boloboffin

 i'm waiting for the Thor's Hammer....

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Kill Whitey.

Shit like this makes me ashamed to be an American.

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100 pounds of shit in a 25 pound sack.

gabe_billingsi like the guy who called it the USSA. l00l. and the guy who pointed out that our last two presidents wouldn't be allowed in because of their drug use.

it sounds like canada is equally fucked up, not letting someone in if they have a dui convinction from 30 years ago. :\

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what if nigger meant kite

I move in one week (exactly), haven't packed up half of my stuff, and yet there are 10 boxes, fully packed, in my room. Where did I get all this stuff from?!

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Okay, Lindsay, are you forgetting that I was a professional twice over - an analyst and a therapist. The world's first analrapist.

I move in exactly one week and despite everything, there's only about 6 boxes in storage.

My timing belt went out, causing the pistons in my engine to bend beaucoup valves. Anyone in West Palm who wants to watch me stumble drunkenly through a cylinder head replacement next weekend is welcome to come and offer moral support.

gabe_billings

Shit like this http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/merseyside/6469451.stm makes me ashamed to be from Liverpool. Not in the same league granted but definitely high on the ...and they RUN this place!?-ometer.

""Feral pigeons are a real nuisance in the city centre, they fly up at people and they leave droppings everywhere which not only makes the city look really unattractive but can make surfaces slippery and dangerous."

What the hell kind of pigeons do you guys have over there?

Giant mutant ones that excrete baby oil. They cannot be stopped hence the reason for the time-travelling robot attack birds from the future.

See, when you think of it like that instead of each of them costing about £2,000 (approximately $4,000) each...and there are six of  'em...at my expense...it makes everything seem better, like a poor version of 'The Terminator' but with pigeons.

It gets better. I just re-read this bit.

"The pigeons get bigger because their natural diet is seeds and insects, rather than high-fat junk food.

Councillor Turner said it is making them "overweight and gives them a scruffy, unhealthy appearance".

So now we've got pigeons with a body-image problem.

Here's a story I wrote today:

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY

One day, my nephew Billy had a birthday party. His mom, Elaine, and a few of her other "mom" friends helped coordinate it. Eight or nine of Billy's little school and/or neighborhood friends were invited, most of them between the ages of five and seven. A few fun games were planned, like "pin the tail on the donkey" and "toss a beanbag at the empty-can pyramid", followed by a yummy ice-cream-and-cake treat and the opening of Billy's birthday presents. It sounded like a potentially fun-filled party for the children, and it most likely would've been, too, if only Johnny Cash's reanimated corpse hadn't shown up uninvited and disrupted everything.

How he came back to life and why he picked this particular house to show up at remain a mystery. Yet there he was, right between little Sally Feldman and Eddie Green in the line of children filing through the front door for the party. The children should have been giddy with happy anticipation for the coming festivities as they entered the house in their nice party clothes, but instead they were mortally terrified of the shambling, gibbering corpse in their midst. Needless to say, Johnny Cash looked pretty horrible. Already in a fairly-advanced state of decomposition, the deceased country-music legend was more ghastly-looking than the Frankenstein monster, and his burial clothes were split up the back to clearly reveal his big, warty ass, which somehow just seemed to make things worse.

Billy's mom and the other moms stood frozen in raw, naked fear as Johnny Cash lurched toward them, his hideous face contorting and convulsing as he attempted to speak. But all that came from his festering mouth were blood-chilling croaks like "bllnnggff" and "guhhh-uhhhh." The children, now well beyond the point of thinking that this might merely be some kind of party entertainment, began to hide behind various items of furniture and cower in whimpering terror.

Johnny Cash looked around in confusion, as though he himself dimly realized that he belonged in the grave and had no business walking around like this. All at once, his bulging eyeballs focused on something familiar. There, leaning against a wall in the corner, was Billy's guitar. It wasn't a real guitar, but one of those little plastic toy guitars that plays a tinkly tune when you turn the crank. But Johnny Cash made a horrible croaking sound of recognition and grabbed it up.

"Guh GAHHH, gnog nggghh NAAAHHH!" he croaked obscenely, attempting to entertain his captive audience as he had so often done in life. He banged clumsily at the guitar, stomping his feet as he staggered from one shrinking spectator to the next. "Plink-plonk" went the fragile plastic strings of the toy guitar as Johnny Cash's dead hands clawed tunelessly at them, ripping them asunder one by one. "Mmmfff, GAAAAHHHH HAAAAAAA!" he gurgled, trying to sing the remnants of "Folsom Prison Blues" that his rotting brain still retained.

And then, he saw the cake. The beautiful, rich, gooey cake. He remembered that he should love the cake, be hungry for the cake. Tossing what was left of Billy's guitar aside, Johnny Cash lurched toward the gaily-decorated dining table and plunged his hands into the cake, ramming huge gobs of it into his mouth. "RAAAAR! GRAAAAAR! MLAAARFF!" he gibbered, slobbering cake, his face dripping with frosting. Some of the candy letters that had spelled out "HAPPY BIRTHDAY BILLY" were stuck to Johnny Cash's face, and they now spelled "YIRPAL DRIB." He vaguely remembered that he should now be thirsty for some of the sweet, refreshing punch that filled the large bowl on the table and made a diving grab for it, losing his balance and crashing through the table as the punchbowl landed upside-down on his head like some horrible space helmet.

Johnny Cash staggered to his feet, covered in frosty cake and dripping with once-festive punch, the huge glass bowl wobbling on his head, and lunged for the gaily-beribboned presents that sat in a pile waiting for the birthday boy to open them. In what was inexplicably left of Johnny Cash's clouded mind, HE was the birthday boy. Emitting a series of horrendous barks that sounded like a herd of seals being run over by a steamroller, he ripped into the presents and came up triumphantly with a happily-grinning "Danny O'Day" ventriloquist dummy. Johnny Cash thrust his hand into the dummy's back and worked the controls, making its toothy mouth snap open and shut as he screamed "GARRR-GAAAAAAR! MUFFF WUFFF! NNNGGGGFFFFF!" He staggered from child to child, proudly performing the most hellish ventriloquism act imaginable for their entertainment. To this day, my nephew Billy still has nightmares of an insanely-grinning Danny O'Day croaking "BLAAAR GNNARRRRR!" at him, and wakes up in the middle of the night screaming "YIRPAL DRIB!!!"

Anyway, Johnny Cash's reanimated corpse finally left. I don't know what happened after that, because the phone rang while Elaine was telling me about it, and it was her husband telling her that there was a guy on his way to their house to fix the garbage disposal, and she had to go let him in. Not long after that, I heard something about Chris Farley's reanimated corpse showing up at some Jewish kid's bar mitzvah in Houston, Texas, but I don't know if this was part of a mysterious pattern of some kind, or just an unrelated event.

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Legend, oh legend, the third wheel legend...always in the way.

Boorite just made a startling revelation that has blown my mind.

Neither one of us has ever seen cheese in Chinese food.

Attention St. Louis SC members (and those wanting an excuse to come to St. Louis) ...

 

My band, The Orbz, is playing a rock show at The Way Out Club (Jefferson and Gravois) on Saturday May 19th

 

For my band's sound :

http://www.myspace.com/theeorbz

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Our liability coverage is zero. Our balls however are enormous.

im off to my local area freak & eat...

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obscenity filter is off

ivytheplant

Cream cheese in Crab Rangoons doesn't count?

But point taken.

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You can take the heart out of the hooker but you can't take the hooker out of the heart. -- Frankenhooker

boloboffin

Cream cheese in Crab Rangoons doesn't count?

But point taken.

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maybe historically china didn't have cows, or maybe they worshipped them, or maybe they never got horny enough to milk them or hungry enough to think scraping the mold off and eating that chunk of dried milk was a good idea

OR MAYBE THEY DID!

(conspiracy week on A&E)

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what if nigger meant kite

ivytheplant

I used to work the door at a club near my apartment in Rochester, NY. One night the other guy that worked with and I came to this same exact realization.

We also had a bet going as to whether or not there were 7-11s in Australia.

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100 pounds of shit in a 25 pound sack.

boloboffin

Those are Burmese. They don't count, else I would have seen more than one Chinese restaurant (in Arkansas of all places) that carried them. And I've been to Chinese places in about a dozen states and three countries.

Damn they're good though.

RANGOON IS NOT IN FUCKING CHINA!

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What others say about boorite!

But I need even more airtight evidence than typing in ALL CAPS can provide, and so, like all truly irrefutable arguments, mine relies on Google. I typed in "CHINESE CHEESE" and got only three documents before Google gave up and asked if I really meant "Chinese chess."

Furthermore, one of the documents had this to say:

"Cheese has traditionally been absent from the Chinese diet... Although the taste for cheese is increasing, the per capita consumption in China remains very low at 0.2 kg in 2003, according to the UN Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO)."

That's less than 2 ounces of cheese per Chinese person per year! I could dig more cheese than that out of Gabe's underwear! I REST MY CASE!!!1

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What others say about boorite!

No wonder they're Communist. They've never had cheese.

 THE TED KENNEDY SHOW

 

"Mnyah, myehh--well, ehh, kids--ehh, mnyehh..." 

Senator Ted Kennedy stood in front of the Peanut Gallery, attempting to introduce a "Tom and Jerry" cartoon.  The children shifted uncomfortably in their bleacher seats.

"This, ehh, impending cah-toon, ehh, mnyehh..."  Ted Kennedy struggled to find the words to explain to the kids what they were about to see.  "It, ehh...is about a cat, who, err, ehh..." 

A little girl in a frilly dress daintily raised her hand.

"You, little gull," said Ted Kennedy.  "What, err, uhh, have you to say at this, ahh, juncture?"

"Well, Tom is a cat who is always trying to catch a mouse named Jerry," said the little girl.  "But Jerry always outwits Tom, and...well, ha-ha, sometimes it's pretty funny."

"Oh, err, is that so?" said Ted Kennedy.  "Myehh, ehh...well then, let's, ehh, proceed with this err, uhh, cah-toon, then."  He looked offstage at the producer, who was shaking his head.

"Well, err, it appears, then, that due to some, err, technical difficulty...err, mnyah, the, uh, cah-toon will not be, actually, err, presented here today, mnyehh, and so says old Ted Kennedy."  He shrugged stiffly and grinned at the kids, which scared some of them.  One of them actually thought Ted Kennedy's head was Saturn's largest moon, Titan, which he had seen a picture of in an astronomy book once. 

Ted Kennedy had a sudden inspiration.  He pointed offstage and said, "Look ovah there, ehh, kids."  With their attention thus diverted, he turned and wobbled on his tiptoes behind a large piece of set dressing which resembled a circus wagon.  When the children looked back, they wondered where he had gone.  A few moments later he stepped into view again, his arms outstretched.  "Ha-ha, look, it's, ehh, me," he said.  "Ehh, surprise." 

The children weren't quite sure how they were expected to respond.  They knew they were on TV, and they were aware of shows like "Howdy Doody" and "Romper Room", but none of these had prepared them for the experience of being in such close proximity to Senator Ted Kennedy for an extended period of time without proper emotional support.  Some of them were slightly nauseated by the physical sensation of his gravitational pull; others felt somehow certain that before the show was over, he was going to eat them.

Ted Kennedy looked around until his eyes lit upon a baseball bat that was intended to be used later on in something called "The Happy Piñata Game."  He picked it up and said, "Ehh, watch this, kids."  With that, he swung the baseball bat directly into Camera Three with both hands and began to smash it to pieces.  In the control room, the director winced as one of the monitors sputtered and went blank.  "What is he doing?" he said into his headphone.  The man on the other end answered, "Beats the hell out of me."

Ted Kennedy kept swinging the bat until he was satisfied that Camera Three was totally destroyed.  "Heh-hehhh, ehh, look at that, kids," he said.  "You see, ehh, with a nice, big bat like this, err, you can wreck things but good."  He hefted it in his hands with a satisfied grin and then waddled over to Cap'n Ted's Treasure Chest, which was filled with prizes intended to be handed out to the kids during the show.  "And now, mnyehh, if you'll observe this, ehh, what I'm about to do, err, I'll smash the hell out of this crap, myaahh, and so says old Ted Kennedy." 

Awkwardly, with a furious physical exertion that his sedentary body was unaccustomed to, he began to shatter the toys, games, and other colorful items into a million pieces that went flying all over the soundstage, while muttering things like "ohh, look at that" and "mnyehh, that's a good one" during the process.  A grinning Bozo the Clown head landed in a little girl's lap at one point, and she started to cry.  The little boy sitting next to her patted her shoulder consolingly, his lips quivering.  All of the children had begun to form a bond--the kind of lasting, deep-seated bond that only those who have suffered through a traumatic experience together, such as prisoners of war or political hostages, will ever know. 

"Senator!  SENATOR!" the producer whispered hoarsely from offstage.  "The cartoon!  We've got it ready to go!"

Ted Kennedy angrily hurled the baseball bat aside and went over to stand on his mark in front of the Peanut Gallery.  "Fine, then!" he wheezed.  "Show the stupid, ehh, cah-toon!"  The jolly strains of the "Tom and Jerry" theme piped into the studio as a monitor flickered with images of the cartoon characters going about their lighthearted antics.  By now, most of the children were openly weeping. 

"Grrrr, mnyahh, I wasn't done smashing those, ehh, things!" Ted Kennedy wheezed petulantly.  "I'm firing that stupid, ehh, producer person.  And what's this ridiculous, ehh, display?" he added, pointing at the monitor.  "Is this what they call, mnyehh, a 'cah-toon'?  It's rubbish!  Ehh, RUBBISH!"  At that point, he noticed at last that the entire Peanut Gallery had broken down into violent, wracking sobs.  Every last child cried uncontrollably, totally unaffected by the breezy fun of the cartoon. 

"You're all, ehh, fired, too!" he exclaimed.  "And so says old Ted Kennedy!" And on the next episode of "The Ted Kennedy Show", there were no children in the Peanut Gallery.  And there were no cartoons.  The bleachers were filled with senators, and they all had baseball bats.  And Cap'n Ted's Treasure Chest was filled to overflowing with toys, games, and other colorful items, but they weren't to be handed out to children--they were to be smashed.  And there were extra cameras to smash, too.  And prostitutes.  And everybody was drinking a whole lot and they were all drunk, and Ted Kennedy wasn't wearing any pants.  And the people watching at home thought to themselves, "This is all some kind of thinly-disguised political commentary, isn't it?"  But it wasn't.  It was just a silly, pointless series of events.

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Legend, oh legend, the third wheel legend...always in the way.

BigFrank105china has the 2nd most number of cows of any country in the world but doesn't eat cheese. no wonder the kids there are starving

and what the fuck are they using the cows for if they don't eat cheese? do they drink milk? if not, i think we should bomb the fuck out of them and their growing cow army

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what if nigger meant kite

ivytheplant

Those are Burmese. They don't count, else I would have seen more than one Chinese restaurant (in Arkansas of all places) that carried them. And I've been to Chinese places in about a dozen states and three countries.

Damn they're good though.

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I could give a fuck if they're Burmese or Nepalese or Siamese in origin...if they serve them in Chinese places, we got a right to assume they're Chinese. I grew up half-raised by my Cantonese friend's family, working in their takee-outee joint much of my life, and never thought anything but the fact that rangoons were Chinese (well - as Chinese as Chinese food in the US can get).

At Rose's Chinese Cafe here in town you can get a cheeseburger with a side of fried rice, cashew chicken with french fries, or chili and egg rolls.

I had no idea that cheeseburgers were Chinese food.