monstrous waste of potential, you are not totally worthless.<br />
<br />
In reality, some of the most notorious gangsters were actually closeted dweebs much like yourself. Easily disposable dinguses of the Nth degree. But what they've got, is people skills. Hitler was the ultimate hype man and Capone wore vertical stripes to hide his love handles. Basically, fake it until you make it. Then, keep faking it. Forever. Or at least until the lie becomes true. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUSdvxSlhWAfLWnPLuc51EmYjfXcwCMW8-FDk0Wr310-A2DQX1GXRWePSVk-H5z5Y9O4x5LVYLaPl6GrxnTvXeWnUcW_qEvcx1ubaojbEElyqCJKGzUqd0f462lkYxAuh2zWIQJgH198oD/s1600/130108-david-bowie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUSdvxSlhWAfLWnPLuc51EmYjfXcwCMW8-FDk0Wr310-A2DQX1GXRWePSVk-H5z5Y9O4x5LVYLaPl6GrxnTvXeWnUcW_qEvcx1ubaojbEElyqCJKGzUqd0f462lkYxAuh2zWIQJgH198oD/s320/130108-david-bowie.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shit, people still don't know Bowie is an android. Anything is possible.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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In no time you should have a dedicated legion of minions to do your bidding. Whether you let them run around in baggy pants and oversized, airbrushed t-shirts or custom fit your cronies into a slick tan uniform with pentagrams branded into their foreheads, that's really up to you. Lead as you like. Be fair, be firm and never forget that <i>you </i>are the leader. Bank robbery goes off without a hitch? You get it all. They want a reward for their labors? You let them live.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Sure, the camaraderie is all well and good, but the goal to keep in mind is total domination. A gang is only as great as its territory, and if you play your cards right, you could go global. Yakuza, Mafia, Russian Mafia, The Brotherhood of Beef. These are the kinda dudes that really know how to party. International trade of sex, drugs, firearms and soup recipes. By this time you should have already taken over a major city. The rest will just kinda fall into place. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo8Rqa2sYUGr2-NKs2l_GdJ30BoHN99I4ICsvfntEgw_QOhzvFTbM4UrWXIPy63H5RjKadA6LVEyiAHsHw0G4LcXCGhc_mvjyMnW-h29jcZhpvHWJWOSsBqaiOkog2usqalw6fj_ZT1LsA/s1600/holding_earth_in_hands.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo8Rqa2sYUGr2-NKs2l_GdJ30BoHN99I4ICsvfntEgw_QOhzvFTbM4UrWXIPy63H5RjKadA6LVEyiAHsHw0G4LcXCGhc_mvjyMnW-h29jcZhpvHWJWOSsBqaiOkog2usqalw6fj_ZT1LsA/s320/holding_earth_in_hands.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Place on train tracks.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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That brings us to our next point: how to go out with a bang. Oh c'mon. You had to know this couldn't go on forever. For fuck's sake, look at yourself. Bloated and balding. Enemies around every corner. A security system that Scarface would look at and be like, "Woah." You really shouldn't have turned that Third World nation into a theme park reserved only for you and your thousands of ex-wives and pregnant prostitutes. That pissed a lot of people off. The fact that you haven't been ground into sausages and fed to schoolchildren by now is beyond us.<br />
<br />
So now you just have to decide on the specifics. A rise-and-fall story is only as good as its descent. Its climax and resolution. Its the parachute bag filled with silverware. Everyone loves to see a tragic end to an already pretty pathetic existence, so why not give it to 'em? Hail of gunfire is a classic, but can quickly turn to comedy if it happens in front of Subway. Prison for life is not an option unless it's some kind of futuristic space prison with conjugal visits from hologram babes.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAiiKp09acBw8O3uR_qU7DhdwVEMMPMjl2uWvYUUxtCU_lb1AlZjXrZWIcE7__WSdxV_wqDNeYzJhOyZsxQSS-_NpMYGnhyphenhyphenBi70T5O_SPenC6A_fJtlSAHrjesrTaPYHJcQQ2sEbYtJ5uY/s1600/smashmouth.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAiiKp09acBw8O3uR_qU7DhdwVEMMPMjl2uWvYUUxtCU_lb1AlZjXrZWIcE7__WSdxV_wqDNeYzJhOyZsxQSS-_NpMYGnhyphenhyphenBi70T5O_SPenC6A_fJtlSAHrjesrTaPYHJcQQ2sEbYtJ5uY/s320/smashmouth.gif" width="315" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Precisely.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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What you want is something elegant, yet brutal. Something to flaunt your ferocity while preserving your street cred. Your reputation as a long-donged, stone-faced, crabshit crazy killer will live on for generations. Many Made-for-TV movies will be made in your honor. In the end, we can't tell you what to do. This is your show.<br />
<br />
Our humble recommendation: Ride a rhinoceros into the nearest sperm bank and demand all of the future presidents. Death likely. Glory guaranteed.<br />
<br />
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<br />Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-54069811247430281652013-02-27T16:36:00.003-08:002013-02-27T16:43:54.601-08:00Strange Times Joins Fight ClubStrange Times is pissed. Not the usual kind of pissed either. Usually we can fix that by throwing some steak seasoning in orphan eyes. But today<i>, hoooh boy</i>. We are ready to let the world have it. We're more mad than that time we caught our wives in bed with an Olympic team of firefighting rockstars. If only there were a way to take out our aggression. A way to relieve some of this stress that doesn't involve strangling our wangles. <br />
<br />
While walking solemnly across town, kicking cans and pouting at our reflections in every storefront, we heard sounds of a tussle coming from within a seemingly abandoned warehouse. Entering the building, we were immediately hit with dozens of stern stares. A group of men, varying in age and shape, covered in bodily fluids and trying desperately to act nonchalant.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSUKTrgD9A1VJG-5nexbh4hdtLxBw00-nZ_kCiHa9Ax0h-rDjQB9bnN3AkUUVLsHejBMUSccTP84u8AbRuGXcqHG4kdmZmS-dzVciNe-Ipa2i-Y8Eu_lLlZ7YMR_ARKkivph6VdtWs1hkF/s1600/Brad-Pitt-fight-club-body.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSUKTrgD9A1VJG-5nexbh4hdtLxBw00-nZ_kCiHa9Ax0h-rDjQB9bnN3AkUUVLsHejBMUSccTP84u8AbRuGXcqHG4kdmZmS-dzVciNe-Ipa2i-Y8Eu_lLlZ7YMR_ARKkivph6VdtWs1hkF/s320/Brad-Pitt-fight-club-body.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at asses much, guy on the right?</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<a name='more'></a><br />
Turns out the fellas run a little bit of a "Fight Club". We asked to join, but before inducting us into the organization, they had to run us through a few rules. Being the rebellious badboys we are, we were hesitant to get on board with any kind of law and order, but we obliged. We were just really<i> </i>eager to kick the shit out of someone. <br />
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RULE #1: <i>You do not talk about Fight Club</i>...well, we already broke the first rule with the headline, so the rest of this article is just going to be sort of downhill from here. Ready for that? Okay, cool.<br />
<br />
Um, RULE #2 is...<i>You DO NOT talk about Fight Club</i>? Well, that can't be right. That's what RULE #1 is. Why would they do that? You'd think they would have proofread the rules sheet before they printed it. <br />
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RULE #3: <i>When someone says "stop", or goes limp, taps out the fight is over</i>. That seems rather silly. We know from personal experience how difficult it is to get into a scuffle without a raging erection.<br />
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RULE #4: <i>Only two guys to a fight</i>. What if one of them is a midget? Shouldn't two midgets fight one regular-sized guy? Or does the midget just have to wait around until another midget shows up? Seems kind of ineffective.<br />
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RULE #5: <i>One fight at a time</i>. Again, that seems extremely time consuming. Can't we all just get hammered and clobber each other with no rhyme or reason? Isn't that what our forefathers would have wanted?<br />
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RULE #6: <i>No shirts, no shoes</i>. The sanitary issues alone debunk this rule. You've all seen those guys with pimply backs that look like they're about to erupt in a fountain of pus. We wouldn't fight those disease piles with a ten foot stick. Not wearing shoes isn't a big deal if they put down a tarp or something. And what about sandals? Do they count? If not, we're gonna have a problem.<br />
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RULE #7: <i>Fights will go on as long as they have to</i>. We have jobs, y'know? We've got news to write, drugs to deal and families to neglect. We can't sit around all night just because some guy locked in a wedgie refuses to give up. We'd rather save a bunch of time and go find a pizza guy to smack around.<br />
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RULE #8: <i>If this is your first night at fight club, you have to fight</i>. Well, what if we just want to observe? Maybe we aren't sure if this sort of thing is for us. You're going to make us fight even if we don't want to? Wow. That doesn't seem very fair. Dicks.<br />
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You know, after going through the fine print, we really don't think we want anything to do with this. It seems more like the cool kids' table at lunch. Always saying, "You can sit here if you smear mustard on your penis and let Rick's dog lick it off." DOGS DON'T EVEN LIKE MUSTARD!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpfshzQJvhaifNM2elnz_0JQ2vKtP8F-WRxbr7OJSbgJKHpIyLgBH2XW_Oy2ZeB8aPySKQDQTG2DyOt22zeeXfLJAxrnzdQ5GAuTYMJ18_yt3zcwu0aNdPUzva_U9-S90aecigETtDH1MC/s1600/sad-dog-wallpaper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpfshzQJvhaifNM2elnz_0JQ2vKtP8F-WRxbr7OJSbgJKHpIyLgBH2XW_Oy2ZeB8aPySKQDQTG2DyOt22zeeXfLJAxrnzdQ5GAuTYMJ18_yt3zcwu0aNdPUzva_U9-S90aecigETtDH1MC/s320/sad-dog-wallpaper.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But they <i>love</i> cocktail sauce.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The guys were reluctant to let us leave after seeing their operation, but agreed when we told them about the several bricks of weapons-grade plutonium we've been looking to get rid of. They took 'em off our hands, free of charge. They're working on some school project or something. They called it Project Chaos. It sounds pretty sweet, but they probably make everyone wear lameass uniforms or something.Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-56369561896639723422013-02-26T20:26:00.000-08:002013-02-27T05:51:18.979-08:00Strange Times Turns 100!That's right folks. It's here. The 100th article. Bet you thought we'd never get here, huh? Well here it is, plopped into your laps like a steaming text log. We know we haven't always been the most consistent in releasing news, but truth be told, sometimes there's just nothing going on. Absolutely zilch. That doesn't even take into account all of the werewolf uprisings that we've stomped out while simultaneously bringing you the good stuff. The hard-hitting squirters. The juicy giblets. Cut us some slack.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRdT2yYXI-RjrZCtFc2hKa_xZ1PVwWsYXYh_4D2JSJKzTcPqgkbeJUGZbZyNO9nWrja9WbN-esrGphOu4LZwRNWbqIvEJkWT-1si9EYqftxv5LcT0NYFgtoG44nK3Z16WCLDBtISPqgpiu/s1600/DrSlack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRdT2yYXI-RjrZCtFc2hKa_xZ1PVwWsYXYh_4D2JSJKzTcPqgkbeJUGZbZyNO9nWrja9WbN-esrGphOu4LZwRNWbqIvEJkWT-1si9EYqftxv5LcT0NYFgtoG44nK3Z16WCLDBtISPqgpiu/s320/DrSlack.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr. Slack: She'll clench ya.</td></tr>
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<a name='more'></a><br />
All of you ungrateful ingrates aside, we consider this a cause for celebration! In lieu of this monumental moment, we decided to give y'all the skinny on how Strange Times made it this far. Many think it is a secret passed down through generations while others believe we are utilizing herbal enhancements to stay so virile. So strong. So undeniably erect. But alas, it is simpler than that. Also, much more complicated than you could ever imagine. To guide you through our rich and winding history, we have prepared a timeline of important dates.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMlP0rqGAx8jnl9ZUU9iWBb9EGauOT8fgkdVE-JMa1AbHqM_Unx6EHHiq44MBO0SAm-Fc9L_U_EYQAtUi9FASXLBEmDSZvRkb2BhLagqost5dLWMZsTP3HkNb_siq5NSZU-j_acZsk6c3M/s1600/418704.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMlP0rqGAx8jnl9ZUU9iWBb9EGauOT8fgkdVE-JMa1AbHqM_Unx6EHHiq44MBO0SAm-Fc9L_U_EYQAtUi9FASXLBEmDSZvRkb2BhLagqost5dLWMZsTP3HkNb_siq5NSZU-j_acZsk6c3M/s320/418704.jpg" width="254" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This fuckin' guy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i>4,540,000,000 B.C.</i>: Ahhh, we remember these days fondly. Back in that time, we were nothing more than a simmering pool of ectoplasm leftover from the Big Bang. We writhed and wiggled like gelatin. You know, the kind with chunks of banana or whatever in it, but instead of fruit it was bones and organs and stuff. We began to assume a human shape. We siphoned knowledge of the cosmos and all of its inhabitants from the undulating cloud of gaseous consciousness known only as The Gigantula. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYvkv7QUVVRzwSDaAFtA-LUIB-8ut-qwIXMP9-JDq3NHdjebVsBF9O7Y4M0GhN51YZsyUbCszT269xc0VHmZhwXnrwXFF7T7oLfp0_li345rWnfujmx2dSME92sIJlpp1d18TaASTO1vQy/s1600/space-photography-119.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYvkv7QUVVRzwSDaAFtA-LUIB-8ut-qwIXMP9-JDq3NHdjebVsBF9O7Y4M0GhN51YZsyUbCszT269xc0VHmZhwXnrwXFF7T7oLfp0_li345rWnfujmx2dSME92sIJlpp1d18TaASTO1vQy/s320/space-photography-119.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our god is cooler than your god. And he always has weed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i>300,000 B.C.</i>: Now fully formed, we rose quickly through the ranks of neanderthals. It helped that we marinated a little longer than most primitive humans, so we had wings, gills and could also explode skulls with our minds. There was a lot of element wielding and astral projecting going on. Summoned alien forces to build a few temples. Nowadays whenever you see some doofus in a goofy hat standing in the desert going, "WHASSAT THING?!", you can be positive that we had something to do with it. Hell, the pyramids are just giant toilets.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiggZprYbHB4XeRi8lAHo_VwgB_iPlL1wKgAbz4eZ-ac6pwwhmymo2eVlV64B8UKwFbYMvHWHf2wRK46QFouLerqAPjsuU910r2jlbhQaEN9YkFJdgfwD2kg58bBQ2iQHt79HmvnHjpg21N/s1600/All_Gizah_Pyramids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiggZprYbHB4XeRi8lAHo_VwgB_iPlL1wKgAbz4eZ-ac6pwwhmymo2eVlV64B8UKwFbYMvHWHf2wRK46QFouLerqAPjsuU910r2jlbhQaEN9YkFJdgfwD2kg58bBQ2iQHt79HmvnHjpg21N/s320/All_Gizah_Pyramids.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big, pointy, slave-constructed toilets.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i>0</i>: This year was crazy. Everyone was all like, "Is it B.C. or A.D.? Or both? Neither?" No one knew what the fuck was going on, so they just recklessly banged each other. We're talking like, all day, all night. Non-stop booglin'. <br />
<br />
<i>32 A.D.</i>: You guys are never going to believe this one. You know Jesus? Like, Christ? Yeah, well we got pretty tired of his showboating, so we told Pontius Pilot that he was <i>baaad</i> news. Then we blamed the whole thing on this dingleberry Judas. Don't worry, he deserved it. He was always being a buzzkill, saying stuff like, "You can't worship Satan anymore, Strange Times" and "Haven't you eaten enough of our lord and savior's flesh?" As far as we know, he got it pretty bad. Gnashed in the jaws of Lucifer or an eternal layover in Indianapolis. Something like that. All in all, it was a pretty good Sunday and someone made a pound cake to die for.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikIuJcBW6S01iwLjJu8C07poo2K1ddg2CfaSqIAIslG3TWzZTN0ccTVPhyphenhyphenO9qJJS7vNPCEZlDuqwRFXDLJjJD2rtBK2HBw54fn-Nwn2D9lmrWv8O-pUcSwPlD9IVBgn0iNf9BAbwbgVmJa/s1600/PassionOfTheChrist_2004_02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikIuJcBW6S01iwLjJu8C07poo2K1ddg2CfaSqIAIslG3TWzZTN0ccTVPhyphenhyphenO9qJJS7vNPCEZlDuqwRFXDLJjJD2rtBK2HBw54fn-Nwn2D9lmrWv8O-pUcSwPlD9IVBgn0iNf9BAbwbgVmJa/s320/PassionOfTheChrist_2004_02.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Uh, could I maybe get a piece of that cake?" Go home Jesus, you're drunk off yourself.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i> </i><br />
<i>506</i>: This was the year of The Mediocre War. Basically everyone was pissed at everyone else, but nobody had the nuts to do anything about it. The occasional spear was thrown and one of our interns got crushed by a boulder, but that wasn't totally unplanned. Eventually, people just sort of forgot they were fighting and became friends. Then they remembered why they hated each other in the first place and the whole thing kind of went on like that for a few hundred years. It sucked, but was kinda cool too.<br />
<br />
<i>1776</i>: It was around this time we migrated to the States. The land of limitless possibility and overflowing with opportunity. We managed to catch a ride with a big ass tortoise and arrive just in time for the signing of some really important document. We slapped our names on the bottom with a footnote that essentially granted us total control of the whole country. The powdered wig wearing pussies will try and tell you the contrary, but are you really going to believe those guys?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6jJVxfhfYKLYl4vr3IVq_YYG29qtJ4cPCZ8epdpIs2OT75iOhKFb-DCXXP1gS7Bbc6XGYpI5KHQYBQJ1k3g5BQAA70ZuouTHBqR4ztqAN-GYMk8wUDg0u61ZK-2O2yxTli2O3RyZ1Wlg5/s1600/The-Declaration-of-Independence-July-4-1776-artist-John-Trumbull.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6jJVxfhfYKLYl4vr3IVq_YYG29qtJ4cPCZ8epdpIs2OT75iOhKFb-DCXXP1gS7Bbc6XGYpI5KHQYBQJ1k3g5BQAA70ZuouTHBqR4ztqAN-GYMk8wUDg0u61ZK-2O2yxTli2O3RyZ1Wlg5/s320/The-Declaration-of-Independence-July-4-1776-artist-John-Trumbull.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's right Washington, go ahead and die. You still owe us that green picture of yourself.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i>1945</i>: We're just going to cut right to the chase. We ended World War II. Your grandparents are all shithead morons that just got in our way. The fat cats in Washington want you to believe that victory was achieved through the perseverance and pride of piss-panted pansies, but that's all wrong. Basically all it took was a few pairs of tube socks warmed up in the dryer, ten tubs of ape mayo and a fleet of super sexy dicksucking cyborgs. The bombs were ours too, but had nothing to do with the war. That was just fun.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWdbA8mjh3fp02l2ODgQ730dScqMNACOOWE3rkQuaRlFKRX_w7OvTD_DOUx0ymCxMqUyEC1TbkgUiw2T8V0HCZiQ_m7fs4i6mSaf8mEMEGvkUxgz7pi6IYt0qgfuBepyiMfcHz3zJX2F5/s1600/0302-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWdbA8mjh3fp02l2ODgQ730dScqMNACOOWE3rkQuaRlFKRX_w7OvTD_DOUx0ymCxMqUyEC1TbkgUiw2T8V0HCZiQ_m7fs4i6mSaf8mEMEGvkUxgz7pi6IYt0qgfuBepyiMfcHz3zJX2F5/s320/0302-01.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In reality, the cloud looked way more like a dong. Seriously, just ask anyone who was there.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i>1984</i>: Some of you greenhorns out there probably remember this era of our influence. You'd have to be dead not to, which is very possible because we were killing a lot of people during that time. They called us Big Brother, but we preferred Pig Mother, or Roy. We revolutionized the way people thought, bought, sucked and fucked. In addition, we developed one hell of an information extracting method. It's called Fat Guy Sits On You Until You Tell Us What We Want To Hear.<br />
<br />
<i>2001</i>: Man, we remember this like it was a dozen or so years ago. Space odysseys, leftover Y2K candy and we finally got rid of those pesky buildings disrupting the otherwise gorgeous New York skyline. It was a year of many miracles and Manwiches. Also, the first<i> Harry Potter</i> movie came out. That was pretty alright.<br />
<br />
<i>2013</i>: We wrote this article. Everyone was super stoked and probably got laid.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-bkml4CwKzbTc6iLhRnWwbaad5e7AXRtpgzZi_6qsYbHblqeneBuxtZUDEBdItx2TtqKcGIQIHbA4NrSI_B47o1F_cgKs35Yva3QKqwPngSSbrXC6qCtm9nrxoTJtIsUES6P9Ul6BDCy_/s1600/satisfied.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-bkml4CwKzbTc6iLhRnWwbaad5e7AXRtpgzZi_6qsYbHblqeneBuxtZUDEBdItx2TtqKcGIQIHbA4NrSI_B47o1F_cgKs35Yva3QKqwPngSSbrXC6qCtm9nrxoTJtIsUES6P9Ul6BDCy_/s320/satisfied.jpg" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You know, sex.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So there you have it. The lowdown dilly that led us here today. You might be thinking, "But Strange Times, what about all of the time between the rough dozen dates that you described? What was happening then?" God damn, there's just no end to it with you, is there? Fine, we'll tell you. Nothing. Nothing was going on, alright? Maybe a few decapitations, a couple of ex-wives and a whole bunch of expired lunch meat. Isn't anything private anymore?Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-60906384609405352013-02-17T03:19:00.002-08:002013-02-17T03:31:48.906-08:00Fortune Teller Predicts 'Nothing Much'You
may have noticed recently that you aren't dead. The birds are chirping, the sun is shining and your neighbor with the nice calves is mowing his grass as often as usual. Our world did
not end as foretold by ancient civilizations, preached by televangelists and shouted by street
scum, complete with little chunks of hot dog flying out of their mouth.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmQXeWk9bO7oEhZ2yOez0rSZ-64fJZxes0qabp0jFpGfpOr8d2GkZT4aAhH4OWx-ihryhT4shNCGT4HyAZHvExaImmVVXHS6oKGjZjECO4BX6jYcnHWjH8kTGwWGitgwd7AthDy5MN8ns/s1600-r/puke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmQXeWk9bO7oEhZ2yOez0rSZ-64fJZxes0qabp0jFpGfpOr8d2GkZT4aAhH4OWx-ihryhT4shNCGT4HyAZHvExaImmVVXHS6oKGjZjECO4BX6jYcnHWjH8kTGwWGitgwd7AthDy5MN8ns/s1600-r/puke.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> TAKE THIS PAMPHLET!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a name='more'></a><br />
For some of you, being spared from an apocalyptic brutalization
of all mankind might seem like a reason for celebration, but for others
it just means another weekend of contemplating suicide and untrimmed toenails. Being the public benefactors and filthy philanthropists that we are, this recent absence of annihilation prompted
us to do a little in-field research to get the lowdown on when our time
will truly be up.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
First we bought a Ouija board, but have found little use for it besides pummeling thieves to
death. Frustrated at our inability to connect with the realms beyond, we decided to pay a visit to Madam Kabroni's Fortune Hut. Here, we were able
to take an exclusive glimpse into the unknown and distant future.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyz7JugKabO64UYMBThxzFYE1mRLvyMUexq3VzSJRJBgYmx4f3QWV4l_jc6DhH_fJ5YSTva1o_sDNophBkUVTOe8ts6SFXtRYL95ZBf3Z9n7O9YNpJPibGznb1jUnjmtmkg2DIVPVT5LvV/s1600/crystal-ball.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyz7JugKabO64UYMBThxzFYE1mRLvyMUexq3VzSJRJBgYmx4f3QWV4l_jc6DhH_fJ5YSTva1o_sDNophBkUVTOe8ts6SFXtRYL95ZBf3Z9n7O9YNpJPibGznb1jUnjmtmkg2DIVPVT5LvV/s320/crystal-ball.jpg" width="252" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luckily this freak was nowhere to be found.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
Inside the psychic den, a smell of old wallets soaking in gravy overwhelmed the senses. After the Madam finished caressing her neck goiter for a solid twenty minutes, we got down to business. "It's going to be pretty uneventful for a few thousand years," said Kabroni while rubbing a crystal ball as one would stroke a troll's gonad. "All the cool stuff happened already. We're pretty much looking at a long stretch of lazy Sundays and short-lived sitcoms."<br />
<br />
We were shocked, mortified, dismayed, incredulous and also could not believe what we were hearing. How could society slip so far as to stop trying to spice things up entirely? We know better than anyone how tough it is to drag our sludge-filled meat sacks out of bed each morning, but we do it. If we don't, who will build the fences to keep goblins out of daycares? Who will clog up public transit with the penetrating odor of unwashed wounds? For the love of all that is holy, WHO WILL PROGRAM OUR DIGITAL RECORDING DEVICES?!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuVN6NfN_F5WF_GkaqTV_qIYUhVQmMm0tCNJn7CB6WkeJQE8K6py5z_hHUVBrXBWICsostpYA9VFn4vWhHrMddPhzA774CAURCr0b8ef60s0KuemFh23XTkpwxCza3VBmciR5tS7SZJSZh/s1600/dvr-22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuVN6NfN_F5WF_GkaqTV_qIYUhVQmMm0tCNJn7CB6WkeJQE8K6py5z_hHUVBrXBWICsostpYA9VFn4vWhHrMddPhzA774CAURCr0b8ef60s0KuemFh23XTkpwxCza3VBmciR5tS7SZJSZh/s320/dvr-22.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We'll die before we take a recommendation from a machine! ...what's that? Well actually, that sounds pretty good.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We stumbled into the street, weeping and belching, unable to control our emotions or bowels. Suddenly everything seemed so very pointless. If our future is as bleak as Kabroni foretold, how can any of us pretend the contrary? If all we have to look forward to is the sweet embrace of death, then what's to prevent us from just ending our lives right now? We might be a faceless news conglomerate, but goddammit we have<i> purpose</i>. Right?<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Public committees have been organized to "do cool stuff" to stave off the inevitable mediocrity of existence. Portly and proud leader of Fellas For Fun Futures, Brando Piggle, spitballed a few ideas for how to boost entertainment in this dull age. "Bean bags. People love those things. And maybe a few new board games," said Piggle, accumulating a yellowish secretion above the brow.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://somethingburning.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/sorry1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://somethingburning.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/sorry1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pieces in the updated version of <i>Sorry</i> double as butt plugs.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Scared citizens have taken to the street in a frenzy of freshness. Painting murals, hanging lights and diving headfirst into moving vehicles are only a few of the exciting changes being brought to the table. "I decided to cut off my lips," hissed a concerned man with exposed, bleeding gums. "I lived the first 35 years of my life with lips, so I decided it was time for a change. Personally, I don't know how I lasted that long with those nuisances. Always getting chapped in the winter. Try putting some balm on there, but that just gets 'em greasy. Good riddance I say." We couldn't agree more.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfXwNhSBs9RjAV6aSdF4sf8G1XXBPuBqDbwNLusAL4HTCprgke8FUOVqYl-__dhky30brv9MM-vDaErZddT5pQVVwbGE8A-Ve41-fWNG4L630qAgkY1WJFAV4EDILCWsrCCNrt3-7H-VkN/s1600/6380386765_8b6e552f82_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfXwNhSBs9RjAV6aSdF4sf8G1XXBPuBqDbwNLusAL4HTCprgke8FUOVqYl-__dhky30brv9MM-vDaErZddT5pQVVwbGE8A-Ve41-fWNG4L630qAgkY1WJFAV4EDILCWsrCCNrt3-7H-VkN/s320/6380386765_8b6e552f82_z.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's what we call a quality smear job.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
Unfortunately, the flurry of productivity ended as quickly as it began. Protestors sat down in the street and government offices went vacant Monday morning. "Really, why even try?" asked Planet President, Earl Chuchamunga. "Aren't you people tired? I'm tired. I could use a few decades of peace, quiet and 3-day weekends. Maybe throw a few barbeques in there. Frankly, this nationwide outpouring of passion is makin' me sick."<br />
<br />
There you have it. Our collective future is essentially a bland blob of blurry boredom, wrapped in a flavorless flour tortilla. And while there may be the occasional spark in the night along the way, this is pretty much it. A whole lot of nothing surrounded by even less. It appears as though we will never reach the seldom seen rapids of ranch dressing cascading over meat loaf mountain. We will never tickle the oracle's taint atop the crag.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXKk7SZNWPIWy_v44dd-AQwdXhS1VSySvG2rC4c0k8eHnblXZQbNZNETWvJaJiAQDORKC5n00Yd7Ghxco6vobGx_hGzEPekwZdPG_NlE6G3BPz3-_tKd31bpXLDWUn06mI1lYAOyhZ9iAk/s1600/300-oracle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXKk7SZNWPIWy_v44dd-AQwdXhS1VSySvG2rC4c0k8eHnblXZQbNZNETWvJaJiAQDORKC5n00Yd7Ghxco6vobGx_hGzEPekwZdPG_NlE6G3BPz3-_tKd31bpXLDWUn06mI1lYAOyhZ9iAk/s400/300-oracle.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What are we even talking about anymore?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Our lives will grow stagnant and intolerable. Collecting dust until one day...something will happen. It<i> must</i>. And while we may not be around to see what that is, it comforts us to know that our children and our children's children and our children's children's child armies will have a new Xbox or some bullshit to occupy their days. That gives us hope of a day when time is recognized for what it is. Infinite, renewable and just asking to be wasted.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijuTe4yHbaq_qm77vPSLgVp9M8wli-WidniEpR9XxqDohbguwMoGRUkBE23hp-JboghLHngPDQp3YZBumCPOA29NZ1rwdsGMetsgQ5U2tRUtcK-sMxMSqX4JhZ0D5_IG69kotP8LlStpks/s1600/looking-at-watch.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijuTe4yHbaq_qm77vPSLgVp9M8wli-WidniEpR9XxqDohbguwMoGRUkBE23hp-JboghLHngPDQp3YZBumCPOA29NZ1rwdsGMetsgQ5U2tRUtcK-sMxMSqX4JhZ0D5_IG69kotP8LlStpks/s1600/looking-at-watch.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Late for the birth of your child? FAHGET ABOUT IT!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-28477831445881341692013-02-14T08:36:00.003-08:002013-02-14T09:43:49.095-08:00Strange Times' Guide to Finding LoveQuick! Stop pawing at your pud, put some pants on and get out there, champ. We've stood idly by while you've single-handedly decimated even the slimmest chance you had of getting any action this Valentine's Day. Staining your shirts with marinara (the unsexiest of sauces), cutting out exercise entirely (sleep sweating doesn't count) and suffering from a rare condition known as "Stink Flesh" (also, a chronic case of Ugly Face). But all that's behind you. We're about to give you a crash course in lovin', lustin' and if you don't screw it up, bustin' a nut all over that special someone.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://us.123rf.com/400wm/400/400/poznyakov/poznyakov1001/poznyakov100100376/6343242-girl-with-jewellery-gift-box-on-red-background-valentines-day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://us.123rf.com/400wm/400/400/poznyakov/poznyakov1001/poznyakov100100376/6343242-girl-with-jewellery-gift-box-on-red-background-valentines-day.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jewelry is nice, but lukewarm ejaculate is even better.</td></tr>
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<a name='more'></a>You may be saying to yourself, "But Strange Times, I already have a Valentine's Day sweetheart! My life is basically okay, right?" No, absolutely not. In fact, your life is emptier than it has ever been. We know what you normies are all about. Overpriced dinner at some quasi-foreign chain restaurant, flowers or chocolate depending on how sensitive your date is about her morbid obesity and a dry handjob on a scratchy couch where the cushions slide out so you have to keep pushing them back with your ass. You are a murderer of romance. A fallen angel of effort. Essentially, a hulking mountain of sexually frustrated trash hidden beneath a thin veil of pale meat with patchy facial hair.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.instablogsimages.com/images/2006/10/25/handsome-ugly-man_weird-picture_2_49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="312" src="http://www.instablogsimages.com/images/2006/10/25/handsome-ugly-man_weird-picture_2_49.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At least this guy has a nice smile. Da fuck do you got?</td></tr>
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TIP #1: GET CRUEL, BE CHEAP<br />
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First off, you're going to have do something about that honesty of yours. You might have been told in the past that women love a genuine man, but we're guessing whoever dropped that advice on you promptly banged every girl you ever cared about. People like a jerk. A lying, cheating dirtbag that will spew any amount of verbal bullshit to get what he wants. It signifies confidence when you treat your partner like the worthless cum receptacle that they are.<br />
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Next time you go out on a first date, don't pay. Don't even touch your wallet. Order whatever you damn well please and urge her to splurge. Fuck it, get dessert. When the check comes, don't you dare cave. DO NOT DO IT! Sit there in total silence until eventually, like magic, she will reluctantly pay for the whole meal. Play your cards right and she'll cover the tip too. Now, she's invested. After blowing fifty bucks on dinner, she's just about resigned herself to suffering through a few rounds with your unkempt genitals. All those looks of disdain, huffing and sighs of disappointment will only boost your chances of getting down with her didgeridoo later in the evening.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.sights-and-culture.com/australia/aboriginal-didgeridoo-0202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.sights-and-culture.com/australia/aboriginal-didgeridoo-0202.jpg" width="208" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Her roommate let us play his one time, but it tasted like dick.</td></tr>
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TIP #2: LIE ABOUT WHO YOU ARE<br />
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After however many years you've been shamefully scuttling through life, you might have found a way to tolerate yourself. Maybe you're even optimistic about the future. What are you, nuts? Your entire existence is a one-way trip down a dark alley with an anally-obsessed, knife-wielding maniac waiting at the end of it. But SHE doesn't need to know that, does she? <br />
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When discussing your life, leave out all of those giant chunks where it royally sucks. Painful break ups and dormant STDs have no place in this conversation. Remember when you were young and people told you that you could be anything you wanted? Well, you can't. And everyone you thought loved you, doesn't. Sorry you had to find out this way, but shit, you can hardly be the things you don't want to be.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://o.onionstatic.com/images/14/14984/original/700.hq.jpg?0244" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="242" src="http://o.onionstatic.com/images/14/14984/original/700.hq.jpg?0244" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Goodbye and welcome to-. Wait, I mean...FUCK!"</td></tr>
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That's the beauty of meeting someone for the first time. You can be anything! If you unclog toilets for a living, say you're a doctor. Telemarketer quickly becomes International Marketing Expert in the wild and wacky world of gettin' it in. It really doesn't matter what you say so long as it's not the truth. Nobody wants to hear that.<br />
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Spin her a yarn about somebody that even you'd want to fondle. Tell her you usually have the body of an all-star athlete and only look bloated because you're carbo-loading. Who cares?! If you want her to love you for who you are, you're outta luck. That's just not going to happen. We sympathize, we really do, but if you wanted to be appealing this late in life, it might've been wise to avoid becoming a hideous sad sack of saturated fat and internet memes. <br />
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SIDE NOTE: Your penis is gigantic. Remind her incessantly. By the time she finds out it's not, it'll be barreling towards her squirming body.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.mask-shop.com/images/querulant_latex_maske__grumbler_latex_rubber_mask.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.mask-shop.com/images/querulant_latex_maske__grumbler_latex_rubber_mask.jpg" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">FREEBIE: Hate your face? Steal a better one! With an axe!</td></tr>
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TIP #3: DON'T LEAVE<br />
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If everything has gone according to plan, by now you're standing awkwardly on her front porch. She'll likely be shivering in the frosty night air, but don't give up that jacket. No way. That's like an Asian child that knows missile launch codes in a hostage situation. You hit the jackpot. She wants what you got. If somehow you haven't blown it and she hasn't caught on to your intricate web of alter egos and falsehoods, she just might maybe possibly invite you in. BOOMSHAKALAKA!<br />
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Once you're in, you're in. Whether it's for a stiff drink, some coffee or for her to show you her cat corpse collection, the moment you hear that door shut, urge her to lock it. Inform her about a string of brutal murders that have occurred in her neighborhood recently. Tell her you're the murderer if you have to, it really doesn't matter at this point. Like we said, just get inside at any cost. Plant yourself firmly on the couch and eagerly await her arrival to your lap. Last we checked, police response time is 8-10 minutes. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://sharongcobb.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/sexually_unsatisfied_m-425x282.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://sharongcobb.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/sexually_unsatisfied_m-425x282.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not even on your best day, buddy.</td></tr>
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So there you have it. A foolproof plan for wowing, whooing and eventually deep dongling any lady (or feller, for the one woman reading this) of your choosing. No more lonely nights spent abusing your goldfish for you! Just think about all the money you'll save on porn and prostitutes. You'll be able to afford that beginner's science set you've always wanted. Follow these steps and you will, without a doubt, seal the deal. If not, make a deal with the devil. If that doesn't work, find a drug dealer, buy all the heroin you can afford and inject it directly into your brain. After all, isn't that what Valentine's Day is all about?Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-70194493919227355962013-02-13T16:17:00.002-08:002013-02-13T16:25:43.967-08:00Horror Movie Shakes ViewersWe all go to the movies. Except for Jimmy in accounting, but fuck that guy. We hear he has eczema and that's just gross. Besides for that philistine dingaling, Strange Times is in full support of cinema and all of its twitching limbs. Each year, countless tales of intrigue, romance and animated woodland creatures sucking each other off hit screens across the globe. Whether its to our amusement or disgust, ultimately it is the audience that makes or breaks a film.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://blog.earnmydegree.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/Happy_Audience.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://blog.earnmydegree.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/Happy_Audience.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Boy oh boy! It's like he's cumming right on us!"</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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This weekend, a horror movie came out. You might be saying to yourself, "WHO CARES?! I've seen tons of horror movies before. What makes this one so special?" Well if you would just shut your god damn shit-filled mouth for one second, we'll tell you. Audiences entered theaters expecting the same old spooks: Vacant-eyed children castrating priests with their minds, some dude wondering what the fuck is going on and above all, bodacious, bouncing, blood-soaked bozongas.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cf.badassdigest.com/_uploads/images/spacekblood.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://cf.badassdigest.com/_uploads/images/spacekblood.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We'd let her murder our friends and family anytime.</td></tr>
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In the most recent feature from acclaimed director Tub Blubson, theater-goers were treated to something infinitely more sinister than your run-of-the-mill scare fare. Famous for such controversial works as <i>Bleed: The Blood</i>, <i>Whose Dead Cat Is This?</i> and <i>My God, My Gourd</i>, Tub returns with his most startling film yet. <br />
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"It's a mirror," said Tub in an interview with <i>RashFilm</i>, a blog run by nervous teens with poor skin. "Viewers will be subjected to their own terrible reflections. They will see themselves for the capitalist pigs and soulless whores they have become. With this film, I hope to expose our cruel world for the flaming ball of slime that it truly is." Projectionists nationwide have raised questions as to "how that's even possible", but all skeptics were silenced after enduring the film themselves.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://beyondthepulpitmabc.files.wordpress.com/2012/09/woman-looking-in-mirror.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="162" src="http://beyondthepulpitmabc.files.wordpress.com/2012/09/woman-looking-in-mirror.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Imagine every zit, fifty feet tall.</td></tr>
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Hunks and hotties alike have taken to theaters in hopes of debunking the film's effect, but to no avail. Even Crud McGuffin, local stud muffin, was no match for the film's overpowering influence. "At first, it wasn't so bad," recounted a shaken Crud. "My hair was looking luscious and my pecs were poppin' from going extra hard at the gym that day. Then, suddenly everything became clear to me. I am a shell of a man. I take pride in my physical appearance because I have never been in touch with my emotions. Also, my dick is like a shrimp that got left out in the sun." <br />
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Profits at concession stands have risen by nearly %1,000,000 as emotionally shattered citizens have flocked to buttery, sugar-soaked snacks to suppress their crippling insecurity. "I JUST KEEP EATING, BUT NOTHING WORKS!" shouted a balding lunatic in the lobby of Cineplex 6 while smearing feces on his scalp. "Raisinets, Sno-Caps, Sour Patch Kids. For the love of god when will it end? WHEN WILL I BE HAPPY?!" Suicide rates have also increased significantly since the film's debut, but we attribute that to the simultaneous release of <i>The Smurfs 2</i>.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20121117144803/filmguide/images/thumb/8/87/The_Smurfs_2_Eiffel_Tower.png/1280px-The_Smurfs_2_Eiffel_Tower.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://images1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20121117144803/filmguide/images/thumb/8/87/The_Smurfs_2_Eiffel_Tower.png/1280px-The_Smurfs_2_Eiffel_Tower.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slit your wrists while you can.</td></tr>
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Film critics have panned the film for "being ugly" and "gaining quite a bit of weight over the past few months". Blubson stands behind his work wholeheartedly and has gone as far as sending the film to international film festivals. Trouble has arisen because of the film's fluctuating duration. "It will go on as long as it needs to," said Tub to a panel of judges at Cannes Film Festival who were particularly resistant to the film. "You will see yourselves as you are. Perpetrators against decency. Greasy, money-grubbing maggots. Failures of the utmost caliber." Clocking in at nearly 17-thousand minutes, the entire festival collapsed on itself in an orgy of self-loathing. Roger Ebert was last seen tearing the jaw bone off of Channing Tatum and cramming it onto his own face. <br />
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Despite the film's profoundly disturbing impact on the world, it has yet to be titled. Blubson says that he intentionally withheld its name to maintain the film's integrity, but we think that's just mystic art house bullshit. Marquees have been billing it as <i>That Fucking Mirror Movie</i> or <i>Look At It, You Scum</i>. We here at Strange Times plan on checking it out later this evening. We aren't scared to look ourselves in the eye. Unless we start thinking about the war. Or Easter of '76. Or really anything involving ladles.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://hypersemitic.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/soup_ladle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://hypersemitic.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/soup_ladle.jpg" width="232" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's just...too hard to talk about.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Theaters have outfitted their screens with a plexiglass coating to prevent disgruntled customers from destroying the image. Blubson has already discussed details of DVD distribution. "I will have a copy of this film playing around the clock in every bathroom of every home. You cannot hide from yourselves, sniveling worms. You will be forced to reckon with your stench."<br />
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In other news, we have begun work on our own film, which follows the journey of a young switchblade through the bowels of hobos in slums of New York City. It will be released as soon as we get these red stains out of our eyeballs.Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-25639285611371704922013-02-11T15:12:00.003-08:002016-04-26T12:05:16.245-07:00Planters Peanuts Mascot Revealed to be Dehyrdated Wizard, Consumers Appauled.For decades, we have watched Planters Peanuts parade their dancing, monocled mascot on televisions and billboards across the globe. Twirling his cane, tipping his hat and gyrating his pelvis in a most unsettling manner. Well, you better sit down for this one. Cuz that ain't no peanut. That's a god damn 5,000-year old wizard.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://edibleeducation.files.wordpress.com/2011/06/6a00d83451db4269e2013488d7b840970c-400wi.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://edibleeducation.files.wordpress.com/2011/06/6a00d83451db4269e2013488d7b840970c-400wi.jpg" height="248" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Your dreams will never be safe again. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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We regret being the ones to have to inform you of this troubling news, but that's just we do. Bringing the straight poop right to your doorstep, dousing it in kerosene, igniting it and vanishing like rat farts in the night. Word of the scandal broke during a photo shoot with the mascot, or Casi DeFontaine Salazaar, as he shall henceforth be known. After an intern caught him sacrificing an infant lamb in his dressing room, Casi decided to come clean. He released this statement to the press:<br />
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<i>"I regret to inform you all that I am not actually, in fact, a peanut. No, not at all. I am what most historians and rappers would call, "a wizard". I know, fucking crazy right? That's just the god's honest truth. Oh yeah, I conjure potions, cast spells, the whole shebang. That doesn't mean I don't believe in what I do. I think Planters is a damn fine company with a lot of quality products. But hey, what do I know? I've only been around since the crucifixion."</i><br />
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<i> </i><br />
According to magicologist and role-playing guru Joe Wimpe, Salazaar is no ordinary Renaissance Fair wizard, but rather an ancient evil force capable of mass devastation. "Yeah, we're definitely going to want to do something about this. And soon," said Wimpe while standing in a park speaking to no one in particular. "Back in the Dark Ages, Casi was sealed inside of that shell to prevent him from achieving his final form...The Gouger. That's the last thing this country needs. The barrier between his realm and ours is becoming brittle, cracked and unsalted. Before you know it, we're going to up to our asses in almonds. And by "almonds", I mean demonic ticks that will tear at our flesh until we're nothing but screaming, dickless skeletons."<br />
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Planters has not responded to skepticism on whether or not Casi will remain as the spokesthing for their nuts. "I mean, what would you do?" asked a stunned Truf McGuff, CEO. "You invest all this money into merchandise and advertising, then you find out this already pretty freaky giant peanut is something even freakier. It's just mind-boggling. Totally unprecedented, so I mean...fuck." <br />
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A team of mercenaries was sent to an island somewhere in the Pacific Ocean to search for a replacement mascot, but have not been heard from since. An expert in the field of soup and nuts reportedly reported that, "They dead." <br />
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There are no clear plans as to just what exactly will happen to Casi, but last we heard the good folks at Planters were becoming increasingly receptive to taking the company in a new direction. "Nothing this exciting has happened since Jerry Garcia's reanimated corpse started working part-time in our cafeteria," said an employee with glowing eyes and some sort of slime dripping from his mouth.<i> "</i>What choice do we have besides following our overlord to the bowel's of Hell and sell the pants off of some dang peanuts?"<br />
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When we approached the nut-bound necromancer and inquired as to his physical appearance beneath the shell, he only made a faint weeping sound that resembled a small child's laughter. It chilled us to our very souls. Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-72179912077981073572012-10-24T12:44:00.004-07:002012-10-24T12:48:59.083-07:00Government Announces 'Spensive RenovationIn a shocking and sudden press conference this afternoon, plans were revealed for a government project that would cost nearly several many billion dollar bills probably. "No more stairs," announced Antoine Anchove, Secretary of Steps. "The charade has gone on long enough. From now on, it's escalators all the way, baby." A record number of gasps were reported. <br />
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<a name='more'></a>Calf Activists have gotten up in arms about the project, citing it as being "anti-leg" and "a treacherous nudge towards national pudge". Others have accused the government of reckless spending and a shortage of anal probing in post offices. "When I gotta go to the second story of a building, goddammit I want to walk there," said an elderly patriot. "Not ride some newfangled <i>machine. </i>That's the America I know and the one I fought to preserve." Legless veterans were not so quick to dismiss the plan.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.people.com.cn/mediafile/pic/20110511/27/4312667847827375907.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://www.people.com.cn/mediafile/pic/20110511/27/4312667847827375907.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I don't know. Might be cool."</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><br /></td></tr>
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Loafologists were at a loss for words at the breaking news. "We're expecting a huge influx in the global laziness levels," said Pete Proud, a professional pro in the field of Bumming Around and Not Doing Much. "Once you take away not only people's need to use the stairs, but the option, you are really tempting fate. Next thing you know, there will be machines to chew our food, relieve our bowels and tug on our knubs for us." When presented with a handheld electric vagina, Proud could not be bothered. He left us with the closing statement, "Uhhhnnngggfff. Oh, robot baby."<br />
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The government has yet to give a clear reason why they're enacting this cockamamie scheme. "During these tough and trying times, it seems not only irresponsible, but idiotic to go forward with this," said Chung Fun, a suspicious looking fellow with what can only be described as "shifty eyes". "As a citizen of this great nation since birth, I consider it to be a colossal undermining of the intelligent people in this fine country." Fun was immediately taken in by the FBI per our request. We were heralded as heroes for our valor.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://content7.flixster.com/rtactor/40/34/40341_pro.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://content7.flixster.com/rtactor/40/34/40341_pro.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He gave us a look like this. We took it as, "Thank you."</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Despite <span style="font-size: small;">v</span>ehem<span style="font-size: small;">ent opposition <span style="font-size: small;">to the plan, construction <span style="font-size: small;">has already begun. Soon fann<span style="font-size: small;">y pack wearing<span style="font-size: small;">, varicose-veined<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span>voters can flock to malls like moths, no longer thwarted by the threat of physical exertion. Thank god for that. Now we can all breathe in the glorious odors of flapping fat folds and nacho cheese lip crud. Let us admire these beautiful blobs as they majestically ascend to the heavenly heights of the fifth floor candy store. Stimulating our economy, motivating our diets and ruining our appetites so there's more Sbarro for them. Flab on, fatties. Flab on.Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-87567949076195644862012-08-09T19:25:00.000-07:002012-08-09T19:33:33.804-07:00Middle-Aged Bully Reminisces On Nerd Bashing DaysChaz Braundochenko sits in a dingy one bedroom apartment on the upper east side of Iowa City. His entire body quivers like a fragile wad of clenching fury. His varicose veins create a bulgy grid of weakly pulsing blood that travels to all of his flabby extremities and back to his fat-encrusted heart. In his prime, Chaz was the all star varsity scrubber for his high school's curling team, as well as the tri-county bullying champion. Ranking nationally in wedgies, depth and emotional scarring taken into consideration, leading in spitballs into teachers' mouths accuracy, and second in the state in squeezing milk cartons so it comes out of kids' noses, Braundochenko enacted many changes within the bully community. Now, he's just some guy remembering stuff.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVVybeFPbB4htDXVgPO7oFqLUh87PP6zZVOhVTD1qQK8IcZNNT-7MoFLWhQsxqI-NuJnfiA3xk0kMIymOrk2iSNhFybm6BaBCXXQMRfsPkR5IwjlXvr9BZNrrz_I2x2ePaLcjFX7pqdzdX/s1600/bullying.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVVybeFPbB4htDXVgPO7oFqLUh87PP6zZVOhVTD1qQK8IcZNNT-7MoFLWhQsxqI-NuJnfiA3xk0kMIymOrk2iSNhFybm6BaBCXXQMRfsPkR5IwjlXvr9BZNrrz_I2x2ePaLcjFX7pqdzdX/s320/bullying.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We think we've used this picture before, but that kid is just such a wuss.</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
"Remember when the<i> Mighty Ducks</i> coach talks about taping that guy's buns together in <i>The Breakfast Club</i>? Yeah, I invented that," boasted Chaz while compulsively giving a noogie to a softened peach as arthritis has claimed his knucky-knucks. "A lot of people think that bullying is all lunch money and stuffing dweebs in lockers, but to be completely honest, it's so much more than that. There's chicks too. Fuck yeah." <br />
<br />
Chaz began his bullying career early on. In elementary school, he witnessed something that would change his life forever. After seeing seventh grader Tommy Bununuh whale on some pale kid for absolutely no reason, Chaz aspired to be one of the greatest playground tormenters the educational system had ever known. Billy "The Goober" Randolph, Charlie "Horse" Plompkin and Rhonda The Emasculator. These were Chaz's idols. He would sit on the monkey bars for entire recess periods observing their handiwork; learning the proper number of twists for maximum Indian burnage and how to not only take off the shoe when giving a Flat Tire, but the sock and some heel skin as well.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdrjAZYx4RRbCrNC9Z9ukKsYzsGDlDM8nYYM8hcn7PJr-G1JEO7CBR8_717QqiTtBMiitc78NhUKOWplA6RRHDrbZwbQNjGfGX-2gCH91cNp9k7TFnJUPq6t3U8V6PNdq9uxQSlLY2TLoJ/s1600/bad-foot-blister-on-heel-by-Lady-Weaxzezz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdrjAZYx4RRbCrNC9Z9ukKsYzsGDlDM8nYYM8hcn7PJr-G1JEO7CBR8_717QqiTtBMiitc78NhUKOWplA6RRHDrbZwbQNjGfGX-2gCH91cNp9k7TFnJUPq6t3U8V6PNdq9uxQSlLY2TLoJ/s320/bad-foot-blister-on-heel-by-Lady-Weaxzezz.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
If you think we feel good about showing you this, you're right.</div>
<br />
"Those were the days," reminisced Chaz. "By fourth grade I could give some pansy the Purple Nurple of a lifetime right through his parka." Entering middle school, young Braundochenko flourished immediately at dealing out massive beatings and psychological trauma to his peers. "What Chaz did to us was brutal, but...sort of beautiful at the same time," whispered Melvin Tiddle, still jumpy from too many Fire Cracker Buttcracks during his youth. "The way he'd snap his towel at our wieners instead of our backsides. How he didn't mind ripping out a little bit of neck hair with his headlocks. And by god, those classic Swirlies. No pre-flush or anything. Turd in there? So be it. One time he held me under for so long I spoke to my dead grandfather. That was a big day for me."<br />
<br />
As the wetness of Chaz's willies increased dramatically with each semester, teachers tried desperately to put an end to his reign of terror. "We did everything we possibly could," said student counselor Mr. McGuss. "But that boy's father just wouldn't have it. Every time I met with him, it ended with me feeling a whole lot worse about myself. He used to call me Booger Nose. As if that even makes sense...still hurt though." Parent-Teacher conferences proved pointless in correcting Chaz's behavior. One teacher who referred to Mr. Braundochenko's son as a "bad egg" was subject to a near-lethal short sheeting that cost him his legs.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
This guy just wouldn't stop hitting himself.</div>
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When the ruthless asskickery persisted, parents of the victimized children took to forming a coalition against Chaz. After calling his mother, the group discovered that Chaz never really stood a chance at normalcy. "I mean, I knew the dad was a meatheaded mongoloid, but that mom of his was something else. Just pure evil," said Dave Chunke, father of Walter Chunke, a particularly doughy lad who was beyond ripe for pink bellies. "After about thirty seconds on the phone with her I found myself checking to see if my refrigerator was running. It was gone. Not to mention she cast a spell on me or something. Whatever it was, my penis has been shrinking by a few centimeters every year."<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">
As he neared high school, Chaz truly came into his own. Finding himself far beyond puberty while many of his classmates were discovering their first pubeskis, he <span class="st">unapologetically</span> exploited his physical advantage. His mass consumption of lunches led to a minor famine in the school district. Gym classes became grisly scenes of contusions and dodge-balled groins. Surprisingly enough, the suicide rate among teens plummeted as tales of Chaz's cruelty spread like a wildfire with cargo shorts. Students everywhere were convinced that if they took their own lives to escape the madness, Braundochenko would be waiting for them on the other side with a wad of bubblegum to cram in their armpits. The golden age of gut-punching seemed to have no end in sight. And there really wasn't.</div>
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Sort of like this, but with its nose stuffed in a pile of crap.</div>
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Upon graduating 8th grade, Chaz was practically foaming at the fists to unleash his signature wave of destruction upon an unsuspecting population. "I trained every day that summer," said Chaz as he examined his forearms, seeking strength long since faded. "Pulling kids' pants down, pushing them into mud puddles, sitting on people's chests until they passed out. Just classic stuff." The ease with which Chaz performed these feats would prove to work against him. When he finally entered high school, he was met with more formidable foes than expected.</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
"Yeah, I remember Braundochenko," recalled Tony Musklebund, whose liver spots could kick most moles' asses. "He came waltzing onto my turf, goosin' and bruisin'. Had to teach him a lesson." And teach Tony did. After introducing himself and his squadron of goons, the group hit it off immediately. Taking Chaz under his wing, Musklebund showed him the ropes. "Those ropes proved to be really helpful," said Chaz of the various types of rope found in some shed. "I tied a whole bunch of people to toilets and flagpoles and stuff like that. This one time I even tied a kid to a big pile of rope. He was just like 'what?'. How is that sonofabitch Tony doing anyway?" When we told Chaz that Tony died of a massive coronary during our interview with him, he farted and laughed. </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Or maybe he laughed first, then farted. Either way, a man died.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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When it finally came time for Chaz to go away to college, he struggled with the decision. "On one hand, I wanted to join the workforce. Maybe as a plumber or veterinarian. Get out into the real world and do some serious damage. But then again, the idea of hurling a keg at somebody appealed to me. I actually got to do that a couple times at frat parties. It ruled." He eventually settled on Pradley Punyversity, pursuing a degree in nothing in particular. His choice to go there was made due to the large congregation of wimps in the nuclear science program. Also, the dean of the school gave Chaz a full ride scholarship when threatened with a brain-altering nose flick, which would be dealt out anyway, turning the dean into a vegetable for the rest of his agonizing life.<br />
<br />
As with all great legacies, a downfall is required. Tragedy struck when a misunderstood "Kick Me" sign resulted in one student being beaten to death in a bad neighborhood. Chaz was forced to take a break from bullying by the Buzzcut Brigade, a league of machomatic manly men and the only institution Chaz had even a shred of respect for. Having a penchant for aggression and knowing little else besides harassing others, Chaz found it difficult to assimilate into society. "I got into a few tussles with grocery store clerks when they accused me of stealing candy bars. I mean, I totally was, but they didn't know that, so I punched their god damn lights out." <br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="st">Is that a <i>Whatchamacallit </i>in your pants or are you just aroused from damaging my internal organs? </span></div>
<br />
Now as Chaz nears 50, he is forced to look back on his expansive career and wonder if he did all he could to make the lives of others a living hell. Reminders of his glory days linger throughout his abode. Elastic bands torn clean off of undies hang from lampshades, demolished art projects decorate the walls and a necklace of chipped molars rests on his nightstand. "All those weaklings were just so...<i>weak</i>. And I am so strong. I felt like I'd be doing a disservice to my country if I didn't savagely assault their weak bodies with my much, much stronger body. My only regret is not suplexing Connor Sanders. That kid sucked. I think he died of cancer or something. Stupid idiot."<br />
<br />
When we suggested that perhaps his skewed outlook was the product of his parents' ineptitude and violence in the media, he stared at us until our souls soiled themselves. Then we actually soiled ourselves. Then we left. As we shut the door, he was still staring. As we write this, we're still soiling.Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-76319806810909772182012-07-17T18:33:00.000-07:002012-07-17T20:16:22.084-07:00Confetti: An Insider's Peep<span style="font-size: small;"><i>“What’re you crazy?”</i> said CEO James Caanfetti of Caanfetti Confetti Company. <i> “You've got no idea what you’re getting into
here. I think it'd be best if you marched on out of here and forget we ever spoke. And take your stinking ape with you."</i>
This is the welcome our battalion of infield reporters received on the
front steps of the world's largest distributor of little itty bitty pieces of
party paper. There have been rumors circulating about some shady, saucy
activity going down within their factory walls, so naturally we decided
to stick our greasy noses all up in their well-oiled junk.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjmWdDDGhcSh3-GF76EQee-AjPeeW0im59MEq_HW38Jrf3BG1w2we7J3EwjnMTecEvCe1u_X0Xo3w1A7BfrjDqQOfRYNbF-u1vuTHHrxjD5BKTADvKlDITkBekzYbT6z07MnFdLazGoaWz/s1600/james-caan-5.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjmWdDDGhcSh3-GF76EQee-AjPeeW0im59MEq_HW38Jrf3BG1w2we7J3EwjnMTecEvCe1u_X0Xo3w1A7BfrjDqQOfRYNbF-u1vuTHHrxjD5BKTADvKlDITkBekzYbT6z07MnFdLazGoaWz/s320/james-caan-5.jpg" width="261" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">We can't say they weren't asking for it. Just look at those Crow's Feet.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: small;">After
getting an anonymous tip from Burt Quincy, 32-year old peon for the
Department of Health, currently living at 41W632 Bassoon Boulevard in
Tallahassee, Florida, we decided to check out this seedy dumpling
ourselves. It proved to be no easy task as Caanfetti has taken
extensive measures to prevent information leaks, security breaches, and
things of similar drippage. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">While
investigating Caanfetti's premises, we found a type of 'Sludge Hole'
that pumps out foul refuse nearly around the clock. This noxious
mixture funnels downstream, taking a detour through Carcinogen Cave and
cascading over the breathtaking Fecal Falls before flowing directly into
a natural spring used by several major water bottling companies </span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx_p4ZXoWMbmL252GBrht-FRgaca6Ng5T-Qy-gT359FNNnnyLIM60eXZDQjgWUrtNZog5TtB4oEJXjrspmQrzUDr-I0FcJyRMmEJRb0oCC8H90JffXXC0iZL80Vmhgwsp4ZAq118y6AWBf/s1600/cuba_297.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx_p4ZXoWMbmL252GBrht-FRgaca6Ng5T-Qy-gT359FNNnnyLIM60eXZDQjgWUrtNZog5TtB4oEJXjrspmQrzUDr-I0FcJyRMmEJRb0oCC8H90JffXXC0iZL80Vmhgwsp4ZAq118y6AWBf/s320/cuba_297.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Future Mutants of America</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">After countless minutes of skulking
around private property, we were finally able to infiltrate the factory's
seemingly airtight defenses. Actually all we had to do was hop a
chain-link fence and strangle a security guard, but that guy was at
least like, 40 or something, so it's whatever. Upon entering the facility, we were shocked at what we saw. A super sweet selection of stuff in the break room vending machine. They had everything, even <i>Zagnut</i> bars. Like, no one has those. Besides that, everything seemed pretty normal...until we started grilling some folk.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">One worker on the line recounted her days spent working at a
competing confetti company. <i>“Some other
companies just shred up different colored paper,"</i> said Jill Hurf about Caanfetti's competition. <i>"We follow a very strict recipe as
old as old gets. I think a wizard was involved at one point. That's really as much as I can say. I fear I've said too much already." </i></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMSSO-SHksg5ufGExrfRkh2TuprPnZ6rZYRoI6wqxU0uyGqGImJ15eBArxPPFwqBCCs4HFf6CjNgLpKJJYdI8PtjamhAqKkuWdr1CASXNe4dtVPiRt1DEQ4eSI_RoOmUxLrUfb5C5mcPTm/s1600/ispc072007.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMSSO-SHksg5ufGExrfRkh2TuprPnZ6rZYRoI6wqxU0uyGqGImJ15eBArxPPFwqBCCs4HFf6CjNgLpKJJYdI8PtjamhAqKkuWdr1CASXNe4dtVPiRt1DEQ4eSI_RoOmUxLrUfb5C5mcPTm/s320/ispc072007.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">She had.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">Luckily for us, there were plenty of
employees more than willing to come forward about the company's terrible
secrets after only two or three hours of excruciating genital-based
torture. From what we've gathered, employees are restricted to working
40 hours a week, get ample vacation time, and are paid sufficiently.
Sickening, we know. Maybe it's just us, but without a crew of
dangerously underage, methamphetamine driven, completely expendable and
ultra loyal zombie-like drones, shit just ain't gonna get done.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">In
addition to learning about the inhumane conditions in which these poor
nutsuckers toil, we got some insight into Caanfetti's highly guarded
list of ingredients. <i>“It’s mostly clown entrails and glitter, but the process of
acquiring these is where things get interesting,”</i> said our mole within the company. <i>“There’s a lot of creeping
around kids' birthday parties and I’ve murdered more elves than I care to
discuss. I’ve racked up a good amount of
flyer miles though, so that’s pretty good.”</i> We had this man
promptly executed for violating the cardinal rule of mole-ing: Don't
trust anyone, including those you're contractually obligated to trust.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://24.media.tumblr.com/rDV7kyzWPp9v7dkmx2X4qn4ro1_500.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://24.media.tumblr.com/rDV7kyzWPp9v7dkmx2X4qn4ro1_500.png" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Status: Shredded</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">In the
midst of our investigation, our cover was unexpectedly blown when we
began blindly firing handguns into what we thought was the building's
reactor core, but was really some kind of round dumpster. Suddenly,
Caanfetti swung down on a vine and began pummeling our photographer,
Schmootsy, into a state of matter that can only be described as "pulp
puke". Just when we thought things couldn't get any crazier, a legion
of heavily armored robo-dicks started stomping
around, crushing dudes like soda cans filled with blood and screams.
There were some Bengal tigers and giant pandas running around too, but we were able to kill them pretty easily. All we could do was run and laugh as Caanfetti, wearing a really goofy
Tarzan outfit that showcased an eerie absence of dong, shouted after
us. He kept saying something like, "I'll see you in Hell"or "I pee, poo
and smell." We like to think it was the latter.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">After the dust of this botched raid settled, we were contacted by <i>How It's Made</i>,
the show that has taught us such invaluable behind-the-scenes facts as:
crayons are made using a goblin cock mold, staplers are actually
assembled by bigger staplers, and that sugar slop slinging robots have
far exceeded human intelligence.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://s3.amazonaws.com/memebox/uploads/2914/irobot-glance.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="175" src="http://s3.amazonaws.com/memebox/uploads/2914/irobot-glance.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The face behind your Hershey Kiss. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">The network was looking to secure
exclusive rights to what we eye-heard, ear-sniffed and possibly,
probably impregnated during our time at the Caanfetti factory, but we
told those guys to go eff themselves in their effing effslots, then pull
out and stick their effsticks somewhere equally as unpleasant. We
don't sell out to corporate slime. Capitalism goo on the other hand, we
could get on board with that. Get at us ;)</span></div>Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-36511883241846505052012-07-13T00:43:00.000-07:002012-07-13T00:55:00.902-07:00Local Man Prefers Single StuffedIf there's one thing the human race knows how to do, it's stuff.
Bodies into trunks, wieners into butts and other assorted stuffings into
various stuff-holes. Perhaps the most recognizable example is the
white stuff wedged in between those brown cookie-like crisps. You know
the ones.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSuVI0UyThXWAhPLCihalvDVe3YB7WQaYZOA_v_GA63WOjMHCvpJ2M5KARP01R9VFs5xTxBkZNyVjKp4ZseMHP4BsBMUhKMH3KgvrUGxoMYaBvlg5ik0WRzHvF0cO36BXAjd6T-zXG3cLF/s1600/Oreos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSuVI0UyThXWAhPLCihalvDVe3YB7WQaYZOA_v_GA63WOjMHCvpJ2M5KARP01R9VFs5xTxBkZNyVjKp4ZseMHP4BsBMUhKMH3KgvrUGxoMYaBvlg5ik0WRzHvF0cO36BXAjd6T-zXG3cLF/s320/Oreos.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Yup, gotta love those unnamed cookies.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
Recently the folks over at wherever the fuck
decided to cram a little extra stuff in between those chocolate cheeks.
This was a response to consumers' unrelenting praise of the mysterious
stuff. Though no one is quite sure what stuff goes into making the
stuff, a majority of stuffers are quite content with stuffing as much
stuff as they possibly can into their, you guessed it, stuff canals.<br />
<br />
While many have probed and prodded the bulbous and
irritated flesh pocket of secrecy surrounding the stuff's ingredients,
none have been able to burst it wide open and suck down the true
pus-coated stuff chunks. Bone marrow, common classroom glue or
ground-up testicles of Marshmallow Men are just a few of the theories
circulating in stuff-related forums on such websites as <i>stuffcity.net</i>,<i> thestuffedsack.org </i>and<i> scholasticstuff.edu/stuff-stuff</i>. One relentless blogger insists that the stuff is actually, in fact, just plain old regular Stuf. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii7tCXHkMne-qIV1xrweIUNuvzkOboY4jbaGXWQvpfLtcBTSBkQrPm2wOOrRCLv5stbl0oSgBQktnhMbrmHeM73Nce6sGYsmRC6S0Mk-OpkXP4t1mMuB45_u8tLvFRtgZgG7qAace9PZyt/s1600/Stuffing-Turkey.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii7tCXHkMne-qIV1xrweIUNuvzkOboY4jbaGXWQvpfLtcBTSBkQrPm2wOOrRCLv5stbl0oSgBQktnhMbrmHeM73Nce6sGYsmRC6S0Mk-OpkXP4t1mMuB45_u8tLvFRtgZgG7qAace9PZyt/s320/Stuffing-Turkey.png" width="320" /> </a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Also, he keeps sending us stuff like this, but like...<i>way</i> weirder. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
For
those of you dimwitted dinguses who don't know what Stuf is, let us
explain using terms you may be able to understand. Stuf is a type of
stuff that is stuffed where stuffing is needed. It is not made out of
different stuff, but is simply created in Stuf's likeness and forever
exists as Stuf. Get it? You don't? Well get stuffed, you cockstuffing
motherstuffer. <br />
<br />
"I just love the stuff," said one stuffed
man, Steven Stuffwad, when we asked him for his thoughts on stuff. "You
could say I love all stuff, but this specific stuff is especially
great. Actually, I don't really know what this particular stuff is, but
it's just SO STUFFIN' GOOD. Honestly, have you ever had stuff this god
damn excellent before? FUCK! Where can I get more of this
stuff?" Of over 500 interviews conducted, nearly all of them mimic
Stuffwad's response word for word.<br />
<br />
One man, however, is
not so pleased with the sudden upping of stuffage. "Double stuff?"
screamed an enraged Sam Stuffington at his own crotch and stuff. "What
the hell do I want twice the amount of stuff for? I've already got
enough stuff. Shit, I probably have more stuff than I know what to do
with. What's next? Triple stuffed? Quadruple? For stuff's sake,
where does it all end? If you people have it your way I'll be stuffed
full of stuff before the end of the stuff...I mean month."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZkDdGayrEhoXVsaQeYUdq1YXbCTKvavuM2goSJe0Xdea5o1I1haggzOoMI2xpNeu6zD56PJg7TnCOuMNuhc7HqKbya5yFeV7OVkpfiIscDHhiCNasTNL1RgxU6tMp4V28d1AyxduRS3NE/s1600/oreo4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZkDdGayrEhoXVsaQeYUdq1YXbCTKvavuM2goSJe0Xdea5o1I1haggzOoMI2xpNeu6zD56PJg7TnCOuMNuhc7HqKbya5yFeV7OVkpfiIscDHhiCNasTNL1RgxU6tMp4V28d1AyxduRS3NE/s320/oreo4.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We have to shit.</div>
<br />
It wasn't long before Stuffington's wife began nagging him to clean
out a pile of stuff in the garage, move the holiday stuff to the
attic and pick up some stuff from the dry cleaners. Shortly thereafter,
our entire writing stuff committed suicide.Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-56663781730667612382012-05-30T16:00:00.004-07:002012-05-30T16:06:41.506-07:00Local Man Wishes He Had Held Baby RaccoonEarly yesterday afternoon while mowing his lawn, Clyde Bridesdale examined something out of the ordinary making its way down his street. A small pack of children with smiles spread across their faces. Happiness, a rare sight and confusing concept to Clyde, struck him with curiosity and he walked towards the kids. "It took me a few minutes to build up the nerve to go over," explained Clyde. "I always think their parents are watching and they'll mistake me for a child humper, which I'm totally not."<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpQmUB4w3pTcYigDFE6ukoLhyphenhyphenxqRek8LajFHsYy3xumtIW73jQW4DWviQmgOZfo3eJSvbQ2jMbJbo2YEpf8VZTYMKa5dyQP8e4hHYPOFF-g5buHJOFeXpnIlIlAynbTDh6-IU16NPhe-A/s1600/creepy1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpQmUB4w3pTcYigDFE6ukoLhyphenhyphenxqRek8LajFHsYy3xumtIW73jQW4DWviQmgOZfo3eJSvbQ2jMbJbo2YEpf8VZTYMKa5dyQP8e4hHYPOFF-g5buHJOFeXpnIlIlAynbTDh6-IU16NPhe-A/s320/creepy1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Who says you need to be an adult to touch kids?</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a name='more'></a>When Clyde finally approached the group he saw that in the arms of the youngest girl was a raccoon, no older than a month or two. As more children crowded around the critter, Clyde reserved himself to the background. "That raccoon was really cute, but I mean I can see cuteness just fine from five or ten feet away." The children beamed with elation at the pure and innocent creature. Two boys had a brief argument over what to call him, but within moments diplomatically settled their differences and agreed upon "Preston the Racoon". <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Qrly46nGRJAtAnpTLUWl_QjJ7RxwQIqiwQdF42sGxL7PtcHqKc12oICJ8CeMiCUuWmQt-PwrKDbbm75LfQWFkgx08ITuzYhyprHC1baSfEx5XybymIozgyLWL_d5tjsXkVa5KpIAq1G-/s1600/creepy-guy.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Qrly46nGRJAtAnpTLUWl_QjJ7RxwQIqiwQdF42sGxL7PtcHqKc12oICJ8CeMiCUuWmQt-PwrKDbbm75LfQWFkgx08ITuzYhyprHC1baSfEx5XybymIozgyLWL_d5tjsXkVa5KpIAq1G-/s320/creepy-guy.jpg" width="220" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Shown: Preston the Ragoon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Clyde glanced nervously at the kids, who ushered him to extend his hand towards the raccoon. Preston proceeded to sniff and snuggle against it in a heartwarming display of frailty. Johmmy Yackson, age 6 and a half, asked Clyde if he wanted to hold the raccoon, holding out the wittle fur-ball. "I just froze," said Clyde. "All of a sudden these kids were all looking at me, waiting for me to take the raccoon and I...I just couldn't. What if it bit me? What if it went to the bathroom on me? All of these scenarios just started rushing through my head and I guess I panicked. I had to get out of there." Clyde, now drenched in a full-out flopsweat, fled back to his house. The children resumed their adorable activities. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3608/3577055892_56ec1a52ac.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3608/3577055892_56ec1a52ac.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strangle is Preston's favorite game.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When we interviewed Mr. Bridesdale, he was still holed up in his bedroom petting a square of shag carpet. The shag was worn and had clearly seen its share of this sort of thing. "I don't know why I didn't hold that raccoon," said Bridesdale with no apparent emotion besides suck. "Maybe I was scared of rabies. Or maybe I've gotten so used to disappointment that any amount of joy would somehow seem wrong. Now what am I supposed to say when I tell people about the raccoon? That I pet it? I mean it licked my ankles, but that's not even remotely as great as holding it. What if people ask why I didn't hold it? What do I say then? Huh?!" We had no answer for Clyde. He began to sob quietly.<br />
<br />
We contacted Clyde's friends and family to comment on his raccoon regret, but found ourselves faced with many answering machines and restraining orders. One acquaintance came out of the woodwork to offer insight into Clyde's issue. "Yeah, I know Clyde. We used to be best friends," said Howard Choy. "Then one day we went to the pet store and there was this precious golden lab pup named Toby. We took him out to play and lemme tell ya, he was a rambunctious little fella. Lickin' and pawin' at me. Just being completely affectionate. It was really something. But he completely ignored Clyde. Like, didn't even notice him. Not even a pity pet. Clyde seemed pretty hurt. I don't know. Maybe he's got dry knuckles or something. Dogs are weird like that. Either way, we haven't spoken in months. I was bummed at first, but Clyde was always pulling shit like that. Crying if my ice cream scoop was bigger than his. If there wasn't enough butter on his popcorn, there was too much, ya know? That kind of guy. Now that I think about it, it's a huge relief not to hear his constant griping about how he can't taste salsa as well as he used to or how the lady at the supermarket saw him picking his nose. Anyway, I don't know much about raccoons, but they seem cool. Why didn't he just hold it?"<br />
<br />
There you have it.Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-11094110148724967372012-04-08T08:53:00.003-07:002012-04-08T08:59:26.911-07:00Gym Teacher Fears Strong Kids, Sabatoges CurriculumIf you are a reader of Strange Times, chances are your state of health leaves something to be desired. Whether you have high cholesterol, a mean case of ugly-skin, or are just plain fat as fuck, we're banking on the fact that there's a gaping hole in your self-confidence. Luckily for all you malnourished nutbags, there are fitness trainers, nutritionists, and others out there who have dedicated their lives to boosting confidence and toning nasty asses. Pete Buchanan is one of these people. Pete teaches physical education. Really badly.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisrJlAPA5HwIPZWh2-8TN2odR6bdmXVzmJvVAuzQ2dcvsXsOwQzXRGz9rR_DsENS3ApSxVlLk4vfkTrUiyqBZZ7c745X4QKcSS1H-CgZ9KLYqQf6PLQHz2VWJUyGEozhqn1NM1VVqz7bSB/s1600/peteacher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisrJlAPA5HwIPZWh2-8TN2odR6bdmXVzmJvVAuzQ2dcvsXsOwQzXRGz9rR_DsENS3ApSxVlLk4vfkTrUiyqBZZ7c745X4QKcSS1H-CgZ9KLYqQf6PLQHz2VWJUyGEozhqn1NM1VVqz7bSB/s400/peteacher.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alright kids, time for wristy-strainy's.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"I'm scared of strength," began Buchanan in our several-on-one interview in the boy's locker room at Samuel Skrote Middle School. We questioned the legality of our crew snapping photos near scantily clad lads, but Buchanan assured us the school is pretty lax when it comes to that sort of thing. "Ever since I was a kid I've found toughness and really just muscles in general to be pretty terrifying."<br />
<br />
Pete has remedied this phobia by actively withholding students from receiving a proper workout. By frequently drinking on the job, recklessly spending the department's budget on premium sponges, and teaching improper methods of exercise, nearly two dozen generations of children have a lackluster knowledge about their bodies. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEget4YsDmUlrIqU3AutXHDEQYRqWBvquBIV675AXrLFRsWUnuDU7zadPhwf_wtpPwSVxkuo3mU5zuH-T3T4phkt1_Lw9C00ZElkN6sW7Rqqi6tjpYBzVSsgY3469nYABf8E1LMTb2Ute28/s400/Christian+Bale+in+The+Machinist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEget4YsDmUlrIqU3AutXHDEQYRqWBvquBIV675AXrLFRsWUnuDU7zadPhwf_wtpPwSVxkuo3mU5zuH-T3T4phkt1_Lw9C00ZElkN6sW7Rqqi6tjpYBzVSsgY3469nYABf8E1LMTb2Ute28/s320/Christian+Bale+in+The+Machinist.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Puberty is a time of awkward bending and dangerously low BMI.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"It's really not that hard to keep kids from getting too healthy," explained Buchanan. "These dummies will believe anything you tell them. If I tell them to do really dangerous stretches, they just do it." The cafeteria staff has also taken steps to destroy the children's diets. "Snouts n' buttah," said head chef Gump Lumpson. "Das 'bout it." As a result of this misinformation and neglect, nearly 1 in 2 of students have developed some type of heart condition, diabetes, and in one tragic case, total ass-collapse. <br />
<br />
"When we hired Pete, we knew of his fear," revealed Principle Chud Polype. "While it may seem like a shortcoming, he's actually the perfect man for the job. I mean, do <i>you</i> want a bunch of push-upping, calf-raising mini-Hulks running around? I didn't think so." The school is not only in full support of Buchanan's plan, they have intentionally ordered defective playground equipment in an effort to cease any pubescent progress. "We got a great deal from Bosnia," said Chud. "We actually paid a little extra to remove some screws and add a second coat of lead-based paint. Also, there are a few jagged edges of rusty metal that we're really excited to see pan out."<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.legaljuice.com/syringes%20used%20pile%20lots%20medical%20waste.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="230" src="http://www.legaljuice.com/syringes%20used%20pile%20lots%20medical%20waste.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They have also found a solution to the sand vs. pebbles debate.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Despite the thoroughness of the school's ineptitude, one child has fallen through the cracks. Jimmy Taine, age 11, has proved to exceed in athleticism and has even begun teaching his fellow peers how to 'verb' during recess. "That little son of a bitch is a detriment to what we're trying to achieve here," said Buchanan. "Every time he wears a t-shirt, I catch a glimpse his armpit hair. It gives me chills right up my spine."<br />
<br />
School officials are currently attempting to detract from Jimmy's physical superiority by limiting him in other fields. "His class schedule essentially consists of basket weaving and glue sticks," said Taine's counselor Ronnie Yup. "We're hoping if we can prevent the bastard from reading and grasping basic algebra, we'll have the upper hand when he goes berserk and tries to noogie us all to death."<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrP7VGOwKuqZdEvrRhT_lkMv79hvy6cdhgqUhJ9LfTn_oAPFlrtEUtenoN7b7zmiEZrP-UOWscO8D6ieQ0IOpIRp5rn-WYYrivmzDuK04v0yuAEuQtIqAt_d7NCC9Ox4hnvS0vTYN8-oVG/s1600/richard-sandrak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrP7VGOwKuqZdEvrRhT_lkMv79hvy6cdhgqUhJ9LfTn_oAPFlrtEUtenoN7b7zmiEZrP-UOWscO8D6ieQ0IOpIRp5rn-WYYrivmzDuK04v0yuAEuQtIqAt_d7NCC9Ox4hnvS0vTYN8-oVG/s320/richard-sandrak.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After witnessing Jimmy make it all the way across the monkey bars, we can't say we disagree.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-27484397890986415082012-03-21T08:26:00.004-07:002012-03-24T06:23:15.727-07:00Local Man Cannot Fully Enjoy BreakfastWhile on his 35, sometimes 43 minute commute via bus to work, Bradley Shuda suddenly became very self-conscious of his morning eating habits. "Usually I just pack a granola bar," recounted Bradley. "You know, those chewy Quaker ones. Ain't got no problems with those."<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1bXEEr2_c6Al_7GucqbpWCFxL2hElYXLutzgFMFYUSKCGYp8tUG4jUJQ_ifK9N8jl1WQq19w62zWG-A-GvXfSNaoFa6BVHTwaWHji7xPCiMbeM5kL-OpzQ9aS1oLdz92BgdLNLwlCfU/s400/Quaker-Oats-Man%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1bXEEr2_c6Al_7GucqbpWCFxL2hElYXLutzgFMFYUSKCGYp8tUG4jUJQ_ifK9N8jl1WQq19w62zWG-A-GvXfSNaoFa6BVHTwaWHji7xPCiMbeM5kL-OpzQ9aS1oLdz92BgdLNLwlCfU/s320/Quaker-Oats-Man%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh, we got problems. <i>Big</i> problems.</div>
<br />
<a name='more'></a>Something was different about this day. Not being able to make it to the grocery store because of a recently exploded heart, Anne Shuda apologized to her husband for having to take a Nature Valley granola bar on his way out the door.<br />
<br />
"The second I unwrapped that puppy, I knew we were gonna have trouble. Crinkling, crunching, not to mention the crumbs. Surely everyone around me thought I was some kind of loud-eating, mouth-breathing slob who gets little bits of shit all over public transit floors. And that isn't me."<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
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#trufax </div>
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This is far from the first instance of Bradley's sometimes crippling self-consciousness. Chapped lips and awkward boners have plagued Shuda throughout his life. "Oh yeah, I remember young Bradley," said 6th grade History teacher, Mash McGinny. "Kid was goofy as piss. And not in a funny, class-clown sort of way either. Just plain old creepy." <br />
<br />
Two summers ago, Shuda did not leave the house for a month after someone pointed out a booger hanging from his nose. "I had felt something there all day," said Shuda with a lump in his throat. "I can't believe I just let it dangle." This event took a toll on his confidence and he soon began douching his nostrils every morning.<br />
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Shown: A sure fire way to never fuck again. </div>
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Fellow commuters claim to have not minded Shuda's edible audibility, but a homeless man in the back of the bus eyed the bits of floor-food with the kind of judgement that could only mean, "you wasteful cunt." Shuda finished the first Nature Valley bar, but to his dismay was faced by another. </div>
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Rather than battling the second bar, he tried to stuff it back into the wrapper and save it for later. This only caused further problems as the package split too far down the middle, causing a large portion of the second bar to break off and land on his lap. Shuda, traumatized by this display of inconvenient dining on-the-go, stood up abruptly and exited the bus. "It was thirty blocks before my stop, but fuck that shit," said a winded Bradley. "I'd rather hoof it than pick oats off my cock like some kind of freak. I'm just gonna mark this one up as a loss and try again tomorrow."</div>
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Some people suck.</div>
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Reportedly the remaining passengers on the bus were indeed laughing at Shuda under their breath and whispering behind his back. Not because of the breakfast bar fiasco, but because he had sat in a fresh load produced by the very same homeless man who would go on to eat those crumbs. And boy did he ever. </div>Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-36307543348537939002012-02-28T15:10:00.000-08:002012-02-28T15:30:38.728-08:00Local Man Interrupts Urinal Fart, Punished By DeathDan Dadson entered the restroom several dozen afternoons ago with high hopes. Knowing full well how to drain urine and expel excrement from his body, he stood in front of the receptacle and took out his wangle. As the flow began, a tremendous pressure was lifted from Dadson's dong and he achieved a state of relaxation so blissful it made gravy seem uptight.<br />
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Gravy, harshin' potatoes buzz since 1966.</div>
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As he plunged further into the piss, he felt as though he was becoming one with his entire digestive tract. Fluids, gasses, and a whole bunch of other crazy shit you could only find in <i>Osmosis Jones</i>. He felt a swelling in his lower back that began to force itself downwards.<br />
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Groans, grumbles and gurgles murmured throughout the bathroom. Dan believed this to be an amalgamation of many year's worth of sadness, anger, and sexual inadequacy. With this fart, Dadson believed his soul's bowels and his bowels' soul would become lighter than ever thought possible.<br />
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<a href="http://www.openhandweb.org/files/openhand/images//Transcendence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://www.openhandweb.org/files/openhand/images//Transcendence.jpg" width="330" /></a></div>
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This, coming out of your butt.</div>
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At that moment, Samuel Tortilladillo burst onto the scene and hurried into the nearest stall he could find. "I had to shit something awful," recalled Tortilladillo. "I'd eaten a lot of cherry tomatoes the day before and let's just say they weren't stopping to ask permission."<br />
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This sudden interruption stymied Dadson's flow, of spirit and pee-pee, causing his wandering mind to snap back to a bleak reality. He stared at a crudely drawn ape on the wall sodomizing a big-breasted stick figure that someone had drawn earlier, wincing slightly at the burning sensation in his urethra from stopping mid-stream.<br />
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<a href="http://pics4.city-data.com/cpicc/cfiles10231.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://pics4.city-data.com/cpicc/cfiles10231.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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This, inside your dick.</div>
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The rest of the scene played out much like a fight scene from your favorite action film. The only difference is that it was two grown men clumsily pounding on each other with their pants down. Luckily, two gentlemen were banging in the next stall over and witnessed the entire incident. Upon finishing on each others' blazers, they called for help. <br />
<br />
A park deputy sped over on his Razor Scooter and apprehended the two men, now basted in their respective sauces. "It was quite the scene," said Deputy Durturd. "It ain't nothin' new, but I'll be damned if I don't hate seeing a piss-fart go unrelieved. That kinda thing can ruin a man."<br />
<br />
Dadson and Tortilladillo were cuffed and driven downtown, but Dadson was released shortly thereafter. Being regulation for all cases of this magnitude, Tortilladillo was denied legal representation and unceremoniously beheaded in the parking lot behind the police station.<br />
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We would've taken that chair if they didn't get head juices all over it...shit, we might still take it.</div>
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When the Tortilladillo family was notified of Samuel's indiscretions, they were outraged and beheaded as well. "Makes no difference to me," said Slim Cheebo, the town executioner. "You take away a man's butt burp, you're nothing but a dog to put down."</div>
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"To this day, all I can think about is that fart and how it never came. It was right there. I could almost smell it," said a seething Dadson, months after the incident. "Alive or dead, it'll never be the same. That fart would've changed everything."Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-1414925610558983882012-01-28T09:28:00.000-08:002012-06-01T18:05:48.873-07:00Housewife Falls Asleep On Her Stupid FaceOn a recent red-eye flight from Tuscon to Sicily, 42-year-old Nannette Baulm fell asleep on her stupid goddam face, causing her to suffocate shortly after takeoff. Early on in the flight Nannette asked a flight attendant for a pillow. "I take my job seriously as shit," said the anonymous airline employee. "Someone asks for a pillow, they get a pillow. That's just how I live my life." Having a chronic fear of strangers putting poison in her mouth while she sleeps, Nannette put the tray table down, leaned forward, and quickly fell asleep to the sounds of <i>The Big Bang Theory</i> coming through her headphones. She had just purchased them for a reasonable $4.95, tax not included. Though she had never watched the show before, she noted to her husband seated next to her that it was "pretty funny" before resting her head to, as she put it, "catch a couple of Z's".<br />
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This guy died too, but from AIDS.</div>
<br />
<a name='more'></a>"In retrospect, I should've tapped her to see if she wanted anything from the drink cart when it came around, " said Harold Baulm about his idiot wife's dumb fucking death. "But I didn't want to disturb her. I figured she must've needed the rest. I got ginger ale with double ice, if you were wondering." Many hours passed before the plane landed for a transfer in Connecticut, at which time Nannette was discovered to be dead. Her husband, though distraught, remained optimistic about his vacation and continued on the flight to Italy claiming, "I paid too much to let that dingus ruin this trip." So far the airline has avoided any questioning from the authorities. "If we actually investigated every time this happens," said Detective Pryson, "Well...we wouldn't."Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-88440207238629184132012-01-19T14:00:00.000-08:002012-01-19T14:04:46.268-08:00Jokester Crushed By Anvil In Unfunny StuntYesterday afternoon, 16-year-old class clown James Tahee attempted to recreate a classic scene from his favorite cartoon by dropping an anvil on his head from great heights. "I've always loved cartoon physics," said an optimistic Tahee, several hours before the stunt. "Last summer I tried for weeks to run out over a ledge and just sort of hang in the air for a few seconds before falling, but all I got was a broken femur and spent about a year in traction."<br />
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<a href="http://saveyourself.ca/resources/images/dad-in-traction.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" s5="true" src="http://saveyourself.ca/resources/images/dad-in-traction.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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"I'm sorry. Your spinal cord has been severed, cutting off all communication to your nerve endings. You'll never walk again. Also, those glasses make you look like a nerd."</div>
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Tahee seemed hopeful about this stunt, though. "I've brought all variables into account. I've found that in every cartoon, regardless of how high the anvil, bowling ball, or steel I-beam is dropped from, all damage can be undone by simply placing my thumb in my mouth, blowing really hard, and re-inflating my head. Most likely followed by some sort of accordion sound." <br />
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<a href="http://www.music.vt.edu/musicdictionary/texta/images/accordion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" s5="true" src="http://www.music.vt.edu/musicdictionary/texta/images/accordion.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Accordion music is synonymous with teenage deaths.</div>
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Being that he was lacking a roadrunner or some sort of other arch nemesis, Tahee brought his longtime best friend John Jonesies to be the one who dropped the anvil. "It sounded really sketchy, and not all that funny. I mean, yeah I get it. Cartoons and shit. But, like...what's the point? I told him it was a bad idea, but when he gets his heart set on something, there's really no stopping him."<br />
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James' parents knew what he was up to, but made no attempt to intervene.<br />
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"He was a good boy, but let's face it, he wasn't going anywhere. I mean, kid wants to play with anvils, let 'em."</div>
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The stage was set. James had fashioned a rope around a thick branch on a pear tree in his backyard. The tree was only nine feet tall, but James claimed it would "have to do". Jonesies held one end of the rope and attached the other securely to the two-hundred pound piece of steel he had acquired at a recent family reunion.<br />
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Tahee's Uncle Scalp, although recently divorced out of the family, still made an appearance. Known for his work as a blacksmith at Renaissance fairs, James sought his ex-uncle's help in this endeavor. "Cute little kid. I always liked him, even if his aunt is a total twat," said a seething Scalp. "I lent him my old anvil. Ever since <i>Skyrim</i> came out, people just aren't as interested in authentic medieval weaponry. It looks like my days of banging out broadswords are over, so what the hell."<br />
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The choice between this or real life ain't a fucking choice at all.</div>
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Jonesies asked James one last time if he was "sure about this" before he cut the rope, at which James responded with a scoff and performed a raspberry using his inner arm.<br />
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As all basic logic and common sense would suggest, James died almost instantly upon the anvil's impact.</div>Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-15176884215331002352012-01-06T08:50:00.000-08:002012-01-13T18:12:06.019-08:00Local Man Can't Stop Watching Food Network, Starves To DeathHave you ever enjoyed watching food being prepared more than actually eating it? Of course not! And that's why you're still alive and kicking. Or hopefully at the very least, petting cats too hard in the wrong direction.<br />
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<a href="http://img.webmd.com/dtmcms/live/webmd/consumer_assets/site_images/articles/health_tools/things_you_learn_from_your_pet_slideshow/photolibrary_rm_photo_of_petting_cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="http://img.webmd.com/dtmcms/live/webmd/consumer_assets/site_images/articles/health_tools/things_you_learn_from_your_pet_slideshow/photolibrary_rm_photo_of_petting_cat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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We love cats, but love breaking their bones even more.</div>
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The quality programming on the Food Network proved to be one man's downfall. Dunger Oberveis, 33, apparently could not peel his feeble frame away from the couch for even a moment and risk missing one of Geoffery Zakarian's scathing reviews of an amateur dish on<i> Chopped</i>. As a result, Oberveis' landlord had to notify police of a foul rotting stench coming from Dunger's apartment. Upon using a helmeted officer as a battering ram, they discovered not only Dunger's decomposing remains, but page after page of his journal that outlined his descent into madness. <br />
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When Ted Allen tells you not to go anywhere, you do fucking <i>not</i>.</div>
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It all began with a free trial holiday upgrade from his local cable provider...</div>
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<i>December 17th, 2011</i><br />
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"Wow, I've never watched the Food Network HD before, but it makes a difference. For serious, food has never looked so appealing. With the holidays right around the corner, they're showing a lot of specials about cookies and roasts and...god damn, I'm getting pretty hungry myself. Oh, hold on...Paula Deen's putting butter in something. Shit, missed it. Gotta pay more attention."<br />
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<a href="http://askmsconcierge.files.wordpress.com/2009/08/paula-deen1.jpg?w=300&h=300" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://askmsconcierge.files.wordpress.com/2009/08/paula-deen1.jpg?w=300&h=300" /></a></div>
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Troll Ejaculate is a staple in Southern cuisine.</div>
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<i>December 21st, 2011</i><br />
<br />
"Alright, here's what I've figured out. Right before they reveal the dish that lost, they go to commercials. That's the way they always do it. But I can't help but wonder that this is going to be the time they show who gets eliminated and I'll be in the kitchen with my thumb up my ass. I've decided not to go to the bathroom, but rather shit between the cushions. There's no going back now." <br />
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<i>December 25th, 2011 </i><br />
<br />
"It has gotten to a point where the line between scheduled programming
and advertisements is non-existent. Even the ads for Guy Fieri's Signature Cutlery or that new show where Mario Batali sweats. I just love it all so much. I forgot it was Christmas today. I didn't get anyone anything so I had to murder them all."<br />
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<a href="http://nymag.com/images/2/daily/food/07/11/28_batali_lg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://nymag.com/images/2/daily/food/07/11/28_batali_lg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Next I will prepare...a cunt!</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>December 31st, 2011</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i> </i>"I feel weak. Like I'm wasting away. The food film keeps on rollin'. Oh yeah, crock pots, simmering sauce...steak, cake...*licks lips*, it's all so fucking unbelievably tasty. Yet, I can't have any of it. They're clearly preparing more than enough. What do they do with the rest, just throw it out? What about me? Dunger's hungry too. DO YOU HEAR ME, ALTON BROWN?! I GOT DUNGA HUNGA!"</div>
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<a href="http://images.politico.com/global/click/091015_altonbrown_ap_392_regular.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://images.politico.com/global/click/091015_altonbrown_ap_392_regular.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i></i>Alton's face when he saw his family torn apart by ants, </div>
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you think he gives a fuck about you?</div>
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This chronicle is now being referred to by police and press alike as, <i>The Dunger Diaries</i>. Speculation had it that Sean Penn would play Dunger in the movie adaption, but that rumor was nipped when he responded to questioning with "the fuck's a Dunger?". </div>
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There you have it. A tragic tale of television turning man into mush and a once perfectly good couch into a sponge for human fluid. Perhaps we can all learn something from this. Maybe we should shut off the idiot box and really <i>live</i>. Or assemble some sort of feeding tube system for extended viewing sessions. Do whatever, we don't care. </div>
<br />Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609386617744969541.post-48980526308753683932011-10-25T07:06:00.000-07:002011-10-25T07:10:33.498-07:00Prom Bungle Result of DJ's Costly MistakeProm is typically a night of spiked punch, regrets to-be-made, and a mediocre music selection, but for Porkchup High School, the night was thumping to an entirely different tune. The drastically overpriced dresses had been purchased, the ill-fitting tuxes had been rented, and the pre-Prom chubs had been worked up by all the young lads hoping for some action. <br />
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<a href="http://www.thejump.net/id/more-fish/river-chub.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="219" src="http://www.thejump.net/id/more-fish/river-chub.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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River Chub: Nature's Half-Boner</div>
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Local disc jockey, DJ Faptastic, was hired by the school to provide lyrically kid friendly, yet currently popular music for the dance. The first 3/4ths of the dance went off without a hitch. YMCA, Chicken Dance, and many other of high schoolers favorite songs were played. "I don't know what it is about songs that let you participate with all of your friends, but I really love them. When the guy on the song tells you to do something...everyone does it. It's really a bonding experience for all of us."<br />
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<a href="http://blog.oregonlive.com/thebeerhere/2008/09/large_ChickenDance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="239" src="http://blog.oregonlive.com/thebeerhere/2008/09/large_ChickenDance.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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If everyone is doing it, it must be cool.</div>
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Faptastic began to see that those night classes he took at community college had actually paid off. "I learned how to use iTunes," said the mixmaster. "And the rest is just history. I make about five playlists every single day varying from fast to slow music. I even put a few of both in there sometimes." </div>
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<a href="http://www.mixrevolutionblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/dj-premier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="320" src="http://www.mixrevolutionblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/dj-premier.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
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Zuka-zuka.</div>
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The night came to a bloody screeching halt when Fap made the decision to spin a song he had never spun before. "I had picked up this mint copy of the Electric Slide Part 4. I hadn't listened to it before that night. I didn't even check for cuss words," said a regretful Fap. "I was reckless back then. Plus, I was stuffing ecstasy in practically every hole you could imagine...and a few that you couldn't"</div>
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As the needle dropped, the beat began and everyone's ears were tuned to the same frequency. Rather than the catchy and charismatic dynamic that had made the original Cha Cha Slide so popular, the fourth reiteration of the song had become an entirely different taco. </div>
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<a href="http://jonsullivan.com/pictures/tacos_1_bg_070101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://jonsullivan.com/pictures/tacos_1_bg_070101.jpg" width="320" /> </a></div>
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DifferenTaco: This time, it's wet.</div>
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Suddenly a tribal thumping began and the skincrawling sounds of skeletal xylophones joined a fanfare of fear and torment. The chains bound to titans of the damn creaked and bellowed with such despair and desolation that the last of the whales died of sadness, floating to the surface of the ocean, which at that point had turned entirely to baby blood. Ancient evil hymns and chants spoken in tongues unlocked the Seal of Sinister Souls, allowing a flood of demonic spirits to inhabit nearly all students and chaperones in attendance. Those who escaped soul-sucking were subject to horrors beyond their most vivid nightmares. In the end, everyone got laid and Joel Sanders won prom king. </div>
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"Things got really crazy when that song came on," said gym teacher, Joe Mocha. "I'm pretty sure it was those tambourines...kids love 'em, but I swear the shit just sounds like shaking metal to me."</div>
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</div>Tom Orrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15353712905592611111noreply@blogger.com0