Tags: Taint Conditioner
In 1967, a man name Geeves Dunkirk was driving along in his automobile on a hot day. Traffic was stop and go. The sun was shining down through his windshield. He had the air conditioner on and was keeping somewhat cool, but not everywhere. Between his thighs and under his manhood, his bonch was still sweaty with duck butter. Try as he might, even with the fan at maximum, he could not angle the vents in such a way as to cool the real estate before his butt and below his balls. Perhaps he could have managed it were he on the passenger side, but as the driver with the steering wheel blocking the air flow, his gouch was becoming swampy. Several solutions occurred to him. Maybe he could wear a kilt. With his skirt hiked up and nothing underneath, the trickle of air that reached his grunskin might be enough to keep him dry and refreshed. Unfortunately, the child in the bus stopped next to him who was looking down into his car got him to worrying about arrest for indecent exposure. How would he keep his bifkin at a reasonable temperature? The next day he tried using an ice pack. At first it felt good. Then he was freezing his balls off. Eventually he was sitting in a puddle. His grundle was soaked and rapidly warming. He knew there must be a better alternative. On the following day, he shoved a bunch of paper towels down his pants and packed them near his gooch. That worked until the towels began to become saturated. They also insulated his perineum from the coolness of the car, worsening matters. Finally it came to him. He could keep his nifkin dry. It was a simple invention. He just needed to fasten a hose to one of the vents and run it to his durf. The path of least resistance was into his down-zipped fly. However, looking at himself with a giant hose sticking out of his pants made him wonder how he would explain this to a cop were he ever to be pulled over. Although more circuitous, the best path to his barse was down to the floor and up the left pant leg. It worked like a charm and the taint conditioner was born. So if you’re driving along the highway sweating your balls off and the guy in the car next to you looks cool and comfortable, ask yourself why you don’t have a taint conditioner too! ––The Knave
Before there was anything, there was God. He is the sole creator of everything there is (like the bull of the universe). Religion is the belief in Him, through faith, and offerance (offerance? not a word) of your undying love, praise and devotion. Some people claim that He’s not real (yup), that there is no proof of His existence (yup), or that it is just a man-made story to control the feeble minded or help others sleep at night (yup, yup). But that’s the selfish side of religion (wait…that doesn’t make sense). When you accept Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior (quite the title), and pledge your love, loyalty and service to him (he wants all that? Sounds like he’s a selfish jerk), your reward will be peace, comfort, and confidence (so god is just weed and alcohol). But you can only achieve this salvation if you let him come into you (be sure to use protection). Once he’s taken over your thoughts and being (sounds a bit sinister…), you will connect with what is right, and know true life and all it has to offer. All of your sin will be washed away, and your soul will be pure (I don’t think you can be considered pure if you “let him in”). But you must always praise Him and only Him, let the spirit in (with enough spirits, it’s possible I’d let him in) and have Him fill you with love (I guess “love” is another name for it). If you do, and it is an honest and true commitment, your Joy (if that’s her name) will be everlasting and eternal (So just Joy forever and ever? Sorry, I’m out. I need variety). – Da Ritzenator (comments by site editor)
People keep askin’ me ‘cause I’m Russian what I think ‘bout Crimea, but what do I know from Crimea? I’m not Ukrainian and I’m not even really Russian. I was born in the United States. All I know is it’s some stupid peninsula. Nobody wants to go there. If I want to go to a peninsula I’ll go to Florida. So Russia says that Crimea is theirs and Ukraine says that Crimea is theirs. Who cares? It’s the same stupid place. It’s like two dogs fightin’ over which one gets to eat the cat poop. If people in Crimea don’t want to be in Russia and want to stay in Ukraine, they finally have an excuse to leave that crappy turd hangin’ into the Black Sea. They can go to the real Ukraine or maybe now they can go someplace better than Ukraine or Russia like almost everywhere else in Europe except Moldova and Belarus. And the people in Crimea that wanted to be in Russia; now they have their dream come true. They’re in Russia—the crappiest part of Russia, but Russia. I hope they also like bein’ arrrested, ‘cause they prob’ly will be soon, ‘specially if they start havin’ some pussy riots. Just imagine what a shit place Crimea’s gotta’ be? They think that short bald man-boobs guy, Vladimir Putin, is some kinda’ magic leprechaun that’s gonna’ fix up their dumpy little mistake on the Sea of Azov and make it some sorta’ poor man’s Atlantic City, except with more public urination and that’s an improvement. Guess what? Not gonna’ happen. Best case scenario, it gets to the point where it’s just as terrible as the rest of Russia instead of worse. There’s a reason my family had to get a visa to come to America. If Russians didn’t need a visa to come here, there’d be no one left there except a topless Putin ridin’ a horse. F Crimea. –Nadejda Naivenko
Tags: Porn Shop
They never say it outright in the movies, but it is pretty clear that they had porn in the Star Wars Universe. Luke Skywalker definitely was playing with a saber long before he met Obi Wan and you know he needed more to inspire him than Aunt Beru while he was stroking it on that moisture farm in the Force forsaken desert. I mean, if they had computers, they had porn. It might have been fuzzy hologram porn, but there was porn. I know it. They probably had some sex droids too, but Uncle Owen was likely too cheap to get Luke one. Han might not have needed porn. I’m sure he was discharging his flesh blaster in a different Twi’lek chick every night, grabbing her lekku (those two head tentacles for all you lame asses who don’t know) like handles and entering her hyperspace over and over again. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. Porn is out there easily accessible from any computing device. They knew it a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away and they know it here and now.
So, what’s with these porn shops? Why do they exist? Who goes there? We can eliminate the notion that there are people who don’t know they can get porn online. You might be a nerf short of a herd, but you know about online porn. It can’t be that they’re afraid of computer viruses (and not the real ones which are probably rampant in those shops), because you can get porn delivered to your house in a plain brown envelope and your credit card discreetly billed as OPC Inc. or so I’ve heard. There won’t be chicks there, so it’s not to meet some. Only one thing makes sense. Porn shops must have porn so twisted, so demented, so anathema to society, that it is too dirty for the internet. I’m talking a shaved Wookie banging a pink Ewok using Ponda Baba’s severed arm kind of sick, but even worse. My Jedi, if you see anyone coming out of one of those shops, jump in your landspeeder and make a bee line for Tosche Station. Better yet, put a few parsecs between you and that guy (because it will be a guy).
P.S. If you’ve ever seen me coming out of one of those places, it was research for this entry. Darth Trovert
Celery is very confusing. My parents were having a party and they had a big tray with tiny tomatoes and baby carrots and broccoli and cauliflower and something called celery sticks and in the middle was some dip. I used a celery stick to put some dip on my plate and then I took some of the food and put it on my plate and dipped it in the dip and ate it and it was good. I even licked the dip off of the celery stick. Then I wanted some more and I knew my mom would be mad if I used the same celery stick to get the dip that I just licked so I took another celery stick and got some dip and some more vegetables and ate them all with a lot of dip and licked the celery stick clean. There wasn’t so much food at the party that was good so I did this a few time and had a bunch of celery sticks on my plate. May mom asked me why I took so many celery sticks and didn’t eat them. “People don’t eat sticks, mom,” I told her. She said that celery sticks were okay to eat. I eyed them dubiously. I said, “But how come the last time I was chewing on some sticks you told me that little boys don’t eat sticks?” She said that was different because they were chopsticks and celery was a plant. I asked her what chop sticks were made out of and she told me bamboo. I eyed her dubiously. I said, “But, mom, didn’t you tell me before when we had Asian food that I should try some bamboo because it was okay to eat because it was a plant and it wasn’t just for making furniture?” She said, “You like the carrots. Did you know they also have carrot sticks? Lots of foods come in stick form, like pretzel sticks. Just try it.” I tried the celery and it was tough and tasteless and had fibers in it like wood. “It’s just like eating a chopstick,” I told her. My mother eyed me dubiously and told me to go play. So I learned a few things like baby carrots grow up to be sticks and pretzels are made of wood, but not so much about celery. All I know about celery is that it is a stick that is okay to eat and maybe you can make furniture out of it and no one I asked has ever seen a baby celery. Juan D Tenti
Tags: Milk Duds
By definition, one would perceive Milk Duds to be Faulty Lactose, or milk that doesn’t go off. A Dud of Milk, so to speak. Milk Duds are in actuality, neither milk nor duds. They are a futuristic glue sent back to the past, packaged, and sold as candy. Anyone who has ever attempted to eat Milk Duds (Duddius Milkuses) can verify: the duds are impossible to get out of your mouth. Chew and chew you might, but the dense, pseudo-caramel center will remain on your teeth for centuries to come. The best place to find Milk Duds is in a laborer’s tool chest. Milk Duds are used to hold plane propellers together on the majority of trans-continental commercial flights, so they can easily keep your stupid pipes together. Children find it amusing to buy the not really milk, false-duds by the box full at movies and chuck them at the screen. The inaccurately named duds then stick to the screen, giving a bare chest a third nipple or a malignant tumor to a mistress’s face. Back in eighteen-seventy-three, there was the great Milk Duds shortage of Nineteen-fifty-four, where everything was literally falling apart. This was followed by the eighteen-seventy-beige Milk Duds scare, where to boost production, Milk Duds were cut with oregano. This resulted in an unpredictable chemical chain reaction, killing everyone who read their local newspaper. It was not until boat-teen-sugardy-one that Milk Duds made a resurgence via the masterful ad campaign created by the Nazi regime of Mars. They cleverly took milk duds, turned them inside out, and wore them as winter coats, which came off as very appealing to those without torsos. Seeing this, Whoppers and Tootsie Rolls wanted a piece of the action, but Mr. Milk Dud just laughed at them, because they were just porn star names. So Tootsie & Whopper became mates and erected (ha-ha) a wall, blocking Milk Dud’s access to the pool, which we all know is the life blood for candy. With swimming privileges revoked, Milk D. Ud was forced to pay for his own insurance. And when his trash can burned to the ground, he had the funds to rebuild his taxidermy empire bigger and stronger than ever before. To this very day, Milk Duds cannot be found in reality, and are only figments in an otherwise altered state of paranoia. – Da Ritzenator
Perhaps it’s time you heard a cautionary tale about drugs. It’s a tale of a young man not unlike yourself. He thought he was “cool”. He thought he was “with it”. He was captain of the football team. Dated the prettiest girl in school. Valedictorian. All-star shortstop. Captain of the basketball team. All-star quarterback. Dated the prettiest cheerleader on the softball team. All-star goalkeeper. Valedictory Man. Captain of the valedictorian team. Accepted into the finest colleges in the land on hockey and dating scholarships. Dated the prettiest college student on the cheerleading team. Yes, this young man – let’s call him Paul – this young man, who shall remain nameless but was named David, had everything going for him. He had his whole life, except for the parts that were already in the past, ahead of him. He thought he was “great”. Then one night it all came crashing down like so many houses of cards piled on top of each other. He was at a party – never mind where! – and someone offered him a tiny green pill. Oh that pill! Were it not for that pill, he would later often lament, everything would be different. Everything would still be ahead of him – his life not being the least of it. He’d still have his lacrosse scholarship. Still be dating the prettiest young debate club captain you’ve ever seen. Oh but he thought he was a “real hepcat”. We’re all foolish once, and this young valedictitian made a decision that warm summer night that changed everything. That green pill was not to be enough – not nearly not enough! No longer was he “cool as a cucumber”. One thing led to another, as one thing often does. His slide into drugs was as inevitable as it was inexorable. From the tiny green pill to the tiny purple pill to another, larger purple pill. From there to the wacky weed. A bit of coke, a bit of smack, a bit of crack, a bit of smoke. Oh the drugs! He tried beer laced with horse, vodka laced with Four Loco, whiskey laced with lace, Jim Beam mixed with John Beam. He had Kool Aid spiked with acid, beer spiked with peyote-flavored Kool Aid. He had crank, spank, jab, junk, dope, gripe, gram, gleam, and harm. He tried Molly (not ecstasy, but an actual girl named Molly who came to his house and performed minor surgery on his cerebellum) and Linda (a form of ecstasy). He tried Flavor, Lever, Stupor, Mad Justin, The Shambles, Puzzle Dust, Norwegian Radium, Vast Boron, Mincing Man, Portcullis, Betty Grable, Terror Cheese, Condensation, Arthur Treacher’s Heroin, Mr. Honeycutt, A Bear, Very Tall, Auto-Erotic Pot Roast, Pac-Man Fever, Drugs: The Animated Series, Gift Card, Literally Tapir Saliva, and Gum.
He licked 9-volt batteries.
All of it took him to crashing highs and soaring lows. It was CRAY! But meanwhile everything else went wrong for him. His grades declined. His friends turned their backs. His home became a burnt shell; his clothes hung from his body in ragged strips. You think the pretty cheerleaders still wanted to date him? They did not. The New York Yankees Baseball Organization had once talked about drafting him to play on their sports team. You think they still talked about that? Think again. Who wants to draft a drug junkie to play pitcher? Nobody. Oh that pill! If only I had not taken that tiny green pill, he would lament wordlessly to the uncaring cosmos – to a noticeable lack of avail.
But complaining and lamenting won’t save you from a drug-addled life; you can only save yourself. You need to want to get better. This young man awoke one morning after a wild fortnight of partying to find himself in sunny Acapulco next to a supermodel on a pile of money and thought to himself, there’s got to be a better way!
He’s one of the lucky ones. Not everyone comes back from Drugtown, especially not the ones who think it’s a literal place and not an illustrative abstraction. But he did, by thunder! He worked and suffered and prayed and he came back. He’s not perfect – he still feels the druggy shakes, still forgets where he lives and where he left his pants. He walks unsteadily, constantly wiping his nose on his hand. His knees ache – he’ll never bowl again. But he holds down a job at the pet shop, combing dogs, greeting kids, and cataloging cats. He’s on his way toward being a “cool dude” again. And you know what, he’s even got a girlfriend now. Their names? ADAM AND EVE. -J. Frederick
Birds are feathered, winged, bipedal, warm-blooded, egg-laying vertebrates of the class Aves. There are approximately ten thousand living species of birds, and I have made it my personal life’s mission to punch each of them. I began this project a number of years ago when I was relaxing in my lawn chair with a book and a glass of iced tea, and a rose-breasted grosbeak alighted on the armrest. So charmed was I by its red and black plumage and white supercilium that I could scarcely resist the urge to punch it as hard as possible. Having done this and emboldened by the ease with which it was accomplished, I went for a stroll in the woods where I chanced upon a chestnut-rumped heathwren, a bicoloured mouse-warbler, a rufous-sided gerygone, and a scrubtit, and punched each of them in turn. And so began what has become my life’s work: hunting down a representative of each of the world’s varied avian subspecies and punching them incredibly hard with all the strength I can muster. I have punched a purple-naped lory and a lesser kestrel; I traveled to Papua New Guinea and punched a slaty-mantled goshawk; I recall with tremendous fondness a bright summer morning in 2009 when, despairing of ever sighting one, I finally came upon a stunning specimen of a white-crowned shama and punched it. A Craveri’s murrelet, punched; two black-browed albatrosses, punched in unison; a Southern cassowary and a tufted puffin, you ask? I have punched them both. Brother, you better believe I have punched a houbara bustard. My work is far from complete; tomorrow I plan to punch a pied heron, after which I will travel to Botswana to get my fist upside the beak of a wattled crane. Soon, very soon I hope to punch a blue-fronted lancebill and if it tries to mess with me I’ll punch it twice. Perhaps I’m just one of those restless souls that always needs something to occupy me; when I have finished with birds, who knows? Maybe then I’ll turn my attention to mollusks. I certainly don’t like the way that chambered nautilus was looking at me. -J. Frederick
(as transcribed/ adapted from scribblings found on the walls of a jail cell, cross checked with historical information) The origin of the gun began when people wanted a better way to celebrate New Year’s Eve than by simply throwing things up really high into the air. Pots, pans, and knives were either too heavy or bulky, or were too quiet when they finally came down. Big New Years Eve fireworks were the standard, but were only set off by drunken community board members who loved playing with fire. So a man who exceeded at playing with fire and imbibing lots of drink (but lost a community board election by 33 votes), decided to make a home version. Colton Gunn Winchester began his historical, ground breaking experiments by, first and foremost, drinking heavily in his back yard. In his words, that was the only way to “get loud stuff up high.” His trials evolved as such: he first meticulously chose a variety of metal objects to toss up into the air, noting their wind resistance and timing of how long it took them to fall. None of the items met the standards he had in mind. Next, he attached metal tools to pigeons, which he’d then release into the air. Although it was neat to see the tools fly away, they never fell or cause noise. The next town over did benefit with a surplus of screwdrivers and ball peen hammers, but that is a tale for another day. His last trial involved climbing onto his shed roof and throwing stuff down as hard as he could. This did cause the loudest sound, but was hardly the visual equivalent of fireworks. Thinking that he needed more in-depth research, Mr. Winchester gathered up as much sobriety as he could, rode over to the city hall, and thieved the biggest two fireworks. Back inside his house, he lit one off (he knew he’d be caught if he set it off outside) out of his hand. It lodged itself into the ceiling and caught both his hand and the second floor bedroom on fire. With no fire extinguishers, he poured water over his hand from the nearby basin and ran out to his shed to watch his house burn. But he was a determined man, and this did not sway him. Sober from the smoke, pain, and seeing almost everything he owned burn to the ground, he improved upon his first trial by fashioning a handle onto the the second firework. He ran outside of the shed to try it, and it worked! He was able to shoot a firework out of his hand in any direction he’d choose, in this case, up. With that, Colton claimed to have invented the first “Gunn” (named for his mother, who hated fireworks). Unfortunately, Colton never saw any fame or fortune from his “invention.” The fire department, there putting out his house fire, promptly had him arrested for setting off fireworks without being on the community board or being nearly intoxicated enough. He was taken to the local prison, where he spent the remainder of his days. Looking back on his life, the saddest part of this story was that this all happened in 1994, and if it had been three years later, he could have simply ordered a flare gun from the internet. – Da Ritzenator