June 23, 2014 at 8:33 am | Posted in Da Ritzenator | 1 Comment

religionBefore 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 (offerancenot 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 guesslove” 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)

Milk Duds

June 11, 2014 at 8:49 am | Posted in Da Ritzenator | Leave a comment

milkdudsBy 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


December 20, 2013 at 10:11 am | Posted in Da Ritzenator | Leave a comment

gun(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


December 18, 2013 at 9:59 am | Posted in Da Ritzenator | Leave a comment
repetitionThe definition of repetition is repeating words in a repetitive fashion. The best way to remember the definition of repetition is to repeat the definition of repetition until you can remember how to repeat all the repetitive words in the actual definition of the word repetition. People tend to remember how to repeat repetitions before they even remember what the definition of repetition is. It’s just remembering to repeat the repetitious words in the definition of repetition repetitiously until you can remember the definition by heart. Remembering to repeat the defined daily medications for your heart, by heart, day after day, is an every day use of repetition. If you have defined heart repetition problems, remember to share repetitive heart to heart words with your doctor about how well defined your heart’s activity is. Knowing about the active medicines that your doctor defines for you to actively make your heart repeat its repetitive activities will help you remember the defined medications you need to actively and repetitiously take. Thus, not remembering the repetitive words that define the word repetition might make you not remember to actively take doctor defined medication for your active heart repetitively, and you’ll die. But at least you only die once. – Da Ritzenator


August 26, 2013 at 2:06 pm | Posted in Da Ritzenator | Leave a comment

beltThe term “belt” most often refers to an adjustable accessory that adapts garments to be more form fitting. Or in layman’s terms: a complete waste of time. You see, while many people claim that belts efficiently extend the usefulness of a pair of slacks that have grown ill-fitting due to a change in body mass, many others will angrily chant: “Just buy a new pair of pants that fit and stop killing the American economy, you commie bastard!” As we have seen time and time again, it is those sorts of furious masses that shape history. So in the future, we can expect to see belts become a sign of socialism, going against everything apple pie and boot strap pulling up. With palpable irony, the small population of reasonable people in the future will communally smack their extra large, belt wearing heads and retort “Boot straps are nothing more than belts for shoes.” This will undoubtedly be met with a whirlwind of harsh criticism painting them terrorists who have no place in Zuckerberg’s America.

As socio-trajectory and correlated forecasts predict, this anti-belt faction will continue to grow until it squeezes every bit of rational reason out of humanity. Only the last intelligent American will see the irony here, and cleverly create a political cartoon showing a belt of stupidity tightening around society. The other 900 million idiots will not understand, and with pitchforks and torches in hand, lynch the author with the very belt that birthed the comedic commentary.  The curious thing is that those futuristic Amurikunz will not be the first collective to have risen up against belts, and the magical, mysterious ways they cinch backpacks.

Archeologists have found hieroglyphics showing aliens coming down, teaching the ways of the belt to Egyptian kings. Made from cat hides and cobra fangs, the kings instructed their slaves to harness belts to the ridiculously oversized blocks of sandstone and drag them up to build the Tremendous Cubes of Egypt. It has been well documented that the slaves eventually rose up to overthrow the kings. In the destruction that followed, the slaves burned all the belts holding the Tremendous Cubes together. The Cubes then fell apart, leaving behind somewhat great pyramids.

Unfortunately, belts were not buried forever with the Egyptian coup. Out of respect for those fallen monarchies, later rulers symbolically used belts to whip…or “belt”…other people/innocent children of lesser statuses. It is surely not a coincidence that the reaction of said victims can be described as “belting out a loud cry.”

Also, belts can be used in cars or vacuums for something or other, but I don’t know what. I don’t really care about those sorts of belts. – Da Ritzenator

Spongebob Squarepants

October 1, 2012 at 1:11 pm | Posted in Da Ritzenator | Leave a comment

So, like, Tyler has this birthday and stuff, and my mommy drives me over there and everything, and we’re all runnin’, chasin’ the girls around, cause they’re annoying, and his mommy brings out this cake with Spongebob Squarepants. It didn’t really look like him too great, It kinda looked more like adult cheese, the one with holes in it (not the orange cheese that my mommy unwraps a piece at a time). I didn’t wanna say anything, ‘cause Tyler’s bigger than me and the cake tasted awesome. So after we ate all the cake and watched Tyler open and play with all his awesome presents, his mommy said that she had a surprise for Tyler and all of us. Everyone got all excited cause she brought out Spongebob Squarepants himself! We all went runnin’ around, yellin’ and chewin’ on Spongebob!

But Spongebob is much nicer and funnier when he’s on the TV. He asked us if we knew who he was, (of course we did!) but his voice in person was way different. He kinda sounded like how my mommy sounds when she drinks all of her medicine after her long, loud talks with daddy. We all kept asking him how Patrick was, and where Squidward was. I could barely understand what he said back. He didn’t even know who Gary was, but he must have been joking or something, because how could he not know his own pet snail? Also, no matter where I walked in Tyler’s house, his eyes followed me, and he never blinked. I definitely remember him blinking in my favorite episode where Gary chased away Spongebob’s other pet, Puffy Fluffy.  We still had an awesome time, taking turns riding on his back, high fiving his hand, and blowing bubbles at him.

But after what seemed like a minute, it was time for Spongebob to leave.  I wanted to know how he was gonna get back to the sea, since he doesn’t have his driving license from Mrs. Puff’s Boating School. Before I could ask, I heard Tyler’s mommy say she was calling a cab for him, since he was in no way able to drive. I guess she spoke to Mrs. Puff and knows that he never passed his driving test too.  We all shouted bye at him and watched him leave from the window. He walked to the curb and sat down. What happened next scared every last one of us. Spongebob put his hands to the sides of his head and PULLED HIS HEAD OFF!!!! All the girls screamed because they were scared the most. But there was no blood or anything, just another guy’s head under Spongebob’s. We could see the head drink something out of a shiny box. It looked like what daddy’s medicine comes in; the medicine he takes after the long, loud talks with mommy. After that, I don’t know what happened to Spongebob, because Tyler’s mommy moved us away from the window and we all got ice cream, which was awesome! When I left, there was no sign of Spongebob or his head, so he must have gotten back to his pineapple house OK. I’ve gotta watch the next episode to see if he mentions me! – Da Ritzenator


July 26, 2012 at 10:42 am | Posted in Da Ritzenator | Leave a comment

Chick-Fil-A is a saying people used to use, usually accompanied by jazz-hands, to punctuate a sentence with pizzazz and excited sentiment. The “A” was drug out over a few seconds: the longer the hold, the pizzazzier the sentiment. Ecstatic with the phrase and emotion, but unhappy and frightened by the non-christian homosexuals who predominately used it, S. Truett Cathy decided to make it his own. He said “why do all those g*ddamn girly boys have to filth-i-fy all that is holy on god’s earth with their sinful ways.” He vowed to change the tone of the phrase and wipe all that was fun from the original incarnation, as most god-fearing homophobes do. Naturally, his plan to do this was to create some sort of retail chain and name it Chick-Fil-A. After a year of trying to figure out what to sell, The not so bright and poor speller S. finally settled on chicken, since his born-again phrase, (like the very jesus-man himself) already had the word “chick” embedded in it (like the very jesus-man had spikes).

He knew that all good christian soldiers went to church on Sundays, so anyone who  would want to go to his poor excuse for a restaurant on a Sunday must be a non-christian homosexual. Standing by his logic, he made it mandatory for his restaurants be closed every Sunday. Extrapolating his theory further, he decided that if one of these man-lovin heathens tried to enter his restaurants on a Sunday, he would try to “fix ‘um” with a dose of anti-gay mist, commonly known as hydrochloric acid; a practice still enforced today.

Eventually, the whole operation became a front. He sank every last dime he had into anti-gay cults, clans, hate groups, politicians and Dane Cook in hopes they all could prevent non-christians from being happy. His homophobic paranoia grew to the point where he even feared puppets because he could not figure out their gender. Eventually his hysteria climaxed where he attacked and successfully killed himself with a high heel shoe because his first name was androgynous, and his last name was that of a girl. – Da Ritzenator


July 25, 2012 at 2:27 pm | Posted in Da Ritzenator, J. Frederick, Matty Fatty | 2 Comments

What is Love? Baby don’t hurt me, no more. Love is a burning thing and it makes a fiery ring. Love is what I got. Love is blind. Love is the answer. Love is a second-hand emotion. Love is a battlefield. Love is real, real is love. Love is feeling, feeling love. Love is wanting to be loved. Love is touch, touch is love. Love is reaching, reaching love. Love is asking to be loved. Love is you, you and me. Love is knowing we can be. Love is free, free is love. Love is living, living love. Love is needing to be loved. Love is a many splendored thing. Love lifts us up where we belong. Love is all you need. L.O.V.E. was made for me and you. Love is only sleeping. Love without anger isn’t love at all. Love is eternity. Love means nothing. Love is the way you make it. Love bites, love bleeds, Love lives, love dies, Love begs, love pleads.  Love stinks, yeah yeah. – Da Ritzenator, with a little help from Matty Fatty & J Frederick

North Face

July 12, 2012 at 3:23 pm | Posted in Da Ritzenator | Leave a comment

North Face is a brand of clothing that people wear if they are complete jerks or if they want to nudge and whine their way into the complete jerk in-crowd. This non-active active wear is worn by nearly 75 percent of obnoxious and self-centered college students around the country (Ivy League colleges and stuck-up snob-a-vercities yield a much higher percentage). It was not always this way. There was a point in North Face history where they made outdoor sports gear and hiking accessories that were meant and physically used for their intended purposes. 20 to 30 years ago, North Face was a badge of quality and adventure. Fleece-lined jackets protected mountaineers from the elements. Snow pants were worn by rescue teams who saved lives along back trails and stayed dry. Their gloves and boots were favorites among rangers who would blaze trails through the woods and maintain the paths for everyone. Backpacks, tents and sleeping bags were utilized by scientists who studied weather and wildlife in harsh climates. Today, North Face sweatpants are an informative beacon that a dude survived a kegger of Natty Ice from the night before. North Face vests let guys know that the girl wearing it is an easy, druggable date/target.  Wearing their logo encrusted jacket shows off just how different each parental-purse grasping teen is from the next silver-spoon-fed carbon copy. The most action and adventure North Face owners face is stumbling out of someone else’s bed around noon, still drunk from the night before, trying to make it to a starbucks before puking all over the sidewalk. Da Ritzenator

St. Patrick’s Day

March 17, 2010 at 11:21 am | Posted in Da Ritzenator | Leave a comment

I live in fear every year when St Patrick’s Day comes in March. It started about 3 years ago when I was 5. My dad gets drunk. But he doesn’t just get drunk. I’ll try to explain. Hold on, he’s calling….

This sucks. Daddy claims that St Patrick’s Day is all about the Irish, leprechauns, clovers and daddy’s favorite alcohol: beer. So even through we’re not Irish, he claims that it’s their gift to all of us: a one day pass to drink as much beer as possible.

In the beginning it’s not so bad (before he gets really drunk). After he’s had his first 6 beers by 8am, he forcefully makes me stay home from school. He locks the doors, and only allows me to stay downstairs where the living room and kitchen are. I tried to fight it last year, but…that’s not a good idea.

We both sit downstairs in silence, watching whatever is on TV. After beer 10 or 12, he grabs me by the arm, drags me to his chair, and tells me the “Irish Tale” that if a person catches a leprechaun, that leprechaun will grant him 3 wishes. So he stumbles upstairs only to return with my green lantern t-shirt, a pair of green shorts of mine, and a green bandana to dress me up like a Leprechaun. “Since you’re so small” he mutters, “you’re the leprechaun”. He then say “run away leprechaun, and I’m gonna get ya.”

The first year I hid, thinking it was a game: a fun St. Patrick’s Day game of hide-and-go-seek. So even though I was downstairs, I hid good behind the dog food in the kitchen closet. By now he was up to beer 16, and he stumbled around the rooms. It’s not a big house, so he did not have too much trouble finding me.  When he did, he grabbed me by the hair through the bandana and dragged me out. Still holding my hair & bandana, he took off his belt and “punished” me for being a bad leprechaun, hiding like that.

Last year, I thought I hid better, but he still got me. So this year, I did not hide. I just sat on the couch near him, my knees tucked up against my chest, and my arms tightly interlocking around my legs. When he woke up from his 18th beer or so, he found me sitting on the couch across the room, and STILL “punished” me for hiding! Darn it, he’s calling again…

So anyway, I keep leaving because of his first wish. I have to continuously bring beers to his chair. But the catch is that he binds my hands together in the front with the belt. So I can still grab (and type) and bring him beer. Drunk as he is, I have to be careful; he’s still very agile and accurate. He drifts in and out of his drunken stupor, stirred awake by the sound of applause and whooting on Maury. At this point he throws whatever is closest to him at me. This is my alert that he needs another beer. Sometimes the thing he throws is his last unfinished can of beer, which sprays around the room as he chucks it.  As drunk as he is, it always seems to hit me and I get him another can.

The second wish has been different every year: a bigger house, a boat, a better job, and he expects me to get it for him. Luckily at this point, we’ve already passed his most dangerous point, and he’s more asleep than awake. He’s drunk enough that he forgets the wish, and I’ve only had to act like I’m working on his wish for a little while.

So that brings us to where he is now. He’s been out for about 30 minutes and I’m gonna try to leave. Last year I left too early. I tried to open the window, and he awoke shaking and yelled “Come back here leprechaun! Grant me my third wish!” to which he added “Bring your mom back!” He threw his mostly full beer at me, which struck my head hard and ricocheted to shatter the window. Then he started to cry. I hate St Patrick’s Day. – Da Ritzenator

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