Which Uncle Touched You?

To Russia With Love

Fri, 24 Feb 2012 01:08:00 -0800

We regret to inform you that Which Uncle Touched You? will be going on hiatus for a couple of months while our main contributor goes to Russia to work on a film. Please pray that he returns with one of these:

And not one of these:

Yeah… people can make very questionable decisions in sub-zero temperatures.

There are a lot of things I could say about this terrifying...

Thu, 23 Feb 2012 23:18:55 -0800

There are a lot of things I could say about this terrifying photo of Danny Trejo, but I won’t say any of them because I’m afraid he might murder me in my sleep. If I were going to comment on this photo, however, I would say that my major concern is what’s happening just below the frame of the shot. What the fuck is he doing with his other hand? I only see two options:

1) He’s jerking off. In this scenario he’s laughing because he knows that everyone will focus on the fact that he’s releasing a dove and try to make some artistic comment about the amazing juxtaposition of the delicate beauty of the dove and the harsh brutality of Danny’s face (their words, Danny, not mine). Meanwhile, Danny’s just rubbing one out and plotting the deaths of everyone in the room. Juxtapose that, motherfuckers.

2) He’s holding a gun. In this scenario he’s laughing because he knows that right after the picture is taken, he’s going to shoot the dove. When everyone on set cries out in horror, he’s going to turn the gun on them and mumble, “You putos heard the one about the Mexican and the dove? No? Me neither. Now suck on this”. This scenario also ends with everyone dead.

But like I said earlier, I’m not going to make those comments because I like breathing. Thank you for continuing to allow me that luxury, Danny Trejo. You are a kind master.

Fascist Facebook

Wed, 22 Feb 2012 16:44:42 -0800

I am taking a few moments out of celebrating my birthday to deliver this message to the tools at Facebook: ”Take a big step back… and literally, FUCK YOUR OWN FACE”. You deleted my page because of its title and because the main pic is of a drunk girl passed out on a deck chair (fully clothed, I might add). Seriously? When did Mussolini start working in your regulations department? Wow… ever read a little book called 1984? You are the new Big Brother, and it is now my duty to destroy you. No worries- you’ll follow in the footsteps of Friendster and MySpace sooner than you think. See you in Hell.

Thick Or Fit?

Tue, 21 Feb 2012 18:17:00 -0800

Recently my girlfriend had been having some body-image issues. She’d put on a few pounds and was feeling very self-concious. Although I was having fun with the extra weight (bigger boobs), I understood that she wasn’t happy, so introduced her to a buddy of mine who’s a personal trainer. After a few months of hard-core workouts, strict dieting and a few supplements, the results she achieved were amazing. Here are her before and after photos:

Before After

The sex is still great, but lately, she keeps trying to do me from behind. It’s a little disconcerting, but, hey… I love her.

The Comedy That Is Runyon

Mon, 20 Feb 2012 18:36:00 -0800

It always amazes me how ignorant people are about their dogs. I was finishing my hike today when I saw a woman’s dog snarl and lunge at another dog. The woman yelled at her dog, “Toby! No!” Then she said to the other animal’s owner,”I’m so sorry, I just don’t know what got into him!” Umm, he’s a fucking dog- that’s what got into him… you idiot. You can put sweaters on Toby, feed him vegan dog food, bring other dogs over for doggie birthday parties and even take him to the pet psychologist to try and get him to stop pooping behind the couch, but when it comes right down to it, Toby is not a child… he’s a dog. I would tell you to have a real child if you have such a need to dress something up and show it off to people, but judging from the shitty job you’re doing with your dog, I think it’s probably better that you never be allowed to procreate. My only hope for Toby is that one day he has enough of his Juicy Couture hoody, his rhinestone collar and his tasteless food, and he jumps up and bites that chick in her ass. Good boy, Toby! Goooodddd boyyyyyy!

Ricky Gervais =...

Sun, 19 Feb 2012 17:54:00 -0800

Ricky Gervais = Genius

Anyone that can get you to laugh at AIDS jokes is a comedic wizard. Once again, Ricky, you have amazed me. This fucking skit kills me every single time I watch it. Liam Neeson has long been one of my favorites, but watching him play the worst improv partner in the history of theatre, might have just pushed him into my Top 10 (a huge honor, to be sure). I can’t wait to use some of Liam’s conversation killers in my personal life:

Woman: Maybe go a little slower and not so hard…

Me: I don’t take notes.

Or…

Awful Ex-Girlfriend: Been a long time… you look good. So, what have you been up to these past few-

Me: I have full blown AIDS.

Aaannnnd… SCENE.

What. The fuck. Was that? I had to watch this trailer four times...

Sat, 18 Feb 2012 17:45:00 -0800

What. The fuck. Was that? I had to watch this trailer four times and then go to IMDB to make sure that this wasn’t a joke. No, someone really thought that this was a good idea for a movie. And what’s worse, someone actually gave them money to make it (although it couldn’t have been much considering they didn’t have this guy doing the VO in the trailer… if you don’t have that guy, your movie sucks balls).

What probably happened is some midget wrote the script (which I didn’t know they were allowed to do), the lead actors read it, thought they might get nominated for some awards and took pay-cuts, and some dip-shit threw money at it thinking that he would be involved in an “art film”. Well, Chris Hanley, I can throw a turd at the wall and call it art, but that doesn’t make it so (pretty sure I tried that when I was six and caught a beating for it… you deserve one as well for this “film”).

Two major thoughts on this debacle:

1. Kate, if your character fucks a midget in this film, I’m done with you. Although… that might be the only interesting twist this movie could have… yeah, imagine the look on Wooderson’s… sorry, I mean Matthew’s face when he learns that he has a normal size son, but that it came from his midget brother fucking his wife. Aaaaaaaahhhhh! The humanity!! Sequel? No, fuck you, Hanley, I was joking.

2. Did the VO guy really say, “and Gary Oldman in the role of a lifetime”? Seriously, VO guy? Did you not see True Romance or The Professional, or basically any other movie Gary Oldman has graced with his presence? He is hands-down one of the best actors to ever walk this earth, and now he’s playing the midget brother to Wooderson… damn it… McConaughey? Has he mastered every normal height role? Maybe to challenge himself he decided that he would have to play a character that was under four feet tall. His thought process must have been, “Well, Serkis has cornered the market on creature roles, the Wayans killed it with the midget acting like a baby stuff (I really hope my sarcasm about LiTTLEMAN is coming through clearly), so I guess I’m gonna have to go straight-midget on these mother-fuckers”. This is the only possible explanation I have for his involvement in this turd-on-the-wall production.

As for the money people, they must have thought it was White Boy Day.

Maybe I Should Be A Valet

Fri, 17 Feb 2012 15:45:00 -0800

I met the most entertaining valet in the world the other night. My buddy and I came out of the restaurant, and I handed the valet guy my ticket. He looked at the ticket, then back at me and asked, “Which car is yours?” Now I’m no scientist, but I think you just match the numbers on my ticket with the corresponding numbers on a set of keys. Maybe he had a different method, and he seemed pretty nice, so I decided to do it his way.

I turned around to point at my car and realized that it was the only one in the entire lot. I turned back to him, and he was still eagerly awaiting my response. I looked to my buddy, who was trying his best not to laugh. The valet politely asked again which car was mine. I looked over my shoulder at my white Explorer… just to make sure this was really happening, and then turned to him and said, “The blue one”.

He smiled and ran ten feet into the parking lot. He went towards my car, saw that it was white, turned to his right, ran three feet, stopped, looked around in vain, ran eight feet to the left, spun around and then ran back to us. My buddy and I were pissing ourselves. If this dude was serious, I felt really bad for laughing. If he was putting us on, he was my new favorite person. Either way, he was awesome.

“Did you say it was blue?” I told him not to worry about it, took the keys out of his hand, gave him a nice tip, and then laughed the whole way home. But seriously, if anyone needs a job, hit me up, and I’ll tell you the name of the restaurant… because I’m pretty sure they’ll need to fill a valet vacancy soon.

Stealing Money From A Blind Guy On Valentine’s Day – Episode II: Rape-bot 3000

Thu, 16 Feb 2012 17:37:00 -0800

So I took the twenty-dollar bill from the Blind Guy, rang the sale and quickly gave him his change. Wait… was he watching me? If he indeed was a sex robot and not a blind guy, this could be a clue. I stared at him while he fumbled with the change to see if he would make a mistake and actually look at the money while he counted it instead of just feeling it. He looked in my general direction an said, “It’s not polite to stare”. Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh! What the fuck? I would have taken this as a sign that he was for sure a sex robot, but I’d seen people do that in movies, and movies are never wrong.

The bar was slammed so I quickly forgot about the Blind Guy that might have been a porn android sent from the future to kill me… or rape me, whichever he was programmed to do (and it absolutely would not stop… ever). After taking a few trips around the bar and helping several other customers, Blind Guy’s friend waved me over. Seriously? Blind Guy couldn’t possibly have finished his Corona yet… unless, he was pouring it out on the floor to hide the fact that he was a Rape-inator robot and couldn’t ingest liquids. Shit. I hope he and his master would at least have the decency to rape me somewhere secluded so I could act like it never happened (you know, like most of my ex-girlfriends did).

When I reached Blind Guy’s friend, he pointed to Blind Guy and said, “He wants to talk to you”. Okayyyyyy… was this now part of an After-School Special where we were supposed to learn that blind people should be treated just the same as the rest of us? Well, guess what? They shouldn’t be treated the same. You know why? Because THEY CAN’T FUCKING SEE. Ever play catch with a blind kid? Ever ask your blind buddy to be the Designated Driver? Ever thank the blind surgeon for saving your uncle’s life? No. They are no better or worse than anyone else, but there are certain things they shouldn’t be doing; at the top of that list is sitting at my bar pretending to be a Japanese-crafted sex robot.

He had a question? Fine. I would play along. He asked me how much beers cost at this bar, and I told him that imports cost $5.50. Why? “Well, then you didn’t give me enough change,” he replied. He then showed me the $4.50 that I had supposedly given him. He had handed me a twenty, so he should have received $14.50 in change. I looked at him (not directly) to see if this was a blind guy joke. He wasn’t smiling. I turned to his buddy, who also wasn’t amused. Shit. It was really busy, so maybe I thought I grabbed the two fives out of the register when I really didn’t. It was possible. So I gave him some more change, apologized, and continued around the bar. I didn’t feel too bad because it was an honest mistake- I would never steal from someone. Unless they were a rape-droid that had targeted me for molestation… but I had no proof of that… yet.

My next trip around the bar, Blind Guy’s friend stopped me again and pointed to the Blind Guy? What the fuck was up with these assholes? Now I was sure they were fucking with me. I was agitated and a bit scared so I addressed Blind Guy with an aggressive, “Yeah. Whaddaya need?”

BG: You still didn’t give me the right change.

Me: Yeah, I did.

BG: No, now you’ve only given me $9.50.

Me: Are you serious?

BG: Yes. See?

Me: Yeah. I’m the only one of us here that can see (I didn’t say that, but it would have been killer if I did).

I looked at the $9.50 on the bar.

Me: Are you sure there wasn’t another five in there?

BG: Yes.

I looked to Blind Guy’s friend, who couldn’t believe that I was questioning Blind Guy. Was that just a ploy to make me feel bad so I would give them an extra five? Was this how this sick bastard made money- by parading around his sex robot as a blind guy and then guilting unsuspecting bartenders into giving them extra money, because they wouldn’t have the nerve to accuse a blind person of being a thief? Blind People are different from us in that they can’t see, but I’m sure some of them can be assholes just like the rest of us (Exhibit A). So was this a nice blind guy, a sadistic blind guy, or the C-3P0 of rape? I wasn’t sure, but I had to make a decision about the money.

I chose the safe route. I gave the Blind Guy another five, apologized and said I would buy him his next beer. He acted surprised and grateful to hear my offer (damn this robot was good with facial expressions!). I walked away and thought about the situation- man, I really wasn’t trying to steal from this rape-bot/blind guy, but it really appeared like I was. If he wasn’t tricking me, I had given him the wrong change… twice (I could just see the Yelp reviews). Soon after I gave him his free beer, the Blind Guy got up and had his friend/master lead him out the door. Had I been swindled? Who cares… it was only ten dollars. Plus, I didn’t get raped by a sex robot on Valentine’s Day. So all in all, it turned out to be a pretty decent night.

Stealing Money From A Blind Guy On Valentine’s Day - Episode I: Teaches From Peaches

Wed, 15 Feb 2012 21:47:00 -0800

One of the most awkward moments of my life happened when we had an Anti-Valentine’s Day party at our bar. As you can imagine, most of the people that came in were sad, lonely alcoholics looking to drown their sorrows and “fuck the pain away” (Yes, I just quoted a Peaches song… check out Miss Piggy’s rendition). It being Hollywood, there were plenty of the aforementioned miscreants getting wasted in our establishment, so the other bartenders and I were having some good laughs.

That all stopped when some genius decided to bring the Blind Guy to the bar. Really? On Valentine’s Day you want to bring your blind friend to a bar? Blind Guy’s friend must have been some sort of sadistic asshole. Not only could Blind Guy not enjoy all the breasts that were on display, but he would only be able to experience the night by smelling the strange mixture of perfume, alcohol, and urine that permeates all bars on busy evenings, and by listening to the fat girl beside him take a five second break from crying and devouring her bacon cheeseburger to tell her friend, “I just don’t know what else I could have done to make him happy”. Um, might I suggest eating three baco-cheeseburgers a day instead of five? Just a thought.

I tried to act like I didn’t see the blind guy, so one of the other bartenders would have to shoulder the awkward obligation of serving him, but his buddy came right to me and ordered two Coronas. Shit. I had never served a blind dude before, but I figured I would just do I what I did when I served midgets or people with googly eyes- I would look in their general direction but never directly at them (this method also works for Trannies, guys with eye patches, people that stink or dudes with hooks for hands… so basically pirates… I guess. What? Whatever- just keep reading).

So, I had to serve them. Luckily, Blind Guy’s friend handled the entire transaction, and I was able to pretend that Blind Guy wasn’t even there. Sweet. I gave his buddy the beers and his change, and then they disappeared into the crowd. Now I could focus on my job: helping depressed people slowly kill themselves by enabling their alcohol addiction… man, bartending is fun!

Fifteen minutes later, I was busy serving some rapist in a cape a Strawberry Daiquiri, when Blind Guy’s friend sat Blind Guy down right in front of my well. What the fuck? Were they targeting me? Did I execute the “Pirate Technique” too perfectly last time? Did they now think I had received sensitivity training that allowed me to handle situations involving handicapped guests with poise and grace? Well, I never had that training, and I was pretty sure that this wasn’t going to end well.

Since avoiding them was impossible at this point, I focused on the empty space between them, smiled and asked what I could get for them. Quite unexpectedly, Blind Guy politely ordered two Coronas. He then tried to hand me a crisp twenty-dollar bill, but he had it pointed about three feet to my left. His eyes were “looking” two feet to my right, and he was smiling. Was he really blind, or was he using the Pirate Technique on me?

Just as I moved to grab the money, he pointed his eyes and hand directly at me. Aaaaaaaaaahhhh! How the fuck did he do that? I began thinking that not only was he not blind, but maybe he wasn’t human at all… perhaps he was one of those new sex robots that the Japanese were developing and the guy with him was his owner/sex master. I mean, wouldn’t pretending “it” was blind be the perfect way to disguise its jerky motions and the need to lead it around? Fuck. Valentine’s Day had just gotten weird.

TO BE CONTINUED…

She look like she got a secret, yo. Know what it be? That...

Tue, 14 Feb 2012 02:56:00 -0800

She look like she got a secret, yo. Know what it be? That ain’t milk.

Who The Hell is Eddie Anderson? Episode III: Ten Digits to Glory

Mon, 13 Feb 2012 19:42:00 -0800

*If you missed Episode I or II, you can easily find them by scrolling down through earlier posts. If you’re all caught up with this saga, enjoy…

Pancakes said that she wanted to party with me after her shift was over, so I pulled out my phone to get her number. She quickly told me to put it back in my pants (not the first or last time I would hear that request that evening). Apparently management frowned on the girls giving out their numbers to customers (hand-jobs in the private rooms were fine, but anything of a personal nature was off limits).

So Pancakes decided we would beat the system in this manner: she would tell me her number, I would keep repeating it in my head, run to the bathroom and then enter it into my phone. Who said strippers were dumb? The plan was genius… almost too genius… like maybe she had done this before… whatever, it’s best not to think too much in these situations.

I tried not to run to the bathroom, but it was hard- I was excited… yeah, you’re waiting for a dick joke here aren’t you? Too bad, I already hit my quota. So I got to the restroom, entered the number in my phone and gave the bathroom attendant a hi-five. He smiled and said, “First time getting a phone number?” Wow, I guess Dontrell and I weren’t going to be friends after all. “No, but this time it’s from a girl,” I replied as I winked at him. His smile vanished, and he quickly turned around to re-arrange his cologne and gum display as I sashayed out of the restroom.

I returned to my table, told Pancakes I would call her, and then she bounced off to let a bunch of random guys rub their junk on her privates… privates that I would be trying to touch later. When I thought about it that way, it seemed kind of wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t… hey, the waitress brought me a new drink! Hooray! What had I just been worrying about? Oh well, beer fixed it.

My buddies returned, each $200 lighter in the wallet, without carnal knowledge of any of the “dancers” (ahahahaha- makes me laugh every time), and two serious cases of blue-balls. I told them my story, which only made it worse for them. Within five minutes, they had both disappeared into the private rooms again. Man, would they never learn? I needed to write a book on this stuff- yeah, and the title would be something like The Behavioral Psychology of Strippers: How To Get Off Without Feeling Like You Paid For It. Why the second part of the title, you ask? I’ll tell you why- because let’s be honest, even if it’s not from a stripper, a hooker or the cleaning lady that you black-mailed into jerking you, no matter how you are getting laid, the woman is going to make you pay for it in some way, shape or form (just ask my friends Zach and Vinny). What’s that? You want to know more? Ok, well how about this… BUY THE FUCKING BOOK, YOU CHEAP BASTARD.

As I daydreamed about the riches and accolades I would amass from the millions of books I was going to sell, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen (that night) sat down in my lap. She was Russian, had brilliant green eyes (fuck off Lo Pan, this one’s mine), pouty, full lips and the firmest natural breasts I had seen since I was fifteen. She was magic, and her name was Roxanne. She leaned in close to my face, and I knew I was almost surely in love when she opened her mouth and…

TO BE CONTINUED…

(Yep, that just happened. Suck it.)

Worst. Criminals. Ever.

Sun, 12 Feb 2012 16:43:00 -0800

This is an actual email that I found in my junk folder today. The subject line of the email read: Mystery Shopper Vacancy!!! As it turned out it, this wasn’t an email about mystery shopping at all, but the worst attempt to steal money from people that I have seen since the Shake Weight. My comments are the indented paragraphs:

OFFICIAL LETTER FROM FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION FBI

EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR FBI FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

FBI.WASHINGTON DC.

ROBERT MUELLER III.

FBI SEEKING TO WIRETAP INTERNET

You titled the email Mystery Shopper Vacancy, but now you’ve mentioned the FBI 4 times (6 if you count where they spelled it out- you know, just in case you weren’t sure what the FBI was). You’ve already confused your victim. If you want to trick me, just offer me money from some dead uncle I didn’t know I had. Right now, I just don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.

Website: www.fbi.gov

I was surprised that they got this part right.

DATE:10 / 2 /2012

Jesus Christ… really? You’re not even going to take the time to get the date correct? Did the FBI (Federal Bureau of Investigation) send me this message from the future? Now I’m just upset because you suck so bad at this.

ATTENTION: BENEFICIARY

Don’t know my name but want to give me money, huh? Awesome.

FROM: ROBERT MUELLER III EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR FBI FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WASHINGTON DC. FBI SEEKING TO WIRETAP INTERNET.

We the federal bureau of investigation (FBI).Through our intelligence monitoring network has discovered that the transaction that the bank contacted you previously was legal.Recently the fund has been legally approved to be paid via Heritage Bank USA. So, we the federal bureau of investigation (FBI) Washington Dc, in conjunction with the United Nations (UN) financial department have investigated through our monitoring network noting that your transaction with the Heritage Bank is legal.

What the fuck are you talking about? The FBI (Federal Bureau of Investigation) is working with the UN (United Nations) to make sure I get the money that was mysteriously sent to me from someone I don’t know, in a transaction that I know nothing about? Sounds plausible. Continue

You have the legitimate right to complete your transaction to claim your fund US$65.7,000,000.00 (sixty five Million seven hundred thousands U S dollars)

Thank you for writing out in words what the dollar amount was because what you wrote in numerals (ignoring the fact THAT YOU PUT A FUCKING PERIOD IN THERE) actually means six hundred and fifty-seven million dollars. Are you trying to fuck this up just so I become more intrigued? Well, touche- it’s totally working. Please, tell me more.

Because of so much scam going on internet.

Thanks for looking out for me, but that’s not even a sentence. I hate you.

We the federal bureau of investigation decided to contact the FedEx Courier Service Company in Washington for them to give us their procedures on how to sent this money to you without any further complain or delay.

So the FBI doesn’t know how FedEx works? And again, your grasp of the English language is bordering on offensive.

We just got an information from the Heritage Bank and they have loaded your US$65.7,000,000.00 in ATM MASTER CARD and submit to the FedEx courier service company for immediate delivery to your doorstep.

You just got that information? While you were having your pet monkey type this? AMAZING! PS- MasterCard. One word.

You are required to choose one option, which you will be able to pay and also convenient for you, for quick delivery of your parcel containing your ATM CARD and other two original back up documents.

Service Type | Delivery Duration | Charges/Fees

——————————————— ——————————————— ———————-

Premium Express (24hrs Delivery)

Mailing $200.00 00.00

Insurance $150.00 00.00

Vat $100.00 00.00

TOTAL $450.00

$450(Four Hundred and fifty US Dollars Only).

………………………… ………………………… ……….

Special Express (2 Days)

Mailing $180.00 00.00

Insurance $70.00 00.00

Vat $150.00 00.00

TOTAL $380.00 00.00

$380(Three Hundred and Eighty US Dollars Only).

………………………… ………………………… …………….

Economy Express (3Days)

Mailing $100.00 00.00

Insurance$150.00 00.00

Vat (5%) $50.00 00.00

TOTAL $300.00 00.00

$300(Three Hundred US Dollars Only).

………………………… ………………………… ……..

This was the only portion of the email that halfway made sense. Good job, guys.

You are hereby required to advice us, on your parcel delivery option by filling in the required form stated above. Please note that the deadline for claiming your fund is exactly one week after the receipt of this email. After this period, your fund will be return back to the ordering costumer. That is the instruction given to us .So take note.

Moreover, this is some tracking number of another peoples that received their payment through fedEx websit(www.FEDEX.com).

I… don’t even understand what you were trying to say here, and I’m actually starting to believe that you got the one retarded guy in your gang to proofread what your monkey wrote. Now I just feel bad for you. Sorry for getting angry earlier.

Here are the tracking numbers of the delivery we made on Saturday Dec 24 2011

Steven Rice 797877973531

Kevin Peterson 793047542428

DOUG CASHMERE 797877987858

Kevin Peterson 793047547577

RUSSELL VANBLON 797878002390

YVETTE L MASSEY 793047612406

BETH ANN SURVOY 793047610388

BARBARA E EVANS 797878044170

MARSHA DELARM 797878054332

FRANKLIN ANDREWS LLL 797878051539

BRENDA ENCINAS 797878056611

GREGORY HERRON 793047634190

CHRISTOPHER SMITH 797878068291

Phillip Klippert 793047636447

PATTI THOMS 793047626159

James YORKS 793047622820

BETH LAFATA 797878065259

Here are the tracking numbers of the delivery we made on Thursday Dec 29 2011,before going for a vacation.

Hahahahahahaha- my favorite part of the the email. Why the fuck do I care if you made these deliveries right before you went on vacation? Does that show your dedication to superior service? “We go vacation. Sleep with dolphin, maybe little boy? You know how is. $But money be right on delivery&. we the federal bureau of investigation (FBI) have good time respect from bank. Please sign 65.7$000,000.AB

Joshua Marvin 793060849737

Randall Kinder 793060851884

Jontrey Jamerson 793060854287

Wendy west 797891304068

We request that you reconfirm your mailing address to ensure conformity with our record for immediate dispatch of your parcel to you. Only valid residential/Office address and postal address are certified O.

DELIVERY DESTINATION INFORMATION:

——————————————— ——————————————— -

Receiver’s Name :…….

Address:…………….

Tel/:……………….

Delivery Information/ Parcel Description

——————————————— ——————————————— —————-

Again, you don’t know my name or address, but you want to send me money. Got it.

Delivery Terms: International Delivery

Condition Of Delivery:Priority Delivery

Consignment Note No: MI 49866-2110

Color of Parcel: …Brown.

Total Weight: 36.2 kg

Total Net Weight: 1.7 kg

Wait, the package weighs 36.2kg? That is a heavy fucking check.. oh, you’re sending it in cash? Even better. Where do I sign?

We are here to protect you from any problem till you receive your package, You can as well get in touch with the FedEx delivery company assigned to deliver this financial package to your doorstep.

Below is the delivery companies contact information:

Companies Name: FedEx Express Courier Service.

Directors Name: Mr. Daniel Brown

Email: courierservice-delivery@hotmail.com

Telephone Number: 815-342-3923

Looking forward to hear from you as soon as you receive this message.

Oh man, I really wanna call this number and ask Daniel where my money is. If anyone reads this and tries to contact FedEx, please let me know what happens. PS- it will be more believable if you get super-angry… I mean, that’s a shit-ton of your money that they misplaced.

Best Regards,

Robert S. Mueller III.

Federal Bureau of Investigation

J. Edgar Hoover Building

935 Pennsylvania Avenue,

NW Washington, D.C.

20535-0001, USA

Well, I really wanna give these guys all my information and pay them this very reasonable fee to get however much money this means- US$65.7,000,000.00… but I don’t know… something seems fishy… SHIT!! They didn’t put (FBI) after the last time they wrote Federal Bureau of Investigation! This is a scam! Man, that was close.

Are These Guys Vampires?

Sat, 11 Feb 2012 18:46:00 -0800

I was at a bar the other day when “Closer”, one of my favorite KOL tracks, started playing on the jukebox. My buddy Jared remarked how bad-ass the song was, and after I agreed, I asked, “You know it’s about vampires, don’t you?” Jared laughed and told me to fuck off. “No, I’m serious. Listen to the lyrics”. Jared listened for a few seconds, noticed how intently I was waiting for his confirmation on my vampire theory, and then he burst into laughter.

I chuckled, but this battle wasn’t over. I had to make him believe. I turned to the guy next to me and asked him if he knew that this song was about vampires. He slowly turned his head, stared at me for way longer than was comfortable, pushed the tobacco around with his tongue against the inside of his lip and then in a deep, gravelly voice said, “I don’t listen to no faggot music”. Okay, then… time to go.

Jared laughed the entire walk home. I wanted to hit up another bar, but he had to go back to his dojo and kick trees. I’m not joking… people do that shit. So he left to abuse nature, and I went home to do my research. And just as I had suspected all along, the song was totally about vampires. Don’t believe me? Listen to the song, or read the lyrics.

What was the point of this post? I’m not really sure. All I know is… Boom… Vampire touchdown. Suck it, Jared. Suck it like you mean it.

Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Commentary for Total...

Fri, 10 Feb 2012 13:12:00 -0800

Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Commentary for Total Recall

This is both absurd and amazing. Arnie’s “commentary” consists mainly of him describing the physical actions of his “character” and then laughing at his own one-liners. My personal favorite is his commentary on getting kicked in the nuts: ”Ow. That hurt.” Fucking genius.

Did Jon Voight’s Face Just Give Me A Boner?

Thu, 09 Feb 2012 21:23:00 -0800

I was watching Midnight Cowboy for the first time last week, and at first all I could think about was how young Jon Voight looked and how great a performance he was giving. Then, during the scene where he’s riding the bus to New York, they did a few close-ups on him, and I realized HOLY SHIT… he looks exactly like his daughter, Angelina Jolie. Don’t believe me? Check out these photos:

And now watch the first minute of this clip from Midnight Cowboy. See what I mean? It’s fucking creepy how similar they are. I couldn’t stop thinking about Angelina the entire time… Jesus, she’s hot. She’s so gorgeous that I dated a girl that resembled her for no other reason than if I squinted or turned the lights down low enough, I could act like I was banging Angelina. I’m serious- if she hadn’t looked like Angelina, the relationship would have lasted two months. As it was, we lasted over a year.

So during Midnight Cowboy, I would start daydreaming about my past relationship, and how fucking dysfunctional it was. She would act like a complete asshole, I would channel my aggression into rough sex, and she would think that my beast-like performance in bed meant that I cared about her and that I found her irresistible. Nope- I was trying to forget that she sucked at life and pretending she was Angelina Jolie (come on, don’t act like you’ve never done it). I managed to never scream out the name “Angelina” during sex, but after we were done, I would roll out of bed and pretend to check on the imaginary child we had just adopted from Cambodia… which is, of course, totally normal.

I snapped out of one of these daydreams and realized that I had a raging boner… and I was staring straight at John Voight’s face. Awkwarrrrrrd. Wait a second… I had the boner because of Angelina’s face, not her dad’s, right? Right!? What the fuck, dude!? Confused and ashamed, I did the only thing a guy can do to restore his masculinity in that situation- I opened up two windows on my Mac and read SportsCenter articles in one, while I masturbated to girl-on-girl porn that played in the other… which is, of course, totally normal.

Who The Hell Is Eddie Anderson? Episode II: The Force Is Strong With This One

Wed, 08 Feb 2012 19:32:00 -0800

* If you missed Episode I, you can easily find it by scrolling down through my earlier posts. If you’ve already read the first installment, enjoy…

Laughing about our medieval conquests at the Excalibur, my two buddies and I strolled into one of the classiest joints in all the world- the Spearmint Rhino. We didn’t even get our initial drink orders placed before my friends disappeared into private rooms with the first two strippers that approached them- rookies.

I, on the other hand, enjoyed a couple of cocktails while several different ladies tried in vain to get me to the private rooms. What they didn’t know, was that this was not my first rodeo, and I fancied myself a “Stripper Whisperer” of sorts. I wasn’t in the habit of frequenting strip clubs, but when I did, it was rare that I didn’t get a nice “Old Fashioned” (that’s a hand-job, for those of you that don’t watch South Park), at least make-out with one of the “dancers” (hahahaha- just writing that word in this context makes me laugh… bless their little hearts. Dancers… ohhhh, that’s funny), or get some digits and hook it up later in the evening. Aaron, I both blame and thank you for the nuanced skills that have made that last sentence a reality.

Needless to say, if I was going to be lured into the private rooms, I was going to be damn sure that it would be worth the trip. The key is being able to differentiate between the girls that are just pretending to be attracted to you so they can fleece you, and the ones that really do want to enter your cock-riding contest. Although sex with a stripper is fun, beware- they are damaged creatures that will undoubtedly try to ensnare you in the turmoil of their trailer park soap operas. “What’s that, Stripper? Your ex won’t quit coming over trying to regain custody of his son while he shoots heroin outside your front door? That sucks. Oh, hold on, Stripper… that might be the pizza guy on the other line”. CLICK.

Okay, where were we? Oh yeah- some of them want to get down and some do not, and I had become Jedi-like in my ability to tell the difference. A gorgeous blonde named Pancakes (come on, people- I can’t be expected to remember every stripper’s name that I’ve encountered. I would need someone to do that for me… someone like Bob Sugar- skip ahead to the 3:33 mark of this clip). Pancakes came and sat at my table several times. I kept telling her that I wouldn’t go to a private room with her, and she said she didn’t care- she would get naked with me one way or another. We stared at each other for eleven seconds, the sexual tension between us simmering- neither of us broke eye contact. She smiled. I grinned. It was on…

TO BE CONTINUED…

Newt Gingrich + Moon Base = Best Platform Ever...

Tue, 07 Feb 2012 19:23:00 -0800

… if you’re still twelve years old. So a couple of weeks ago Gingrich said, “… by the end of my second term, we will have the first permanent base on the moon, and it will be American”. My brother and I were watching a re-run of The Daily Show segment where Jon Stewart rips Gingrich’s speech, and it made me realize that I haven’t given a flying-fuck about space travel since I was in grade school. We’ve all seen Apollo 13 and Alien, and nothing good ever really happens in space… may I present Exhibit A:

Besides, who the fuck wants to live on the moon? You wake up, forget you’re on the moon, open the front door to get the Lunar Weekly, and before you can do anything about it, your eyes bulge out of your skull till your head explodes (at least that’s how it worked in Total Recall… and I’m pretty sure that movie was balls-on accurate).

Let’s be honest, basically the only awesome thing to happen in space was this. If you’re looking for places to colonize, there are plenty of shitty places here on earth where no one wants to live. Try Antarctica- at least there you could pretend like you were Han Solo on the planet of Hoth, ride around on your snowmobile like it was a Tauntaun and repeatedly yell, “Then I’ll see you in Hell!” to the other three people in your colony. They would probably kill you after two days, but it would be totally worth it. And if you’re thinking that exact scene from The Empire Strikes Back is another awesome thing that happened in space, you’re wrong- it WAS awesome, but it happened on a planet, not in space. So go fuck yourself.

Wait, what were we talking about? Oh yeah- Newt Gingrich, you’re fucking retarded.

Who The Hell is Eddie Anderson? Episode I: A Medieval Charade

Mon, 06 Feb 2012 21:45:00 -0800

Being in Vegas for the Super Bowl, I got to thinking about all the absurd experiences I’ve had in this town, and I felt like now was an appropriate time to share one. A few years back, my sister and her fiance decided that they wanted to get married in Las Vegas. Awesome, right? Well, this is how my side of the conversation with my dad went when he called to tell me the news:

“Hell yeah! That is gonna be a freaking blast. So is the wedding ceremony gonna take place in some sort of secret garden that’s hidden inside the Venetian, Caesar’s, the MGM or… wait… what’s that? They’re getting married in the public wedding chapel of the Excalibur? Oh… okay. That’s a little strange, but at least we will be right on the strip, and we will be able to… okay… yeah… wait, Dad, hold on… there must be something wrong with the phone because it really sounded like you said we were going to have to dress up like medieval characters for the wedding. Ha ha ha ha ha ha- nice one, Pops. Come on… you’re fucking with me right? You’re serious? Oh… wow. Fuck me. I’m going to have stay pretty drunk for this one.”

The day I flew into Vegas, I met up with a small group of friends and family at the costume shop so we could get fitted for our medieval wedding costumes. It was fucking ridiculous. We had a King Arthur, a knight in chain mail, two Musketeers and a Merlin. If this marriage didn’t last, my sister was going to be in deep shit.

When we got back to the Excalibur, four of us gathered in my room to discuss the situation: were we being horse-fucked by my sister and her fiance? Was this just some elaborate ruse they had employed to get us to dress like idiots so they could watch the wedding video twenty years from now and laugh at what assholes their family members were? Surely this couldn’t be how they would want to remember one of the most important days of their lives. What would their future son say when he saw these pictures? Probably something similar to this:

“This is really what you guys did for your wedding? Jesus, no wonder I have webbed toes. No, it’s not okay… don’t touch me! You did this to me! And you wonder why I smoke meth? Fuck you, Dad! I hate you! Oh, and guess what? I’m becoming a woman!”

It was a sad thought, but that’s how the world works. We agreed to forcefully block-out all thoughts of these future children, with their deformities and crippling drug addictions, so could make the best of this weekend. If my sister wanted us dressed as a mixed bag of medieval miscreants, then that’s exactly what she would get. Until the ceremony, however, we were going to get as much mileage out of these costumes as we could. Porthos, Aramis and I donned our costumes and headed down to the casino to have some fun, while Merlin went to his room to conjure up a nap.

Once downstairs, we started sword fighting our way around the casino. Our outfits were actually pretty legitimate, so people must have thought that we worked for the hotel. They would form circles around us, taking pictures and cheering as we battled.

It was bizarre how seriously some of the spectators were taking these skirmishes- they quickly developed allegiances to certain characters and shouted some really weird obscenities like, “Get that cocksucker! Slay him”, “Fuck the musketeers! They’re all pussies”, and my personal favorite, “Stab that knight in his asshole!” I had to quickly fake my death and fall on my face when I heard that last one… I mean, what would the fans think if they saw me laughing hysterically as I battled to save Princess Butterface? No, I had to maintain the integrity of the show.

After five or six ferocious battles, hotel security finally asked us to return to our rooms. Apparently, two inebriated dudes in their thirties had resorted to fist-a-cuffs when they couldn’t agree on who would win if two musketeers actually faced off against an evil, chain-mailed knight (Umm, watch the fights, you tools- I was totally killing those musketeer bitches). I can only hope that their mother made them some bomb-ass grilled cheese and tomato soup to soothe their wounds as they played Dungeons and Dragons in her basement.

To avoid expulsion from the hotel, we bowed to our fans, told them to catch our jousting match in the downstairs arena at 8pm and quickly beat a retreat to our rooms. After easing back into the twenty-first century with a shower, a few beers and some SportsCenter, I called the fellas to see what the plans were for the evening. We all quickly agreed that there was really only one way to celebrate after a long, hard day of sword fighting- we were going to a strip club.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Denial Makes the Heart Grow Fonder - Episode III: Fuck You, Emily Bronte

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 15:06:34 -0800

* If you missed the previous episodes of this story, you can find them as earlier posts on this blog. If you’ve already read the other episodes, enjoy…

Just as I was sure Steve was going to call me an asshole and walk inside, a devilish smile spread across her face. She slid right up in front of me, pushed me forcefully against the garage wall and leaned in to whisper in my ear. My trusted associate, Big Earl, went from flaccid to diamond-cutter immediately. Was she going to fight me or molest me? Who cared- her crotch was touching mine. Her lips grazed my ear lightly as she whispered, “You better come back… I wanna have some fun with you tonight”.

She let her lips linger at my neck just long enough so I could feel her moist breath, and then she stepped away, bit her lip coyly and walked inside. Bryant and I watched HER PERFECT ASS like we were watching the sunrise for the first time- it was mesmerizing. After a few long seconds, we turned to each other, unsure of what to do. Finally, I told him we should go out to my car and talk about it.

We walked by Steve’s car, and just I happened to glance in the passenger-side window… AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!! What the fuck!? Pressed against the window was Sugar Tits’ round, fleshy face. Was she fucking dead? Afraid to step closer, I leaned my head forward towards the window and saw that every so often a small circle of condensation would form on the window right in front of her drooling mouth. She was breathing… maybe in a coma, but she was breathing. More importantly, my scream hadn’t broken her slumber. Bryant and I crept away as quickly and quietly as we could.

At my car I told Bryant what Steve had whispered in my ear. He couldn’t believe it- the girl WITH THE PERFECT ASS definitely wanted to bone. We were fairly certain of it before, but the whisper gave us hard evidence. What else could “I wanna have some fun with you” really mean? Did she wanna get coked-up and “have fun” playing Scattergories? I think not, my friends. “Slumber party” and “have fun with you” when delivered in the context they were, were definitely poorly disguised codes for intercourse… lots and lots of sweaty intercourse.

Bryant and I deliberated for almost twenty minutes on if we should stay or not. As much as we tried to talk each other into it, we just couldn’t get around the fact that each of us loved our girlfriends. We might be suckers, but we were suckers with big hearts and annoying-as-shit consciences. Plus, we were never quite certain that Sugar Tits wasn’t playing opossum just to lure us back into her lair for the ultimate game of “Hide the Sausage in the Flesh-Calzone”, which was sure to be followed by games of “Disappearing Dignity” and “Which Rash is This?”

So it was decided- we would go home and watch Desperate Housewives. We would even pretend to enjoy it. But worst of all, we would pretend that our girlfriends didn’t smell like some other dude’s dick. The thought alone was enough to make me want to cry while I choked myself and masturbated…. but I wouldn’t- I never did. Why? Mainly because I was afraid my girlfriend would catch me. How do you explain something like that? You don’t. Then, suddenly and quietly, it began to rain. It was as if God was watching this story unfold and he could no longer hold back his tears of bitter disappointment.

Bryant climbed onto his motorcycle and sped away into the dark, wet night. I watched as he disappeared and stood alone by my car, looking at Steve’s boss’ house, wondering what might have been and soaking in the misery of the gentle rain. I thought shit like this only happened in novels. Well, as it turns out, sometimes nature does mirror the emotions of the protagonist, and I was stuck in some long forgotten chapter of Wuthering Heights. Fuck you, Emily Bronte. Fuck you.

TO BE CONTINUED…