The War on Fake Drugs Doesn’t Claim Another Victim

Before we get started let me just say I am not mocking the death of a thirteen year old boy here. I would just like to make that perfectly clear right away. I don’t know how many times just this week I’ve been wrongfully accused of celebrating teen deaths and I’m sick of it. It is irresponsible and hurtful to my loyal fan base of thirteen year old boys. I would never wish ill on any of their cherubic little faces. Now, with that little bit of house keeping out of the way.

A thirteen year old Pittsburgh boy was murdered by his own stupidity and his parents’ neglect.

The headline reads: “Teen dies after smoking synthetic pot”. At first glance, that’s horrible. The death of a teen is rarely hysterical and that he was killed by some sort of Franken-dope created in a lab specifically to murder thirteen year olds with no parental supervision just makes it all the more tragic. The only problem with this headline is that it’s entirely false.

The subhead sheds slightly more light on the what might be slightly closer to the truth: “13-year-old boy sustained chemical burns to his lungs after smoking from plastic candy dispenser”. Ah, well, okay, now we’re getting somewhere slightly less sensational aren’t we?

Then as we get into the poorly written body of the “story” we discover: “The boy smoked the fake marijuana out of a plastic candy dispenser and suffered chemical burns to both lungs. He was put on a respirator in June and had a double lung transplant in September. The boy’s mother says anti-rejection drugs he’s taken since the transplants weakened his immune system and made him unable to fight off a recent infection.”

So, now we have slightly more information here. Still not much in the way of reporting, but at the very least it is more information. With these new tid bits, we can slightly modify the sensational headline to read “Teen who inhaled burning plastic dies of infection following double lung transplant”.

This fake drug has killed more teens than polio and sadness combined! True? It must be, I just reported it!

I actually did some research on this one, something I often, plainly refuse to do, and found another article about this kid. The second article goes into a little more detail, saying that the boy “injured his lungs in August after smoking a substance known as K2.” mentioning no where in THIS story that he smoked it through the thin flimsy plastic neck slot of Batman villain Two Face (allegedly) and that “Shortly after smoking the drug, the teen developed nausea, a full body rash, headaches and high fever. His father said the substance caused a chemical burn in his son’s lungs.”

All of this forced me to do further research, which only served to anger up my blood some more. In looking up the side effects or potential risks of “synthetic marijuana” I found that the products, “often sold as “herbal incense” and smoked like traditional marijuana, can produce seizures, hallucinations, tremors, paranoia, convulsions, high blood pressure and rapid heart rate.” And while very few of these are good side effects, exactly none of them are what dad said happened to his boy.

Then, after this parentally neglected 13 year old got sick from inhaling a PEZ dispenser, Pennsylvania Governor Tom Corbett signed a bill outlawing synthetic marijuanas.

All of this leaves me with a lot of “Why?”s. Why does everyone believe that baby-juana did something specifically to this kid that it’s never done to anyone else ever. Why, when this child’s actual cause of death was hospital infectionitis brought on by the total removal and replacement of his entire respiratory system in a building literally slopping over with infectiousness, is every news source saying that bullshit fake weed put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger now he’s dead? Why are “news” people just allowed to assign blame to a substance with no actual proof and get away with it. Saying “Teen dies after smoking synthetic pot” in relation to this story is only slightly more crazy than if, say, I were to put on a pair of my favorite asbestos gloves, massage the mucusy orifice of your choice, and several months later you were to die of mecca pneumonia due to your body rejecting your new radio controlled bionic sphincter valve and the headline reading “Blog reader dies after loving, tender, attentive butt hole fingering”.

"Riddle me this! When is a throat chute like a water pipe?" "Oh please shut up."

Now, don’t get me wrong, none of this is meant to be in defense of synthetic marijuana or a condemnation of robotic poopers. I personally think these “K-2″ and “Spice” and what have you are cute and dumb and mostly harmless as long as you ask your parent’s permission before sucking it through a fiery Lego. What bothers me is the lazy, irresponsible nature of this reporting and how nobody will call these people out on their bullshit. And please know, if it does in fact turn out that this kid’s death was caused specifically and solely by the proper, appropriate implementation of this legal product, then I’m just a bigger asshole than most give me credit for and I’m sorry for ever questioning the validity of this third hand hearsay being passed off as investigative journalism. But if I’m not: if I’m right… Well, we’ll never hear about it. Because first people would have to admit that they’re wrong, which they won’t. And death not being the result of evil future drugs sent back through time to kill our children just doesn’t fit the narrative being built by those that don’t like this product for what ever reason. But just because something’s legal, doesn’t mean it’s good for you either, I mean, take cigarettes or having children that you have no intention of properly raising, but just because you don’t like a thing, doesn’t mean it murdered somebody.

God damn, this has been a week. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go take a nap, because in my dreams I’m an 8 time gold medal Olympic vampire puncher with the uncanny psychic ability to sense when and where lesbian sex is transpiring and a magical doorway that can take me there. Then I’m gonna wake up Monday hoping that most of the sharp objects in the apartment are still up too high for me to reach them…

See you then, if any of us make it there without being killed by something whose fault it isn’t.

Alrighty Hippies, Cut it Out

Seriously…

Knock it off.

We get that everyone’s created equal and that it’s a beautiful thing and that we should all celebrate each other’s differences even though we’re equal and beautiful just the way we differently are. And that’s beautiful. In an equal kind of way. A way that doesn’t discriminate against any other beautiful thing and equally celebrates beauty. And we all go home at the end of the day with a trophy and an ice cream cone, because we’re all winners of beautiful, different but equalness.

You can call 'em best friends, but we know what we're imagining them really doing...

What I’m getting at is: stop trying to make Bert suck off Ernie.

There’s a petition going around the internetted webbing, trying to “encourage” “Sesame Street” producers to have their pair of bath sharing confirmed bachelors joined in holy matrimony.

“We are not asking that Sesame Street do anything crude or disrespectful,” the petition reads. “It can be done in a tasteful way. Let us teach tolerance of those that are different.”

Oh, well, good, it’s not like they’re asking for hot, muppet on muppet butt sex. They don’t want any graphic “rubber duckie” action. They just want to tastefully teach children to stop hating homosexuals. Because as we know, the audience of Sesame Street is made up almost exclusively of gay bashing infants and intolerant toddlers.

Every episode ended with Paul Reiser tied to the bed with is own Cosby sweaters...

The argument is built upon a fraudulent premise, and I would hope they understand it. Children don’t hate gay marriage. Some children’s parents may not like it, but I don’t think it’s the Children’s Television Workshop’s job to adopt all of the children of hateful parents around the world. So you’re not about teaching tolerance. Do I think that it’s wrong to present a married same sex couple to children? Absolutely not, when I was growing up I watched “My Two Dads”. What I disagree with is someone trying to force an agenda upon someone based on the supposed solution to a problem that they’ve manufactured.

But it’s the equality hypocrisy that gets me the most. Because while crusaders will likely shout down and ridicule anyone who opposes this as homophobic and closed minded, let’s not act like they wouldn’t be similarly shitting their carbon neutral, zero impact, humanely harvested hemp onesies if someone was circulating a petition calling for Snuffleupagus to come out as a Soldier of Christ.

Do I want Elmo prancing around asking everyone on Sesame Street if they have accepted Jesus Christ as their personal lord and savior? Fuck no. Nor do I want Oscar the Grouch pushing his Freegan lifestyle on kids, or Grover teaching preschoolers the joys of autoerotic asphyxiation. Your agenda doesn’t have to define you. You don’t have to make it your life’s quest to make sure that what you believe in is in front of everyone’s face at all times. Preaching about gay marriage is the same as preaching about anything else, preachy.

But listen to me; preaching against the preachyness of preaching. Isn’t this just the african american cookware calling the indigenous person’s leaf drink water warmer a racially insensitive epithet? Feel free to go back to not listening to anything I’m saying and calling me names for saying it. It’s what gay married Jesus would do…

For the Last Time: Kanye West is Not Hitler

Shootin' down bein' Hitler noise wit Laser Beams-- PEW PEW!

People, this has simply got to stop. It seems a week doesn’t go by that I don’t have to step up and say the unpopular, but almost impossibly obvious to one and all: Kanye West is not Hitler. I thought we went over this. I thought we had all come to an understanding, that while Kanye West may very well have an over inflated sense of self worth, while Kanye West quite possibly believes he has super powers and the ability to rock it with the ferocity of ten super star, genetically enhanced crocodiles and though he almost certainly has exterminated his fair share of Jews; Kanye West is NOT Hitler.

Let’s take a look at the facts, shall we? First of all, Kanye West is alive, baby. Not only that, he’s super alive, he’s livin’ harder than the next eleven Kanye Wests out there. Meanwhile, Hitler is almost certainly dead. I haven’t seen his mustachioed bones, but it seems to me if he were otherwise, we would probably have heard something about it by now. So, exhibit A of thesis: Kanye West is not Hitler.

See, I’ve been trying to squash this before it reached the hardcore aural receptors of Kingye Best, but even my ever vigilant crusade to assure the universe that Kanye West was not Hitler could not keep the man from having to address it personally. I expect to be punished thoroughly for my failure, and I know that I will deserve it.

This last Saturday, while performing at the Big Chill music festival Kanye took a well deserved break from jam kicking, to let the audience know what was on his incredibly talented mind. You’re welcome audience.  

“I walk through the hotel and I walk down the street, and people look at me like I’m (expletive) insane, like I’m Hitler,” Not Hitler said. “One day the light will shine through and one day people will understand everything I ever did.”

Now sure, alright, yeah, you could argue that the last half of that sentence could maybe, kinda sorta sound a little bit like something Hitler might have said. But that doesn’t make the man Hitler! Not ONCE in the recorded history of Hitler, did Hitler ever say he wasn’t Hitler! Not once! Not Hitler case rested.

Of course, the audience, already well aware that there is no possible way that Kanye West COULD be Hitler, not after the multi-million dollar PSA campaign, returned to the be-Kanyed stage, a smattering of what the untrained ear might call “Boos”. We in the business of audience reactioning like to call those “Round Cheers”. They’re a way that crowds that don’t understand how thoroughly they’re being entertained express their momentary confusion and fear.

The crowd may also have been confused with excitement, by the fact that Mr. Not Hitler’s set started approximately 30 minutes late. But as he explained upon his eventual arrival, he was only “late” because he “needed to make sure his performance was great.” Again, you’re the fuck welcome. This man, this non-genocidal, misunderstood and underappreciated giver of himself unto you is not just dicking around, depriving you of your enjoyment of him because he’s busy clearing his name of Hitler accusations, though that does account for almost eighty-five percent of his waking hours, he is keeping you waiting to make sure that you get the best possible Kanye West experience that Kanye West can possibly Kanye West!

Could Hitler do that? I think we all know the answer to that…

…

No. No he couldn’t, is the point I was trying to make… Kanye West isn’t Hitler. Please, don’t make me have to go over this again…

 

Burn Baby, Burn! (Hitler Inferno)

Human beings have kind of a sick obsession with dead bodies.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a monster, I get that the rapidly decaying, lifeless corpse over there used to belong to someone you had some fondness for. But at no point forward will that bio degrading fleshy mound of used ta was, ever do anything again that it used to do when previously possessed by the life force of who ever they aren’t anymore. Tickle it all you’d like, it ain’t never gonna giggle that unmistakable titter that you fell in love with. Call it by name, dangle it’s favorite bag of salty treats in front of it, it’s not going to pop up and suddenly begin recirculating all of your favorite bloods and give you a great big knowing hug. And if it DOES, run like hell for a stabbing or shooting utensil because your loved one is now zombified and it’s either you or it Jack!

The point I’m trying to make is this: the second your beloved friend, relative or lover breathes their last, the container they left behind that they used to drive around in to be recognizable to other things living in this plane of existence is no more them than the carton that the milk came in is going to help increase your bone density. You’re just left with an expensive bag of recycling. Feel free to mourn the person you’ve lost, but let’s try to be a little more reasonable about what remains, and treat it more like the ’74 Rambler that it is.

Now that I’ve angered and alienated most of you, let’s get to the two stories I found this morning about the uproar caused by the cremating of one barely dead (and mistaken) infant, and one already excessively dead Nazi…

Appropriateness at this point really isn't an issue I don't think...

Apparently, last year an Ohio funeral home made an isty bitsy boo boo and set alight the wrong dead baby, which, surprisingly, wasn’t met well by the guardians of said unintentionally reduced child shell. The story states that, due to a morgue mix up the body of a 14 month old was mistakenly released to the Marlan J. Gary Funeral Home, in stead of the 22 DAY old infant intended for a ride on the grill. And because the Funeral Home just cooked the baby they were given, they had their license suspended for six months.

This issue raises a lot of, what I feel are natural questions with me. Now, I’m no baby scientist, I’ve said that time and time again when ever someone runs up to me in a panic, desperately pleading for my expertise in baby science, so I feel it bears repeating: I’m no baby scientist, but I’m fairly certain that there is a decided difference between the density and general volume of the body of a one year and two month old child versus that of a three week and one day old child. I could go to Target right now and pick up a jumper with a tag that says “0-4 months” or something, and compare that to a pair of slacks in the ”Pre-pre-pre School to Pre-pre School” section and likely not be surprised by the decided difference in expected sizes.

So, does a hearse just back up to a morgue, wait to hear the thump in the bed and drive off, or are there some sort of checks in place to make sure that not only is the morgue giving away the right dead baby, but that the funeral home is RECEIVING the right dead baby? Just the shere handling of the body seems like it would tip me off if I were a dead baby delivery man. If I’m delivering a deceased 22 day old, I expect I should be able to chuck that bitch in the back of a corpse limo with one hand. Just lob it in under hand and high five myself for another day of life more than that poor bastard. And if it took say, two hands and a little bit of heft, and I checked my clip board and it said “22 dayer” I would probably wonder if I had the right infant cadaver.

Conversely, if I were a crematorier, just thinking from a strictly business stand point, I imagine I use a different amount of fuel to burn the body of a 22 day old than I would for a 14 month old. So if I were intending to roast a 22 day old, put in a bag of 22 day older fuel and just tossed in what I thought was a 22 day old, I imagine if I were to come back later, I would likely find a good deal of 14 month old left uncrematized and wonder if my baby burning fuel supplier was fucking me over.

Aside from all of that obviousness, what gets me the most about the article is where is says:

“A hearing officer noted that cremation is irreversible and said funeral directors must take precautions to ‘get it right.’ “

I doubt that most people need be reminded that reducing human remains to ash is awful difficult to undo. I’m certain that most of us didn’t think that cremation was just a fancy term for “dehydration” and that a body could just be returned to its former glory by simply splashing it with a Dixie cup of water.

Hmmm, skinheads are different than I remember...

Meanwhile, over in Germany in what seems like one of the more extreme promotional tie-ins I’ve seen for tomorrow’s release of Marvel’s “Captain America: The First Avenger”; the bones of Rudolf Hess, one of Adolph Hitler’s deputies, were exhumed and cremated. Germans don’t quite get the collectible cup level of promotion, and you can’t tell them that they’re doing it wrong or they might murder millions of Jews.

It seems that, with the lease on Hess’ burial plot coming up for renewal in October, and with the grave site having become a pilgrimage site for neo-Nazis, “Hess’ relatives and Lutheran church authorities in the town decided it was best to remove the remains.” And viola, no more neo-Nazis. Right?

“The grave is now empty,” said cemetery administrator Andreas Fabel. “The bones are gone.”

Soooo… neo-Nazis couldn’t still commune at the former grave site of their martyred hero?

They apparently “cremated the remains and scattered them secretly in a lake, whose name and location are not being divulged”, so in a way, they’ve sort of made just about anywhere a fair place to come together and celebrate the memory of Rudolf Hess. He’s now circulating in the water ways of Where Ever Germany, being carried out to sea, and floating about on the breeze. These short sighted Nazi haters have effectively dusted all of us with Nazi particles. Thanks, just what I needed, to breathe Nazi while I’m just minding my own business, hating just fine on my own thank you very much. I really have a hard time believing that neo-Nazis are so sentimental that they’re going to have any difficulty mustering up enough focused drive to gather for a hate fest just because the bones of one of their heroes, that they could never positively confirm or deny the existence of in the first place, might not be where they were last week.

But if it makes you feel any better Lutherans, congratulations, you just re-killed a dead Nazi. You won World War II. And you just spoiled the ending of “Captain America” for me, assholes!

Defenders of Sexy Teachers

I'm a little affraid of a teacher named "Miss Johnson"s potential "pop quiz".

It’s no secret that Van Full of Candy is a supporter of hot teachers.  It’s a brave, bold stance that we have long taken when ever a poor, misunderstood educator is arrested for doing things that we wish had been done to us in school. Of course we couldn’t possibly defend EVERY apple polishing head mistress every time we heard about another one getting carted away. That would become a full time job, a naughty, dirty, naughty, sexy, naughty full time job. Don’t get us wrong now, we fully understand that people being charged with the task of learnin’ yer kids should not be engaging in the befouling of the under aged. That’s wrong in almost every state, and to varying degrees depending on posted age limits in the other blue, orange and green shaded globe blobs that we are told are “other countries”. Which is why today’s attack on sexy teachers has us in such a tizzy.

Brittni Nicole Colleps is a small town Texas girl, a first year English teacher and coach of the Freshman girls’ basketball team– Hey! No silly, pull those pants back up, I didn’t just read that out of a letter to Penthouse, this is fer realzies. Not to imply that Penthouse letters’ authenticity should ever be questioned, I’m not saying that. Each and ever account of steamy escapades reported in that fine publication of note is rigorously fact checked by hand. That is my guarantee to you, the reader.

So Mrs. Colleps teaches Englishes and Basketballery at Kennedale High, a suburban North Texas school near Arlington. She is a mother of three and is married to a no doubt very brave fighting man serving over seas. And when she’s not stressing verb conjugation or an ankle crackin’ cross over, she likes to have as many students as she can count on one hand over for a nice, fun and informative “after school special”. Now before you get all indignant and finger pointy at us and our condoning of this horrible crime against children, let me tell YOU a little something. Each of these five students with which Mrs. Colleps is alleged to have simultaneously banged were all 18 years of age. So there, don’t you feel silly for assuming the worst in this story of teacher student group sexcapades!

Unfortunately her facebook profile seems to be down, otherwise we'd be besties.

So then the natural question is, “Crime wha huh?” That’s certainly what came to MY mind somewhere deep in the list of things that came to mind when first hearing about this story. Usually it goes without saying that a teacher/student romance is bound to somehow involve underagedy. But it seems that proper carding was done in this case and no harm no foul, you’re free to go Mrs. Colleps, we’ll just keep these texted pictures and the camera phone video footage we found on one of the boy’s pocket telephonic devices, you know, for safe keeping and we apologize for any misunderstanding. There was no crime committed here. This was simply good natured hi-jinx between six consenting adults. This is only a crime because the law says it’s a crime. Which I guess makes it a crime…

It seems in Texas, as well as probably a few other places that I’m too lazy to research, even if your students are all sumptuous and otherwise legal in the eyes of god and whom ever, if you’re teaching them either the fundamentals of the English language or of a sound bounce pass, you are not allowed to also guide them in the ways of love and the making thereof. So while I’m sure Mrs. Colleps thought she had all her bases covered, making extra special sure that all of her starting lineup of hot senior studs was all of legal humping age so as not to run into any potential snags that might result in her soldier husband or their three offspring learning of her need for a pentagon of dong, unfortunately Texas forbids teachers from taking home school supplies.

But let’s be fair to the lovely Mrs. Colleps, she’s teaching in a school in Kennedale, a town of 7300. The school itself has a sexy, orgy worthy student body of 3200. She’s new in a town where almost 40% of the population goes to where she works and her husband is off selfishly fighting in some kind of war or another. She has needs, she apparently has LOTS of needs. What is this poor woman supposed to do!?

Sadly, it seems that this love story ends as most do, in jealousy. You see, when you exchange dirty text messages and swap digital photography of your genitalia with another individual, you expect that you have a special connection with those genitals. That’s what Mrs. Colleps’ first boy seemed to believe. After what history books would no doubt declare the most romantic courtship in the history of recorded time, Mrs. Colleps allegedly invited her young, BUT NOT TOO YOUNG, suitor to her home where they got to see first hand, what the small screens of their phones had only hinted at. They made love, mad, passionate love, which in another text Brittni (I feel she would want me to call her Brittni, even if I hate that she spells it with an “i” at the end which, for an English teacher I feel hurts her credibility just a little) said they “had fun” and invited him back for another round of hide the ruler. But when her one and only shower up this time, he found that he was going to be waiting in line and apparently that hurt his little feelings. So rather than sharing, which all of us should have learned at some point in our lives, this sobbing little baby had to ruin it for everybody!

I feel like at this point I need to reiterate that I am in no way condoning anyone’s actions in this act of love, I am merely discondoning the selfish actions of one individual. And now this caring, GIVING, young lady is being charged with five counts of having an inappropriate relationship between a student and teacher, a second degree felony and is facing between two to twenty years per count! Is this really a punishment befitting this “crime”. Especially when this supposed crime is, in the opinion of this non-lawyer, fucking bullshit. The only crime here is loving too much, and if that’s a crime then you can lock me up in a cell with Mrs. Colleps, a camera phone and four of our best friends who have a better working understanding of what a good thing they’ve got and we can be criminals together.

The defense rests, in between sessions of committing more of these heinous “crimes”!

Happy Secretary’s Day : Who Says Sexism Is Dead?

“Thank you for calling ACME typewriter company, this is Betty, how can I direct your call?” … How about you be a good girl and fetch me a nice hot cup of jo sweetie, and this time do it the way I like it … two sugars!! Thanks doll. Oh, and if Mr. Smith calls tell him I’m in a meeting! Can you handle all that?

Ahhh yes, the good ‘ol days when you could swat your secretary on her firm, plump, luscious ass and everybody would think you were a powerful man with great baby-making power and tabs at all the finest restaurants in town. A time when men were men and women knew their damn place, in the kitchen or answering the goddamn phone whilst transcribing my dictation to typewritten

I hope someday I'M pretty enough to have a private meeting in Mr. Brown's office

glorious’ness on my extremely expensive company letterhead. The days when coming home meant a warm meal cooking in the oven, a wife to take off your coat and hat, hand you your pipe and scotch (neat), and assist you with your slippers as the tension of a hard day at man’s-work eased off your shoulders as you sat in your handsome leather reading chair and packed in your favorite tobacco. Where have those days gone? Nowadays if a hard-working man even so much as keeps his hands in his pockets too long next thing you know he’s slapped with a sexual harassment suit for fondling himself in front of a subordinate and is taken for everything he and the team of men before him worked so hard to build. Well this women’s lib nonsense has just got to come to a halt, and we mean now! How can we make it look like we actually respect what they do in the workplace? Make them feel that their strides for

They sure don't make 'em like THAT anymore

equality have actually worked? I’VE GOT IT!! We’ll give them a new “respectful” holiday by’golly! We’ll let them feel like they’ve smashed the chains of inequality and have finally made it in our world, the man’s world. And we’ll call it … “Administrative Professional’s Day”! Yes! That’s it, and we will buy them flowers, perhaps a cake and take them out for a nice lunch and make them feel all pretty like. That’ll do it, that’ll make it all nice, see? Us men will still look like heroes, they’ll get the credit that they so deeply seek from us, and it’ll all be wrapped in a nice sexist package that nobody will even see coming.

What? You only used one sugar again? Well … don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, come on over here and sit on my lap and I’ll tell you just how I like it you pretty little gal.

Outrage Fatigue Fatigue.

Disclaimer: This is going to be a long, angry, fed up rant. If that’s your kind of thing, please feel free to enjoy. If this isn’t your idea of a fun internet time, have one of these:

And we’ll see you tomorrow. For those sticking with us, let’s begin…

Settle down. Right now. Cut it out and settle down. Take a breath. Count backwards. Close your eyes and go to someplace less screamy and hysterical. You make me want to punch you in the face.

Now settle down again, because I probably don’t mean you specifically. This message is intended for the flailing, hyper sensitive, unhelpful masses who lose their shit any time something that has absolutely nothing to do with them happens thousands of miles away from their fat white uselessness. This probably isn’t you since you’re reading my insightful chiding of those noncontributing, knee jerk, bleating piles of predictable mock outrage, so you likely agree with me to some degree. Otherwise I look forward to explaining many of these words to you in response to your key board mashed, half formed responses in the comment field below.

With every natural disaster that strikes some, never could be prepared enough to withstand the very planet that it sits on bucking like it’s got a leg cramp, place, the usual groups of reactionaries seep out of the cracks in the Earth to descend upon those who have honestly already been fucked with enough. It never fails. These folks came out for Haiti and Katrina and they’ll be back for the next time the planet just does something that planets do and couldn’t care less how it affects the insignificant specks that are currently residing on it. Those groups are of course:

The God Did Thisers.

The White Guilt Outrage Proxy.

and the Relief Scum.

Let’s examine each individually shall we?

"I know I made you that way, that's what makes it so hilarious!"

God’s a fucking dick. Apparently. Because while we were given free will and dominion over his Earth, apparently any time some dude sticks his penis into the consensual orifice of another fellah, God just loses his shit and kills thousands of people. And of course if two ladies want to maybe get married and raise the discarded child of a proper, unhappy, natural coupling of an irresponsible man and a selfish woman, God will, quite understandably, pick up his planet and shake it like a screaming baby until everybody gets the hint that it’s not hot for him unless a man layeth down with a woman and get it on for all of his omnipotent jollies.

There’s a group of God’s messengers who every time something like this happens can’t get in front of a microphone fast enough to tell us that this is all because we don’t pray hard enough. You’re telling me that this is the guy that you want to hang out with for the rest of eternity? Some thin skinned deity who throws a bitch fit every time something doesn’t go his way. And these God Did Thisers celebrate and chuckle and told you so every time a natural disaster, caused entirely by the inner workings of this planet and not the whims of some bearded sky douche, claims thousands of innocent lives. Unless this disaster was delivered with laser like precision and all of these thousands of people were gay loving gay lovers who just loved to gay, it’s likely that a lot of people who never engaged in any form of gayity were claimed in God’s latest wrath spasm. So how can these supposed men of God be so giddy and excited about all of this carnage caused, by their own claims, as an act directly from their great invisible man? How is that holy? How the fuck does that jibe at all with your supposed message of love and salvation? Fuck you, fuck you and your violent, vindictive, God of slaughter and intolerance.

People digging out of the splintered remains of what is left of their entire lives don’t care if someone they’ll never know makes a poorly delivered joke that they’ll never hear and don’t need you to be offended for them. Given a little time and distance, the guy who lost his entire existence to a wall of water could probably even laugh at their own circumstance and will likely laugh at the joke about the next poor asshole digging himself out of some not dissimilar tragedy. So any time anyone says something that you think should offend a victim that you have absolutely no connection with, you don’t have to demand they be fired or cry like you actually care about the people they didn’t actually insult. You can just look at that joke, shrug to yourself and say “That’s not a very well thought out or executed comedic premise.” and go on about your day, or you can chuckle quietly to yourself while silently hating being amused by something that really doesn’t affect you in the first place.

You didn’t care about any of these people a minute before you heard that there was an earthquake, and it has not suddenly become your job to make sure that everyone understands that you super care now and that they should too. Fuck you and your disingenuous outrage.

They make games where they take out their frustration by fingering their boss in the ass... I think they're gonna be okay...

Japan doesn’t need your help. Japan doesn’t want your help. But you feel for some reason that you have to text them some money. Good for you, what ever makes you feel like you’re saving the world, hero. But invariably with every relief effort that springs up around these disasters there are people who will take advantage of your misguided good intentions and somehow it works every damned time. If you have to donate to a relief effort, and you don’t, make sure you have ever heard of the name of the people you’re giving your money to. These people preying upon the well meaning are no doubt some of the most vile scum bags on the planet, but if you are dumb enough to be suckered into these scams then you should clearly have someone else holding onto your money for you any way, and the guy who just stole it from you is as good a person as any for the job.

Just so we’re clear, I don’t hate Japan, I think it’s sad as hell what’s happened to my favorite weirdly perverse Asian nation, but we all need to just settle down for one god damned second. Do you honestly think that a country that had two nuclear weapons dropped on it only to become one of the great economic and cultural forces on the planet isn’t going to be able to handle a little tsunami? It’s their fucking word! They probably get it. So just settle the fuck down and we’ll be back to shaking our head in confusion at the latest tentacle porn and ass rape simulation video games from the land of the rising sun in no time.

Oh, and free Gilbert!

Be at Peace, Sweet Cocks

During my customary afternoon search for all cock related news stories, I came upon a rather ridiculous article.

Now that's a cock fight I'd like to see. Am I right ladies? ... Fellas?

The basics of the story all fit together like well worn pieces of your classic, run of the mill stupid criminal news Madlib: Two guys pulled over for a routine traffic stop, cops see something suspicious in the back of their truck and take a little peaksie and naturally, inside the box is a felony jackpot. The obvious, immediate reaction that I have to these stories is the same that every right thinking potential criminal would have. If I am going to be driving around, a box of felony in the bed of my truck, I make damned sure that my vehicle is in perfect working order, with every flasher and blinker and bobbler and boobler all flashing and blinking and bobbling and boobling to it’s utmost, factory specifications so as not to attract any sort of unwanted attention to myself, and my cargo of prison time. But for every intricately planned and flawlessly executed Las Vegas casino heist filled with close calls, beautiful criminal master minds and crisp, tightly paced, world class banter, there’s a batrillion idiots with rickety pick ups, hauling around crates of loosely packed crime, just begging to be pulled over on their way to more criminality.

But what set this story apart from the rest might not be what you’ll initially think. You see, the two master criminals were hauling a box of chickens. As I understand it, hauling chickens in a box in and of itself isn’t a felony, but professional MMA chickens apparently have to take a bus. These two gentlemen were immediately arrested for improperly transporting bad ass chickens, and while they were taken away the coppers made a trip to their no doubt lavish hotel/casino, professional poultry fighting association sports arena where they found a “fairly large scale” operation of nearly 250 bench pressing chickens and their “fighting implements”, by which I assume they mean silk trunks and knuckle tape.

Now, even at this point, still not a story worth more than a simple glance and quick calculation of exactly how many buckets of original recipe that was that they just discovered, battling for the enjoyment of all of those enthuseists of fight. What did grab my attention was this.

All of the brave, fighting fowl, just trying to make an honest buck and claw their way out of poverty the only way they know how, with their claws, all nearly 250 “game birds” that authorities “rescued” from this fighting ring, were summarily executed.

They killed every last chicken.

I’m no stranger to taking up the fight for an unpopular cause, on more than one occasion I’ve argued in favor of bunny stabbings and I once talked a young mother out of ever caring for her new born child, but right now I am going to take an unpopular, but correct stand.

I am arguing in favor of cock fighting.

Chick "Thunder Wing" McGilliclucky, 9/26/09 - 2/17/11

After shutting down this “disgusting”, “inhumane”, “blood sport”, and saving these poor, not exactly defenseless creatures, Henry Brzezinski, Chief of Animal Services did in one fell swoop what he was supposedly saving these animals from. He told reporters that “The birds were humanely euthanized because they were either in bad shape physically or their behavior was too aggressive for them to be rehabilitated.”

So then, what exactly was accomplished here? I think the only person who got anything out of this was this sick-o Brzezinski who got to live out a mass execution fantasy that would normally be frowned upon but that he suddenly had a workable excuse to follow through on.

The end result of this is 250 dead chickens, bottom line. So how is their “humane” euthanizing any better than fighting to the death in the ring, like the modern day gladiators that they are? This state is in a financial crisis and we’re just going to throw away 250 perfectly good fighting chickens? You caught the guys, good for you, I’m not defending animal sport fighting as a whole, obviously it’s barbaric and deplorable… But if you’ve got 250 chickens that you’re just going to put down anyway, where’s the harm? Put that shit on Pay Per View with all proceeds going toward future farm animal fighting death prevention programs.

If there is one and only one thing that I do know for certain in this life, it’s that this was not what any of these magnificent fighters would have wanted. What this man did was rob these majestic birds of their pride and dignity. They were fighters, fighters of cock, and they deserved to die in the ring, doing what the betting public loved, clawing and scratching their competitor’s body to ribbons with the assistance of razor blades tied to their feet. That’s all they knew, that was their entire world and this man took it upon himself to decide what was best for these courageous, talented, crazy attack chickens.

So shame on you Mr. Brzenzinski, may you be haunted forever by the muscular, angry ghosts of 250 fighting chickens, stricken down in the prime of their careers. This is truly a dark day in the world of sport; a day that shall forever taint the proud name of cock fighting.