- A mother has sold her face and dignity for a tattoo advertisement. She says the money will go to her son’s education because he is falling behind in school. If the kid inherited his mom’s brains then I can understand why he is falling behind in school.
- Takeru Kobayashi has won his fifth consecutive hot-dog eating title retaining the coveted Mustard Yellow International Belt.
- Stella’s groove consisted of a scheming homosexual, embezzlement and duplicity.
I have heard many urban legends on how to pass a breathalyzer test while intoxicated. My favorite came from a friend in high school who was convinced that sucking on a penny after a night of hard drinking would magically erase the alcohol on your breath (it is a suburban thing, holmes, you would not understand). Whenever he was leaving a party befuddled, he would pop a penny in his mouth, start sucking on it and confidently strut out to his car to drive home. Unfortunately, he was never pulled over so his theory was never tested. It could have been worse, I suppose. He could have been stuffing his own feces in his mouth in an attempt to foil the test.
A gallery of winners at the International Beard and Mustache Championships. Your madness pleases me, Joachim Ott.
A kid who got beat up for wearing a pink shirt to school is suing the school and his attacker. I have some words of advice to the little Mary wearing his ballerina gear. If you are delusional enough to believe that nobody is going to call you a “faggot” and try to fight you when you are:
- A male.
- Wearing a pink collared shirt to high school (a place renowned for excessive social Darwinism).
Then you deserved the beating you got. Only one man can pull off the pink shirt and his name is Don Johnson.
Anti-seat belt activist loses his debate. An excerpt:
In a column written for the Daily Nebraskan in September, Derek attacked seat belt laws as intrusions on individual liberties and expensive to enforce. “It is my choice what type of safety precautions I take,” he wrote. “There seems to be a die-hard group of non-wearers out there who simply do not wish to buckle up no matter what the government does. I belong to this group.”
I wonder if these were Captain Liberty’s last thoughts before his head splattered all over the interstate. I wear a seat belt but not because there is law saying I have to. I buckle up because in the event of an accident, I do not want to exit my automobile at sixty miles per hour skull first through the windshield. Spending my formidable years eating through a straw and having loved ones empty my colostomy bag is not very appealing.
I do not care if any of these bitches got a tattoo last week, have a cold, were pierced recently, use intravenous drugs, are HIV infected or contracted hepatitis from some skeezy frat boy that looked like Dave Matthews. They better LIE! If I screw this sorority girl blood drive up my dad may cut me off and the convertible Cabrio will go back to the dealership and the weekly stipend that keeps this house full of ecstasy tablets and Midori will stop. We cannot have that. Now where is Mary Sue at? Gamma Phi Beta is going have an old-fashioned bloodletting.
“I’m sure his heart is in the right place, but stunt men usually put on flame-retardant suits.”
My friend Tyler likes David Blaine. That makes my friend Tyler stupid. This is all you need to know about David Blaine: he is a poor man’s Harry Houdini. Tomorrow, Blaine will begin 44-day stint of isolation without food, suspended over the Thames River in a clear plastic box.
I hate magicians and endurance artists. They are attention whores that remind me of a pathetic kid I grew up with who always had the coolest toys and nobody to play with. I would go over to his house, endure his incessant whining, play some Nintendo, eat scrumptious snack food that his mom made and then peddle my Huffy home. That kid is now in jail for dealing drugs. Little FYI.
On my way back to office during lunch today I saw something so utterly ridiculous I am still in shock. While waiting at a traffic light, I pull behind a Dodge Neon. A sticker is placed squarely in the back window that reads “Brakes Are For Pussies.” Easy Johnny Nitrous Oxide, you would be lucky if an old lady with a walker did not beat you up a hill in that high-performance fluorescent blue bucket of four cylinder shit that you call an automobile.
A tongue piercing becomes a lightning conductor. Still, I guess it is cool to jam a metal rod in your mouth that makes you drool when you talk and is otherwise only noticeable when said tongue piercing is licking on my balls.