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And This Tasteless Tuesday Is From Mike.

First of all your site rocks. I can say this because my wife fucking hates you. As do all of my friends' wives. This tells me your sight is right up my alley. Anyway I thought I would tell you a story about my Navy Days on the USS Key West SSN 722 out of Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. Typically these stories are a dime a dozen if you have ever served but this one is mine and I like it. Here goes. Everyone at one time or another has one of those friends that either wants to have that "Alternative" lifestyle or does and it just doesn't always come out till you least expect it. Any way my buddy Tim, we called him Superman was always into some weird shit. Many a night we would here him banging the shit out of some girl in his room. Vocalizing as he started to come. Then the next day learn he was breaking in a new blow up doll or something twisted like that. He once made out with another member of our crew in a Marine bar on a bet, tongue and all to see if he could start a fight. Those Jarheads took it well, they bought him and his "girlfriend" a round and then kicked us all out.

To get to my real story, I found myself in Guam on liberty one night. Anyone who has had the luck or misfortune to have served in the Pacific Fleet will smile when they think of all the wonderful days spent in fucking ass of the South Pacific, sweating buckets performing PMs and upkeep chores while the fucking officers play golf and suck each other off in their staterooms. There is a pretty good titty joint in town called the G-Spot, and naturally we ended up there every fucking night we had off. The girls were accommodating, giving us some extra nasty lap dances in the back room. The occasional hummer wasn't un common. Loaded and bored we heard of a beach party going on at one of the resort hotels in town and decided to finish up with the cock grinding and see about some real honest to goodness Japanese tourist poon tang, "Rick my pussy, sairor boy."

We headed over to the joint and founds a rager going on. Those girls hadn't been fucking with us. Probably a hundred or so round eyes like us and the rest all locals or Asians. We spent the rest of the night trying to get loaded and laid. It was a pretty good time. I suppose you are wondering where my bud, Superman comes into all this? Well he had been partying it up with this sexy little local chick. Grinding all over her. Making out on the impromptu dance floor out on the deck. What makes this great is that my buddy kept on glancing over at him with a quizzical look. Every now and again blanching, his eyes widening. Then he would just shake his head and sip his beer. I asked the guy what was up. "I think that girl Tim is with is a ma'hoo." he replied.

(For those that don't get the term, Ma'hoo is a local Hawaiian word for transvestite. They are like cockroaches in Honolulu, and Guam is no different.)

"No way," I said " She's way too hot." But sure enough, I scoped her out a little closer. The Adams apple, larger than average feet, wrists, and ankles. By the time I convinced myself Tim was grabbing the tight little ass of one fine looking gay man, a couple other of my mates came to the same conclusion. We all got the giggles and debated on what to do. I was for breaking it up right then and there, but the sadism of submariners took hold and we decided to watch and see how it all panned out. A little while later, Ol' Superman takes his little "thing" in tow and wanders off down onto the beach. This being as far as I can let the little joke go, I grabbed a couple friends and a beer to set off after them and put a stop to what could only end badly.

About a hundred yards away we found the young couple laying on some leftover beach mats. We were hushed, peeking around a palm tree only to see this girl/dude going down on Tim's tool like she was a cross between a jackhammer and a Hoover vacuum. I mean Chasey Lane had nothing on what was being displayed before me. My stomach got a little queasy from too much booze, the thought that I had let my friend unknowingly get with a man, and from trying to suppress the giggles that the whole scene created. So another friend of mine decides he's gonna save the day. "PSST!" he hissed "Tim!" Nothing. A soft wet slurping sound was all we could occasionally hear. "PSST!" "What?" we heard Tim kind of moan. "Dude, go away."

At his point I couldn't fight it any more and started busting a gut, my laughter was loud enough to get Tim's "date" to stop it's activity for a second. Looking towards us hidden in the shadows. "Dude, like we got to talk to you." My friend kind of giggled back, trying to sound serious. "Come here."

"Fuck off. You guys suck." He was getting a little ticked which is understandable. He's getting a blowjob on the beach. Why are we fucking it up for him? My buddy see's this will get no where and decides to ay down the trump card. "There's a fight and Shore Patrol showed up. We gotta get going."

"I'll catch up to you then."

"Fuck." my buddy whispered "He's never gonna leave. What do we do?" We talked about it and I was voted the guy that was gonna try next. "PSST, hey Tim, "It's Jimmy. Come here for a sec. It's important."

"Goddamn it! Fuck off." He was getting even more ticked. And impressively the thing playing the yummy down game on his pecker is back at it and doesn't stop for nothing. I'm tired by now. So I say fuck it and play it out. "Tim," I said really serious like, "That's a guy." There was a really long pause. We all sat there waiting for Tim to freak out and totally lose his shit.

Nothing.

"Tim?" I whisper again. Trying to sound serious and sympathetic at the same time. He was after all being blown by a guy. "Did you hear me?" There is still nothing. The little cock tease cross dresser is still at it. Unfazed.

"Go away. I'll be back in a bit."

"Tim," I say incredulously " you don't get it. That's a fucking Ma'hoo" And, here is where Tim "Superman" [last name deleted] won my heart and made me look at him differently for the rest of my days.

From the beach came his whispered reply, "I know."

The first Serbia chick is hot but the second one has a disfigured head. Personally, I'd go for flexible Almudena Cid (Spain), muscular Yelena Isinbayeva (Russia), or in a pinch, Victoria Pendleton (Great Britain)... but like a horse, I'd have to check her teeth first.

one man's harrowing tale of what it's like to lose... on jeopardy! pretty interesting read, actually.

old and busted: heron vs bunny. heron vs pike. the new hotness: heron vs rattlesnake

Wow, Ever Actually Take A Closer Look?

If I had to name the single biggest perk about being self employed -- other than my boss letting me drink beer at work, of course -- it would be the zero commuting costs. So for the past year or so I've sat back and watched gas prices climb higher and higher, and at the same time felt comfortably insulated from the problem. I remember being completely bullshit when gas just crossed the $2 mark, and how all of us used to bitch about it in the office. Fuel prices actually played a part in my decision to quit and with diesel hovering just under $5 bucks a pop, I really feel bad for truck drivers. Fuck if this happened when I was a kid, we'd have grown up eating Legos. I can't fathom how the everyday worker is getting by now, but I did get a little taste of it in my recent roadtrip to Orlando when I sold Earl.

As my copilot doesn't know how to drive a standard, that meant we had to take my trusty old Dodge Ram as the chase vehicle. That would be my trust old 13 miles per gallon at 70 miles an hour with 206,000 miles on it, Dodge Ram, by the way. But as mentioned before, Earl isn't exactly a highway cruising machine, thus we limited ourselves to the backroads where travelling along at 55-60 mph meant you were moving at a pretty good clip. And because the first half of the trip was done before it got too warm out, the air conditioning was turned off, and I'll be damned if the truck didn't squeak out damn near 18 miles to a single gallon of gasoline. I was shocked, because I had no idea how much of an impact speed had on fuel economy. Turning the air conditioning on dropped the frugal 18mpg down to 17 -- an impact sure, but much less significant than speed, probably because my truck is as aerodynamic as a loaf of bread. So it got me thinking. If I could boost the truck's highway mileage from 13 to 18 (nearly a 38% boost), what could I do with my TT given that usually holds at 32mpg@70mph?

And thus, the experimenting began...

You can see that much as I experienced in the truck, speed definitely played a much larger role in mileage, as opposed to my use or non-use of air conditioning. In fact, as I crossed the 65mph threshold, air conditioning's impact quickly dimished in favor the increased aerodynamic drag. I was able to slip behind a dump truck at 60mph for a short bit, and had an immediate burst of mileage up to 54.5 miles to a gallon, but since those fuel savings won't even cover the insurance deductable when I would inevitably rear end this guy, I quickly faded back.

So what the fuck prompted all this crap? Well, I was cruising around the web this morning and of course the Exxon profits are all over the news, and then stumbled across this article which made me throw up in my mouth a little bit. Marvel if you want, but you and I not only bought him that car, but paid for the flight, too. And now we're all supposed to get excited about a $0.20 drop in gas? Woo fucking hoo.

You see, here's my take on all this oil/gasoline crap. Like any fossil fuel, oil is a finite resource. And whether you believe there's enough undiscovered oil in the Earth to power us for the next thousand years, or if you believe we're just about running the taps dry now; it still doesn't change the fact that nobody is making any more of it. So what remains is going to continue to be more and more valuable. There's nothing wrong with that; it's not sinister, it's simple 6th grade economics. And while I'm sure as fuck not going to drive at 50 miles an hour with no air conditioning, it only behooves us to excersise some sort of restraint in regards to using it up. Because I'll tell you what I'm sick of. I'm sick of every time the nutjob in the Middle East starts his nuclear reactor speech, my already bruised and battered 401(k) takes yet another kick to the balls. I'm sick of every time a bunch of assholes carrying coolers and ziplock bags attack a gasoline pipeline somewhere in Nigeria, it costs me an extra $20 to fill my gas tank. Now tack on Hugo Chavez, hurricanes, terrorism, and any shitload of other reasons, and I get a little skittish at all those people trying to force me to do more while earning less.

Try this. The next time you're at a stop light, take a look at the vehicles around you. I did that the other day and over half of the vehicles were big ass trucks -- nothing wrong with that in itself -- but they're all carrying one fucking person and no cargo. That is a problem. Listen, if you drive a Hummer or a Suburban and have 57 kids, hey all the power to you. But does it really need to be your everyday commuter? Does that really make sense? Does that really seem to be the best solution right now? There's got to be a better way than this. Something has gotta change.

man when one of these airbus a-380s goes down, it's going to make a hell of a mess.

what makes this the best fight scene ever? the martial arts? no. the black guy with no legs? no. it's the german dubbing

Five Guys Burgers And Fries.

You know, it's not too often that I get excited about a cheeseburger. I mean we've all had so many of them over the years, the individual flavors kind of all blend into each other after a while. McDonalds. Burger King. Chilis. The bowling alley. The back yard. What seperates one from another? For me, nothing did up until recently. And then a new burger joint opened up here in Cape Coral, named Five Guys Burgers and Fries. Kids, let me tell you it's as if the Lord Jesus came and jerked off into your mouth. Yes, it's that good. They are seriously the best motherfucking burgers I have ever eaten in my entire life. And no, they're not paying me to say this and yes, I'm really that fucking excited. If I wasn't worried about my arteries turning into solid tubes of fat, I'd eat there every morning, noon and night. Five Guys Burgers and Fries for breakfast. Five Guys Burgers and Fries for lunch. Five Guys Burgers and Fries for dinner. And who the fuck am I kidding, Five Guys Burgers and Fries just before I go to bed. They're that fucking good. You want to know what else they make? Nothing. No fucking grilled chicken, no salads, no chicken fingers. Like Charles Emerson Winchester, they do one thing, they do it very well, and then they move on. They make burgers. Awesome fucking burgers. So if you want to know what the most delightful taste in the world is, make your way to a Five Guys Burgers and Fries near you and get your eat on. And that guy in line ahead of you? Yeah, that's me and I'm getting extra cajun fries..

Also some people have commented that they have trouble viewing the Vidmax movies. A little trick I learned is if the intro ad hangs, just press F5 to refresh. Otherwise you'll be missing out on such goodies as this black dude flipping out on a judge. (Sorry it's a guy Todd.)

most women think kelly brook has the perfect body. sure enough, most men agree.

looks like the last laugh is on me - carlin's final material abandons the angry rhetotic and returns to his goofy roots

This Tasteless Tuesday Courtesy Of Mike.

Like most stories you read hereon Tueday , it all began while I was taking a dump.

Now, I'm a 32 year old guy, and I've taken my fair share of dumps in my life so it wasn't very difficult to tell something was wrong right away. Dropped trou, sat down, followed the urge to purge and was rewarded with a very unique shooting pain from down under. It wasn't so bad that I fell off the john, but it was bad enough that I took immediate notice. I gingerly finished my duties and reached for an extra large handful of tissue, not really knowing what to expect. Everyone, from time to time, experiences a nasty or messy bowel movement. The kind of dump where you feel like calling in the Hazmat team to handle the clean up. I was expecting something along these lines, maybe even some blood. I was prepared. I can handle gross, bloody messes. After all, with enough TP and some clean water everything ends up back to normal.

So down I reach with a huge wad of white, fluffy Charmin anticipating the chore ahead, but as soon as I touched my ass I was practically knocked unconscious by the pain. Sharp, immediate all-consuming pain. After taking a moment to recover, I began gingerly cleaning up and discovered that my problem wasn't coming from the asshole, but just above it, and to the left. Sort of like a pimple, but unbelievably sensitive. "Ah shit, (no pun intended) I've got a zit on my left cheek," I thought. "Well, I'd better pop the little fucker." So I brace for the pain, grab either side and give a big squeeze expecting it to let go like a geyser. No such luck. All I got for my trouble was enough pain to make me see stars. Since I was clean and had been in the office bathroom for way too long at this point, I decided to just deal with it later and go back to work.

The rest of the day passed without too much trouble, but I was constantly shifting around and uncomfortable. I figured after all the manipulation that morning that the little fucker plaguing my ass would come to a nice head and I could dispose of it when I got home. No such luck. What followed was three days of self-inflicted torture. The thing just kept getting bigger and bigger, and more and more painful. Several times I thought I had it beat. I could have sworn that I felt it pop a bit, but the surface remained unbroken and it would always fill back up. Eventually, after four days of pain, I had had enough. While taking a nice hot shower I got the bugger nice and big and, instead of trying to pop it, I grabbed the surface skin between my fingernails and RIPPED the sucker open! I was rewarded with an immediate and satisfying gush of nasty pus. It felt immediately better. I thought I'd beaten it. Man, was I wrong. For the next week, the damn thing just kept filling up. Sometimes heroically so.

It was amazing, no matter how much I emptied it, it just kept filling back up. About this time I noticed something else very strange. I was at a party, and had eaten a big bowl of chili for lunch. The result was a massive case of gas that I didn't really want to release in a crowded group, but every time I'd feel it coming and bear down to keep it in, I'd feel a little tickle of gas escaping. This happened several times that night, and into the next day. I was beginning to think maybe something was seriously wrong. I really began to think so when after taking a fairly soft crap, I was amazed to find that shit was coming out of my pimple head!! But the only way that could be was if... OH MY GOD! THE FUCKER GOES ALL THE WAY THROUGH!! I felt sick. This was just too weird. I was defective.

Genetically aberrant. I'd have to go through life shitting out of two holes. I called my doctor.

Why is it that every time you've got something nasty wrong with you, your doctor's nurse has to be the cutest, youngest possible nurse in the state?

Anyway, I tell little Miss Washington State my story and she, after giving me a look that says how nasty I am, puts me in a room to wait. In comes the doctor and asks for the story again. I ask him, so why the hell did I just tell it to the cute nurse? Something about procedure, he said. Anyway, I tell him the story and he starts smiling and chuckling to himself. Catching the look I gave him, he sobered up and told me that he was just amused by the description, and complimented me on its accuracy. "I think you have a fistula, but I want to make sure so drop'em and grab some desk." A fist-a-who, I thought. He then played with my ass for a bit and said, "yup, you've got a fistula."

He then told me what the hell it was. It seems everyone is blessed by nature with several anal glands. These glands are internal versions of the pores on our skin, but go deeper. Usually, they don't cause anyone any problems and we go about our lives blissfully unaware of there existence. For an unfortunate few, like myself, they become infected. When this happens, they back up but instead of just resolving themselves internally, the sadistic little fuckers make for the surface and come burrowing out of your ass creating a tube connecting the outside world to your inside ass.

This tube is a fistula. More good news, the only way to fix it is with surgery. More, more good news, it's not the kind of surgery where they simply give you a shot and stitch the hole closed. Oh no, that would be far too simple, for you see the entire length of the tube needs to be opened up and scraped raw so that it can heal closed from the inside out. Imagine starting a small tube about 5 inches inside your rectum. Run that tube perpendicularly away from your rectum for a couple of inches into your body, then begin to veer it out. Eventually it'll reach the surface, but might be several inches away from where your rectum becomes your asshole. Fun, huh? This entire tract that the tube takes needs to be sliced open.

Basically, this amounts to having the doctors butterfly your ass open. Then they don't even have the decency to close you back up! You've got to heal closed on your own so as to not risk infection. I spent over a month with raw, oozing, butterflied ass tissue dripping nasty yellowish fluid, bleeding from time to time all over my shorts. I stuffed myself with gauss, panty liners and tape, but it would still seep through. I couldn't sit for over a week. When I could, I would trigger a new round of bleeding every time I sat down. I'm not even going to go into what it was like to take a shit under these conditions. Pure, condensed nasty.

Eventually I just started going directly from the toilet to the shower. It saved at least 20 rolls of toilet paper. I'm fine now, but if it ever happens again I think I'll just take a Ferrari for a test drive and help myself to a nice, painless High Speed Flaming Death. ~ Matthew

Oh and shit, I almost forgot. The current leader in Count and Recount is Cary with a completed score of 5,807.

fuckyouplowing - nuclearboobs - pleasenopirates - welcometoiraq - youdeservehell

ten things you should know about the internet

So Long Earl. I Think I Knew You Well Enough.

The last time I went out on the road with Earl (my Nova) was in March of 2006, when he damned near killed me with a brake failure. So last week I had Mike the Mechanic give him a thorough checkup before getting on down the road again. And so Saturday morning I fired up Earl, for what would amount to be out last road trip together. The Florida sun hung fairly low on the horizon as I nudged the front wheels out of my driveway and headed towards Punta Gorda on my way to I-75. Being a V-8 mated to the original two-speed powerglide transmision -- which shifts from low to high at 22mph -- Earl's not much for highways so we spent most of our time buzzing up the slower Route 17. It really was a beautiful morning to have the top down. Not too hot (yet), not too cool. Not a cloud in the sky.

Sensing this would be our last rodeo together, Earl wanted to give me a goodbye present. About thirty miles north of Arcadia, I could see three turkey vultures feating on some roadkill about a mile ahead. For those of you who don't remember, last year my neigborhood was overrun with these ugly fucking birds when all the fish died in the pond behind my house. Turkey vultures are big heavy fuckers, and a lot of them left holes in my lanai when they landed on top and dug in with their talons. Anyway, as Earl steadily bore down on these three abominations, two of them saw me coming and quickly flew off. The third wasn't so observant and was late with his getaway attempt. An attempt that brought him directly into my lane, coming in from left to right and then the dumb fucker turned left so that he was headed in the same direction as me. The catch is I was doing 60mph, he was doing about 10mph. Try as I might, a 1963 Chevroley Nova does not fit inside the asshole of a turkey vulture. I had briefly considered yanking the wheel and just as quickly dismissed the thought. Better to hit a bird at 60 than a tree at 40. And what I expected to be a dull thud followed by some tinkling glass turned out to be nothing more than an fluffy 'poomph!' -- very anticlimactic, actually. Granted, I'm sure the turkey vulture didn't think it was too fluffy, but Earl barely even grunted. With no sense in stopping in the middle of East Bumfuck, I continued on into the next town and inspected the car for damage when I stopped for gas. In the battle of 45 year old steel vs (presumably) two year old avian bones, steel fairs very well. Eh, not a scratch or dent to be seen. Thanks Earl.

I continued on into Orlando where I was due to pick up Tim when his flight arrived from North Carolina at 12:50pm. I got to the airport at 12:30. I found a fucking parking space around 1:05, and no, I'm not fucking kidding. Orlando airport eats cock. I drove around the first level of parking looking for one of two things: a vacant parking space or a ramp that led to level two. I found neither. You know why? Because the motherfucking ramp to the second level of motherfucking parking is cleverly hidden down the section that reads "EXIT ONLY". Yeah that's fucking right. Not "TO SECOND LEVEL AND EXIT" but "EXIT ONLY". So because I didn't want to exit the motherfucking parking garage, I ended up driving around the first fucking level for over a half a fucking hour until I found a motherfucking parking space. And I was plenty fucking pissed off when I finally did so, because I'm a mushroom cloud layin motherfucker, motherfucker.

[goosefraba... goosefraba... ... goosefraba... ...]

Okay, inside I met up with Tim and his road buddy Terry (of 2008 Challenger fame) where after a celebratory beer, we ventured outside and back into the motherfucking parking garage. [goosefraba...] Everyone piled in and I drove Earl around towards the exit and stopped in an area that was getting some good sunshine so Tim could get a better look at the car. And while he looked at Earl, I looked at the fucking sign that read, "TO SECOND LEVEL." Motherfucker. Anyway I gave Tim the nickel tour; the highs, the lows, and the quirky. I even ran my finger through some yellow stuff on the front right corner that turned out to be turkey vulture. Awesome. Tim loved the car, I loved the money Tim gave me for the car, and Earl was officially handed over to his new owner. We parted ways shortly thereafter; me to a nearby hotel to meet Andy and Dori for a ride on the slingshot, and Tim and Terry to I-4 towards Florida route A1A to follow the coastline towards points northwards. I'm pleased to say that Earl did not try to kill Tim, and all three of them arrived back in North Carolina safe and sound. Me? I spent Saturday night throwing up from bad crab legs.

What's next for me? What's going to replace Earl if anything? I don't know really. if I had $60k I'd probably get a Lotus Exige S, but seeing as I don't, I won't. I've got th emoney for a Segway, but think I'll pass on that. On the flip side, there was exciting news waiting for me when I got back yesterday. You have no fucking idea how stoked I am about this. No. Fucking. Idea.

mcg talks terminator salvation details and debunks pg-13 rating rumors

as you reach 65, mick, how many of these 65 conquests do you remember?

Why Timmy Ringo! You Look Like Someone Just Walked Over Your Grave.

Heading up to Orlando to deliver the Nova to its new owner. Keep an eye on the phonecam.

Want To Learn How To Spot A Closet Racist?

The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines racism as, "a belief that race is the primary determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race." And remember the stereotype doesn't have to be negative. Declaring, "All Asians are good at math," is just as racist a statement as, "All Mexicans are lazy." Surely not every single Asian in the world is a whiz at calculus, just like every single Mexican in the world can't possibly have a poor work ethic. The one exception to this rule is of course Jews and money, but that's not the focus of today's post.

No, in today's post we're going to delve into the differences between black girls and white girls. Yes, I know the old saying, "Black or white doesn't matter, they're all pink on the inside." What prompted this topic? Why it would be this email:

Now two things immediately caught my attention. The first thing that caught my attention was, "...I get the urge for some booty, Ernie. Some back. Some thickness. Some chocolate thunder..." Hmmm. Not black girls dressed up as cheerleaders, or wearing glasses and posing in a library, no. But all black girls are thick and have big asses. I believe we call that a stereotype, yes? But perhaps the most striking thing about this email was, "...we'll see a reluctant 'Fat Nigger Ass Wednesday'." I found this to be very similar in nature to when Duane Chapman got busted on tape talking about his son's new black girlfriend in Nov of '07...

Now a simpleton might think that because Todd has a hankerin for some dark chocolate on occasion, he's not a racist. By the same extension. I am because as Todd pointed out, there aren't many black girls featured here on EHOWA. So let's delve into that, shall we? Let's take a close look at all the chicks that I've confessed my undying love for: Jessica Biel; some pick on the fact that she has broad shoulders and I couldn't give a shit. She can smack me around all damned day, and I'd be totally cool with that. Bridget Moynahan; who I think is one of the most classically beautiful women out there. And the fact that Tom Brady hit that just tears my heart asunder. Anne Hathaway; again, another example of classic unadulterated beauty. She can narc me out to the FBI for whatever she wants, just so long as she visits me in prison. And most recently, Emily Deschanel; no 'Bones' jokes, please. So anyway, what do all these women have in common? They're all brunettes with fair complexion. That's me, that's what I like. And that's not to say that I don't appreciate blondes or a nice tan, because I do. I certainly wouldn't pass on a night with Corinna (NSFW), just like I'd happily give Hayden Panettiere a roll in the hay, but shit, if we're going to play pin-the-tail-on-the-imaginary-piece-of-Hollywood-ass, I'm aiming for Eliza Dushku before I aim for Panettiere -- I've had hot pants for her stretching way back to her Buffy days.

With that in mind, it's more appealing for me to look at a naked Asian chick (NSFW) than it is for a black chick. Because I don't know too many black chicks with a fair complexion. Aside from appreciating a body, I just don't find black chicks all that attractive. They just don't do it for me. And take note: how many super tanned white girls (NSFW) do you see linked? Not many. And that's not to say that I can't admire a terrific black body (NSFW), or a stellar pair of black tits (NSFW), but given the chance to look at a hot black chick (NSFW) or this white girl (NSFW), it's a no-brainer for me. There's no racial stereotypes about black women -- hell some white women have ghetto asses too -- just me preferring my coffee with a little more cream than some mights like. I don't believe that makes me a racist.

But. Let's say that I were to join the Dark Side. Who would I choose? Well, there are four examples that come immediately to mind, but notably absent from the typical white-guy list are Halle Berry and Rosario Dawson. Because when I say black chick, I mean BLACK chick. Berry is mixed, and Dawson is Puerto Rican, Cuban, African American, Irish, and Native American. I'm talking black like Blacky McBlackerton. The first one I can't show your a picture of unfortunately, because she was a dancer at the Copocabana in Tel Aviv. She was black-black. Nigerian black, seriously. So black she would leave fingerprints on charcoal. And she had one of the most fucking amazing bodies I had ever seen. Her name was Neila. I did my best to help her pay for medical school, don't you worry. But since not all of you have visited strip clubs in the Middle East, here's some more poignant examples, and oddly enough two of them are from NYPD Blue. The first is Gabrielle Union; I've always found her tremendously classy and graceful. The second is Garcelle Beauvais -- technically she's Haitian and not African, but I think she qualifies as black-black. And the third is Tanya Wright; I guess she's okay if, you know... beautiful eyes, big tits and a tiny waist are your thing. Baldwin gets all the hot ass.

so long professor randy pausch, we hardly knew ye.

forty honest gadget ads that won't be convincing many people to buy anything.

be sure to check out this link when you're starving and still have an hour to go before lunch.

Well, I Guess It Worked.

Do you like Danica Patrick? Do you like Milka Duno? Then you'll surely love the catfight they had this week because Milka drives too slow.

Would you shave your head into male pattern baldness for $100? This guy did, although I have to imagine he's in the minority. I can't imagine anyone else doing it for less than $500 for obvious reasons.

And don't say you haven't learned anything this week -- here's how to make moonshine.

Far be it from me to defend a celeb's actions, but Britney Spears is catching a lot of shit over these photos where she's smoking in front of her kids. Who the fuck cares, it's outside! "The little kid picks up the box of cigarattes." -- So fucking what, she takes it right away from him, so what's the big deal. Christ, after dinner my father used to send me into the other room to get his cigarattes. I honestly don't see what the big fucking deal is.

And remember, tomorrow is Hug-A-Retard-day. So don't freak out like you did last year. Nobody is trying to hurt you.

what's better than twenty laker girls? why five hundred prospective laker girls, of course.

top ten dog breeds by popularity, allergies, cost, and gas. pffffft.

Now I Don't Want To Play Into Any Racial Stereotypes Here But...

My friends back in Boston sent me this photo, which I think reinforces negative stereotypes against African Americans. I just don't think it's the right message to be sending to our youth.

I had the toughest night of my life, last night. First, I got angina pectoris and then arteriosclerosis. Just as I was recovering from these, I got tuberculosis, double pneumonia and phthisis. Then they gave me hypodermics. Appendicitis was followed by tonsillectomy. These gave way to aphasia and hypertrophic cirrhosis. I completely lost my memory for a while. I know I had diabetes and acute ingestion, besides gastritis, rheumatism, lumbago and neuritis. I don't know how I pulled through it. It was the hardest spelling test I've ever had.

But as I rose to that occasion, so too have you risen to the Capsuls challenge. And all it took was me mention how no one was able to make it past level 8 and viola... eighty-two entries! Yep, you guys sure peeled my banana back and mashed my potatoes. I had about two dozen people send in entries in the 54/55 level range, but in the end I watched Mike work his way past all the barriers and around all the curves, marching past level 100, all the way to level 245. And thus a new challenge is born -- Count and Recount. The premise is painfully simple: click on the little white balls numbered 1 through 10, in sequential order. Sounds easy enough, right? Sure it is. Note: Because you can lose points during play, you must submit the silver screen that appears in between levels. Mid level screen score will NOT be accepted.

Broken Steel - 4130 steel will crack under pressure and aluminum just snaps without warning, just like bone. And yes, the results are butt ugly. Why do people insist on doing that with their motorcycles (and their backs?!)?

And please, if there really is a God... please please, please, let Nick Hogan get buttfucked on Sunday night.

fifty things being blamed on rising oil prices - reason #11, squid fisherman are angry

eight nuclear weapons the united states has... misplaced. whoopsie daisy!

This Tasteless Tuesday Courtesy Of... The Carrot.

So there I am, standing out in the backyard wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. It's 1989, it's a Saturday in August, it's around 6 pm, it's 90 degrees plus outside, the sweat is literally dripping down my nose and back, and I'm on some god-forsaken little farm in upper New Hampshire where my fuckbuddy Rachel lives.

e've been drinking, fucking and smoking pot all goddamn day, from about 8 am until now. You all know the routine: have a drink, smoke some pot, fuck each other, have another drink, take a nap with the window fan blowing lukewarm air over us, wake back up and do it all over again. I've cum six times today and my balls ache. The booze and the marijuana are starting to unhinge me; I should mention that the booze is tequila, and we're on the second bottle. I feel edgy, crazed by the heat and the chemical imbalance, and there's a little voice inside of me telling me that I'm starting to tread dangerously close to a crash. Neither of us have showered since this morning and we both smell heavily of sweat, dried sex juice and alcohol. I can't think of a better way to spend a weekend, can you?

We haven't eaten a thing all day, all of our calories have come from the tequila and limes. It's finally come down to this: I'm hungry, it's dinner time, and I'm standing half-naked in the backyard, carrying an axe. "Do you have any food around here?" I'd asked her ten minutes ago. We'd just finished fucking, again, this time doggy style on the floor of her bedroom. Rachel's an illegal immigrant from Canada who works under the table for cash whenever she can, which, this being the late 80's under the Bush presidency, ain't often. The farmhouse she lives in is owned by a relative who lets her stay there for free provided she takes care of the place. She stood there in front of me, wearing nothing but a pair of panties. Her tits are big, almost too big, and they're already starting to migrate towards her navel. Rachel's 21 years old and likes it when I put her ankles up by her ears and fuck her really fast. I can see a wet spot on the crotch of her panties where my cum is leaking out of her. I'm not sure why both of us bother putting our pants on; we've sniffed, licked and sucked pretty much every square inch of flesh on each other; each others' genitals are not exactly terra incognita, yet we seem to feel more comfortable with partial nudity.

"No", was the reply. It was the reply I expected. Driving is not an option today. I looked out the back window. "Fuck it, I'll get us some dinner," I said. I grabbed a kitchen knife and went outside. I found the axe in the woodshed out back; it's rusty and old, and the base of the handle is starting to split. I guess a hatchet is a better implement, but I couldn't find one.

This being a farm, there's food everywhere. There's a bag of feed in the shed, and I grab a handful. I go over to the coop and sprinkle some feed onto the ground in front of my feet. The chickens are always running around the backyard near the coop. My prey, a good sized hen, starts to peck at the feed and I reach down and grab her with both hands. The chicken doesn't really fight, just kind of kicks and then settles down. Stupid bird. I'm feeling very much like a homo erectus must've felt, my heartbeating faster at the thought of the violence to come. Even though I feel sexually spent, my dick is hardening like no tomorrow as I carry the chicken over to the old stump near the back of the house. I put the chicken on the stump and can't figure out how to chop its head off. The fucking bird is starting to struggle a bit and I grab it by the neck, which just makes it struggle more, so I move my left hand down and grab it near the wings and press it down as hard as I can agains the stump and I can feel the wings beating against my forearm so I press harder and the bird lets out a fucking high-pitched *squeek!" and I can feel something like a bone break under my hand and the chicken squirms even more so I raise the axe with my right hand and bring the blade down on where the neck should be with a THWACK!!!

The axe hits the chicken in the back of the head but the blade is too dull to cut the head off and it starts squirming even more so I raise it again and bring it down again and finally the head comes off and lays there on the stump. The beak works up and down once and then stops. The hen's body is still struggling against my hand and then I noticed that I've got blood on my legs and the bird keeps struggling and a little chill starts to creep up my spine. Then the bird stops moving. I've got chicken blood on my legs, my shorts and my stomach. My right hand is all bloody, too, but I don't give a shit. I've got dinner. I'm only sorry that I didn't let the headless chicken walk around, that'd be something to see. I use my hand to find the breastbone and then take the kitchen knife and stick it in chicken's belly right below the breastbone. I cut downwards towards its avian asshole and then use my hands to pull the incision apart. I try to shake the guts out and sure enough some of them come out and go *PLOP* onto the grass but the rest are stuck in there, so I reach in and pull them out with my hands, covering myself with chicken shit, blood, and internal organs. I pretty much just toss the guts onto the grass. The feathers are covered with blood now, too and I finally cut the abdominal flesh off and make a great big cavity. I'm feeling just like Frank Purdue.

Once I've got the guts out, I start plucking the feathers off and I put my hand inside the chicken, holding it like a puppet while I pull the feathers out of its skin. Blood is still leaking from it onto the ground but I don't give a shit. Rachel comes out of the house and starts staring at me with a look of horror. She's got a t-shirt covering her huge boobs, even though there's no neighbors around, and I want to fuck her again. "Start the grill," I tell her, and she goes and pours some charcoal into the ancient grill and lights it like a good little fucktoy should. While the coals are warming up I take the chicken corpse around the side of the house and use the garden hose to wash the blood and slime off of it and myself. The flies, those ones with the translucent green bodies, are gathering around the guts that I've managed to strew over a wide area and one of the cats is starting to nibble at them. This is the first good meal the cat's had in a week.

I take the knife, cut the wings and legs off (again, just like Frank Fuckin' Purdue) and Rachel finds some BBQ sauce in the refrigerator. I slather the sauce on the dismembered chicken and then I cook the shit out of it for a while until I think it's done. I bite into a leg and it's still rather raw, so I cook it some more. The smell of burning chicken makes my stomach rumble with hunger. Then we eat it. It tastes really good, really really good, and when the chicken's gone Rachel finds a bag of marshmellows in the kitchen. We cook them over the coals and sit outside, eating marshmellows and drinking lot's of water, until the mosquitoes come out and we go inside.

We take separate showers, then sit in the living room listening to Rachel's John Lennon albums. We share one more joint and a couple of beers, then we go to bed and amazingly enough the seventh fuck of the day is the highest energy fuck of all. It starts to cool down and right before I fall asleep Rachel cuddles up and says "Thanks for dinner." - The Carrot

remember the 747 that split into three pieces in a crash landing? same plane used in the movie air force one.

we've all seen the dodge ram atm crash video by now, so here are some pics of the aftermath

Yeah But Your Mom Would Be Proud.

Computers let you make more mistakes faster than any other invention in human history, with the possible exceptions of handguns and tequila.

In 2006, during a ground run at LAX, GE CF6 in the number one position let go on an American Airlines 767. Two taxiways were closed while bits of disc were retrieved. Attached are some photos, one of which shows half a disc sticking out of an engine. In fact, the disc belongs to the other engine - it's passed through the centre wing box and embedded itself. Undoubtedly, this would have brought down the aircraft had this happened in service. The rear fuselage and port inboard flaps were toasted as combustor exit gases escaped and hit the airframe, which has been written off.

You know, that seems to be a reoccuring theme here. Of all the submissions I've had so far, none of them has made it past level 8. Is there a trick to it, or what? If nobody makes it past level 8 by tomorrow, I'll cancel this challenge and post something else.

Young Andy moved to Montana and bought a horse from a farmer for $100. The farmer agreed to deliver the horse the next day. The next day he drove up and said, "Sorry, son, but I have some bad news. The horse died." Andy replied, "Well, then, just give me my money back." The farmer said, "Can't do that. I went and spent it already." Andy said, "Ok, then, just bring me the dead horse." The farmer asked, "What ya gonna do with him?" Andy said, "I'm going to raffle him off." The farmer said, "You can't raffle off a dead horse!" Andy said, "Sure I can. Watch me. I just won't tell anybody he's dead." A month later, the farmer met up with Andy and asked, "What happened with that dead horse?" Andy said, "I raffled him off. I sold five hundred tickets at two dollars a piece and made a net profit of $998." The farmer said, "Didn't anyone complain?" Andy said, "Just the guy who won. So I gave him his two dollars back." Andy grew up and works for the government.

complete list of features removed from windows vista

may 2007, the second trip to the zone of the chernobyl atomic power stations.

Insert Your Favorite Weekend Joke Here.

old and busted: google's employee workplaces. the new notness: pixar's studio in emoryville, california

this absolutely breaks my heart, but in all honesty, did anyone not see this coming?

thirteen pictures of chicks in bikinis mudwrestling. and yeah, it's more or less safe for work

Ah, Time Flies When You're Having Fun.

Ernie, Hey, it's very awesome that I am leading (for once!) on a game... but please correct the spelling of my name. I'm not Swedish but my name is, J O R A N. There is no D in my name and it has plagued me all my life, what with people misspelling and mispronouncing it. I would be honored if you could change it on the blog. Thank you for understanding. I absolutely love your site, I've been a fan since 2000 and have never been on the top of any of the challenges, at least for long enough to get credited. Peace, Joran

Huh. My bad. I hate two things: Cats and getting someone's name wrong, as people often do it to me (Eric, Erin, Erine, Bernie) and I always find it no laughing matter. To make up for it, I shall use no D's in the remainder of this post.

So before I get too far into toays post, let me first close off the latest game challenge, Wor Frenzy. Coming out of yesteray, Joran was in the lea an looke he was going to walk away with the title after posting an 11k score. But alas, sneaking in uner the bell, the fast fingers of Tom clinche the win. Sorry Joran. Anyway, the next game challenge is a great one. I was going to test link it first to see if you guys like it, but since I just spent the last half an hour playing it nonstop, figure it' o okay. Your mission, shoul you choose to accept it, is to guie your yello wball aroun an collect all the blue capsules. Green walls an balls stan in your way. Re walls are ba. There are 347 levels to complete, so I'm pretty confient noboy is going to complete them all. My high score after thirty minutes of play is almost 3,000 points on level 8. High points rule, an of course if you get your name on the leaerboar, remember to put EHOWA in your screen name.

I've seen the story omn the magical pixie ust before, but this is the first time that I've hear it being explore by the military for our veterans. I think by now everyone knows my stance on stemcell research... I'm all fucking for it. I think both ault an embryonic shoul be explore, an GWB's holier-than-thou policies is the biggest obstacle to meical avancement in this country since people thought AIS was some gay plague. Hell if it were up to me I' walk up to pregnant women, punch them in the stomach an hol a Shop-Vac to their crotch. o that now an you'll have the cops all over you because unfortunately, I'm not in charge yet as there are a lot of people fighting to keep me out of office. But rest assure that once I'm in, it'll be new limbs an organs for everyone.

the pain thats occur mainly in spain is not for gain but sure does entertain.

the wondrous world of the imperiled coral reefs.

chuck liddell's bar-fighting tips -- 1. don't do it (but ...)

Why Don't You Have A Seat Right Over There.

Some used to think the Su-27/Su-31's "Cobra maneuver" was the epitome of 3rd to 4th generation fighter maneuverability. That snap maneuver doesn't hold a candle to what this two-dimensional vectored-thrust fighter with fat independent horizontal stabs can do at low speed. There must be far more tricks up its sleeve in the high subsonic dogfight speed range. Note also, that the Raptor does a complete 360 degree turn in less than 20 seconds. ACC recently approved the Raptor's new demo profile. This was the first show. Five minute video but the last 30-40 seconds are priceless.

This is Dennis Albaugh's Chevy collection, located in Ankeny, Iowa. He has 90, all convertibles, one or more of every year from 1912 to 1975 plus several Corvettes. He has lots of toys including his own 18 hole golf course, which is somewhat copied after Augusta. This guy started from scratch and is now just a little behind Oprah, but I'm sure he will overtake her net worth in the next couple years. Speaking of which, next week my Nova will be heading up the coast to live in North Carolina. This way, it'll be a stone's throw from more American muscle, too.

No way, I'd never post the Dave Motari video. That's just not cool. So the video I posted a couple of days ago was of a soldier feeding his 'chili-cac' MRE to a starving (and obviously quite feral) puppy. But for those dogs, being protective of their food is just a part of surviving. And for anyone wondering if it's cruel to pick up a puppy by the scruff of its neck; it isn't. That's how mommy dogs carry their young both to get the poooch from point-a to point-b, but also to exhibit dominance as well. This guy done good. Not quite as good as Andy has done, and nowhere near as good as Jordan has done, but good none the less. Also, nothing that while no game challenge is quite as popular as boobies, I haven't received all that many entries for Word Frenzy so I'll be ending this one tomorrow. Keep yoru fingers crossed, Jordan.

how to build your own darn time machine - delorean time machine external components

how does ehowa rate on the blog cuss'o'meter? a respectable 37%, thank you very much.

Ahhh, Mother Nature. Did You Know...

Female mosquitos locate their victims primarily through scent. They are extremely sensitive to the carbon dioxide in exhaled breath, as well as several substances found in sweat. Some people seem to attract mosquitoes more than others. Empirical studies of mosquito bites suggest that the risk of being bitten follows an approximately negative binomial distribution. Being male, being overweight, and having type 'O' blood may increase the risk of being bitten. Mosquitoes can detect heat, so they can find warm-blooded mammals and birds very easily once they get close enough.

Diatomaceous earth is used as an insecticide due to its abrasive properties. The fine powder abrades the cuticle, the waxy outer layer of insects' exoskeleton, causing them to dehydrate. In addition to insects, this also works against gastropods and is commonly employed in gardening to defeat slugs. Medical grade diatomaceous earth is sometimes used to de-worm both animals and humans. [Ernie says; I also use DE in my pool filter!]

When a honey bee returns to the hive after finding a good source of nectar, it will perform a unique dance for its hive mates, detailing the distance, quality and quantity of the new food supply.

Tomatoes, potatos, peppers, corn, tobacco, peanuts, chocolate, vanilla, squash, pumpkin, zucchini, and sunflowers are all native to the Americas, and did not exist in the rest of the world before Columbus.

The praying mantis has no ears on its head. It has one single ear in the middle of the thorax on the underside. This single ear, which is a deep slit inside the thorax, allows it to hear ultrasonic sounds. Since praying mantises feed during the day, they do a considerable amount of flying by night. The night, however, is when bats feed, using ultrasonic sound waves to pinpoint their prey. The frequency of these sound waves indicates the location and distance of the bat’s prey. Praying mantises are able to hear these ultrasonic sounds and when the frequency begins to increase rapidly, indicating an approaching bat, mantises will stop flying horizontally and begin a direct, high speed nose dive towards the safety of the ground.

Certain millipedes give off cyanide gas as a defensive mechanism.

When you slice an onion, you break open a number of onion cells. Certain enzymes from the cells then decompose the amino acid sulfoxide, which forms sulfenic acid, which then quickly changes into a volatile gas. When this gas combines with the water in your eyes it produces a mild sulfuric acid. The acid irritates the eyes making them tear.

hey puddy this is for you: pics of the b-2 crash. you'll love the reader comments at the bottom.

blurred out: 51 things you aren't allowed to see on google maps.

the first six minutes of dark knight, and no, it isn't bootleg.

Tasteless Tuesday - This Horselover Is By RA.

They say that every image tells its own story. But sometimes, you see something that only leaves you filled with questions.

In one of the countless porn shops in one of the countless side streets in the Red Light District, I came across this film last weekend. The title alone stopped me in my tracks. "Transsexual Horse Lover 3." My mind wrestled, and I began to accept some difficult facts: 1) Somebody got a he-she to fuck a horse. 2) They got it on tape. 3) They'd done this twice previously. The cover supported some of these conclusions, inasmuch as it depicted a person with a penis and breasts holding onto a horse's cock.

I noted the information and moved on, reaching my favorite little smut-hole (Amsterdam residents will probably know it; the one with the orange handmade sign proclaiming cheap DVD's inside, within sight of Casa Rossa. I don't think it has a name.) They usually have a discount bin, so I went rummaging. I guess it was my lucky day: my SECOND encounter with Transsexual Horse Lover 3 in the same night. Surely, the gods' hands were guiding my actions. After all, the other store wanted something like 150 guilders for it, and here it was only... well, let's not talk about what I actually paid for it. It raises more embarassing questions and nobody really wants to hear me complain.

So. Transsexual Horse Lover 3. The opening shot is an homage, I suppose, to Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music, only instead of a beautiful, precocious music teacher dancing down a lush Austrian hillside it's a guy with tits wearing a bikini running through a muddy field with his dick in his hand. I don't know where this takes place - there are no landmarks to spot and no closing credits. The dialogue consists entirely of unintentionally recorded directions in Porguguese (purely a guess - it sounds kind of like Spanish and Brazil seems a likely place to make a film like this).

The characters: A big horse, a medium horse, a pony, and our hero, whom I will call Lucio (I met a Brazilian faggot once by that name). Don't let the tits and bikini fool you - Lucio looks like he works out, even though he's got a bit of a gut. He doesn't look like the obvious junkie that appears so often in this industry (raising yet another question). After fingering himself at length while lying in the field, he and his equine companions navigate a sordid love quadrangle. A blow-by-blow (heh) account of the film would be utterly boring, but there are some notable highlights.

- The largest horse makes several attempts to kick the shit out of Lucio, who is not exactly gentle with the horse's cock.

- This horse has a very tempermental erection. The warrior crawls out, ready for action, and tends to retreat the moment Lucio's hand gets anywhere near. Completely understandable.

- The horse's trainer can be heard off camera (and, despite his best efforts, seen in several shots) giving irritated instructions. One begins to get a vague mental image of how this whole thing went down: "Well, the boss is gonna be gone until Thursday, so OK, I guess you can do the movie here, I get 500 dineros remember, but if anybody hurts one of the animals I'm gonna blow his fuckin' head off. And yours, and the cameraman's, and anybody else you bring with you. And I'm gonna shove that camera up your ass, and I'm gonna bury your dead fuckin' bodies in the furthest corner of the field and piss on your corpses." And then Chick with Dick shows up, and he says "Jesus H. Mary and Joseph, what the fuck is that? Hey, gonna do the horsie, pretty boy? Huh? You want a big cock, I got one here for ya..."

- Lucio makes several vain attempts to do something really interesting with the horse's dick, like stick it in his ass where it belongs. It's just not long enough from where he's standing. At about 45 minutes into the film, the World's Smartest Man finally hits upon the idea of getting UNDER the horse, though even this isn't entirely successful. Likewise, the attempts at oral sex are half-assed: the tip of the horse's dick never approaches the mouth, and Lucio tries to get away with gnawing at the side.

I really can't say any more about Transsexual Horse Lover 3. As Roger Ebert once said, this film has to be seen to be believed, though that may be too high a price to pay. I tried to take some screen photos but they didn't really turn out, so you'll have to either use your imagination or find the video. Though I did manage to scan the front and back cover, which I will email to anybody who is interested. -- RA

Nope, you can be the bunny or the monster, the predator or the prey. Just so long as you get the high score, the sky is the limit.

grab the stripes image to the right and slowly drag it over the other stripes layer below it...

the ten most fuel-efficient vehicles in the u.s. - strangly absent is my fucking scooter.

Even If There Is Nothing To Laugh About, Laugh On Credit..

A bar is located across the street from a school for the hearing impaired. Every evening after classes, members of the faculty come into the bar and have a drink. They use sign language to talk and sometimes their conversations become quite intense. One afternoon a group of the teachers are sitting at a table and are being overly rambunctious in their sign language: their hands are held high, and they are swaying back and forth. The bartender becomes quite agitated and says to one of his customers sitting at the bar, "Now they'll never go home." "What do you mean?" asks the customer. "You can't get them the hell out of here once they start singing!"

The prostitute had an appointment with her psychiatrist. When she entered at his office he asked her to lie on the couch. "If you don't mind," she said, "I've been working all day. Do you mind if I stand?" One intimate question led to another and the prostitute and her psychiatrist ended up on his couch in a very sexy session. When it was over they lay silent for a moment and then both said simultaneously, "That will be two hundred dollars, please."

Henry rents a room in a boardinghouse and makes a deal with the landlady to pay a substantially higher rate if she will make lunch for him to take to work. The first day she takes great pains to make a hearty lunch with a roast-beef sandwich loaded with meat as the main course. When Henry comes home from work, she asks how he liked the lunch. He replied, "Not bad ... what there was of it." The next day she makes two sandwiches. When he gets home, he has the same response to her question: "Not bad ... what there was of it." The next day the landlady takes a whole loaf of French bread, slices it down the middle, and loads it with three pounds of cold cuts. When Henry comes home from work that evening, he slams his lunch box down on the table and says, "Back to one fucking sandwich again, I see!"

Two men were talking. "So, how's your sex life?" "Oh, nothing special. I'm having Social Security sex." "Social Security sex?" "Yeah, you know: I get a little each month, but not enough to live on."

Two guys are drinking together at a bar and go into the bathroom. Standing at the latrine, Bill notices that his buddy is very well endowed. "Wasn't always that way," the buddy says. "It's a transplant. I had it done over on Harley Street. It cost a thousand bucks, but as you can see, it's well worth every cent." So Bill visits the doctor on Harley Street that day. Six months later, the two guys meet up again at the bar. Bill explains, "I took your advice, but you were robbed. I got mine for $500, not a thousand." They go back to the restroom to compare. "No wonder," his buddy says, "That's my old one."

Three geezers are sitting on a porch in Miami Beach. Suddenly the first sighs and says, "Gentlemen, isn't life horrible. Here I am at an age that I can afford the best steaks and what? Bad teeth and gums. I have to eat ground or soft foods." The second answers, "Yeah, life is a real bummer. Why here I am at an age where I can buy the finest wines, champagne but what? Ulcers, I have to drink milk." The third sighs loudly and adds, "Gentlemen, I know exactly what you mean. Last night at 2 am I nudged my wife and asked her if she's interested. She screams at me, "What is wrong with you Sam? We just got finished doing it for the second time tonight!" After a long pause the first man says, "So what is your problem?" The third one grunts and says, "Can't you see? My memory is fucked!"

A gentleman goes to see the doctor about getting something done about his missing penis, which he lost in the war. The doctor asks the man how many males were in his family and the gentleman replied seven. The doctor said if they all agreed, he could take an inch off of each male and the gentleman would have a eight inch penis. The gentleman asked the other males in his family if they would agree to having the surgery and everyone said yes. The next day all eight males went into the hospital to have the surgery. After it was all performed the doctor told the gentleman that he had a brand new eight inch penis, but to be extremely careful with it and to come back and see him in a week. The next week the gentleman goes back to see the doctor and the doctor asked him how his new penis was working. The gentleman replied, "Great doc, but I only have one question. Whose brilliant fucking idea was it to put grandpa's piece in the middle?"

But your steroids won't do you any good on this next game challenge. Only your fast and furious fingers will help you now. Reminiscent of QWERTY Warriors, in Word Frenzy you have to type quickly and get your little bunny home to avoid being eaten by the monster. Or, you can be the monster and do the eating. Either way, you have to beta my carpal tunnel score of 3,443. I hope Eric doesn't win this one, too.

ten richest people of all time and how they made their fortunes

all i know is if you want some kickass broadband speed, move to japan.

this kid is going to make a million bucks selling these autonomous paintball sentry guns.

Insert Your Favorite Mangofest Weekend Joke Here.

this woman is not sunbathing nude. she's wearing a hat.

brave souls undertake the ultimate test of mind and colon. can you live on a corn diet?

sure he's been accused of alcoholism and gambling addiction. but that's what makes john daly so entertaining!

cutelittlepigears - giveemtheheater - learntoflyhere - shelovesbeerandbunnies - vendingmachinenotes - wastinawayinmargaratiaville

All Hail Joe Francis.

You know one person I'll never understand? Joe Francis, of Girls Gone Wild fame. His live has been one rollercoaster ride after another. Beats tax evasion charges. Then gets his private jet confinscated on porn charges here in Florida. Gets out of jail in time to snort cocaine off Paris Hilton's tits. Then gets to cash in on the Ashley Dupree fiasco. And now he's getting sued by a private investigator for bailing out on a $200k bill. And despite all this, he still has no problems getting beautiful 18 year old girls to take their shirts off. I can only imagine the time he had in Vegas, partying on the Wynn's dime. Why not just cash in on the Dupree thing, pay off whoever you owe, and live the rest of your live living off the interest? At what point do you just quit while you're ahead?

Ahhh, Hexiom. Here's how things panned out. First off, here's what I consider to be the real winner, Bone who made it to level 40 before declaring, "My eyes hurt." I say what I consider because Luke sent in what appears to be a completed level 40, but the image was too shrunken and pixelated to use. And secondly because Airik sent in this tidbit...

So there you have it, new game challenge on Monday. Until then, have a balls to the wall weekend.

heading somewhere this summer? use this calculator to figure out your mortgage breaking gas bill.

ten things i bet you didn't know about your charge card

Sorry Dad, But I Still Love Trains.

Trains are three times more fuel efficient and cleaner than trucks on a ton-mile basis.

Railroads and rail suppliers have reduced the weight and increased the capacity of rail cars to improve fuel efficiency and reduce emissions. The average freight car capacity is now nearly 100 tons, up 17 percent in just the past twenty years.

One double-stack train can haul as much as 280 trucks.

According to the American Association of State Highway and Transportation Officials, 1.2 million fewer tons of greenhouse gas emissions would be emitted into the air annually if 1 percent of the long-haul freight now moving by highway shifted to rail.

If just 10 percent of the freight moved by highway were diverted to rail, the nation could save as much as 1 billion gallons of fuel annually.

If 25 percent of truck freight were diverted to rail, by 2025 it would lead to these annual savings: 30 million fewer tons of greenhouse gas emissions; 2.8 billion gallons of fuel; 43 hours wasted in congested traffic – more than an entire work week – for every commuter. This translates to 3.6 billion hours for all U.S. commuters.

Fuel efficiency for U.S. railroads has increased by 80 percent over the last 25 years. In 1980, a gallon of diesel fuel moved one ton of freight an average of 235 miles. In 2006, the same amount of fuel moved one ton of freight an average of 423 miles.

Yeah personally, I'd have liked to see Darwin get a chance at those fuckers. They wouldn't even be around long enough to see digital cameras if I had my way. Here's a compilation of some of the best accidents, screw-ups, crashes, smashes and other examples of human stupidity. Teenage wasteland!

"i've spent a lot of time in the e.r., and i'm always asked to describe the most unusual cases i've handled..."

invade and conquer: space invaders thirty years on. and yes, you can play.

So I Had A Visit From The One Armed Man.

No, not that one armed man, I mean Daniel from Daniel's Big Trip. He and his Boxer named Rocky stopped by on Sunday afternoon. As I saw his truck pulled up and parked out in front of my house, I have to admit I grew a little anxious. And I don't want to insult Daniel by using the H-word here -- I don't know a single combat veteran comfortable being called that -- so I'm going to call him a Guy-Who-Has-Way-More-Balls-Than-I-Do (GWHWMBTID). But having been so long since my SFC Paul Ray Smith's Medal of Honor ceremony, it has been a long time since I've been able to spend some personal face time with a GWHWMBTID. Besides, as I'm walking across my yard to greet him, this terrifying question popped into my head: Fuck, do I shake his hand? And I know it sounds stupid, but having no experience with amputees before, I didn't know if there was any etiquette or what? I don't want to start out our introduction by effectively saying, "Neener neener neener!"

Well, to put your and my gross ignorance to bed, yes he shakes hands, he just does it left to right. That doesn't take a rocket scientist to predict, and I felt shamelessly stupid for even wondering it, so hey maybe you learned something here. We ventured inside and I allowed Daniel approximately 2.0465 seconds before offering him a beer, which he promptly accepted. That was very polite, wouldn't you agree? Inside, Rocky and Ike got the chance to meet each other, which pretty much means because of the height difference, poor Ike had Rocky's cock in his face a lot. As dogs often get to scrambling as they get acquainted, I thought it best to venture outside where there was more room and the dogs could burn off some energy in the pool.

That of course led to two difficulties. First Whenever Rocky was in the water chasing a ball, Ike would wait for him to get close to the side, and then jump on his head. Two, Rocky found the himself swimming in the trough that fed the infinity edge of the pool. This is of course bad because the trough is about five feet deep which means drown-dog-city. Erring on the side of caution, I dispatched Ike to spend the night at a neighbor's house, and Daniel put up the tennis balls so Rocky wouldn't keep trying to drown himself. After a few beers or so, hunger set in, so it was off to dinner at Rumrunners, which is located in a very snazzy complex a few miles from mi casa.

Over dinner the libations continued and conversation flowed a little more easily. And as I sat and (very discreetly) noticed Daniel's prosthetic arm flex and rotate as he gripped his steak knife, curiosity got the best of me. And this wasn't an embarrassed ignorance, this was genuine, "Dude how the fuck does that work," curiosity. So, being a Grade-A number one douchebag, I asked. He told me, so I'll tell you. There are electronic sensors on the inside of the prosthetic that when pressed against the skin of his upper forearm, detect the electrical impulses of his muscles. Flex the muscles that would otherwise rotate your wrist outwards, and the prosthetic hand rotates. Flex in such a way that would otherwise shift your wrist from left to right, and the prosthetic hand opens and closes. Pretty fucking ingenious if you ask me. I mean I had an inkling that's how it operated (mind control!), but wasn't sure. So that's that and again I've saved you from having to ask the stupid questions yourself.

After dinner we ventured across the complex to Longboards, which is the quintessential small outside bar overlooking a harbor. Very Florida'esque. By this time we're both pretty tuned up and the guys on either side of us got pulled into the conversation. From there it quickly came out that Daniel was a combat, wounded on a mission, now driving across the country, etc, etc, and before you know it there was a small audience listening to his tales of glory and destruction. Two of those guys I distinctly hooked with the old, "You know I bet if you bought him a beer, he wouldn't say no," line as I was getting up to hit the pisser and sure enough when I came back... there was a fresh beer in front of Daniel. I should point out that it's here that the night starts to get a bit fuzzy.

Anyway, from there it was back to the house (don't worry, we had a designated driver) to watch some television from the hot tub and of course, drink more booze. And the night literally went: talking-laughing-drinking, talking-laughing-drinking, talking-laughing-drinking, waking up at 5am with an elephant standing on my head. I'm not quite sure what happened in the interim, but as nobody was killed or arrested, no harm no foul. We grabbed some breakfast at Annies, and shortly thereafter Daniel continued his Big Trip northwards, soon to be homeward bound in the next week or so.

So listen. When Daniel first planned out this big round the country journey, gas was around $2.25. Obviously, the price at the pumps is causing much more discomfort than that, and he's stumbled into the occasional unforeseen repair along the way, too. And while I know I've mentioned his blog before, I've never overtly asked anyone to kick gas money his way. And while he's far too well mannered to do so, I have no such constraint. So I'm going to do to you the same thing I did to those poor bastards at the bar. I'm going to saddle up close and lean in where only you can hear me, and I'm going to lay that, "You know I bet if you sent him some gas money, he wouldn't say no," line on you. Because after all, while everyone wishes they could just get in your car and drive around the entire fucking country, he actually had enough balls actually do it. And I don't know about you, but he's a GWHWMBTID.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnd, the current leader in Hexiom is Robin who made it to level 25. Oh, and I lost the motherfucking email that went with these fishing pictures - please resend the backstory!

remember trainrider? the kid with leukemia who rode on the back of a bullet train a year before he died? yeah not so much.

a very awesome wolfenstein 3d'esque maze game. well that, or atari's maze craze. link culled from fark!

Tasteless Tuesday Redux, This Time By Z.

...This reminds me of what happened about a year-and-a-half ago. I lived in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia, and I got to know a lot of the locals. Actually I partied with the locals and drank their highly illegal moonshine that everybody drinks (stupid laws...nobody cares...everybody does it). I hung out with this Fillipino dude during most of my residence there. He was a cool guy, and he always knew how to get ahold of single, Fillipina nurses (ha cha cha). His name was Victor (obviously a traditional Fillipino name). Every once in awhile, Joseph would hang out with us at these speak easy parties. He was kind of a dweeb, and he never got laid. He was small and scrawny, and he had really bad breath. One night (at the Halloween party at Al-Gazaibi's) he met a married Fillipina girl whose husband was not with her. I guess the poor sot had terrible hours or something. She was butt-ugly (perfect match). Well, that got rid of Joseph (thank Allah). He didn't attach his ass- licking personality to any more of our great exploits that he tended to ruin (more often than not).

I didn't think about him for a couple months, and Victor and I continued our good old game of Russian Roulette with Your Dick. One day Victor and I got together, and he said to me: "Hey, dude, you'll never believe what happened. Remember Joseph? He's in jail...Evidently, old snaggletooth made it a habit of coming over to his apartment for evening plumbing work. Something went wrong one night, and she just up and died...Heart condition or something of the sort...Anyway, she died, and Joseph didn't know what the hell to do....So he put her in the closet...6 days, man... Who knows what the hell Mr. Snaggletooth had been doing all along...Anyway, Joseph gives up and calls the police and tells them that Mrs. Buttface is in the apartment, and she's dead. Well the cops come and instantly arrest him. [Saudi cops are more likely to shoot first, ask q's later.] They tossed him in the slammer to rot."

Well, that's how I found out that Joseph got arrested. It was about a month later when they held the trial for him. They found him guilty of adultery, hiding evidence, having a woman in the house, drinking alcohol, and generally being an infidel. He was given the death penalty.

I talked to another friend of mine. He worked in the Ministry of Justice or some other place like that. He was a Saudi and loved Americans. He liked to touch Americans. I usually tried to avoid him, but I decided to ask him a favor. "Mohammed," I said , "Someone I know just got the death penalty..." He gave me a strange look like I was about to ask the impossible. "No, I don't want you to free him, I want to know when they're gonna chop his head off." He gave a sigh of relief and said, "Yes, my friend, I find out for you... I will give you a call tomorrow and let you know...and maybe you can come to my place for a party..." I wasn't that happy about him finding out info for me, I just nodded and grinned and said "maybe" a lot....just like they do.

Anyway, the moment of truth approached. I planned it out...I took the day off, I got some Riyals out of the bank, and planned my route the night before. I parked about five blocks from Chop Chop Square (nickname that ExPats gave the place where this was going to occur). And I walked the rest of the way. A small crowd of people was already gathered when I arrived, and some guards were already escorting somebody out. Several Saudis looked at me and saw that I was an American and shoved me ahead of them in the square. They started shouting "Amriki! Amriki!" and everybody pushed me to the front. When I got there, I could see that two other curious Americans were already there. They looked rather stunned already, and when I looked at the riser, I saw a gleaming pool of blood. Obviously the last guy had just left.

The guards dragged their prisoner out to the square and put him on his knees. Some official read some statement aloud in Arabic (which I have only a small grasp of), the only word I understood was "inshallah" and that means "if God wills it." They laid his arm out on the block and "THWACK" with the sword, his hand popped right off. One guy grabbed it up, and another applied a tourniquet to his arm/stump/wrist. A little blood splashed during this episode, and the guy grimaced in pain and let out a bleat like a suffocating sheep. It was obvious that the guy had been drugged before they chopped off his right hand...I guess it's merciful...and rather disappointing.

It seemed like forever before they brought the next prisoner out. Actually they brought out two prisoners. And one of them was good- old Joseph. I hope he learned his lesson about screwing ugly, married women. They made the two guys kneel down for the punishment. The executioner approached with his big, shiny sword and stood between the two prisoners. The official read some sort of decree that probably stated that the two men you now see before you are filthy, infidel swine, we spit upon their heathen ways...blah blah blah.

At that, the official sort of looked down at me...making a weird kind of eye contact that made me extremely uneasy. To the side, I could see the executioner turn to the second prisoner who I didn't know. The death-verdict reader continued to hold his gaze with me, and I started to shake a little, and I could feel my heart pumping blood straight to my temples.

The executioner raised his sword into the sunlight, and brought it down "THWUP" not decapitating the man. In the same motion, he swung the sword down, around, and up as he turned to Joseph "THWUP" cutting into the skin on the back of his neck. He turned to the first guy "THWUP" back to Joseph "THWUP" and "THWUP" and "THWUP" and the two head landed on the ground in front of the bodies like some sort of ritual sacrifice. Blood pumped out of their bodies rhythmically and pooled about the heads that lay motionless on the riser. The other guy's body sort of slid to the side of the chopping block in slow motion and hit with a soft thump. Blood splashed out into the crowd. One of the Americans near me gagged and ran out of the crowd, and some of the Saudis laughed at him. I looked back up at the official who had so disturbed me with his stare, but he was already walking quickly back to the building as four men cleaned up the mess.

As I turned and walked out of the square, all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears. I barely noticed the locals who stared at me to see my reaction. I guess it wasn't very note-worthy, as they turned away in boredom to see what the third "Amriki" was doing. I drove home with a different outlook on death. It's one thing to shoot enemy tanks at 3000 yards and kick around dead bodies that have been lying in the desert for a few days, and dragging airplane crash victims out of the river. But it sure is something when someone you know gets their head chopped off in front of you.

oh yeah. This week's game challenge is a thinking man's game called Hexiom, and you're going to want to read the instruction on this one. You have to advance past level 15 to beat me.

"to boldly go where no peep has gone before"... peeps! in! spaaaaaaaace!

what women don't tell men, but should. (from the kitchen, of course)

Things I Learned This Past Weekend.

1. People with blue eyes tend to need glasses at a younger age than people with brown eyes. This is because less pigmentations leaves the eye more susceptible to damage from the sun's rays.

2. You have a better chance of being struck by lightning as a storm rolls in, than you do when the storm is directly overhead. This is because the greatest differential in electrical charge is at the edge of the storm cell.

3. You haven't fucking lived, until you've had the chance to knock back a few beers with an 80 year old lady who suffers from ornithophobia.

4. Much to my surprise, not all Yankee fans are assholes.

5. In order to full enjoy the Florida experience, you really should be able to speak a little bit of Spanish.

Because the Union is always facing towards battle. Hence when the flag is displayed on a soldier's (or plane's) left side, the flag appears correct. But when the flag is displayed on the soldier/plane's right side, the flag is drawn in reverse fashion because the Union is heading to dish out an ass whoopin.

best of craigslist: nemesis required. 6-month project with possibilty to extend

so long pfc. joseph dwyer, we hardly knew ye

Insert Your Favorite Weekend Joke Here.

pit one web entity versus another in google fights!

there are three things we as a country can do to lower oil prices, right now.

i hate dancing, i hate movies about dancing, but this julia stiles clip is the best dance scene ever.

a fitting tribute to a slain Navy SEAL gains attention - be sure to watch the video

Happy Birthday, America O'Mine.

In 1776, John Adams declared, "The fourth day of July, 1776, will be the most memorable epocha in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forevermore."

In 1777, thirteen guns were fired, once at morning and again as evening fell, on July 4 in Bristol, Rhode Island. Philadelphia celebrated the first anniversary in a manner a modern American would find quite familiar: an official dinner for the Continental Congress, toasts, 13-gun salutes, speeches, prayers, music, parades, troop reviews, and fireworks. Ships were decked with red, white, and blue bunting.

In 1778, General George Washington marked July 4 with a double ration of rum for his soldiers and an artillery salute. Across the Atlantic Ocean, ambassadors John Adams and Benjamin Franklin held a dinner for their fellow Americans in Paris, France.

In 1779, July 4 fell on a Sunday. The holiday was celebrated on Monday, July 5.

In 1781, the Massachusetts General Court became the first state legislature to recognize July 4 as a state celebration

In 1783, Moravians in Salem, North Carolina, held the first celebration of July 4 in the country with a challenging music program assembled by Johann Friedrich Peter. This work was titled "The Psalm of Joy".

In 1791 was the first recorded use of the name "Independence Day".

In 1870, the U.S. Congress made Independence Day an unpaid holiday for federal employees.

In 1941, Congress changed Independence Day to a paid federal holiday. The residents of Vicksburg, Mississippi, celebrated Independence Day for the first time since July 4, 1863, when the Siege of Vicksburg ended with a Union victory during the American Civil War.

In 2008, you can launch some virtual fireworks in celebration of our Nation's Independence, for our forefathers swore: "For the support of this Declaration, with firm reliance on the protection of the Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other, our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor."

daniel, rockstar and the pinto bean are headed down the florida panhandle soon. party at my house.

Don't Want To Get Shot? Don't Rob Houses.

To make sure everyone is on the same page here, let's review the facts. You're an illegal alien. An illegal alien and a career criminal. You're a illegal alien and career criminal who is trespassing. You're an illegal alien and career criminal who is trespassing for the purpose of committing a felony. You're an illegal alien and career criminal who is trespassing for the purpose of committing a felony in Texas. As in the Lone Star state. As in the Wild West, and Curly Bill Brocius, and Bonnie and Clyde, and Remember the Alamo, and Don't Mess With Texas, and all that good shit, right? So let me get this straight. You're an illegal alien and career criminal who is trespassing for the purpose of committing a felony in Texas -- just what. the. fuck. did. you. think. was. gonna. happen?

And for the record, the fact that both burglars were shot in the back, or at least partially in the back -- means absolutely nothing to me. Fair game. They could have been doing cartwheels on one hand, I don't care. Burn em down. Why? You're robbing a house. You're a burglar. You're fair game. Period. Of course some of the local cummunity leaders are pushing the families of the two criminals -- people who were both in this country illegally, I might remind you -- to sue Joe Horn in civil court. See, that's one of the things I like about Florida. That couldn't happen here -- you're immunue from civil damages if you're found to have acted lawfully, which he was.

The only -- the only -- problem I have with Joe Horn's actions is he disobeyed the 911 dispatcher's instructions to stay inside. That's the only reason that could give me a moment's pause. Do I think his going outside helped contribute to the string of events that led up to the two killings? Yes. But like, 1%. But you know what contributed to it more, say the other 99%? Being a illegal alien and career criminal, trespassing for the purpose of committing a felony, in Texas.

If I lived in his neighborhood I'd take down my, "House Protected By Smith And Wesson" window tag, and replace it with one that read, "House Protected By Joe Horn." I'll bet crime drops to virtually nil in that neighborhood for quite some time.

twenty facts i bet you didn't know about oil ...explode with the energy of 200 tons of tnt, mmmmm, tnt.

more proof that dogs rule. you don't see a fucking cat helping you with your dialysis, do you?

Adjusting For Time Zones... Happy USS Vincennes Day!

On July 3, 1988, Iran Air Flight 655 (IR655) was shot down by USS Vincennes on the Bandar Abbas-Dubai rout, which resulted in the loss of life of 290 innocent civilian from six nations including 66 children. There were 38 non-Iranians aboard. On the morning of that disastrous day, 3rd of July, the captain and crew of Flight 655 were at Bandar Abbas airfield in southern Iran, preparing for the second leg of their routine 150-mile flight over the Persian Gulf to Dubai. Flight 655 was a commercial flight operated by Iran Air that flew on a Tehran-Bandar Abbas-Dubai route.

The plane, an Airbus A300B2, registered EP-IBU, left Bandar Abbas at 10:17am that day, 27 minutes after its scheduled departure time of 09:50am. It would have been a 28-minute flight. At that same time, the U.S. Navy guided missile cruiser, USS Vincennes, fitted with the AEGIS combat system, was nearby in the Strait of Hormuz, which the commercial airliner, flown by Captain Mohsen Rezaian, would pass over. USS Vincennes was stationed in the Persian Gulf during the Iran-Iraq war, U.S. presence was intended to escort and defend Kuwaiti oil tankers registered under the U.S. flag; and limit Iranian marine activities as well as the tightening of US imposed embargo against Iran. In command of Vincennes was Commander William C. Rogers III. At the time of the incident, Vincennes, in support of Operation Earnest Will, was within Iranian territorial waters, following combat with and pursuit of Iranian gunboats. The USS Sides and the USS Elmer Montgomery were nearby.

Like most modern aircraft, the Iranian airliner was equipped with an aircraft identification transponder, a modern form of the old "identification, friend or foe" (IFF) system of World War II. When interrogated by a radar signal from a potential adversary, the transponder "squawks" (gives off a specific response signal) in a prespecified, fixed mode. After taking off from runway 21, Flight 655 was directed by the Bandar Abbas tower to turn on its transponder and proceed over the Persian Gulf. The flight was assigned routinely to commercial air corridor Amber 59, a twenty-mile-wide lane on a direct line to Dubai airport. Owing to the short distance, the flight pattern would be a simple trajectory--climbing out to an altitude of 14,000 feet, cruising for a short time, and then descending gradually into Dubai.

Because of the delay in takeoff, it appeared on the Vincennes's radar at 10:17, and at 10:19, the Vincennes began to issue warnings on the Military Air Distress frequency. According to U.S. government accounts, Vincennes mistakenly identified the Iranian airplane as an attacking military fighter. The officers identified the flight profile being flown by the A300B2 as being similar to that of an Iranian Air Force F-14A Tomcat during an attack run. According to the same reports Vincennes tried more than once to contact Flight 655, but there was no acknowledgement. The official ICAO report stated that these attempts to contact Iran Air 655 were sent on the wrong frequency and addressed to a non-existent "Iranian F-14".

The Iranian F-14s at Bandar Abbas have been set to squawk in "Mode II," a mode that would identify to the U.S. ships that the aircraft in question were military, and Iranian. Being a commercial flight, Iran Air 655 was instructed to squawk in Mode III, a signal that identifies civilian traffic. A unique transmission code number, 6760 in this case, was assigned to distinguish this particular flight from others. During the next three minutes, the Vincennes issued a number of warnings on both military and civil distress frequencies, it (mistakenly) identified the Airbus 320 as a possible Iranian F-14, it (mistakenly) reported hearing IFF squawks in Mode II, and it (mistakenly) reported the aircraft as descending toward the ship when it was in fact still climbing according to its usual flight plan.

At 10:24 am, Captain Rogers, the Commanding Officer of Vincennes ordered to fire two SM-2ER antiaircraft missiles at the assumed F-14 fighter jet. A few seconds later, with the Airbus still on its assigned climb out, and slightly to one side of, but well within air corridor Amber 59, it was intercepted by one or both of the missiles at a range of eight nautical miles and an altitude of 13,500 feet. Flight 655, with some 290 people, tumbled in flames into the Persian Gulf. The whole flight had taken less than seven minutes. There were no survivors. By noon that day, Iranian helicopters and boats began to search the area and recover the bodies. It was not until later in the day that the officers and men of the Vincennes would learn that what they had shot down was not an Iranian F-14, but a commercial, civil flight.

does anyone else want to buy this girl's pictures, just to jerk off on them and mail em back to her?

do you want to learn how to handle a heckler? george fucking carlin shows you how to handle a heckler.

So I Kind Of Like This Tasteless Tuesday Semi-Revival Thing.

From the US Army Special Forces Medical Handbook, ST 31-91B, Chapter 22 "Primitive Medicine," Section 3: "Maggot Therapy for Wound Debridement." 22-3. Maggot Therapy for Wound Debridement. "Introducing maggots into a wound can be hazardous because the wound must be exposed to flies. Flies, because of their filthy habits, are likely to introduce bacteria into the wound, causing additional complications. Maggots will also invade live, healthy tissue when the dead tissue is gone or not readily available. Maggot invasion of healthy tissue causes extreme pain and hemorrhage, possibly severe enough to be fatal. Despite the hazards involved, maggot therapy should be considered a viable alternative when, in the absence of antibiotics, a wound becomes severely infected, does not heal, and ordinary debridement is impossible."

(1) All bandages should be removed so that the wound is exposed to circulating flies. Flies are attracted to foul or fetid odors coming from the infected wound; they will not deposit eggs on fresh, clean wounds.

(2) In order to limit further contamination of the wound by disease organisms carried by the flies, those flies attracted to the wound should not be permitted to light directly on the wound surface. Instead, their activity should be restricted to the intact skin surface along the edge of the wound. Live maggots deposited here and/or maggots hatching from eggs deposited here will find their way into the wound with less additional contamination than if the flies were allowed free access to the wound.

(3) One exposure to the flies is usually all that is necessary to insure _more_ than enough maggots for thorough debridement of a wound. Therefore, after the flies have deposited eggs, the wound should be covered with a bandage.

(4) The bandages should be removed daily to check for maggots. If no maggots are observed in the wound within 2 days after exposure to the flies, the bandage should be removed and the wound should be re-exposed. If the wound is found to be teeming with maggots when the bandage is removed, as many as possible should be removed using forceps or some other sterilized instrument or by flushing with sterile water. Only 50-100 maggots should be allowed to remain in the wound.

(5) Once the maggots have become established in the wound, it should be covered with a bandage again, but the maggot activity should be monitored closely each day. A frothy fluid produced by the maggots will make it difficult to see them. This fluid should be "sponged out" of the wound with an absorbent cloth so that all of the maggots in the wound can be seen. Care should be taken not to remove the maggots with the fluid.

(6) The period of time necessary for maggot debridement of a wound depends on a number of factors, including the depth and extent of the wound, the part of the body affected, the number of maggots present in the wound, and the fly species involved. In a survival situation, an individual will be able to control only one of these factors--the number, and sometimes not even that; therefore, the exact time to remove the maggots cannot be given in specific numbers of hours or days.

However, it can be said with certainty that the maggots should be removed immediately once they have removed all the dead tissue and _before_ they have become established in healthy tissue. When the maggots begin feeding on normal, healthy tissue, the individual will experience an increased level of pain at the site of the wound as the maggots come into contact with "live" nerves. Bright red blood in the wound also indicates that the maggots have reached healthy tissue.

(7) The maggots should be removed by flushing the wound repeatedly with sterile water. Flushing the wound with fresh human urine may also be considered, as the high content of salt and urea is a fairly effective antiseptic. However, flushing the wound with urine _must_ be followed with sterile water. Though urine is sterile and antiseptic when it leaves the body, it rapidly becomes quite the opposite as it breaks down chemically. When all the maggots have been removed, the wound should be bandaged. To insure that the wound is free of maggots, check it every 4 hours or more often for several days. Any remaining maggots should be removed with sterilized forceps or by flushing with sterile water.

(8) Once all of the maggots have been removed, bandage the wound and treat it as any other wound. It should heal normally provided there are no further complications.

But even that's not as hardcore as this guy who asked to remain nameless...

Now that's fucking funny. And fret not, for my stock exhaust has long been replaced with a dual, and the trunk is already sealed up nice-nice. God bless Florida the Florida sunshine.

if 'the happening' was 10x shorter and 100x more honest - marky mark sucks.

i think i posted this marketing quiz before, but like ollie north, i do not recall.