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So Long 2008, We Hardly Knew Ye.

Wow. This is it. My last post of 2008. What to say, what to say.

My New Years Resolutions for 2009. (1) Instead of going the no-booze route, I'm switching course; more red wine in 09. Yeah baby. (2) Waste less food. There's a farmers market each Saturday morning, and the grub is on the cheap. So cheap that I buy too much only to have to wrestle it out of the fridge and beat it with a hammer a month later. (3) Make friends with my new neighbors. I think she is a stay at home mom but I know for sure that he is a grip. That should lead to some good movie stories, eh?

Reflecting back, when I first moved to Florida three years ago I had high hopes of buying a bar within a few years. Nothing huge, nothing that would warrant, "dude you gotta go to this bar," declarations from drunken tourists, just a local watering hole. Needless to say those plans are on indefinite hold. Between the housing market and the stock market, I don't know whether to shit or go blind. Suffice to say that my outlook on the future is a tad more bleak than it used to be. Every once in awhile I still manage to summon up the courage to check my house value on Zillow, only to promptly vomit into the nearest garbage can and spend the next three days blind drunk in the corner of my garage. But at least I've still got my house. And I could whine and complain about how my 401(k) took several direct kicks to the nuts, but I suppose I have to be happy I'm not one of those poor bastards who had to cash in their entire 401(k) to make a few mortgage payments, only to end up losing their house anyway. So it's all relative, I guess. There's a roof over my head and beer in my fridge, and given the events of the past year, I suppose I can consider myself lucky.

I just hope that we turn out to be a little luckier in 2009, thank you very much.

See, now you guys are getting the hang of it. Link pulled! And let's talk about Where on Earth. Ahh, Matt, if only you didn't crop your screen. But since you did, it seems that It's Mike from San Diego in the lead. Be safe out there forlks, it's amateur night from drunk drivers.

2008: a year in fifteen minute celebrities.

watch closely as the forklift operator scrambles for his life.

fifty of the hottest women in sports. oh yes, alisson stokke makes the list.

this old japanese guy has got card throwing skillz. balloons, cukes and candles.

hey fatass, as you begin your annual diet, here's what 300 caloris meals look like.

My Computer Doesn't Work.

As a person who performed IT support for umpteen years, those words made me shiver to my very soul like no other. Not because I had to fix someone's computer, but because I had to fix a fucking idiot's computer. There are roughly a quarter of a million words in the English language, and the pest ones this idiot can scrounge up to describe their problem is the verbal equivalent to, "It Don't Work." Well that's just fucking great. So when presented with such a vague and simplistic problem description, I invariably returned the favor by asking questions that were as stupid as the situation would allow. "Is your computer turned on?" "Are you in the same room as your computer?" "Are you facing the computer monitor now?" "Does your building have power?"

Faced to look their own stupidity in the face, my users quickly learned that when coming to me with computer questions, they'd better bring along some basic facts as well; what version of Windows, the exact text from error message, what they were doing prior to the failure, etc. And this isn't rocket science, it's common sense. otherwise I might bring my car to the mechanic and say, "It Don't Work," only come to find out it's out of gas. I bring this up only because two mornings ago, I found myself wanting to repeatedly slam my face into my keyboard until I passed out...

Now let me ask you; just what the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Seriously. One of your links is bad. Really, which one? I dunno. How the fuck am I supposed to help somebody who doesn't want to be helped. Why not just go the fucking doctor and when he asks you, "So, what seems to be the problem?" reply by sticking your fingers in your fucking ears and going, "I'm not listening, Nyah! Nyah! Nyah!" -- for Christ's sake man, throw me a fucking bone here. But I'm a proactive kind of fella, so let's start by seeing if we can't help ourselves. How do I remove Antivirus 2009, hmm, I dunno. But here, Let Me Google That For You. And fucking presto, almost a million fucking pages detailing exactly how to remove Antivirus 2009. -- which for those of you wondering, isn't an anti-virus at all, but a spyware program that's been around for about three years now. They just keep renumbering the year and some dumbasses always fall for it.

Shortly after my exchange with Rusty, I wanted to simutaneously swallow a fistful of sleeping pills, shoot myself in the brain, zip-tie a plastic bag over my head, all while playing golf during of an electrical storm. You know why I didn't? Because Alex saved me...

See, that's all I'm asking for folks, a little bit of information. Armed with that info, I was able to quickly remove the offending link and replace it with a benign one. Thank you Alex.

Now, I'm going to retouch on a subject that I've already touched and retouched upon. But it seems that every now and again I need to refresh people's memories. I don't care who you are, I don't care what sites you surf, I don't care how bland your online tastebuds are; everyone -- and I mean everyone -- should be running some sort of anti-virus/anti-spware software on their computers. Do you drive with a seatbelt? Sure you do. So you move your seat to the full upright and locked position for takeoff? Sure you do. Do you look both ways before crossing the street? Sure you do. Again, not rocket science, just common sense. So apply that same common sense to the information superhighway.

My suggestion is to use Webroot Antivirus with Antispware. No, they're not paying me to say that. No I don't get it for free. And no, I don't get any comission if you buy their product -- I'm paying for it just like everyone else. It's what I use to protect the computer I run EHOWA with. Did you see that? Over 600 potential infections were blocked. And with all the sites that people send in, I'm visiting some pretty seedy and sick shit. But I'm here every day, posting my face off. And you know why? Because I don't get banged up by viruses and spyware. You know why? because I have Webroot Antivirus with Antispware installed. They even let you back up 1Gb of information to their servers so you have an off-line backup. And yes, I paid the extra $15 to extend my license to two years -- that's $27 a fucking year. To know my computer is safe? Who the fuck wouldn't? Rusty, that's who. So use your head. Be proactive. Be an Alex. Don't be a Rusty.

The final game challenge of 2008: Where on Earth? As an iconic building is shown, drop the marker to where you think is located. Points are awarded on your speed and accuracy and you must meet a minimum score for each level to advance. So for example, you have to not only know the Sistine Chapel is located in the Vatican City, but where the Vatican City is on a map of Italy. It's kinda neat. First level advances at 22,000, second at 52,000 and from then on out, the sky is the limit. Warning: at the end, you're prompted to fill out some information if you choose to enter the host site's competition; as soon as you click the red "ENTER COMPETITION" button, your score disappears, so grab your screen capture for me before that.

Okay, so now that gas prices have come back down from the stratosphere and 'green' and 'hybrid' aren't dominating the headlines anymore, let's take a step back and enjoy a nice unbiased review of that tiny little gas sipper, known as the Smart Four-Two. Oh, and the review is being done by a hot brunette with an English accent. And she even makes a trouser joke. But seriously, give it a listen.

2008, the year in pictures - by the ny times

a small plane takeoff and landing. with no engine power.

the seven most bitter crowd signs from the lions’ historic 16th straight loss on sunday.

It's So Uneventful Between The Holidays.

Basically the Don't Shoot Your Eye Out challenge rolled down to the same shootout that it did last year; how close can you get to 10,000,000 points without going past and causing the score to roll over? Well, the three closest were Mark, Cliff and Eric -- although I have to subtract points from Eric's score because he's lame and has the AOL toobar installed. Also, props to Hawker who couldn't find his PRT-SCN key, but managed to take a picture of his monitor using his digital camera. Also Cole, if you haven't done so already, please replace the batteries in your mouse.

Nick Stevens and the Ghost of Burly Sports past take a look at the top 10 awful places and stuff to happen in sports in 2008. And the Ghost is kinda hot, too.

It is reported that Adolph Hitler was a huge fan of American Football. His favorite team? The Green Bay Packers. If this were true, I believe it would have sounded a lot like this.

This website is a compilation of facts gathered from various sources including encyclopedias, almanacs, magazines, newspapers and the hundreds of books published since the end of WWII. A summary of facts that are considered not to be of common knowledge.

seven years in afghanistan.

ten things you won't see after this recession ends.

old and busted: building full of forgotten cars. the new hotness: building full of forgotten motorcycles.

Insert Your Favorite Weekend After Christmas Joke Here.

eleven manliest cocktails in the world.

dirt bike stunts + hot babes in bikinis = you do the math.

crossdressingstormtrooper - crutchboobie - doveofpieces - londonbrown

old and busted: happy kwanzaa, charlie brown. the new hotness: happy ramadan, charlie brown.

old and busted: abandoned american missile silos. the new hotness: abandoned russian missile silos.

Well, I'm Glad That's Over.

So I hope everyone enjoyed the Christmas Day post of all the Christmas babes. I guess I've been saving them up all year and didn't know where else to put them.

Old and busted: Bring Me The Head Of Charlie Brown. The new hotness: Happy Kwanzaa, Charlie Brown.

Well, if that doesn't send me straight to hell, then I don't know what will. But come to think of it, I don't know a lot of things. The trailer to 300, only done with cats -- have we seen this before? I'm hung over and my head hurts from all this Christmas cheer, so I can't remember.

a list of celebrity folks who won't be ringing in 2009.

how to avoid identity theft and still manage to get the hot box.

you might want to consider one of these before that big new years party.

Merry Christmas From The Ghosts Of EHOWA Babes Past.

current leader in don't shoot your eye out is dissonance.

nah, i'm kidding, it's vince, followed by aaron. i know, i said no sweet spots, but hey, it's christmas.

Oooo! Oooo! Ooooo! I'm getting Ready For Santa.

Knowing my love for all things Eliza Dushku, my buddy Goatboy wanted to brighten my Christmas and sent in this link yesterday morning, which is a clip from the movie The Alphabet Killer including Eliza's first topless scene. And I have to say I'm a little bit disappointed. Not in her, no way, her tits look as spectacular as I've always imagined them. But in the scene himself. I've always imagined seeing Eliza's tits in a candle lit bath scene, or pulling off a sweaty t-shirt after a workout. Not as some crazy chick fighting with her psychologist; somehow that kind of stole some of the magic. Plus you can tell she's a little uncomfortable doing it, because if she were really into it she'd have faced the camera and given her fans what they really want to see... a nice full frontal hop or two. So kudos to her for being brave enough to finally show her sweater puppies, and a death curse upon the director Rob Schmidt for not shooting a better scene. Oh, and Eliza, I love you.

Speaking of love, let's talk about your love for me and EHOWA. Some people think that you can't write in to me without getting flamed or belittled. And as much as I'm flattered that you think that, it's honestly not true. I only flame and belittle someone if they deserve it; if they're insolent, if they're ignorant, or if they're a fucking leech. I fucking hate leeches. What's a leech? Someone who has visited the site for years, has never once contributed anything, and then when he or she finally writes in, does so only to either ask for something or break my balls. Example:

And to refresh your memory, I was FUCKING PISSED that morning. Is it ever wise to poke the angry dog with a stick? I think not. So I looked back through eight years worth of mail -- eight fucking years -- and found not a single email from this asshole before. And I checked for not only his email address, but his last name, too. Nothing. No see, you don't get to do that....

And with that, Mr. Joseph Sweeney is banned from vising EHOWA; his IP address placed on the server's DENY list. I don't mind feedback. I don't mind criticism. I don't mine having my balls busted. Just make sure that isn't the first time ever hear from you. Example:

Now, what's the difference between Joe (flamed) and Jim (not flamed)? Easy, Jim's written in about a dozen times prior. All the way back to December of 2003, when my Dodge Ram was having a few quirks with the transmission. So Jim gets a much warmer reception...

See, no problem. Jim is not a complainer. Jim is not a leech. Jim is a contributor. And therefore Jim's opinion counts. That's not to suggest I'm going to refrain from saying Jesus Fuckign Christ anymore, because we know I'm not. But I think you can see the difference.

And it's at this point as we head into 2009 in a week or so, that I'd like to open up the floor to you folks to make suggestions for EHOWA. Good, bad, ugly, lay it on me. What do you want to see more of, what do you want to see less of. And I will touch real quickly on my phonecam idea from earlier in November, where I solicited people to sent in camera phone pictures to be automatically posted to the site. Great idea, poor execution. It seems I had the "phone@ehowa" email address posted before and it's evidently been harvested into spambot lists, because as soon as I turned it back on, POOF I received over 3,000 spam emails. So that idea is still coming -- I enjoyed the motorcycle and locomotive pics -- I just need to get my shit together first. So again, site comments, suggestions and complaints -- lay em on me -- ernie at ehowa dot com. It's Chritmas, I'll be nice.

In closing, a note about this year's LBEH program. Well, okay, actually three words: Jesus Fucking Christ. Seriously. With the economy being as tough as it is, I was worried that we weren't going to cross the $25,000 mark. That was going to be a huge letdown for me. Especially since this year we decided to open up to more international tickets -- our first fifteen tickets were all from Okinawa/Japan and averaged $1,400 per ticket versus domestic tickets which average $400 -- meant we were going to have slim pickings this year. But you guys rose to the challenge. I had people on unemployment donating, I had people in disability donating, I had a woman who recently underwent a kidney transplant donate. Suffice to say I was both shocked and moved at home much the EHOWA readers came through in the end. Perehaps the fault lies with me, for ever having doubts to begin with. And so I can safely declare this year's LBEH campaign a complete success, in no small part thanks to you. But as a gentle reminder, we're still collecting donations right up to the New Year, so it's certainly not too late to throw in a few bucks. And with that I tip my hat in your honor, encourage you to pour yourself another glass of bourbon, and wish everyone a Merry Christmas.

Except Joe of course, he's a fuckign leech. And Johnny Damon. And Don Coscarelli. And Rob Schmidt. They can all choke on their eggnog for all I care.

ninety-five old school games you can play online. still no m.u.l.e.

a complete list of all GWB's x-mas pardons. so much for the war on drugs.

celebrate peace on earth by testing nuclear detonations in your neighborhood. 90 megatons is bad.

"i love nudity. i'm always nude. when i was a little girl my mother would always have to dress me because..."

Only Two More Days And Santa Is Getting Ready.

Good news, good news, good news! Roger, Paul and Mike all pointed me to the new site that hosts the Don't Shoot Your Eye Out game, so it looks like Christmas will be fun this year after all. Now if memory serves me correctly, a few people found magical spots (read, "bugs") that allowed them to score up into the millions. As entertaining as those scores may be, won't count this year, sorry. I know, this will make some of you angry, perhaps even enough to throw shoes at me but I want to keep this fair for everyone. And let me warn you, I've been working on my glutes, so don't get too mouthy.

Stop my sled, Ricky! Painful footage of one nasty snowmobile spill after another. These guys try a hillclimb competition, but get turned around and frequently rollover. Guys get dragged, run over and hit by snowmobiles over and over in this difficult to watch collection of accidents.

Don't sweat it bro, every donation large or small helped push us to about twice what I initially thought we were going to do. And for those of you lazt, inconsiderate bastards who haven't been paying attention, we just crossed the $50,000 donation mark in LBEH. We're trying to stretch it as far as we can, but still have some tickets to pay for. So if you haven't already, there's still time to make a donation.

dear neighbor, you are not invited to my party.

let's enjoy a round trip on the space shuttle endeavour.

why you're full of shit. what kind of shit? well, let's take a look.

benny hill is always funny, add a yakety sax soundtrack to any youtube video. - such as...

I'm A Little Late On This One, Eh?

Anyone checking our ERNIECAM over the weekend surely noticed these pictures -- 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 -- which were sent to me by my brother back in Rochester, NY. It seems they've received a little snow over the weekend. And the best part about that, aside from not being there in the first place, is the chance to go sledding again. C'mon admit it, everybody loves sledding and it's one of the things I honestly miss about having a real winter, especially with Christmas just a few days away. I think I commented last year that it's kind of hard to get into the Christmas spirit when it's sunny and eighty degree outside, but having my Christmas tree all lit up sure helps. Besides, let's be honest, I'd be an asshole for complaining, although it is pretty dry here recently, so that means no homemade hot-air balloons for me, dammit.

And the winner of Gravity Master is Eric who came back with a 441,209 to recapture his crown. And I had planned on making this weeks' game challenge a revisit to the Don't Shoot Your Eye out game from a Christmas Story, but it looks like the site isn't up this year. So fuck it, we're going to shoot Santa instead. Just don't do it within view of US troops.

I think I'm actually going to knock off a little early today and catch a matinee of The Wrestler. You might ask yourself why? Well, because (a) it's gotten surprisingly good reviews and (b) you get to see Marisa Tomei's tits.

why i don't link to sites that feature zango videos

part two of boston.com's 2008 in photographs -- part 3

how these fucks in an oversized rowboat can take a cargo ship, i'll never know.

traffic is nothing more than moving obsticles for ghost rider. the guy is fucking nuts.

this santa sure knows if you've been naughty or nice and he carries an m249-saw with him.

my discover card tried to pull this shit on me. to the tune of 23.99%. with perfect credit. it's cancelled.

Insert Your Favorite Weekend Before Christmas Joke Here.

let's get hit by a drunk driver.

ho! ho! ho! the ten sluttiest girls on maury povich.

it seems necessecity is indeed the mother of all inventions

the current leader in gravity master is now jasoomian with 415,125

ten celebrity potheads that might surprise you. stephen king, not so much.

a few of the many reasons christmas vaction is the awesomest holiday movie ever.

shoplifters bweare: this santa knows when you've been naughty and throws them blows!

audiallwheeldrive - collaroversweater - discardedsodacan - jetskiforsale - tshirtinsideout - unfoldedlaundry

i was expecting a street fair turkey leg. i was expecting hooters’ hot wings. what i got was old, chewy meat.

Barker You Shouldn't Read This.

Ahh, the holidays are upon us and with that comes the need to poke another notch in your belt, which seems to have miraculously shrank over the past few weeks. This year I first encountered this phenomenon during my last trip up to Boston just before Thanksgiving. A trip when all I did was more or less; eat, drink, and be merry. In fact it seemed to be contagious as it afflicted not only me, but my buddy Barker as well. And so we decided to do something about it. And we did what any red blooded American male would do; we bet a fishing charter on who could lose the most weight by January 15th. Well, I said January 1st, but he's a little bitch and wanted the extra two weeks. To keep things fair, because fatter people (him) can drop pound-for-pound faster than less fat people (me), we set the finish line at 10% of your current body mass. Then it was time for the weigh-in. Sigh. I climbed on the scale and was assaulted with the highest number I have ever weighed in my life; 189 lbs. When the fuck did that happen? Was it the $5 large pizzas right down the road? Was it the Five-Guys burgers? Was it the free chicken wings every Friday night during happy hour at the bowling alley? Well, whatever it was I'm sure it was the result of a lot of bad habits I've gradually picked up over the past few years. Anyway, He-Who-Was-Still-Heavier-Than-Me-And-Should-Be-Pooping-Off-An-Overpass climbed on the scale and racked up 223 lbs. And so the die was cast; I had to lose 19lbs, and he 22 lbs. We agreed that we would provide the other with absolutely no information on how we're each doing. Blindsiding is the only way.

So here we are 39 days and one new gym membership into the competition and -- really Barker if you're reading this, now's the time to quit -- and I've dropped 14.5lbs. So only 4.5 more to go to bingo status, but truth be told I'll probably keep going from there and get myself back down to the low 160's where I should be. I tell you this not to get the ladies all excited -- although I'm sure you are -- but because this morning I found myself doing what I always when when numbers are involved. There are approximately 3,500 calories in a pound of fat, thus I've burned off some 50,750 calories over the past five weeks. What does that break down to? Normally I'm not a calorie counting kind of guy, but when there's money on the line, things change. So let's look at some of my more common vices...

50,750 calories lost = 22.56 Hot'N'Ready pepperoni pizzas from Little Caesars = 93.98 Big Macs (just the sandwich, not the meal) = 26.46 gallons of Rocky Road ice cream = 162.66 Venti Carmel Macciatos from Starbucks = 50.20 double cheeseburgers from Five Guys Burgers and Fries* = 338.33 bottles of Samuel Adams Boston Lager = 161.61 double Jack Daniels and Cokes.

Stop and digest (hee hee) that for a minute. Almost two dozen large pizzas. A hundred Big Macs. Fourteen cases of beer. Fifty Cheeseburgers. And as far as the cheeseburgers go, let me explain: when I go to Five Guys* this is how I do it: mayo, relish, raw onions, lettuce, pickles, tomatoes, ketchup, mustard, jalapeno peppers, A-1 sauce, and hot sauce. Which per their nutrition guide (pdf) weighs in at a belt busting 1,011 calories. Add in some cajun fries.... Mmm-Mmmm! Mmmmmmm! Horrible for you, I know. But Jesus Fucking Christ do I love these burgers. I've said it before and I'll say it again; it's the best fucking cheeseburger you'll ever have in your entire life, bar none. I love having Five Guys in my mouth and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

And for those of you who found yesterday's angry black man link a little too abrasive, I'm sure you'll find these black guys much more likeable. Assuming of course you don't use the roads in Harlem, lest ye get an ATV up your ass.

Also the current leader in Gravity Master is Eric with 401,870, and a quick shout out to my brother, who texted me: "If a Christmas tree falls> and there is no one home to hear it, does it still make a noise." Yes it does Brian, it makes the noise: "FUCK YOU".

tv-intros, where all we care about is how the show starts.

how's your knowledge of christmas movies, okay? let's find out.

the simon sez santa. no he don't kick/fuck rudolph, i already tried.

an (ugly) ou sorority girl sets off a fire extinguisher because she wanted to "make it snow." hilarious

Boy, Double Action Sure Takes Some Getting Used To.

So as we're well into December and about a week away from Christmas, I always like to take a minute and relish in the Florida weather. The northeast just got hammered in an ice storm last week, my buddy's house was without power for almost five days, and down here wher I am it's supposed to reach 81 degrees today. It makes getting into the Christmas spirit a little harder than when I had to brush snow off my truck, but I tell you what, I don't miss this shit at all. Living up north, why anyone would be out in that weather in a vehicle that isn't four/all-wheel drive is beyond me. it shoudl almost be mandatory for living above of the Mason-Dixon line. That kind of weather is absolutely no fun to drive in. Unless of course you film it from your apartment building and set it to Benny Hill's Yakety Sax as a soundtrack. Then yes, it's very funny.

Okay, next game challenge. And pay attention for this one, because I want to see something specific when you submit your score for Gravity Master. After completing all 24 levels, you must (a) click SCORES and then (b) scroll down to show your level 24 scores, like this. It took me about wenty minutes to rack up those 288,857 points, so let's see what you can do. Next week's game challenge will be a rematch of an old holiday favorite.

No, that was my brilliant idea -- I forgot to code the link yesterday, so here it is. I know, I've got a another great idea, why don't I get a massive tattoo on my ass? How about no - even if you're blind drunk when contemplating it, it's never a good idea, unless like these fools, you hate your ass so much you want it covered up.

Videogum presents the best viral videos of 2008. And for Pete's sake, let the fucking shoe throwing guy go. Christ, he didn't harm anobody.

denis leary films, as reviews by denis leary.

well, okay then. you've made your view quite clear, mr angry black dude.

ladies you can all relax and rest easy, our penal system is working perfectly. not.

puppy-cam v2.0 - this time it's a pregnant english mastiff ready to give birth. (not yet though)

Well, I Feel Better Today.

I awoke from my morning slumber not by falling wrestlers or unbalanced Christmas trees, but to my dog hopping down from the bed and jumping into the shower. He does that when he's about to puke, and it sure as hell beats having him harf all over the carpet. Let him get it all out, then a half a cup of plain yogurt later, and he's aces again. Is he a great dog, or what?

Okay I posted a few things yesterday to reward you for sticking with me through these emotionally turbulent times and keep your juices flowing a little bit. We've got a lot of stuff to cover today, so let's get to it, shall we?

One, that's funny. Especially since Paul looks a little like Obama. Two, of yes, you certainly should push it. And you should have someone about fifty feet away with a camcorder trained on you when you decide to do it. And three, man that's fucking cool. Seriously, huge cool. Much cooler than these Christmas movies. But it does look like Curt hasn't been a stranger to Kelly's Roast beef during the off season, eh?

As soon as I read Bullseye's email, I immediately knew we were talking about the same guy. I was able to http://www.identifive.com/identify five distinguishing characteristics: About 55'ish, somewhat skinny but with a beer belly. Bald, wore glasses, and had an American flag tattooed on the inside of his forearms. I had a business card from him, but tore it up in disgust and was pretty sure I threw it away. But as I was doing some laundry yesterday guess what -- turn out no I didn't. So yep, that's him. And the only way he could have been more rude would be to smack me in the nuts while I'm doing a kegstand. But anyway, who am I to hold a grudge? I just hope he dies of a heart attack on Christmas morning. And I wouldn't necesesarily say I don't care for long guns, I just personally don't have a use for them. Not many rifle ranges around here, so you need some wide open property to shoot at. And then the fundamentals are all different from handgun shooting. They teach this girl things like relax, take your time. Push it up there real tight to your shoulder. Put your elbow up. Everything except what's really important, such as, "lean into it a little."

Mmmmm, Kentucky Fried Chicken. Mashed potatoes. Coleslaw. Mmmmm. I do loved me some KFC, although it seems every time I go I end up having this annoying family of 64 people sit in the booth behind me and of course the kids always kick. How the hell they get 64 people into a single vehicle is beyond me, but they do. But seriously, everybody go vote for #16 Alek K. (Lafayette, CO).

and this is why clint eastwood shall always remain the baddest motherfucker alive.

a close second being hugh laurie, ya limey bastard!

old and busted: elf yourself. the new hotness: santa yourself.

video shot from inside a contrainer ship on extraordinarily rough seas. watch the motherfucker flex.

Nah, It's Perfectly Balanced, Why Bother?

I started off this morning dreaming about Andre The Giant. Not kidding. Andre and Hulk Hogan were running outside of a building, much like the one in the final scene of Commando. Just as they hit the sidewalk, Andre grimaced and slowed suddenly, reaching around and grabbing at his lower back. In my dream, I remember thinking, "Wow this must be how Andre got his bad back, I'm watching it happen." Andre stumbled forward and reached one hand down to support himself on the hood of a cop car. Hulk Hogan came over to see if he was okay. Andre tried to stand up, and then began to fall backwards in slow motion, with a long drawn out slo-mo groan bursting from his lips, "Aaaaarrrrggggghhhh!"

I never saw Andre the Giant hit the ground, because at this exact moment I was awoken from my dream by a crashing sound from the living room. "What the fuck was that?!"I yelled none too politely, but I knew the answer before it came. Please let it be a drunk driver who had just crashed his car into the front of my house. Please let it be a plane that crashed into my back lanai. Just don't let it be what I think it is. "The Christmas tree just fell over."

Mother. Fucker.

You see, here's the deal. All through the Air Force and living in Massachusetts and New Hampshire and back to Massachusetts and then down here to Florida, I've always "gone home" for Christmas. Back to Rochester, NY. I've never actually celebrated Christmas in my own fucking house; I'm always the guy in from out of town for a week. Last year I decided enough was enough, I'm staying in my own house for Christmas this year and while my door is open to all who want to enter, I'm keeping my fat ass here. And so for my first Christmas, I made myself a promise of pulling out all the stops. And so I went out and bought The Tree. It was eleven feet tall, but it's down to ten and a half now after some trimming. And it was perfect; healthy, straight, full, symmetrical, no bare spots, smelled nice, the whole smash. It cost twice as much as the same tree up in New England, but hey that's the cost of living where the coconuts grow. Anyway, in the back of the pickup it goes and after a little struggling I manage to get The Tree up and balanced.

And when I say balanced, I mean fucking perfectly. This is one of those things I'm OCD on; I mean this motherfucker was dead God damned center and straight up and down as a fucking arrow. (Yes, I'm starting to get pissed off again). Right after I had it set up, I briefly considered using some fishing line to secure it, but after a few test shakes with no hint of a lean I decide, "Nah, it's perfectly balanced, why bother?" Yeah, we'll revisit those fateful words in a minute. Anyway, I get all the ornaments out of the attic. Bought a new tree skirt. Went out and bought 1,000 energy saving white lights (incandescent, I think the LEDs look like shit). I put it altogether and it looks FUCKING TITS. I mean perfect. Martha Stewart would swing by my house to drop off some mashed potatoes and say, "Goddamn!" And for the next six days I baby this tree. I always keep the two gallon water basin full right to the brim. Always mix in some of the tree food they gave me. I sang to the motherfucker as I was hanging the fucking ornaments. I even let it watch television past 9pm. Yes, this tree had it fucking made.

So I don't know if I subconsciously heard the tree slowly falling over and it manifested itself in my dream as Andre the Giant, or what the fuck. All I know is I went from pleasantly sleeping to gorilla rip shit angry in 0.000374 seconds. I hope the fuck out of bed and make my way into the living room before flipping the lights on. I had kind of hoped for a fucking miracle like no it leaned towards the wall and things weren't that bad, but no such luck. No this motherfucker was flat on the floor, lights all fucked up and hanging off, ornaments scattered and broken. Oh, and that two gallon reservoir? Yeah I topped that off last night like a good little boy. So of course all the pine needles that fell off the tree in the crash are floating around in the small lake in the middle of my living room floor.

I repeat: Mother. Fucker.

So I go put some fucking shoes on because there are shards of glass all over the place and try to lift this motherfucker up. And the plastic stand slides on the tile floor, so now I'm just sliding it around the fucking place like a dog trying to lick a plate clean. I didn't think it was possible to get angrier than when I first saw the tree on the floor, but I was wrong. Now I'm fucking ballistic. And in my ballisticness (yeah that's a new word) I decide that I'm going to stand this motherfucker up or die trying. So I reach down under it for that extra special nice grip, right down to the soggy branches that have been soaking in spilled water for the past five minutes and I hoist this motherfucker for all I'm worth. Up it goes a little, so I have to step forward to get leverage. CRUNCH. I step on an ornament and it crushes beneath my sneaker. Fuck. But I'm going to get this tree up, God dammit. Hoist some more and step into it... CRUNCH. Another fucking ornament. You have got to be fucking kidding me. So yes, I had to step-crunch-step-crunch this fucking tree all the way back up into the corner, leaving a wake of footprint shaped glass bulbs smashed into the carpet behind me. This is fucking awesome.

So I get the fucking tree back up standing and leaned into the corner where it's safe from falling over again. It's rotated a bit so the 'front' is facing to my left, but that's okay at least it's not falling. Now I get to survey the damage, and again, can one get angrier than sliding a fallen wet Christmas tree around the floor? Yes, yes they can! Carefully placed strings of lights are now hanging and drooping all over the place like Tara Reid's stomach. And how the fuck strings of lights can get so fucked up from simply falling over, is beyond me. A few candy canes managed to hang on but most lie at my feet in ruins. I have to chase Ike away from one and yell so loudly that he doesn't come out of the bedroom for an hour. Which is just as well truth be told, because there were tiny shards of broken glass fucking EVERYWHERE. Again, I marvel at how everything can get so fucked up from just tipping over. The whole fucking thing was trashed. Oh by the way, my hands, my shirt and my pajama pants are now covered in pine tree sap. This is fucking awesome!

It's at this point that I realize that if I get any angrier, I'm going to stroke out so I go into my office and post that little blurb you read earlier. I really thought doing so would calm me a down a little but alas I was wrong. When I got back into the living room I started to kick the shit out of stuff, sending four of five empty ornament boxes flying across the room. I'm not sure how that's going to play out when I have to take the ornaments off the tree and store them for next year, but I'll let Future Ernie worry about that one.

It takes half an hour to get all the water, pine needles, broken glass, and little metal hooks relatively cleaned up. Now I'm slowly starting to calm down and can focus my attention on the tree. My poor tree. It's facing away from me like a woman trying to hide her black eye. I bear hug it and spin it so the 'front' is now facing outwards again. I slowly and carefully let go and to my surprise it seems content to stay leaning into the corner. I step back and take a better look at it. In addition to all the lights being fucked up, a lot of the branches are bent or broken too. I'm fucking pissed. My perfect tree is buttfucked. I'm going to have to start from scratch and tear all the lights and remaining ornaments off and start over. I turn to my left and take two steps towards the stepladder and just as my hand reached the bottom rung, I hear a familiar CRASH! You know, like the sound Andre the Giant makes when he falls backwards after hurting his back. That's right, the motherfucking tree fell over -- AGAIN. Suffice to say that with the assistance of more expletive than you have ever heard in your life, I got the fucking thing standing back up in the corner again. Plus another half an hour spent cleaning up. Again. This is fucking awesome!

Now it's tree stand time. I step back a few paces to get a general idea of which way the tree of leaning, so I know which screws to tighten. Satisfied with what I've got to do, I lay down on the floor -- still quite damp and with more than the occasional pine needle I might add -- and slide under the tree to take a closer look at the tree stand that has apparently failed me. I reach to turn the screws and am quite shocked to find they're ALL LOOSE. I am instantly faced with two possibilities. One, fucking terrorists have broken into my house and loosened my Christmas tree stand screws, or following the basic laws of biology the tree's trunk is shrinking as it dries out. And I'm keeping the water reservoir full of course, but there's no way that's going to keep a tree as hydrated as a healthy root system would. So yes, as I'm laying down on my very wet floor, hands and shirt sticky with tree sap, with wet branches dripping water on my fucking head, I discover this is all my fucking fault. Awesome.

Blah-blah-blah, I get the tree centered and screwed down again. And this time I secure the motherfucker to the corner with some 20lb test fishing line. Dig out the fucking 12' stepladder again, and spend the next two hours removing all the fucking lights I had so painstakingly put on just two days before. Coax a few bent branches back into place with more fishing line and get all the fucking lights put back on. Salvage whatever ornaments I can and get those back up and the tree looks like it might have a shred of holiday spirit left in there after all. I'm going out now to buy new ornaments. Lesson learned: as you're topping off that water check those screws too, because the fucking terrorists are attacking our Christmas trees.

well, it's not everything, but here's something.

please don't hit me, i'm not 100% sure about my coverage.

obligatory tara reid link due to my earlier reference.

because you know some sock and awe was coming - here's another - and another

so how many calories did you suck down at the bar last night, you fat bastard.

bigenoughtomarry - daytonatie - durrwhatdyasay - rockoutbugs

understanding the different alignments in advanced dungeons and dragons.

drunk dancing guide: simple instructions for dancing under the influence

a chevy destroys a ford that's pulling a stuck landrover. stupid landrover.

the rest will be tomorrow, which i promise will be a super awesomely cool update.

Probably No Update Today?

Dear All. It is 6:15 am. As I type this, I am gritting my teeth, seething, and it's taking everything I have not to slam my fist on my keyboard and punch my monitor. I was awoken this morning to the sound of my Christmas tree falling over. I have just spent the last 30 minutes vaccuming up pine needles and glass shards from the broken ornaments. I am probablier angrier now than I can ever remember being. I had hoped that sitting and typing for a few minutes would help calm me down, but it's not working. I am going to spend my motherfucking day fixing my motherfucking Christmas tree. If I have time later, I will post. If not, fuck you.

GWB Sure Has Good Reflexes, Eh?

So I'm sure everyone has seen the GWB shoe-ducking video by now, and listen; if you try to tell me you didn't get a little Three Stooges era chuckle out of it, you're a lying motherfucker. Especially when GWB came back up after the first shoe with this "What the fuck was that?!" look on his face. There are already parodies out comparing him to Neo from The Matrix when he dodges bullets. But am I the only person who wondered, just where thew fuck was the Secret Service in all this? Sure, they tackled the guy -- after he threw the second shoe. Sure one of the agents came up to GWB -- after the guy had been wrestled to the ground. Uhhh, aren't they supposed to react kinda quicker than that? Like all we're-ninjas-with-guns kinda fast? Not a good showing for GWB or his protective detail, no matter how you look at it.

But moving on to less podiatric interests, I did make it to the gun show this weekend and IT SUCKED COCK. It was horrible. It was nothing but one large convention center filled to the brim with sorrow and disappointment. Ruger LCPs which I can order online for $330, were being sold for $449. No shit. The Kahr PM9, which I can drive down to the local Bass & Pro Shop and buy for $699, were being sold for $829. No fucking shit. It was like a Bizarro World where instead of everything being less expensive, everything was marked up 20% and people were fucking buying it. A box of fucking bullets that I can buy for $21.95 was marked $31. I literally couldn't believe it. And after walking around this place in stunned silence for the better part of an hour, I finally found a guy who was reasonably priced. He has Bersa .380 CC's for $325 -- which was still too high, but lower than the other lunatics were selling them for. In the end, I decided that if I was going to pay full retail money for a gun, I'd rather spend the money at a local merchant and not support some guy from the other side of the state. So that Saturday afternoon, I left the gun show very, very pissy and with all of my money still in my pocket.

I awoke Sunday morning to the realization that if I just buy this fucking Bersa, my quest is done and over with. No more searching online, no more reading reviews, no more virtual comparisons by toggling between two web pages. Just done. So back to the gun show I went, forking over another $8 to get inside, and march up to the guy's stand. This Bald Headed Fuck of about 55 or so comes over. I'm all business, literally cash in hand and pointing to the Bersa, "What's the cash price on this gun?" The guy furrows his brow for a second and says, "$300 plus tax." Eh, it's not a great price, but it's not horrible either; besides I'm already into this fucking thing for $16 plus parking. "I can live with that," I say and motion to the guy that I'll take it. He starts looking through his bins for one in a box and can't find one, which means I have to take the floor model. Meh, the slide and trigger are zip-locked down so aside from having a bunch of fingerprints on it, that's no big deal.

As he's putting the display model's box together, he sets the Bersa down on a plexiglas case where he keeps all his sub-compact guns, including a Kel-Tec P3AT. This was another gun I was considering, but couldn't find any at the show and I didn't give it much thought until now. I figured now is as good a time as any for a closer look. "Is that a P3AT?" I inquire. BHF leans down and with an impatient and tired voice, reads the side of the gun, "Kel-Tec P3AT, yes sir, that's what it says." Now here I'd like to note two things. First, passive aggressive shit doesn't bother me. Some people take great offense at back handed comments like this, that but not me. If anything, I almost feel a weird sense of power over the person, because I know the slightest actions on my part are getting them all bent out of shape. I feed on that. And two, hey if I looked a little close at the gun, I'd have read 'P3AT' and not had to ask a question when the answer was right in front of my face. So I'll give him that one.

"May I see the Kel Tec, please?" He moves the Bersa aside, opens the plexiglas display case, and retrieved the Kel-Tec which has a green olive drab grip. Not my first choice of colors, but let's be honest handguns aren't supposed to be fashion statements. The P3AT is very light in my hands, almost a little too light maybe? I work the slide a couple of times, test out the trigger pull, work the magazine release a few times. Being somewhat of a n00b at this, I give the BHF a little opportunity to work the salesman angle and ask him, "Which of these two do you prefer?" I'm expecting him to point out the highs of one of the two models, probably the one he's got he higher profit margin on. BHF's response surprised me almost as much as the apathy in which he said it, "They're two different guns sir." That's it. That's his advice. Two different guns?! Why you don't say! Thanks for the fucking news flash, Mr. Cronkite! I will admit, I was a little stunned at that one.

And I don't know about you, but my hands aren't postage scales, so while reading "17.8oz" and "7.2oz" is nice, I'd kind of like to hold each in my hand to do a little weigh-off. "May I hold the Bersa?" "Didn't you just see the Bersa, Sir?" Okay. Dude. I'm patient as can be, but maybe I'm not so impervious to this passive aggressive stuff as I had first thought. So I fired back a little bit, "Actually, no. I didn't hold the Bersa, I just point to it. So, can I hold the Bersa, please." He hands me the Bersa with a sigh, and I do a little scales of justice thing to see just how much heavier one is over the other. The Bersa is, but not by much, so I decided two things. One, I'm going to get that one and two I'm going to bust his balls a little bit first. I rephrase my earlier question and ask, "So which of these two guns do you like?" while still looking down at the two guns in my hand. Another long sigh. "They're two different guns sir, I can't tell you which one you like." Jesus, how much shit am I going to have to eat from this asshole? Listen you're not doing me any fucking favors here pal, and I'm not asking for a free handout. And I have to admit that to my own surprise I found myself handing the Kel-Tec back to him and telling him I'll take the Bersa. Jesus, when is this going to be over?

BHF takes the guns back, and writes, "$300 + TAX" on a small yellow Post-It, sticks it to the Bersa and places both on a table where two women are guiding customers through all the necessary paperwork. "You have to sit down and fill out one of these yellow forms, Sir." he says to me. I heard him but apparently I didn't react quickly enough because he repeated himself in a little louder voice, "You have to sit down and fill out one of these yellow forms, Sir." Like a sheep, I did. At this point I'm kind of on auto-pilot and just want to get the purchase done and over with. I sat down and put my CCW permit and drivers license on the table. One of the women handed me a clipboard with a yellow form snapped tightly in its jaws. I don't know what the form was, because even though I was looking at it, I wasn't focused. The drone of noise from the gun show going on around me faded off into the silence. And I had an epiphany; I wasn't going to buy a gun from an asshole. And as if someone snapped their fingers to bring me out of a trance, I suddenly shook myself awake and set the clipboard back down on the counter. What the hell was I doing? I wasn't about to buy a gun, I was about to sell my soul. "Fuck this," I mumbled to the surprise of the BHF and the woman sitting across the table from me. I reached over, scooped up my CCW and license, and walked away leaving the Bersa sitting there on the table.

I left the same gun show for the second time in two days, only this time I wasn't empty handed. I learned two things about myself. One, I learned I wasn't going to buy a gun from an asshole. And two, I was very unnerved at how close I had almost come to allowing myself to be bullied. I mean I caught myself at the end, sure, but it never should have gotten that far. I should have told the BHF to go piss up a rope long before I found myself staring at an empty clipboard. It's like I spaced out or something. I don't know if it was a comfort level thing because I'm still the n00b or what. But I do know that won't happen again.

Anyway, on the way home I stopped at Fowler Firearms in Fort Myers, which is the indoor range I shoot at. I talked with Josh who is the instructor that gave my me CCW class two years ago and to his credit he remembered both me and what type of gun I have, even though I haven't been there in six months. After explaining what I was looking for and what models I was looking at, he showed me a Kel-Tec PF-9. It's made here in Florida and is the lightest and flattest 9mm currently on the market. It felt good in my hand, heavier than the P3AT but MUCH lighter than my G30. Craftsmanship is good -- not great like a Glock or Sig Sauer-- but it's no Saturday Night special, either. Their price was $320, which is about $40-$50 higher than I can find one for on the internet but you know what; that's okay. After the gun show experience I had just had, followed by the fact that Josh not only remembered me but took the time to answer my questions -- as any salesman should, really -- was good enough for me. Plus hell, when you buy a gun from Fowler they give you six hours of range time, which is something I would have otherwise had to pay for anyway. So eh, it all works out in the end. A box of JHP's and an IWB holster later, and I've got a gun I can conceal in shorts and a t-shirt, at half the cost of a PM9. I might have to shoot you twice to do it but I can safely say, mission accomplished. And no, I didn't tell Josh who I voted for.

ford fiesta vs corvette. dawn of the dead style.

i bet you commonly misconceive these common misconceptions.

i fucking hate the fucking fact that fucking hbo fucking called fucking deadwood.

so you're all prepared when that chemical attack happens - how to make your own gas mask.

Insert Your Favorite Gun Show Weekend Here.

remember this guy? - looks like speeding isn't his only vice

the dog ate my penis and 6 other terrifying vengeful castrations.

best of craigslist - to the guy I slapped across the face in the bar... - w4m

we all know that story of rudolph and frosty, but do you know the story of the christmas pickle?

alotofhorsepower - howdidhegetinthere - lunaticatheists - meandyourbitch - pauleyperrette - stolenipresume

One Thing Leads To Another.

Woooooooooooooooooooooooow! All this shit happened in my (former) back yard!

We all know I love dogs and hate cats. As any grown man should, really. Which is why this fat whore really is never going to get laid, which is why dogs rule, which is why cats suck, which is why this guy will get stabbed in prison.

You sir, have got to be fucking kidding me. First off, anyone can take a bad photo and a single bad picture does not a wildebeast make. Secondly, Anne Hathaway is one of the three women whom I consider to be, "classicly beautiful." The other two are Eliza Dushku and Bridget Moynahan -- but unfortunately Moynahan has been ruined by that King of All Assholes, Tom Brady. In fact, the only time I've ever seen Anne look anything less than gorgeous is when she gets a little crazy with the makeup. Add to the mix that Anne Hathaway has no problem showing off her spectatcular pair of tits, both off screen and on screen, and she's pretty much the perfect woman. Dude, if I haven't inspired you don't love Anne Hathaway the same way I do, then the terrorists have already won.

van halen's concert rider from the 80's. because herring in sour cream is just nasty.

dr. richard walker may be a bit ghetto and unorthodox, but he gets results. he's the ghetto gyno!

the term "celebrity trainwreck" is used far too often, and when it is, it's usually in reference to women.

nirsoft web site provides a unique collection of small and useful freeware utilities. like password recovery.

I'm Funny How, I Mean Funny Like I'm A Clown, I Amuse You? I Make You Laugh, I'm Here To Fuckin' Amuse You?

Just because I found it funny, here's this. And just because I found this cool, here's this. And while Robin Williams' stand up on Obama isn't all that funny, I think his GWB material was spot on and I will admit, I'm rather looking forward to January 20th.

As for my next piece, fuck, I dunno what I wanna do. Both the Bersa and the KM9 are still in the chase but now I'm also considering the Glock 36, which is a lighter and thinner version of the G30 I have now. It'll also let me stick to one ammo type. Others have suggested the G26, which is even smaller yet and fires the 9mm, but if I'm going to do that, why not get the G33 which is chambered for .357 SIG and has a little more ass. Fuck, I dunno. I do want to thank everyone for their feedback though, even the folks who suggested Springfield XD's -- which are the exact same dimensions and weight of my G30 -- ha! So I dunno, I guess we'll have to wait until this weekend and see what pops up at me at the gun show. I will however give props to Cody who came up with the line of the week and made me LOLz ...

Say what you want, that's funny. Funny like a clown. But then again, I find weird shit funny sometimes, like the Purple Man videos for example. I dunno why, they just always make me laugh. I dunno if it's the delivery, or his facial expressions, or the fact that he never has a line of dialog. But I dunno, I just laugh.

Awwww, angels falling from the sky, how cute! And speaking of falling -- falling from grace anyway -- today marks the conclusion of Joe's Last Stand and I'm afraid little Bunny has been bested. First by Phil with 32,250 and then by Bigwa with 32,581. And while you two might think you're livin large, I have to bring you guys back down to Earth, as you've both had your asses handed to you by Daniel with 49,601.

April Scott likes to lay out by the pool and spend time with her poodle, Jewels. Good to know. And some more inside track information on some pretty hot drivers, none of which are on 24" rims and rollin up to McDonald's Dollay Menu, sorry.

just in time for christmas parties - the almanac of drinking games.

s&p500 annual returns by year -- 2008 doesn't seem to be stacking up very well.

test your knowledge of georgraphy against others live via the web - click 'visit' and game on.

Speaking Of Guns.

Back when I was going for my CCW permit I read a lot of books on gun laws and gun safety and gun use. And in one of those books -- I can't remember if it was -- detailed an experiment conducted by child behaviorists. They set up a mock waiting room complete with a few desks, chairs, tables, bookcases, and a handful of 'keep the kid busy' toys. Tucked away inside the desk was an unloaded handgun. Children who had never seen or touched a real firearm were then set loose in the mock waiting room, while the parents/behaviorists observed from behind a one way mirror. As expected, after a few minutes of boredom the children began exploring and inevitably found the handgun, which was the premise of the experiment. Without fail the results were always the same; instead of shying away from this big heavy hunk of black metal, the kids presumed this was just another toy and much to the parents' horror, began chasing each other around the room with it. Lesson learned: kids explore what they don't understand.

I only bring this up because we had an accidental -- read "negligent" -- discharge here in Cape Coral this week, resulting in the death of a fourteen year old boy. The Cliff Notes of the article read like this: twelve year old boy suspended from school and is punished with yardwork. Fourteen year old friend skips school to help twelve year old with yardwork. During a break, twelve year old shows one of his father's handguns to fourteen year old friend. And by "showing," I mean, "blows his brains out with a .38 revolver at close range." Twelve year old calls 911 and reports two masked intruders broke into the house and shot the fourteen year old. Cops arrive, smell bullshit, and after investigating, find out what really happened. The twelve year old's father is charged with culpable negligence for leaving unsecured firearms where they could be accessed by a minor. There's more to it than that, of course, but suffice to say it's a pretty fucked up situation. Allowing for the fact that both boys clearly must have known the handguns were real and not toys, how two young adults can go from, "hey hand me that rake," to "hey y'all watch this," is a little beyond me.

Apparently this household had been burglarized by a home invasion a few years ago; where two armed men broke in and at gunpoint, forced Mommy to open a safe. So I can certainly understand why Daddy would want to keep loaded handguns around. Stir in two minors in the household -- the twelve year old and his seventeen year old brother -- and you get into a hazy gray area in regards to what is safe and what is not. In an ideal world, dad would have taken both sons to the gun range and showed them how to safely load, fire, AND UNLOAD said handguns. Maybe he did, and maybe he didn't, but the law doesn't differentiate between leaving your guns accessible by responsible minors versus irresponsible minors. Add to that the .38 was stored in the seventeen year old's room -- in a closet -- behind a speaker -- and things get really, really hazy. Either way Daddy is going to PMITA prison. Will they charge the twelve year old? The investigation is ongoing, will be forwarded the Florida State Attorney General for further review, blah-blah-blah. Either way the kid is going to be fucked up. Oh and let's not forget a scant ten miles from my house, there's a wall painted fourteen year old brain matter gray.

What's the right solution to this problem? Hell if I know, that's why I'm fancy and footloose and don't have any kids. But I do lock up my gun before hosting a party where I know there's going to be lots of drinking. People are stupid, man.

She couldn't get a date for the prom? Kill me. Just thinking about sitting down and getting shitty with Anne Hathaway gived me a wonder boner.

Hey did nobody get my Great Santini reference yesterday? Old school movie. Robert Duvall played a Marine Corps pilot who was terrific in the cockpit but a complete asshole at home. Anyway, the pivotal point of the movie is when his F-4 experiences a mechanical failure and rather than eject over a populated neighborhood, the Great Santini flies the dying plane out into the Pacific ocean to ensure no civilian casualties, but at the cost of his own life. Kind of sort of the opposite of what the F-18 pilot did earlier this week. I tell you what though, this is one stand up motherfucker and I have to admit, he's a better man than me.

i'm sorry, your mom sniffed your what?

my real age is 24 and i shoudl live to be 83 years old.

meet pippy the amazing jumping cat. little fucker sure can fly.

i bet you woke up this morning wondering if your mayonnaise is expired. wonder no more.

cool pics of the f-18 crash site in san diego. cool assuming you weren't in the house, of course.

What Ever Happened To The Great Santini?

I'll be going to the Ft Myers Gun Show this weekend in the hopes of picking up another gun. I love my Glock 30, I really do, but sometimes trying to carry it concealed is like trying to stuff a loaf of bread down my pants. Being a double stacked .45, it's over 1 1/4" inches wide and weighs about two pounds. That may not sound like much but it's like carrying $40 worth of quarters in your hip pocket. It's actually pretty easy to do when I'm wearing jeans and an untucked button down shirt, but in the Florida sun, that's not always an option. Back in Rochester where it's 23 degree, sure. Back in Boston where it hit 12 degrees last night, no problem. But down here where it hits 85 degrees in mid December, shorts and tshirts tend to be the norm and more often than not that means I have to leave the .45 at home or in the car. So I've been kicking around the idea of picking up a small sub-compact to bridge the gap, so to speak. I realize this will require me stepping down to a smaller caliber round, but I suppose a .380 or 9mm will put someone on their ass faster than my shrill scream will. On the lighter side of things are the Kel-Tec P3AT which is quite small but apparently known for having reliability issues, while the Ruger LCP is another solid choice, assuming you don't mind your gun accidently discharging should you drop it (factory recall in progress). My father has a Walther PPK/S that I really like, but I'll be fuck all if that damned thing isn't almost as heavy as my Glock. So (I think) I've narrowed my choices down either a Bersa or a Kahr.

The Bersa Thunder .380 Concealed Carry I haven't actually held in my hand yet, at least not in the CC form. That's one of the things I want to do at the gun show this weekend. The regular two-tone model I've shot at the range has always gone 'bang' when I pulled the trigger and was quite accurate. It's slimmer and lighter than my Glock, making it easier to conceal, and truth be told the thought of having an external safety makes me a little more comfortable; kind of like swimming in a shark cage. Everywhere I look online, no one has anything other than great things to say about the Bersa, other than the .380 round is the bare minimum for self defense. I should be able to pick up a Bersa for, or just under $300.

The Kahr PM9 on the other hand, looks like someone took my Glock and threw it in the dryer for 30 minutes; yielding a smaller version that's considerably lighter yet retains the same feel. Same slide, same magazine release, same sight picture, and same notably absent external safety. Both the Kahr and Glock are true point and click weapons so I guess I can just continue doing what I do now, which is to carry the gun uncocked, chambering a round as I bring it up. The Kahr has the advantage of firing the slightly more powerful 9mm round -- I just threw up in my mouth a little bit -- but the disadvantage of running around $550-600. That price tag might be tough to swing on today's budget.

Anyone have any suggestions?

Oh, and Joe's Last Stand -- Bunny upped her ante to 30,620 so if nobody outclasses her by tomorrow, I'll call it.

that hepatitis-c is really kicking the shit out of on pam anderson

you must promise me -- PROMISE ME -- you'll watch this video to the end.

some of the most polluted schools in america. i went to john marshall in rochester! yay!

confessions of a female professor - things i'd like to tell students that would probably get me fired.

I've Been Waiting All Weekend For You.

After prowling the world's oceans for 27 years playing cat and mouse with NATO, U-475, the "Black Widow" has come in from the cold! Foxtrot B-39 was built in 1967, and used specifically for training foreign submariners - Libyan, Cuban and Indian. She was in active service with the Russian Baltic Fleet until April 1, 1994, having spent 27 years in active service.The vessel arrived in London from the naval base in Riga, Latvia, in July 1994 under the command of its Captain Vitalij Burda who bid official farewell to his second home for the last 23 years.

Kicking the most sheep ass is Bunny with 28,853. She is a domestic engineer, by the way. I should note that a guy named Sam sent in a higher score, but since Sam couldn't follow some simple fucking instructions, he doesn't count. What were my simple fucking instructions? "NOTE: when you're done, you have to click the NEXT button to get the option to enter your score -- it's THIS screen that I'll be accepting for scores." Did Sam do that? Noooo. And so it's back to level one for you, mister.

Dude, I'm not even going to ask why you were visiting a site called "blackbottom.com" to begin with, TJ. That sounds gay. Excruciatingly gay, in fact. While it is excruciatingly gay to dress up as Super Mario, I will admit that driving around the city in a go-kart, weaving in and out of traffic and throwing banana peels, sure would be a lot of fun. Not as much fun as watching Triumph at Comic-Con where he makes fun of two cellar dwelling losers dressed up as Mario and Luigi, but close.

You remember Ripsaw, don’t you? The unmanned, remote control tank that can go from 0-60 in 3.5 seconds and reach 80 mph while driving over piles of rubble and lesser UGVs? Well, guess what. They're supposed to add a big fucking gun on it.

so, just how dangerous a driver are you, andretti or ms daisy?

just a regular old video of a forklift unloading a truck. wait for it... wait for it...

in north korea, the punishment for nto reading EHOWA each morning, is death.

my bro wonders what is spoken in italian during the godfather's restaurant scene. wonder no more.

Remember Pearl Harbor.

Insert Your Favorite Weekend Joke Here.

HI ERNIE! At this time of year, there is a motorcycle & scooter exhibition at the National Exhibition Center in Birmingham, England. Knowing your interest for things two-wheeled, I thought you might appreciate a look at some of the photos I took when I was there with a friend recently. There are some awesome bikes and of course, some young ladies in tight lycra, in no particular order. Carry on the good work. SLIM in West Sussex, England. [5 PAGES OF PHOTOS]

I got this link from a link from a link from your page. it is the worst I have seen. Worse than the two cup chicks. I think this might be to bad for your web page. I almost puked watching it. Be warned. Thanks for all the good work this year! Tim.

for sale ­one (1) wife, slightly used, 1964 model

current leader in joe's last stand is nate with 25,681.

twelve tips for people who get mugged. i prefer 'carry a .45 and don't worry.'

hahaa, this is awesome. what if 'the other party' wins. a little late, but fucking hilarious.

elizasittingpretty - evilspidergirl - metalonly - newjerseygirls2 - parkbenchparadise - penisham

celebrities buying toilet paper. jessica biel can save her money, i'd gladly lick her asshole clean for free.

Ah My Beloved EHOWA, Forever A Fixer Upper.

So I've spent a little time jazzing up the website lately with the most recent target of my attention being the pictures section. I hope you like what you see. Gone are the text file names, replaced by the standard 140x70 thumbnails that I used in the features section. The latter ones I hand crop myself, so they're always heightxwidth proportionate. The ones in the pictures section are created via a script so in the instance of a tall photo, the thumbnail image gets a little skewed. And that's the way it's going to be, because I'm sure as fuck not going to crop 5,197 photos by hand -- at 30 seconds each it's take me well over 43 hours. Fuuuuuuuck that. The tasteless section is next. And in case you're wondering, this is where that 1024x768 thing is going to start working against you.

A little bit of neat motorcycle trivia. Without a windshield, it is impossible to whistle beyond 43 miles an hour. Just thought you should know that. Also the other day I was over the bridge into Ft Myers and the local Harley Davidson dealer was putting on some sort of a motorcycle show. Various venders had set up tends in the parking lot, one of which was Freedom Powersports -- those are the fuckers who tried to screw me on that piece of shit Chinese scooter. So seeing Freedom's trailer set up, I reached out and flipped them the bird as I rode on by. And the instant I did so, I realized I had just flipped off the entire Harley dealership while riding by on a Japanese (Yamaha) motorcycle. Huh. I figured I had about thirty seconds to live -- just enough to watch Office Space performed by bunnies -- but I must have lucked out because no scraggly bearded bikers covered in tattoos came to beat my ass at the next stop light. I did keep my eyes glued to my side view mirrors, though. Whew.

whaddya think -- real or dubbed in?

the stories behind hollywood studio logos.

101 movie one-liners that everyone should know.

everybody's got aids! aids! aids! aids! aids! ai-ai-aid-aids!

elisha cutbert? yeah, i guess it'd take sean avery's sloppy seconds.

sixty '404 not found' error messages that are almost -- but not quite -- as cool as mine.

If Santa Answered His Mail Honestly.

Deer Santa, I wud like a kool toy space ranjur fer Xmas. I'v ben a gud boy all yeer. Yer Friend, Billy

Dear Billy, Nice spelling. You're on your way to a career in lawncare. How about I send you a book so you can learn to read and spell? I'm giving your older brother the space ranger. At least HE can spell, you little retard. Santa

Dear Santa, I have been a good girl all year, and the only thing I ask for is peace and joy in the world for everybody! Love, Sarah

Dear Sarah, Your parents smoked pot when they had you, didn't they? God damned hippies. You get a toy gun. Santa

Dear Santa, I left milk and cookies for you under the tree, and I left carrots for your reindeer outside the back door. Love, Susan

Dear Susan, Milk gives me the shits and carrots make the deer fart in my face when riding in the sleigh. You want to do me a real favor? Leave me a bottle of eighteen year old scotch and a seventeen year old girl. Santa

Dear Santa, I don't know if you can do this, but for Christmas, I'd like for my mommy and daddy to get back together. Please see what you can do. Love, Teddy

Dear Teddy, Look, your dad's banging the babysitter like a screen door in a hurricane. Do you think he's gonna give up that piece of tight little Latino ass, just to come back to your frigid alcoholic mother? It's time to give up that dream, kid. Let me send you some Legos instead. Santa

Dear Santa, I want a new bike, a Playstation 2, a train, some G.I. Joes, a dog, a drum kit, a pony and a tuba. Love, Francis

Dear Francis, Who names their kid "Francis" nowadays? I bet you're a little gay homo. I'll set you up with a Barbie, you fag. Santa

Dear Santa, What do you do the other 364 days of the year? Are you busy making toys? Your friend, Thomas

Dear Thomas, All the toys are made in China. I have a condo in Vegas where I spend most of my time making low-budget porno films. But when I'm not defiling teenage runaways on film, I unwind by drinking myself silly, squeezing the asses of cocktail waitresses while losing money at the craps table, and doing enough pure Columbian blow to kill a rhinoceros. Hey, you wanted to know. Santa

Dear Santa, Do you see us when we're sleeping, do you really know when we're awake, like in the song? Love, Jessica

Dear Jessica, Are you really that gullible? Good luck in whatever you do and let me know if you're ever in Vegas. But know that I'm skipping your house this year. Santa

Dear Santa, I really want a puppy this year. Please, please, please, PLEASE, PLEASE could I have one? Love, Timmy

Dear Timmy, That whiney begging shit may work with your folks, but that crap doesn't work with me. Man up, you little bitch. You're getting a sweater, again. Santa

Dearest Santa, We don't have a chimney in our house. How do you get into our home? Love, Marky

Dear Mark, First stop callling yourself "Marky", that's why you're getting your ass whipped at school. Second, you don't live in a house, you live in a low-rent apartment complex because that's all your crack-whore of a mother can afford. Third, I get inside your pad just like the boogeyman does, through your bedroom window. Sweet dreams, Santa

Here's an awesome social experiment. Explore the popularity of search queries in U.S. states. Huh? As an example, let's check the statistics on searches for "mittens" -- Vermont (a very cold state) constitutes 100% of the maximum searches, while Florida is only 12%. Catch on now? Good. But 'mittens' is too innocent, so I decided to check some more flavorful terms and was kind of surprised at what I found: Ernie (Kentucky), EHOWA (Too Busy), Big Tits (Texas), Sex (Michigan), Testicles (Tennessee), Anal (California), Vagina (Pennsylvania), Penis (Pennsylvania), Breast (Georgia), Breast Cancer (Pennsylvania), Gangbang (West Virginia), Nigger (West Virginia ...hmmm...), Honky|Honkey (No Data), Beaner (No Data), Spic (New York) Fatass (Louisiana), Gun Rights (Montana), Suicide (New York), Incest (Arkansas), Homeless (No Data), Stupid (Utah - check out the 'related metric' haha), Palin (Alaska), MILF (South Dakota), Teen Pregnancy (Iowa), Gay Rights (Maine), Crank (South Carolina), Horny (South Dakota), Pedophile (New Mexico), Illegal Alien (Arizona), Euthanasia (Iowa), Hemorrhoid (Too Busy). Anyway, I'm sure you can think of more.

The next game challenge: Joes's Farm Last Stand. It's kind of like the zombie game Last Stand, only against sheep. No ordinary sheep mind you, but over sized, armored, mean sheep. Thank heavens for upgradable guns and sheep-piercing ammunition. Trust me when I say the RAK-47 is your friend, and the really big fucking sheep sure can eat fast. I managed to rack up 17,108 points before the fuckers ate all my radishes. NOTE: when you're done, you have to click the NEXT button to get the option to enter your score -- it's THIS screen that I'll be accepting for scores. If you don't listen to what I tell say, you know what you're gonna get.

mumbai - pictures after the smoke has cleared.

15% off some pretty cool shit all the way up through christmas.

we are goverened by the laws of physics and the laws of attraction.

store owner gets a gun pulled on him so he pulls his out and fires first.

the top ten things we've learned from our xbox live headset. your mom is nasty.

Some Words Of Wisdom.

Whatever you give a woman, she will make greater. If you give her sperm, she'll give you a baby. If you give her a house, she'll give you a home. If you give her groceries, she'll give you a meal. If you give her a smile, she'll give you her heart. She multiplies and enlarges what is given to her. So, if you give her any crap, be ready to receive a ton of shit.

Wait a minute? What's that? Bryan won't let Raymond have the semen oysters all to himself? He wants some too. I sure hope you guys don't puke blood after all this.

The most awesome thing about this article is I used to have a Raiders' Starter jacket exactly like they have pictured. Oddly enough, the was right around the last time the Raiders were actually competitive. Now they're just giving handjobs to everyone. So here's a question. Can we Raider fans band together in a class action lawsuit and demand Al Davis be tested for Alzheimers or something? Because I don't know how many more 4-12 seasons I can take.

The Sknyliv airshow disaster occurred on 27 July 2002 when a Ukrainian Air Force Sukhoi Su-27 of the Ukrainian Falcons crashed during an aerobatics presentation at Sknyliv airfield near Lviv, Ukraine. 84 people were killed, as well as an 85th who later died from injuries at a hospital, and over 100 injured. The crash remains the world's worst airshow disaster to date. And here's some amateur video filmed at the scene -- warning: gory goodness.

I wanna go on record as saying "I Called It." I never lost faith that Britney would be hot again. And I was right. I knew it. Eat it, suckers.

Just check out this pussy. It just looks like it's going to get squashed against the pole at some point, but no, this stripper is more careful than that. She sure knows how to work it, and, oh look there's a kitten, too. Safe for work, believe it or not.

top twenty great us civil war photographs - good eye candy here.

the filipino inmates are back. this time they dance to flo-rida's "low".

how to recover data from a dead hard drive. A VERY GOOD read for my fellow nerds.

seriously, left 4 dead looks like the coolest fucking game in the universe. cooler than doom3.

Yeah, Because I Needed A Fuckin Article To Tell Me We're In A Recession.

A little story of my first visit to an Abbatoir. Or "How I tasted *very* young veal." Some years ago I was a fresh-faced young student in the final year of my undergraduate studies at University. This year of the degree was, primarily, a research project based in the Biochemistry department. The area that I was studying was the structure of the crystallins, a family of proteins found in the lens of the eye. The reason these proteins are interesting is that they are produced before birth and remain in the lens, unreplaced or repaired, until death and subsequent decay/burning/consumption etc. So they have to be extremely stable - if they stuff up you get lovely cloudy deposits in what should've been nice clear lens. Cataracts. While we did work with human eyes when we could get them from the local hospital, most of the time we worked with cow eyes as they were readily available from any abbatoir. As part of this research we were looking at crystallins from as early as possible in their production. This required collecting eye-balls from young cows. Very young cows. Unborn cows. You see, when the farmers ship their cattle off to be slaughtered here in Australia, they don't usually bother checking if any of them happen to have been knocked up while out on the farm. If it's time to sell them, then off they go. Subsequently a significant percentage of cattle are slaughtered with calves in utero. Not being ones to waste an opportunity, the abbatoir owners use these unborn calves from a lucrative side-line, which I shall explain momentarily.

So early one Monday morning, two PhD students from the lab and your humble narrator rolled up to the abbatoir in lovely Altona, a suburb of Melbourne here in Australia that is not exactly reknowned for its real estate values. Getting out of the departmental van, wearing our neat white lab coats, carrying big buckets to fill with eyes and a variety of scalpels and scissors to help remove them, the odour of a meatworks doing its morning slaughtering highlighted the reason why houses in the area were so cheap. I leave it to your imagination, but picture it, hundreds of cattle, sheep and pigs were being herded from the tight confines of the transports into cramped yards, then through to the killing room. The air was redolent with the smells of animal fear, shit, sweat, blood,and parboiled meat (from the bristle removing operation).

Add to this is it was a pleasant summer's day, around 20 celsius, with the promise of reaching the low 30s by lunchtime. We troop in to the office, and are taken from there to the main processing room, where the cattle arrive immediately after being killed. It's a huge assembly line - or should that be *dis*assembly line? Anyway, the cattle come in from a door in the far left corner, hanging by their left back leg from a hook on an overhead conveyor. As the bodies move slowly round the room, the abbatoir workers swarm over them, knives glinting in the fluorescent light, and take them to pieces. Firstly, the cattle are disembowled. This is the point where a somewhat belated pregnancy test occurs. Is the womb swollen and can I feel a calf in there? If so, the uterus is immediately separated and dumped down a chute. The rest of the contents go down a second chute after kidneys and so on that have value as offal are removed. (I guess that occasionally they keep tripe too, but not when we were there.) The heads are then removed and put on to a second conveyor of hooks that moves off in a different direction. The removal is done with a single flick of the workers knives - DON'T piss off an abbatoir worker, their knives are *really* sharp and they know how to slip between vertebrae without even slowing down. The headless carcasses then reach the lads with the chain saws, who slice them in half.

But back to the heads. They are skinned and the cheeks and tounges removed to be sold as... cheeks and tounges. We stationed ourselves here for a while, plucking eyeballs as they came past. Once the workers realised what we wanted they helped - and their knives did a much neater job than our fumbling around with scalpels and scissors. Recall that maybe two minutes ago, these cattle were lowing out back, so they're still at a lovely body temperature. About 20 minutes gave us two buckets of cows eyes - they're rather big. So at this point we moved on to the place that really had me intruiged. The foetus room. And yes, that's what it said on the door. Here, the mystery of what they do with foetal calves that makes them a quick buck on the side was revealed. No, they don't slice them up and sell them as young veal. Guess they could though! What happens is that the chute from the room upstairs comes down to a large steel table. Here a couple of neanderthal workers sit, waiting. When the womb hits the table they slice it open, pull out the calf and place it under a small, automatic trip hammer. The dangling end of the umbilical cord is draped into a bucket, and the hammer rapidly whacks the calf on the abdomen. The juices that ooze owt are collected, bottled, carefully sterilised and sold to scientists as Foetal Calf Serum (FCS), a near essential component of several tissue culture solutions due to all the growth factors and things it contains. I'd often wondered where it came from, and now I knew.

The empty wombs and drained foetal calves are then thrown in to a big channel, with a rotating screw that lifts all the remains up in to a huge grinder. The various bits that get chucked down the other chute upstairs come down in to the same grinder, where they are all blended up to become blood and bone for fertilising peoples gardens. (All this bollocks about native people utilising an entire animal while we are so wasteful. What a wank, *nothing* of these cattle was rubbish, it was all used up.) So picture the room. Fairly small, but with a very high ceiling. Not brilliantly lit. Huge industrial grinding vat in one corner, with an open chute coming down through roof bringing all sorts of intestines and other bits in for processing. Another chute with a big steel screw slowly turning, slurping up ex-calves and empty wombs to join the rest of the former cow being converted into garden fertiliser. Deep machine and grinding noise coming from the vat, with the occasional series of thuds as a uterus bounces down the chute. We take up positions at the table, the idea being we grab the calves before they go under the hammer, and pull out their eyes. Again, these calves were happily growing in the mummy-cow's tummies not five minutes ago. They range in size from mishappen lumps smaller than a hand, to fully formed little cows that probably survived if they'd been born that day, rather than processed into FCS, eyeballs and blood and bone. After ten or fifteen minutes pulling eyeballs (only one or two arrive per minute, as there aren't *that* many pregnant cows), the grinder makes a strange clunking sound and stops. A bit of swearing and cursing from the workers, a quick phone call, a visit from some bloke with a box of tools, and we're told that the grinder has jammed. But, of course, the slaughter has to continue.

The chutes start backing up with bits; intestines are dangling over our heads, dripping the occasional drip of nameless goop. As we continue to receive wombs via our chute, but the screw has been turned off in the removal channel, we start to build up a nice collection of dead foetus bits, inverted uteri and a nice, ankle deep puddle of amniotic fluid. What an experience - but it got better. I was standing in front of the table, waiting for the next uterus for processing. The now-familiar thudding noise of a bouncing uterus started to echo down the chute and I stepped forward, knife ready to slice and dice. Now your average uterus is a rather muscular organ, and fairly tough. So it was with some suprise that I was drenched from head to foot in a sudden spray of amniotic fluid, as the uterus hit the table in front of me and ruptured.

Lab coats are not designed to prevent you getting wet when several litres of amniotic fluid hits you full on. I was soaked to the skin, hair dripping on to my shoulders, shoes (which were already sploshing around in a layer of cow innards) now full. I guess the middle of my back might have been dry, as the wave hit me from the front. Oh, and in case you were wondering. Not much flavor really - slightly salty. Bit like mild blood. For some reason, the abbatoir lads found this hysterically funny. Not quite roll on the ground funny, due to the condition of the ground, but side splitting anyway. When we finally collected enough baby-eyes we returned to University. Amniotic fluid is rather inoffensive, being sterile and having virtually no smell or taste, but it was only 8.30 in the morning and I had the rest of the day to sit around working, damp through every layer of clothing. And as the day wore on the inoffensive fresh fluid would undoubtedly suffer the ravages of environmental exposure on a warm summer's day to become something less desireable. Fortunately I had some sport's stuff with me so I showered and spent the day in my gym gear, rinsing my normal clothes and letting the air-dry.

Of course, I changed in to them again for the trip home on the train. Wouldn't want anyone I didn't have to work with to miss out on any odour that had developed during the day. The dog thought I was rather special when I got home. PS: Yes I've been back, but not to the foetus room. The other trips have been to scrape the intestinal mucosa out of pig guts to look for growth factors. -- Doctor CJ

Hey Charley, do me a favor, get some of those oysters ready for Raymond, who scored higher than anyone else in Under Construction. But don't worry Ray, whatever you can't eat Big Mikey and Jamie will polish off.

Here's some of the highlights from the Need For Speed's Undercover launch party. Although there were no Red Sox caskets, there was drifting, car chases, and live re-enactments of some of the stunts from the game. Because 1971 Dodge Challengers painted Plum Crazy make everything good.

good at american history? so tell me who was president when...

pinup babes. sfw as almost of all of them are from the 1930's and 1940's

a chainsaw bayonet strapped to an ar-15 is the ultimate zombie killing weapon.

Wow, Is This Year Flying By, Or What?

This utility is supposed to analyze a blog and tell you if it's been written by a man or a woman -- and since it doesn't work that well, my guess is it's made by a woman. Yes, it's about as useful as a wooden Commodore 64.

Because stripper accidents are becoming so everyday, they're the new black!

This sketch of MegaMan is actually pretty normal, until you read the artist's comments. What kind of a crazy bitch would do that?

One comedy show I always try to catch is Robot Chicken. I especially love the mashups, like when Michael Chiklis lent his voice and they did a crossover between The Shield and Fantastic Four. You're being awfully quiet, Sue. ... Bitch. Anyway, here's a bunch more Robot Chicken.

Good news, I am 66% likely to survive another Great Depression.

there's always room for haiku. especially when it's haiku for zombies.

well, someone seems a little unhappy with their web hosting service. servage.

because nut shots are always funny when it's not happening to me, i'll bet you can't count to ten.