Here we have the traditional European idiot, taking on a bull shoulder to horn.  While brave beyond all words, this exemplar of machismo is certainly not walking away from this one unscathed, as roughly 700 pounds of bovine crashes into this moron’s clavicle.   The next method we’ll review is the trampling approach to running with the bulls.  When your stupid ass can’t get out of the bull’s way, just turtleshell and hope this doesn’t happen to you.  Unfortunately for most of us humans, we don’t have hard protective shells (for exception, see Manimal below).  So if you find yourself in this position, don’t cover your head like this douchebag, protect your nuts above all else.  I mean c’mon, who wants to live without your unit anyway?   Ah the American method, truly taking the bull by the horns.  If you’re going to meet something head on, you might as well get a good grip.  This Cowboy Joe looks like he’s doing a pretty good job of setting himself up to get headbutted to the ground in a violent way.  Good luck washing your intestines out of your sweet karate uniform.   Based on the sharpness of his other horn and the area of insertion of the horn of concern, we can surmise that this guy’s wife will be divorcing him shortly.  Even if his tongue is longer than Gene Simmon’s.  And he buys her a “Personal Massager”. 

I see this everywhere. The lone sticker, placed perfectly, strategically, on the back of cars throughout Westchester, NY. I want to run these people off the road and interrogate them. I want to know what in all of red hell possessed them to look at that sticker, consider their bumper, and think “Oh yes.”

I’m not against bumper stickers. At all. I just think that if you put something semi- permanent on your car you’re usually going to go with something you STRONGLY support. A sports team. Favorite band. Something political. The bumper sticker is a symbol to tell others something about yourself. It’s not even like wearing a tee shirt with a symbol you don’t support because there’s always the chance you’re wearing it just because it’s the only clothes you have*. Putting a bumper sticker on your car is a very conscious decision.  So, WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL ME HERE? You love Playland? You like the Old Mill? You like the fucking Dragon Coaster? Is that it? I got news for you: THE DRAGON COASTER SUCKS. I’ll do a fucking backflip off that thing. I’ll fucking super-swan dive off the front of that thing while you are fake screaming on your way down the “big drop” like it’s the thrill of a lifetime.

I am failing to see the cause behind this pandemic of the sticker. It’s not a cool place. It’s not a cool fucking sticker. It doesn’t represent anything worth putting on your vehicle, let alone does it deserve to be the SOLE sticker on anyone’s car. Playland fucking sucks. Anyone over 9 years old knows this. It’s overpriced, the rides are shit, and the majority of its employees are… let’s just say “scum”. Maybe if you’re one of those dipshits who puts a thousand bumper stickers on your ride to mask the fact that it’s a fucking ‘83 Pontiac … then fine, if stickers are your thing, go for it Wesley. Hell, slap the sticker on anything but your car. But when you don’t even have a valid inspection in your windshield you better not have the fucking precious time to: 1) Go to Playland, 2) Get the sticker, 3) Peel sticker off it’s backing and apply neatly to your car.

Is it a message that really needs to be sent? Do you not realize that my burning desire to blow your fucking brains out for being in my way only increases dramatically with that little pointless decoration staring back at me from above your stinking exhaust pipe? Cause I know. I know you get that sticker free upon entering the Playland parking lot. You’re not fooling me. I been there. I was given a sticker as well. But at no point in my life have I thought to myself, sticker or not, “I’ve been to Playland and I’m really proud of that.”

——————

*I have seen people wearing clothes that say things that they clearly do not understand/support, probably because they were less than fortunate and were indiscriminate toward clothes they wore. One girl I remember in elementary school wore this sweatshirt a few times that said “Jingle My Bell”… an adult humor holiday sweatshirt with some mistletoe in a vague phallic shape. She or her guardian who dressed her obviously lost more than just a little in the translation as she was wearing it in October. I of course, begged her to trade shirts with me every chance I got. Another time I saw a mexican guy wearing a shirt which at first glance it looked like a standard Mountain Dew tee shirt. However, on a double take, the spoof graphic read “Mount And Do Me”….again… I’m assuming this guy didn’t seek this shirt out, but it was more a case of his options being severely limited. Point here is that you’d wear the pink Barbie knit hat in the freezing cold to survive, whether you like Barbie or not.  But no one forces you to put a sticker on your car.

Once upon a time (not anymore of course), I worked in a place, where the folks in my department do did a little gift exchange around the holidays. Nothing big. The unspoken rule is $15 maximum per gift. Cheap bottle of wine, desk calender, pocket multi-tool….y’know….that type of stuff. It’s a real nice thing they do did. This One weekend (long ago) while braving the mall crowd, on a line with an arm full of gifts for my ever expanding family, I looked down and saw something that gave me an awfully devilish idea. On sale for about, oh, $15 USD, was a neat little stack of personal massagers. Y’know….little stress relievers for that little spot….right on your shoulder, just like the box shows. Yeah. About the size of a thumb or so. I chuckled out loud from the idea. What could anyone really say? It’s only a massager. The only thing that stopped me from picking up three of these little pea-ticklers was that fact that I knew I could find them even cheaper online.

Now, I’m going to be mega-super careful about how this gets worded. I have, in the past, worked with women I found attractive. I have also worked with ladies that look like they not only wash their faces with the warm slimey inside of the Colonel’s original recipe fried chicken skin, but also eat that as a meal thrice daily. So let there be absolutely no mistake: This gift is not about sexual endeavor. It’s about my utter fascination with throwing a wrench into the gears of society. I’d be interested to see the look on these peoples face when I give them the gift that says ever so politely: Go fuck yourself. Not necessarily in a bad way, but not necessarily not. That’s for you to decide, Miss. Either way, the message is relatively fucking blatant.

“EASE TENSION AND REDUCE STRESS”

It’s just that, in our society where sex is such a taboo, I see this little dildo masquerading around as ergonomic soothing neck and muscle reliever and I can’t help but be somewhat amazed at the charade. This is what you tell your husband. This is what you tell your kids. It’s great for my wrist. It’s great for my temples. Maybe it is, but lets be real here. It’s better on your tuna bean. Although the package would never directly suggest such a thing, everyone knows whats going on here. No ones fooling anyone.

“RELAX WITH PLEASURE AND EASE”

Rather than go off about this charade behind the personal massager and the pros/cons of each different interchangeable stimulation tip , the question here is how does this go over in the workplace? Of course it mostly depends on set and setting, and your previous relationship with your coworker(s). But I wonder what case could actually be made with a Human Resources department. I mean, even if you had the gumption to complain about a “personal massager” gift you still look like the hard up bitch who’s first thought was “he gave me a pussy vibrator”, meanwhile I could really just be a cluelessly innocent average Joey with your bony arthritis fingers on the mind. It doesn’t say “clit buzzer” or “vagina stimulation tool” on the box does it? I got it at that classy and expensive unique gift shop at the mall, not some dirty Romance Depot. Hey, I didn’t know! Maybe you’re just the twisted hose-beast that had the filthy idea of tingling oneself downtown with a tiny battery powered motor. Not to mention the fact that many women would likely accept such a gift quietly and appreciatively with a knowing smirk. I’m thinking I’m in the clear here….it’s just a gift. A little stocking stuffer-upper. So next time you’re tempted to get catty with your coworkers or bite my head off for something, remember who your real Santa is Ho, and don’t mention it.

Now go fuck ya’self.

 Don’t you hate it when your girlfriend is having a heavy flow day?

No more than a week has passed and we have apparently already made some waves on the internet. One of the “Gary’s” I profiled below (blue hat Gary AKA Crawdaddy Fergueson) has apparently taken down his University bio page where the picture was linked from. This leads us to believe that he Googled himself, found this page, and shut himself down. There is a lesson to be learned here. That lesson is save all the pics so that when they take them down we’ll still have a copy to use. But seriously. The lesson learned here is that this is real. We are live. We’re hoping nothing comes of this, as I should not have used his real name. Truthfully it’s a serious issue that needs to be taken into consideration. 

Sometime next week we’re going to send out an email of some general posting guidelines which will hopefully do two things: Create cleaner, better, more official site content by following a couple of basic principles …. and also cover our asses to some extent. For the time being it’s business as usual, just don’t use anyones real name.

 Also don’t forget we’re encouraging handle changes every weekend, which means right about now is a good time to switch to that one you wish you used.

riiiiiiiiight

No holds barred on Ross’s cause I don’t currently know any.  Some names have been changed to protect the innocent well…. unfortunate. Also, I was going to do “Horaces” on the rec of another site admin here, but Google did not afford nearly as many quality results. Let’s get to it, I don’t have all day here. (Okay… I might actually do.)

Ross Lester: Heres one of those proud ones. His fathers name was Ross. His grandfathers name was Ross. Recognizing a slight natural resemblence … intentionally fashions himself after Harry Henderson.  Owns twelve cats, those hairy bushy ones that always smell like piss. To feed his cats he just keeps a bowl full of goldfish and lets them paw them out because he secretly wishes his life was a cartoon. The cats invariably knock the stinky fishbowls over spilling the filthy grey water everywhere. He just says “Oh Maurice, you did it again! (hearty chuckle)”. NOTICE the pony tail. Not slipping that by on my watch buddy.  

Ross Mendel: Look at this pervert. Took the liberty of combining the comforting appearance of Full House’s Danny Tanner and the creepy, touchy, vienna sausage breathed uncle’s wardrobe of 1980’s neighborhood friend Mister Rogers. Look at the smug smile. He hates you. All he wants to do is polish his shoes, trim his sour chin music, read his ‘Tranny Surprise’ magazine on the toilet bowl and practice the Jurassic Park theme song on his little piano. Keep buttoning that top button Ross.

Ross Benson: I am so personally satisfied that this prick was given the name Ross upon birth. If his name were Jim or Eddie he’d be nothing more than a Door-to-Door Encylopædia Britannica salesman which is a pretty respectable living. Lucky for him he got chumped on the name and it forced him to go into Astronomy. He became the leading scientist at his Universtity for many years until he came up with the “Name A Star” program where you actually get to name one of the very few stars in the universe with the National Star Registry. Because that’s a great fucking gift for when you just really want to show someone you care isn’t it? I mean Chia Pets are a lot of work. Naming a STAR after someone is thoughtful though, y’know? They never have to see it, touch it, worry about losing it, worry about it breaking on them. It’s the perfect gift, no? This smarmy piece of shit Ross has actually inspired me to create my very own novelty gift scam just in time for the Holidays. “Name Grain of Sand”. NO of course you don’t get to actually keep the sand, it stays in it’s home on the beach silly. But I promise you, it’s officially named after you. But I guaran-fucking-tee you, no one has ever, will ever, name a star or grain of sand ’Ross’.  

Ross Randell: What is it with these odd named fucks and the accordion? Holy shit. And no, you’re not Tim Robbins. Get the fuck out of here with that thing. 

 Ross Duncan: Man, I could go off on this guy wonky eyes, slimey lip, asphalt teeth….. but I happen to enjoy his sweater so I won’t. Wait a minute, I actually used to have that same exact sweater until it was……stolen…..actually….. fuck.

Words don’t describe  this moment adequately, so I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves.

Step 1: Make a website based loosely around it.

 And you’re done!