Protips for Everyday Life

If you’re a video game fan, you’re familiar with the Protip. If you’re an Internet jerk, you’re familiar with the way the Protip has been turned into a sarcastic response to stupidity.

I’ve decided to convert the Protip to help every regular day Joe. Here’s my…

Protips for Everyday Use.

Protip: Your dad told you not to kiss your sister for a reason.

This is why Dad is so pissed!

Protip: Don’t pick your nose in the car at a traffic light. We’re all watching you and know what you’re doing even if you hide it.

This traffic light is probably the most viewership Rosie has had since her show went off the air.

Protip: Don’t use a handkerchief to blow your nose. Everybody finds it disgusting that you carry snot in your pocket all day long. It’s gross. Get some disposable tissues.

Protip: The Family Circus isn’t funny.

Bonus Protip: Combining children and comedy is worthless unless the child gets hurt.

I was wrong. The Family Circus can even make kids getting injured boring.

Protip: Your God thinks touching kids is bad.

Jesus! GET A ROOM!

Protip: You aren’t allowed to say the N-word if you’re white. Not even if you have black friends and are a famous rapper.

Most white people get nervous in black neighborhoods.

 Bonus Protip: you’re probably not a famous rapper.

No. You still aren't allowed to say it.

Protip: Don’t tell your brother or sister you disapprove of their girlfriend/boyfriend. If they’re that much of a jerk, they’ll screw it up anyway.

Protip: Your baby isn’t cute. It’s ugly, smells funny, and no real man would be caught dead touching it, let alone holding it.

Multitasking: Just because you hand me a baby doesn't mean I don't have more important shit to do.

 Bonus Protip: Put that thing back where you found it. Because now that you ruined that hole, nobody is going to want to put anything else there anyway.

Keep pushing... a few more inches and it'll be all the way back in. Problem solved! 🙂

Protip: He might be a retard, but he can still beat you up. Retards have super strength, and they aren’t smart enough to understand the concept of assault and battery charges.

Protip: If your wife looks like she’s been in a hot-dog eating contest, she’s not Kobayashi, but it’s probably time for a divorce.

This is your wife. Protip: The hot dogs don't belong to you.

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SSuX: A First Impression Game Review

WARNING!: This post contains X-TREME! amounts of “X-TREME!”! It is not intended for children, women, the elderly, pussies, virgins, sexually frustrated rpg nerds, drag queens, people who are not on steroids, and this guy…

He keeps only the best high scores. For a guy with a mohawk, he sure is one stuck up prick.

Any attempt to read this article may result in whiplash, flattened breasts, and high-speed whisker burn. It may also cause every young woman in a 500 meter radius to suffer a ruptured hymen. Be aware that the consequences of reading are your responsibility. If you cannot handle X-TREME! things, click here immediately. This page is probably more your speed. Wimp.
Man, I never thought X-TREME! sports games would get old. I played hours upon hours of Skate or Die! for the NES. That shit made me throw my controller perhaps 720 times. The Tony Hawk Pro Skater games were a staple in my video game collection for years straight. I wouldn’t get rid of one until the next one came out. Well, that was until Ride. That entire game consisted of fucking around with some slab of useless plastic just to watch an unresponsive piece of shit ram itself into any object within arm’s reach! Shit. Tony Hawk Ride is an analogy for my relationship with my ex-wife.

Yeah, it was pretty much just like this, except the guy on the beanbag chair would actually have his beanbag on my ex's chin.

A friend of mine introduced me to the SSX series. 3 was a pinnacle of X-TREME! That shit had everything you could want in a X-TREME! sports game. Tight controls, great music, great leveling system, fun tricks, and a giant fucking full mountain that you could ride down in its entirety. All of the courses in the game were part of one giant course, and by completing each of the events, you got the point where you were familiar enough with all of the terrain in the game to make the 15 minute to half hour trip down the mountain a fun and exciting experience. SSX 3 was fucking X-TREME! It took no prisoners and to this day I miss playing it.

Therefore you’d think I’d be excited for the first SSX game on a Microsoft console in 7 years. You’d be right. So when the demo came out just over a week ago, I downloaded that shit in a second. I was greeted to an extensive tutorial showing you the ins and outs of the new, advanced controls for the game simply dubbed SSX. Now by “extensive,” I mean fucking monotonous, and by “advanced,” I mean fucking broken. I don’t want to sky-board, I want to snow board!!! By “sky-board,” I mean fucking jump out of a helicopter and float in space until I hit every fucking combination of buttons possible in the game. What happened to the days when A was jump, B was grab trick, X was flip trick, and Y was hit a grind? Now, maybe SSX didn’t control exactly like THPS, but you know what? It’s worked pretty good as an X-TREME! control scheme for like, I dunno, 15 goddamn years. Why would you fuck with that? Instead, let’s introduce control based off of the right stick for imprecise movement, and absolutely no feel! Sure, you can use the face buttons, but they’re all combinations of crap. In order to pull off “sweet” grabs, you have to first hit (X), (B), or (Y), which correspond to right, left or both hands, and the press one of the four buttons a second time, which correspond to a side of the board. What the fuck!!?? Because when I’m shredding down an X-TREME! mountain at 100 mph… A mountain filled with rails, jumps, rocks and trees that will fuck me up if my ass isn’t X-TREME! enough, I really have time to think, “Ok, let me see, on my next trick, I’d like to grab the back of my board with my left hand, soooo, ok, here we go… (A) to jump… (X) for left hand to… (A) grab the back of my board.” Yeah, right. I’m too busy shitting myself while trying not to crash into a wall. I JUST WANT TO HOLD THE STICK OR D-PAD IN ONE OF EIGHT FUCKING PRIMARY FUCKING DIRECTIONS AND HIT THE FUCKING BUTTON!!! HOW HARD IS THAT TO DO? IT’S NOT FUCKING HARD SSX, NOT AT ALL!! And yet you fucked it up, you pricks. I might as well be pulling my dick in eight directions with my left hand while punching first my left then right testicle with my other hand. That would be way more fun than the controls in SSX.

"Hey, guys! Check out my new Tony Hawk Ride board! It's way more fun than the controls in SSX, and you don't even have to grab your dick!" "Nothing in that statement is true, Tony, and you know it." "Ok, you got me. Maybe you do have to play with your cock and balls to get any sort enjoyment out of it. Sorry."

And every time you start the demo, you have to watch the same goddamn intro movie, and fuck your way through the same excruciating tutorial. So I played this tutorial about twelve times in one week. Why? Because I thought perhaps I could get used to the controls before I bought the full game. Granted, I know my general dislike of the demo should have told me something. Something like, “Hey, Bob, don’t buy this fucking game. Its going to be a train wreck. It’s going to give give you an aneurism.” But no. I’m a retard. What did I do? I went out and bought the game. Stupid ass.

So here’s me with my new X-TREME copy of SSX. My friends are over, we’re gonna throw it in, and try to beat each other’s trick runs. But first? I have to play through that god-awful tutorial. You can’t even skip it. You can’t. YOU CAN’T SKIP THE FUCKING TUTORIAL! It’s not like I didn’t play your demo 42 times, EA, is it? Just a fucking skip tutorial option like in every other game would be nice. Oh, but how do they make it up to you? By giving you free credits. You probably think to yourself, “Well, that’s actually pretty nice of them isn’t it?”
No. It’s not. Herein lies one of my major issues with this “re-boot.” Because in all of this the designers decided to push upon their players some sort of Ill-conceived plot. In an X-TREME! sports game. This plot revolves around some made up snowboarders/X-TREME! lifestyle fanatics who decide to go do some shit. That’s what I got from the intro, mostly because A. I don’t give two shits about your plot, I just want to go down a mountain on a waxed hunk of wood, and B. I was too busy making chocolate rage squirts in my pants.
To make matters worse, the same dickhead “Dj” who narrates all of EA’s “BIG” franchise games like SSX and Burnout is talking at me with his stupid fucking voice on a tv that is sitting on top of a mountain. This tv could only be described as X-TREME!. Much like that’s the only way my hemorrhoid flare up could have been described at that moment. Striker, or whatever your name is… I hate you. I hate your stupid smug voice. I hate the fake excitement you try to pretend you have. Shit, if I knew what your face looked like, I’d probably hate that too. Fortunately I don’t. But you know what? I still hate it anyway. At least I was able to mute both the voice of the boarder I was playing as and the helicopter pilot who drops you off and follows you down the mountain. What annoying shit! It’s like he’s only there to tell you how shitty you’re doing. Oh, and to sound like he’s yelling through a thunderstorm into an elephant’s dick to get the message across. If you want to record highly obnoxious audio, at least make sure that shit is intelligible.

So after skipping the opening sequence, and vomiting my way through the tutorial and the first race level, I find out the reason for the credits.

You have to buy armor.

“Why armor?” You ask.

Because you have a health meter. You have a health meter in a snowboarding game.

You see, the geniuses that programmed this steaming pile of disappointment decided that as if you didn’t have enough to worry about with their over-complicated controls and fucking shitty lines (more about the lines in a bit), now you have to worry that every fuck-up you make can take away health. So not only is shame, ridicule and self-loathing the penalty for messing up a trick at 3 million feet per second, but now you can die too. On any given level, not only could you lose to three other AI jack offs either by not scoring enough, or not being fast enough, but if you fuck up too much, you die.

Way to make fun hobby/X-TREME! sport now life or death. I just… I just wanted to pull tricks while feeling cool. That’s all, EA. Is that so much to ask?
I just wanted to run lines…
The lines.

What lines?

In most X-TREME! sports games we have what are called “lines.” These are usually a series of ramps and pipes set up in a manner that you get a smooth flow, and if you learn them can bust out long, high-scoring combos. The makers of SSX have decided to be innovative, however, and do away with lines. Instead, they used the less popular, but more X-TREME! level design philosophy I like to call, “Let’s Pack as Much Crap Into as Small a Space as Possibleology.” Going down a mountain isn’t about finding a route that works for your trick style anymore. No, that would be too fun. Instead it’s about trying to wrap your brain around all of the obstacles that are flying past you on the screen while hoping to maybe hit one while pulling off a trick, but more than likely just missing every ramp and rail on the way down, because your eyes don’t communicate with your cerebellum and fat sausage fingers fast enough to do anything but flail back and forth between rocks and trees uselessly. All while losing health and feeling completely inadequate.

Now that I’ve fully established that all I want to do is pull some sweet moves and bust some high scores, what do they include next? Oxygen races. You heard me right. What’s more X-TREME! than not being able to breathe? Let’s take all the focus off the fun stuff, and instead introduce a game mode where everything you do uses up oxygen. So forget about those tricks… You need to conserve precious air.

And forget about choosing characters. This game won’t let you pick a character until you beat it, and/or fuck your grandpappy’s war wound with the controller. To make things worse for a real man like me, you start out playing as two women in a row. Was this supposed to be fun? Sexy? Yeah, because there’s just something soooo sexy about a woman covered in 14 layers of snow gear and FUCKING ARMOR!! After they finish a run, you can be sure those bitches smell about as sexy as a week old dead cat that’s been covered in gorgonzola cheese and wet turds.

This game is horseshit.

All I wanted was to carve some powder. Instead I’m worrying about smashing my body against rocks and hoping that my air reserves don’t run out before I get to the bottom of the slope. Sounds like a typical day at the ski resort to me!!! Wait a minute, though… A typical day at the slopes wouldn’t be X-TREME! enough for this franchise re-boot. No. We need some fucking ice axes and armor and oxygen tanks and wing suits and helicopters and nuclear plants and horrifically boring music to be the new SSX.

Get psyched to waste your hard earned money on Rocky and Bullwinkle: The Game.

Yeah, the music could put a coke addict to sleep.

Fuck you EA Big. Fuck you Striker. Fuck you SSX. Why? Because I feel pretty fucked right now. X-TREME!ly fucked. So this game can go get fucked too. In my head, I just keep hearing over and over and over, “EA Sports… It’s in the game.”

You know what else is in the game, EA? A lot of fucking worthless bullshit. You know what’s not in the game? Pretty much anything I was looking forward to. Including fun.







I give this game 1 Kelly Slater Pro Surfer, 1 T&C Surf cart for the NES and a 1/2 Greg Hastings Paintball 2 out of 11 possible X-TREME! sports games. Why 11? Because 10 just wouldnt be sufficiently X-TREME! Dick.

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It’s Friday the 13th, So Let’s Ruin it! Pt. 2

If you haven’t read part 1, just scroll down and take a look.

So now we have seen some of the worst disgraces to the word costume I have ever seen.  Let’s move on to something a bit more permanent.  And pathetic.

When you love something as much as I love Friday the 13th, crappy old games, and the smell of man-ass, you might get the idea that you want to make it a part of yourself forever.  Until writing this blog, I had the thought that I might want to make something Jason Voorhees related into a tat.  Then I saw these following pieces of so-called art, I decided that it might be more prudent to cut off any part of my body that could possibly hold a tattoo.  Because if one of these ink and scab shaped turds ended up on my body, I might kill myself.

Horrific Horror Tattoos

Well, Curtdog… Let me give you the pleasure of being the first person on this blog that I say this to:  Your tattoo work looks like shit.  Maybe you should have spent about two seconds looking at the subject matter.  I don’t remember Jason’s mask ever being orange, but I guess you do.  I mean sure, on the NES game it was teal, and in some of the movies it was a very dingy brown, but orange?  Holy fuck-a-roni.  Curtdog, if there weren’t other entries in this blog, I would say you are the worst tattoo artist I have ever seen.  But there are things coming that will make this work like the fucking Mona Lisa.  I will say this, though, if I ever… EVER find out that you are doing work in my town, I will post this picture on every street corner until you are hunted down by the general populus  and dragged into the street.  I will hire every tattoo artist in the area to re-create this garbage on each and every inch of free skin on your body.  I know that’s supposed to be the reflection of a victim on one of the machetes, but the only person who was a victim in this situation is the poor sap that paid you money for this.

There’s something very suggestive about the idea that quite a few of the “tattoos” that I looked at all had the theme of a mask and crossed machetes.  Perhaps the idea of a Jolly Rodger theme is a deep seeded suggestion that all these human scribble boards are closet ass-pirates.

Why would you let some drunk motherfucker draw crooked lines all over your body?  You’re going to have to look at this forever, and unfortunately so is everyone else around you.  I would puke if I had to look at this crap every day.  The mask is crooked, the machetes are crooked, the eye-holes are uneven and everything is misshapen and just plain dumb looking.  The other problem with these tattoos is… who the fuck drew them?  Who the fuck looked at any of these and thought, “Man, that shit would look so slick on my left ass-cheek!  Can’t wait for the next girl I sleep with to throw up all over my dick after looking at it.”

Hello, Shitty!

What the fuck was this person even trying to get at?  My god, the tattoo isn’t just stupid-looking, it’s pointless.  What in the world gives you the idea that you combining Hello Kitty and Friday the 13th is clever?  It’s not cute.  It’s not ironic.  It’s not funny.  It’s nothing but goddamn annoying.  I hate this shit.  I hate your stupid idea, and most of all, I hate your tattoo.  Fuck the fuck off, you fucking fuck.  I’m done being nice to you people.  If I ever see you out in the street sporting a bunch of garbage like this, I’m going to rip this shit off of your skin with my bare hands and shove it up your ass right after i finish pissing all over it.  Because you piss all over my favorite things, and it makes me sad.  Sad enough to make yellow tears out of my pee-hole.

How could you do this to yourself?  And to me?  I spend most of my waking moments trying to forget Jason X.  This is a goddamn catastrophe.  Not only do you have to remember that stupid, inane piece of cellular herpes, but you plastered it right on your arm in order to force the rest of the entire world to re-live their worst nightmare as well.  I just threw up in my mouth a little.  As if it’s not bad enough that you have this shit all over your arm, you topped it off by tattooing the autograph of the worst “actor” ever to play Jason right underneath it.  It makes my eyes bleed just looking at it.  Let me just say this right now… Kane Hodder is a piece of shit.  Notice how after he signed your stupid arm, he wrote and underlined the name Jason beneath it.  That guy is so full of himself and so full of shit.  As much as I love Jason, I hate the fact that some stunt man though that playing the role more than once gives him the right to start referring to himself as an actor.  You fall down for a living, you cock-sucker.  Do wrestlers call themselves actors?  Not when they’re wrestling.  Maybe when they make movies, but I think that’s an overstatement too.  Kane Hodder tried to add a motivation and essence to the character of Jason that was just stupid.  He’s a fucking lumbering guy with a machete who kills people!  What more do you need?  It’s not fucking Shakespeare!  After getting butthurt because the last two Friday movies cast other actors as Jason, he started claiming HE was the one and only Jason Voorhees.  Look, dick, there were about six people who played Jason before you, and two after.  I think every other one was more interesting and believable than you were.  Take a page from Robert Englund’s book.  The guy played Freddy from the first installment of the original Nightmare series till the last.  When he found out Jackie Earl Haley was taking over the role in the re-boot, do you wanna know what he did?  He took it like a man, gave the new actor his seal of approval, and went on to make money hocking his image anywhere he could.  Because we as fans will always remember him as Freddy.  Because he’s never been a fucking dick about it.

For a big tough guy, Hodder, you cry like a bitch.  Talking about that…

How much did you cry when you got the worst Friday the 13th related tattoo ever?  You’re a worthless dick, your tattoo is not motivation, it’s dumb, and I hope you watch every future installment of Friday the 13th and cry into your stacks of masked pictures signed with the autograph:

Kane Hodder


Aka: Dick-hole taster.

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It’s Friday the 13th, So Let’s Ruin It! Pt.1

Horror movies. Love them or hate them, it’s pretty hard not to recognize certain icons. Freddy Kruger, Michael Meyers, and of course my favorite, Jason Voorhees. I’m not exactly sure why he’s my favorite icon, but that doesn’t matter really. Since it’s Friday the 13th, lets look at different ways

Random Idiots Have Tried To Ruin My Favorite Horror Icon.

It’s a fact that when something is popular, everybody wants on the band-wagon. Everybody wants a piece of the action. Sometimes it’s a tribute, and usually just for fun with good intentions, but listen here jerkoffs… If you can’t do it justice, then don’t fucking try.

Halloween Costumes.

Halloween is a time for dressing up as a scary monster, a hero, or a princess. In that order. It does not give you an all points excuse to look like a fucking dipshit. It definitely does not give you the right to ruin something I love. If you’re going to hock some licensed piece of shit, at least have the courtesy to do some fucking research first. Is this supposed to be some specific era of Friday? Maybe during the period where Jason liked to dress in sky blue and wear his brand new shiny boots. Lets just face it. Jumpsuits, overalls, winter coats, burlap bags, hockey masks. Jason just never looked this lame or… unthreatening. Even in part 5 when he wasn’t even Jason, or in part 1 when he was a child and his mom did all the killing. He still didn’t look this stupid. This is just one of those things you have to chalk up to the idiocy of manufacturers and consumers.

There ya go! Make your little child look like their favorite character from a movie they shouldn’t even be watching! Rated R means no admittance without an adult. But to you, all that blood and gore is just wholesome family fun. I understand that at some point, a kid is gonna get into this stuff. Hell, I did. I used to sleep in the basement on Saturday night just to catch the late night-horror flicks. BUT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! DON’T BUY YOUR IMPRESSIONABLE KID THE COSTUME OF A FAMOUS SERIAL KILLER! That’s just fucking irresponsible and typically American. I have a feeling this kid is going to suffer for years thanks to the greed and lack of care from both his parents and the manufacturer. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s planning on killing you at the moment.

Dude, I mean it… Look at his eyes!

What... the... shit?

As if the last costume wasn’t enough, let’s go ahead and stick the same disturbed little butthole in the version of Jason from Jason Goes To Hell. You know the one where he looks so bloated and disgusting at the beginning and the end that he barely even looks human? The one where he gets blown into slimy bits at the two minutes into the movie, and they rain down upon a platoon of national guardsmen?

“It’s malformed purgatory the whole neighborhood will love! So send your child out for trick-or-treating in the new Jason Goes To Hell official costume, and you can be sure nobody is going to deny him what he wants… to take over their soul with some slug-thing that holds the immortal spirit of the Voorhees family curse! Buy yours at Halloween Shit-Fest today!”

Nice… Real nice, you fuck. Way to go all out. Good job going to the dollar store, picking up the cheapest generic hockey mask you could find, and raiding your dad’s closet for the most boring shirt and baggy pants you could find. Looking real good there. You sir, are an all-time-low. Don’t bother with any make-up. Don’t bother to cover your pale-ass hands with some work gloves. Don’t even bother to attempt to bend your mask into a shape that might be kind of form-fitting. Just go out into the world and tell everybody else how much you really don’t give a shit about Halloween, except for the candy you can fit down your fat gullet. The only thing that shows less work than this costume is not putting on a costume at all.

I stand corrected.

At least the last sack of shit went into the tool shed and grabbed his dad’s machete. You just couldn’t be bothered now, could you? This dick-wick threw on the mask and called it a day. Look at the silk-screened logo at the neckline of his t-shirt and poking through the too-small flannel. You couldn’t even change into a fucking plain fucking t-shirt? I hate you. I hate your face hidden behind that almost clear glow-in-the-dark plastic piece of shit I won’t even do the honor of calling a mask. I hate the queer anime poster on the wall. I hate your white lampshade just like your costume. Boring. Unimpressive. Pathetic. Thumbs up, indeed, good sir. Now take that thumb and shove it straight up your fucking lazy fat asshole.

Your home-made mask looks like crap. It looks like you took a bunch of whitened dog turds, found a way to melt them into a malleable form and the decided to throw any sense of a good idea right out the goddamned window. Here’s an thought, next time why not make just a regular Friday the 13th mask and say we didn’t ever make a Yugi-Oh inspired one, ok? Burn in hell weaboo. Here’s a little lesson about Japanese culture for free: not everything in Japan looks fucking unabashedly dumb. I’m pretty sure Jason looks the same over there as he does over here. Oh, and has anyone told you your eyes are too fucking far apart? You might want to get that looked at. I’m pretty sure that’s a recognized symptom of being retarded.

Notice the attention to detail. See how I left all the cracks in the surface so it would look just as shitty as I hoped? Good thing those eye-holes came out crooked. I'm not sure what I would have done if this had turned out to be a nice-looking project. Probably choke myself by ingesting my Bakugan toys.

Check in tomorrow for part 2: bad tats…

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The Nintendo Challenge!

When video games started, it was nothing to end up with an idea that would go on to be an icon. If you knew enough basic to program a few balls bouncing around a screen, you could slap a clever title on it and throw it into a machine. People would slap quarters into that machine for two minutes of frustration and a chance to jerk around a dick-shaped object in public. Or at home in front of their kids.

In 1983, that all changed. The markets were so flooded with so many plastic and wood veneer covered electronic turds that the industry went through a crash. Some companies went tits-up, others re-thought their strategies and held on for dear life for two years. Then in 1985 arguably the greatest thing in the history of gaming happened.

The Nintendo Entertainment System.

Man, playing Mario while my parents and sibling hover creepily around the tv sure does look like "Action-Packed Excitement." Perhaps "Action-Packed Excrement" might be a better slogan. Or maybe "Shit-Packed Underdrawers."

I’m pretty sure the kid on the left can’t even see the screen, anyway. And why the hell are both of them trying to play at the same time? Everybody knows Mario was a single player game you took turns on. I used to do that shit to my brother all the time. He would whine that I was hogging the NES and that he wanted to play, even though he was too young (read: stupid)to even understand how to work the controller. I would give him an unplugged controller and tell him it was his turn. I let him go to town while I continued to play, thinking he was controlling the game. He was so dumb, and it looks like the little ginger retard in this ad was too!

The Nintendo Entertainment System was the thing made me grow hair on my pre-pubescent ballsac and called my mom to come check it out. That’s how awesome the NES was. No more shit in a box for us gamers, cuz we had the fucking Nintendo Seal of Quality. Those guys in Japan wouldn’t lie to us. I didn’t care how much my dad bitched about World War II. I was going to play Nintendo until my body learned how to recycle its own waste, even if that meant I had to sit in poo until it figured it out.

So now, many years later, when it is no longer anywhere near relevant… it is time… time to issue a challenge.

Dear Dickhead Friends…

There comes a point at which we all must prove our mettle. You might not be the best of the best, but that doesn’t matter. Since you are my friends, you know that I hold you in the highest contempt, and that it might not even be out of the realm of possibility to say that I downright hate you.

This is an invitation to my personal secret island, where you will compete in an epic NES video game contest. You will be given a challenge upon which you must wager something important. Perhaps your soul. Perhaps the humiliation of smoking a cigarette that has been lodged in my ass-crack.

If you’re not sure if I am referring to you or not as a friend, just think about this… if you have my phone number, this message probably is for you. Dipshit.

If you accept my challenge, call me on my personal cell phone of amazing manliness and leave me a short message responding to my challenge. I’m calling your dick-ass out, so don’t pussy out about the whole thing. If you choose to do so, remeber that the recording of your response may be played on this blog, I’ve recently had sex with one or all of your family members, once you agree to particpate, there is no way off the island, and I have absolutely no respect for you because you are, in fact, my friend. Oh, and if you loose a challenge, you may be forced to sniff somebody’s butthole at least.

I’ll see you all in hell.


I am a Hideous Piece of Shit

This is what all my friends look like normally.

And Now For a Taste of Things to Come!

I need your help as readers. Help me come up with some awesome ideas for challenges based on NES games. (Wow. Did that just sound like a horrible contest from an old issue of Nintendo Power?) I’m looking for stuff that is utterly annoying, but not impossible. Remember that failing a challenge will have dire and humiliating consequences, but also remember that this is a group of people for whom humiliation is nothing new. Leave your ideas in the comments section of this post. Here’s a sample of the type of thing I’m looking for:

Beat the first level of Contra or Super C without dying. You have three tries.

Get to and through the dam level on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles without losing all four turtles.

Beat Bald Bull in Punch Out without getting knocked down.

So stay tuned fight fans! More to come in the next few weeks!

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Buy My Video Game, Jerks!

Commercials are like the IRS.  They’re an unavoidable part of life that sucks.  No matter what we do to get away from them, the keep rearing their ugly heads.  Back when cable was a new thing, everybody was all fucking psyched that there was a new form of TV that left out commercials.  Until basic cable came along, and threw that shit right in our faces.  Many people have taken to only watching their favorite shows on the internet.  That shit was commercial free until some jackoffs decided that they could find a way to force their shitty advertising down our throats there too.  Hulu has commercials.  YouTube has commercials.  Shit, if I dropped my drawers right now, there would probably be an ad for vaginal creams being projected across my huge left ass cheek.

For some reason, the video game industry has always had a problem in the advertising department.  Ever since the first consoles, there has been something wrong with the way video game companies present their product.  They come up with the most absurd, asinine, and just plain stupid ways to hock their electronic crap.  Looking back at the commercials from my childhood, some come off now as just silly and humorous, and some still piss me the fuck off to this day.

Atari Anonymous

Dear Annoyingly Old Bitch,

We here at Atari Anonymous believe your problem does not come from your Atari 2600 game system, but rather from deeper seeded problems within your family itself.

First off, who the fuck names their only son Boris?  Really?  Boris?  This is the 80’s.  The late cold war.  You do realize the reason Boris talks like a computer is because he gets made fun of every day by every kid at school for being a dirty commie, right?  They probably ask him where his Hawaii-shaped birth mark is, and then give him a lesson in capitalism by throwing pennies in the toilet and making him fetch them with his teeth.  That’s what we here at Atari Anonymous would do.

Next, keep an eye on your daughter.  If Atari can make her have a mind-blowing orgasm at her age, you’ve got a future neighborhood bicycle on your hands.  (What we mean is that she’s getting off playing video games, so she’s probably going to turn out to be a whore.)

Finally, you married Larry King.  What the fuck do you think his problem is?  He’s fucking Larry King.  Oh, and by the way he’s laughing, I would suggest keeping your nympho daughter and him in separate rooms constantly, unless you want an even more mentally retarded grandchild.

Go Fuck Yourself,

Atari Anonymous

P.S.  The dog is the only one of you who isn’t fucking insane.  Perhaps rent him out to a circus or something.  He’s a video game playing dog.  Somewhere in the future, there will be a place where you can go on your computer and watch shit like that all the time.  I bet he’ll get lots of hits.  (That’s future talk for the number of bored dipshits that watch your dog’s stupid trick.)

What is Green Goblin’s Fucking Problem?

Holy shit Spider-Man!  Look the fuck out for the Green Fucking Goblin.  If this commercial is any indication, he’s gone completely apeshit.  Why does he keep squatting like he’s about to rock out a fat shit?  He’s dancing all over the place like there’s a browner about to make its debut performance at the Goblin Underwear Theatre.  Can you understand a single fucking thing he says, aside from the very intense amount of attention he’s paying to your fluid level?  He’s pretty amped about your fluid running low, Spider-Man.  You should consider perhaps getting out of that really gay looking squat position and kicking the shit out of him, because your ballet pose is really giving both him and me the wrong impression.

I do have to say that for an early 80’s commercial, the production value was pretty high on this thing.  The Goblin costume and set both look great, but the actors needed a bit of training on how to not look flamboyantly gay/retarded.  Let’s get serious here, people.  The Goblin has a lit pumpkin bomb.  Why not throw that shit at Spider-Man, instead of telling him how to beat the game?  What the fuck is his problem?  He sounds like a dumpy professor from a late 60’s Hanna-Barbera cartoon.  Or a 12 year old boy who just got his first period.  And why the fuck are both of you squatting the whole time?  You’re supposed to be on the top of a high-rise in New York, not in a sound studio built for the Lollypop Guild!

Why don’t you two get off my Atari and go 69 in the middle of a police shootout?  No matter what, this commercial is still way better looking than the trailer for the upcoming Spider-Man movie re-boot.


This guy.  This fucking guy.  I can’t honestly remember one asshole that caused me more heartache in my childhood than this guy.  What the fuck does this shit have to do with The Legend of Zelda?  Remember that part in the game where some dickhead failed mime with a Kramer haircut broke into someone’s house while they were away on vacation and screamed about urinating in headware?  I sure do.  It was my favorite part just after the part where that bear raped a giraffe with a jelly donut.

There’s a very specific reason why I hate this commercial.  See, when I was a kid, my parents always bought the latest technology had to offer.  It’s like they were addicted to crappy graphics and big fat wall plug adapters.  We had never had all that much money, but we had technology.  My brother is actually part video game.  My mom played the Commodore Vic 20 rip-off of Pac-Man every day for 12 hours while she was pregnant with him.  I think some of the radiation from the all-in-one home computer/game console/Korean child work provider got into her belly and made him the way he is today.

Then this dickhole of a commercial came along.  Now, something else you have to understand about my old man.  He was a kid during WWII, so for that reason, he hated anything made by the Japanese.  I never understood it.  The Germans, he didn’t give a shit about, but the Japs?  No fucking way.  It’s like he held every Japanese electronic manufacturer personally responsible for Pearl Harbor.

Want a Mitsubishi car?

“Mitsubishi made the planes that bombed Pearl Harbor!”

Want a Kawasaki keyboard?

“Those fuckers built the planes that bombed Pearl Harbor!”

What about a Sony TV?

“They bombed Pearl Harbor!”

Dad, can I get a Nintendo?

“Pearl Fucking Harbor!”

So as if I wasn’t already fighting an uphill battle, this assmangler in a black turtleneck with Tourette’s syndrome comes along and makes my life even worse.  My dad used that commercial as another reason why a NES would rot my brain.  Apparently since this cock-mouthed shithead couldn’t function in normal society without a muzzle and extra-absorbent depends, it meant if I got a Nintendo, I wouldn’t be able to either.

So my old man took to referring to Nintendo in unusually disturbing jokes to dissuade me from wanting one.

“Hey, Son!  Do you know what a Nintendo is?”

“A game system?”

“No, it’s a pervert who likes to go sniff the farts out of bicycle seats!”

It just kept getting worse.

“Do you know what a Nintendo is?”

“What, Dad?”

“It’s a freak who likes to stand behind old ladies on treadmills and watch their pussy lips flap in the wind.”

And worse.

“Yo, Bob?  What’s a Nintendo?”

*sigh* “What?”

“It’s a guy who likes to dip tampons in V-8 and pretend he’s Dracula.”

And that shit just went on and on.

Luckily for me I had a friend at school whose dad was a minister, and thought his son’s NES was the devil.  After a few months of saving up lunch money I bought it from him.  I did a pretty good job of keeping that shit hidden in my room for months.  I would wait till my parents went to sleep, and then put my pillows by the bottom of the door to block any light that might come out from the TV.  I would hide in my bedroom on the weekends doing “homework” with my door closed.  Until one day, my old man just opened my door and walked in on me while I was in the middle of an intense game of Ninja Gaiden.

“What’s this?”

I had to think fast.  I had to be clever, or I was fucked.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh… It’s a Nintendo.”


“Oh… Where did you get it?”

Round 2… FIGHT!

“Uhhhhhhhhhhh… I borrowed it from Todd.”

Jesus I sucked at thinking fast.

“Oh… You got any flying games?”

And that was it.  I popped in Top Gun (my old man loves flight simulators), and my dad and I spent the afternoon playing Nintendo together.  I never heard another Nintendo joke again.

By the way…  What’s a Nintendo?

It’s a stupid looking piece of shit dressed in all black who tiptoes around your neighbor’s house with all the lights off screaming about tektites, pretending to whip things and rubbing furiously at his nipples.

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Sociology: Making You Hard One Dyad at a Time

I have been a college student for the last fifteen years. I am finally almost done my stint in school, and am ready to spread my wings and ass-cheeks out in the real world. As a college student, you begin to learn that the thing universities love to do more than anything else is fuck you over. They love to show you that they really don’t care about your education, all they care about is they kind of money they can squeeze out of you. It never stops. Parking passes, meal plans, books, “campus fees”. What the fuck are “campus fees”? Gen. Eds. Gen. Fucking. Eds. Those are the part that piss me off the most. “Here’s a class that has nothing to do with your chosen field of study, but since classes are $5000 in USA cold currency, lets get as many semesters out of your stupid ass as we can!” Therefore, as a student, over half of your time is spent taking classes you have no need for, and no desire to take. What a scam!

As my very last Gen Ed course this semester, I’m taking sociology. It’s the study of people. The study of people, but only when they are in groups of two or more people. Unlike any other science, there apparently is no ethical way to perform a perfectly controlled experiment in sociology. At least that’s what my textbook says.

Who cares about ethical or controlled, though? Lets look at sociology in a new way! What I propose are the following sociological experiments that can make your life a bit more fun.


Where do you keep your ketchup? The majority of people will probably answer,”In the fridge.” However, a small number of you may keep it in the cupboard, or maybe under your bed, or in the crack between couch cushions. This is the key aspect to the following experiment.

Find where your friend keeps their ketchup.

If they keep it in the fridge, continue with the experiment. If not, find a new test subject.

Wait for them to go take a shit or something.

Now, here’s where things get tricky. While they are gone, switch where they keep their ketchup. Take it out of the fridge and put it in the cupboard.


Repeat the same behavior for the next few weeks, until you’re sure they’ve noticed the change in position multiple times, and have blown their fucking top on the matter.

Interview your subject, and make sure you phrase it in the form of a sociological experiment.

Ask the following questions:

How many times did it take you to find the ketchup in the wrong place before you flipped a shit?

Did you throw the ketchup away after a while?


Did you blame your girlfriend?

Did you beat her like she deserved?

Why do you keep the ketchup in the fridge?

Here’s where things get really fun! Your friend will have told you why they keep the ketchup in the fridge. This is the point in the experiment where we go ahead and make them look like an asshole. The following is a list of responses they may give as to why they keep their ketchup in the fridge, and a list of answers to make you look ten times smarter. If during this process your friend becomes combative and wants to know where you keep your ketchup, say that this is an experiment, and by giving them that information, you skew the results. No need for them to know you keep it in the fridge too. This is about making them look like a paranoid fuck, and making you look like a sociologist with balls of steel.

Answer: It goes bad after a while.

Response: No it doesn’t. Show them the ingredients list. See here where it says “vinegar?” Vinegar is one of the strongest preservatives known to man. Do you keep your vinegar in the fridge?

Answer: The label says to.

Response: Actually, not all brands do, and those that do usually say as a stipulation “to maintain freshness.” Ever go to a restaurant? Where do they keep their ketchup? That’s right. On the tables.

Answer: I like it cold.

Response: That’s just stupid. You’re being a stubborn prick about the whole thing. Ever use ketchup packets? Nobody keeps those in the fridge.

At this point, it’s time to rub in how much of a jerk they are by adding small facts such as:

They have never actually tasted ketchup that has gone bad.

The reason they keep the ketchup in the fridge is because their parents did so. It is learned behavior.

Their girlfriend is calling the cops, and we can’t be friends anymore, because she came to my place last night for someone to comfort her, and well, one thing leads to another.

Now it is time to end the experiment. Thank your friend for the fun and educational time as well as for the new sex partner.

Hines is butthurt about his Heinz.

See how much fun sociology can be?

Time for another experiment.


This one is a quick and easy one. No long prep required, no weeks of waiting, just go out and try it. Go to your local grocery store, Wal-Mart, etc. Make sure you bring a set amount of money in your wallet. $30 is usually a good number. Now go pick out between forty and fifty dollars worth of merchandise. Bring the merch to the cashier, and allow them to total it up for you. When they ask you for payment, tell them that you really think the merchandise is only worth $25, and offer them that amount. Observe their behavior at this point. Observe the behavior of those in line behind you. When they refuse to take the $25, tell them they drive a hard bargain, and offer them the whole $30 you have. When this does not work, offer them your wallet as well, claiming you bought it for $25 bucks, which should surely cover the rest of the cost of the items you wish to buy. They will surely refuse, sometimes going as far to call a manager over, or asking you to leave.

Before you go, be sure to ask them why your wallet isn’t good enough as payment. Cultures all over the world barter for products. You can usually haggle over price at a car dealership or a flea market. Why not at Wal-Mart or your local chain grocery store?

You can be sure this is an experiment that will cause pubescent cashier Joe Pimple-Braces to scratch his dandruff riddled scalp. He’ll go home tonight, and instead of scouring the internet for girl on banana porn, he’ll spend a good five minutes wondering why some jackass wanted him to take a wallet as payment.

That’s one to grow on!

"Would you take national health care in exchange for these Twinkies? No? Well fuck you!"


There’s a few unspoken rules in society. First, if you keep your cell phone on at at work, in class, or at the movies, have the good sense to turn the ringer off. Actually, at the movies, it’s more of a bash-you-over-the-head-with-it-until-you-puke-or-pass-out rule, since they play about fifteen minutes worth of turn your phone off announcements before the previews start. You know, it usually happens just after the annoying and worthless “First Look” program they show when you get there early.

The second is that we never acknowledge when someone flatulates. We don’t usually respond when some dude rocks out a trouser symphony. We just keep on going as if nothing has happened. That’s just rude. Farts are amazing! They’re the body’s built in natural joke. When I play the butt trumpet, I shout my pleasure aloud! Farts ahoy! I let everybody know that what they just smelt, I just dealt. Since I can get punched repeatedly by someone screaming “DOORKNOB,” I usually punctuate every beef by proclaiming “SAFETY!” It’s a game my friends and I play, and is usually just referred to in most knowledgeable circles as “the safety game.”

So what happens when we combine these two societal norms?

A sociology experiment that’s ass-loads of fun, that’s what!

First, go online and download a ringtone that sounds like a fart. They’re pretty much all over the place. In fact, here is a site completely dedicated to fart ringtones!

After you have the fart on your phone, go to work or class. Make sure you’re popular. That way, people will be calling you all over the place. If you’re a sad and pathetic loser, however, you may wish to set up a pre-scheduled set of calls with your only friend. If you don’t have one, just leave a message on your mom’s phone telling her you’re gay. That will get her lighting up your phone faster than Tom Paris in the Voyager episode “Threshold.”

Now, just let that puppy ring! When that phone goes off, everybody around you will think you had some really awesome Chipotle or Baja Fresh for lunch. Wait. Just wait. See how long it takes somebody to make an issue of it. If nobody ever does, feel free to answer your phone at work or in class from now on. If they do, accuse them of being an insensitive prick who can’t seem to understand when someone has irritable bowel syndrome.

"Hey, Mom. No, I don't like dick, I was just doing an experiment concerning farts in the work place. No, Mom. My farts don't sound hollow.

The most fun part of this experiment is watching the faces of those around you. Some people will giggle in embarrassed delight, while others will look at you as if you just swallowed an entire puppy. It can tell you a hell of a lot about the way people see each other. If someone doesn’t like you farting around them, remind them that it’s always better out than in!

Have fun, budding sociologists, and rip one for me!

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