The Dark Days Pt 1

The Mayan calendar is approaching its end, the dark days of Nostradamus are descending upon us, the trumpets are out my friends, and the downfall of humanity is approaching. What can you do? Cracks are surfacing on the granite countertop of civilization, ants shall soon pour forth from the aforementioned crack, so the next time you feel in the mood for a ham sandwich with lettuce, tomato, and pepper-jack cheese; you will pull forth these ingredients in preparation for the construction of a delicious lunch, but once they are on the cracked counter top and you reach into the plastic bag to retrieve a couple slices of white bread in order to begin… SON OF A BITCH! Fucking ants all up in your bread.

There’s nothing you can do to combat the collapse of civilization, it was written in the stars since the beginning of time. The seven sisters shall be stung by the savage tail of the scorpion; an eagle will then eat that scorpion while a lion serves a centaur in dance competition. No friends, you can’t stop it, but you can be prepared, and I shall lay forth the design which shall sustain you.

First, you must stock up on leather-pants, umpire padding, and weapons. Weapons of the highest priority are firearms, for they are most effective. However, rudimentary objects of daily life fashioned into instruments of death are also desirable for their virtue of style. Some examples of such objects would be; a hockey stick with skulls painted on the end, a baseball bat wrapped in barb wire with skulls painted on the end, a 2x4 with the faces of Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana cut from magazines and glued to the opposing sides of the 2x4, etc.

Second, you must have a punk rock haircut. Perhaps a Mohawk or Liberty Spikes dyed in flamboyant colors. You must also have accessories to match this haircut and the previously mentioned leather pants. Accessories such as a dog-collar with metal studs, leather gloves with skulls on them (or perhaps pink butterflies for the sake of irony), facial jewelry of dubious symbolism is a must, more skulls.
Third, you must have an appropriate chariot. Cut the top from your automobile and install a rusty metal roll-cage, or buy a motorcycle.

Once these have been obtained, you will be ready to embark upon your new life as a raider, or marauder. The Thunder-Dome is approaching my friends, and the spoils of anarchy lie beyond.

TV Gives Wrong Impression to Young Girls

I was watching TV the other day, and a commercial came on. It showed a young girl standing infront of a billboard advertisement with a beautiful women on it. Then there was a flash of dozens of beautiful women advertisements, which cut to the same young girl sitting on the couch. I found myself thinking "well bitch, if you wanna look like that sitting on the couch won't get it done". Why I called her a bitch in my thoughts I'm not sure, gut call I guess.

My point is this; girls should be pressured into being beautiful. I don't want to live in a world full of ugly. Ugly's running rampant as we speak, and that's with the social expectations and pressures we have in place. Can you imagine what would happen if we stripped that all away? If we actually convinced girls that their looks weren't paramount? I shutter to think.

Hot chicks catch breaks. Everybody likes pretty, it's makes us feel all warm inside, and if you get inside it then it's really warm, but I digress. I'll stop to help a hot girl change a flat, but little miss hog-face can pull out her damn spare. I don't even feel bad about. I might stop, roll down the window, laugh at hog-face, and then peel out. Why is this commercial trying to force young girls to grow up and suffer that fate? It's thoughtless and cruel.

I Dreamt of Death

I arose this morning from the vivid depiction of my own death. I was driving down an interstate, and there were some people on motorcycles in front of me performing various tricks. A girl with a long blonde pony-tail was riding right behind another motorcycle, within inches of it. She jumped over her handle bars so that she was standing on the back of the seat of the motorcycle in front of her while still holding on to the handle bars of her own motorcycle. Then she jumped off and ran along side of her motorcycle for a few seconds before jumping back on.

I then passed the motorcycle stunt trio and went under an overpass. Right as I emerged a semi-truck jumped the medium into my lane of traffic, and jack-knifed across the road. I slammed on the brakes before colliding with the truck, behind its front tire. I had been able to slow myself enough so that the impact what relatively minor. I crinkled my front end, but I wasn’t injured. However, I had just enough time to take a breath before something slammed into my rear.

I could hear the metal crunching, feel the steering wheel pressing against my chest, and then hear my ribs cracking under the tremendous force. My entire body was numb. The last image I saw was that of my left arm stretched across the dashboard in front of my shattered window. I heard myself struggle to inhale, the raspy and stuttered sound of air struggling to find its way into my crushed lungs is still in my head.

The funny part is that I was totally calm. I didn’t jump awake, heart pounding, but slowly passed into consciousness in this world as I faded from that of my dream. I looked at my left arm stretched across my pillow in exactly the same fashion as it had been in my dream, and smiled. Death wasn’t all that bad.

Work and America

When did so many American people begin viewing the government as an independent entity, and not as an extension of themselves? Democracy; for the people, by the people, that’s what America is. However, I hear more and more people talking about what the government owes them. The government can’t give someone anything; the government is just the middle-man. In demanding service from the government a person is really demanding something from their self and their fellow citizens, and if they are demanding something then it logically follows that they can’t provide it for their self, so in the end they’re just demanding it of their fellow citizens.

I must ask the question; what does one citizen owe to another? The concise answer is nothing. No one has an inherent duty to anyone else simply because they reside in the same country. Being successful doesn’t automatically make you your neighbor’s keeper.

The idea of a “civilized nation” is destroying our nation. If being civilized means that being weak, or unable to do for yourself, entitles you to support from those who can then lead me to my cave. If you focus on being given what you need then you neglect working for what you want.

Hard work and dedication would seem to be the sacrifice that must be made to obtain a civilized nation. Once upon a time you deserved what you fought to obtain. The only rights you truly had were the ones you struggled to gain, or sustain. We’re not born with the right to be happy; we’re born with the right to find happiness. How it was once upon a time is how it still is today; we’ve just fooled ourselves into thinking otherwise. You only have this right or that right until someone comes along and takes it away.

It would appear strange that all these advocates fighting to feed the sense of entitlement growing in this country have never worked a day in their life. Sure, maybe they crammed for an exam. Perhaps, they’ve knocked back a few Red-Bulls and pulled an all-nighter flipping the pages of a text book. I have the utmost respect for the pursuit of knowledge, and the importance of academia; however, it doesn’t make your hands bleed.

There is enlightenment to be found in a sore back after spending a day with a shovel. There’s an illumination in swollen ankles from a day of heavy lifting. The understanding of life is found in the rain and snow as it beats down on your back, and it’s absorbed when you grit your teeth and carry on in order to get the job done.

The strongest, most enduring, and respectable form of character isn’t written on any pages, I’ve searched, and appreciation of life can’t be received as a gift, only as a reward.

Adamantium to Loony Rant

The other day I was writing something, and I noticed that the word Adamantium is not in the Microsoft dictionary out-of-the-box. I was perplexed; figuring that Adamantium is pretty much a household term thanks to Wolverine. Then for shits and giggles I tried Magneto, and it’s in the fucking dictionary! Now before you physicist types fuck up the forthcoming hypothesis with your little “facts” and “Webster’s definitions”; I’d just like to say, STFU!

I’ve come to realize that Microsoft is actually a front for the Brotherhood. I must admit, the only comic book character I follow is Deadpool (<-Not in the dictionary), and have no idea whether or not the Brotherhood of Mutants still exists. If it doesn’t, the Microsoft Office developers are trying to rebuild. The developers of Open Office must be informed! Only they can stop this menace growing deep within the fluorescent lit corridors of Microsoft. The Open Office people have a stealth jet right? Be forewarned people the Office Wars are on the horizon. Personally, I’m siding with the Brotherhood of Microsoft. Fuck the Linu-X-Men; seriously. Open source software is great in principle, but it’s lacking in every other aspect. Besides, it’s for socialites, err Socialists, and dirty Commies. Piracy is the true American way! I doubt those idealistic Linu-X-Men advocate Piracy, so obviously they aren’t very American. However, Microsoft doesn’t either. Shit, we’re fucked. Join the resistance. We have to shut down these meta-human software developers before they use their powers to subvert us all to either Capitalism or Equality. This post is going nowhere. My premise for this whole thing is being adhered to loosely at best. I should rethink and come up with another draft, but when writing these blogs I go pretty much stream of consciousness. Like up there where I said open source software is for socialites; I just kept on going. We all know those big-ass rose-tinted sunglass sporting bitches don’t run Red-Hat. Paris Hilton is compiling shit. I can’t think of another one of those chicks, but isn’t programming a damn thing. I don’t care though; put fingers to keys and go, that’s how I run game. The news had pictures of some murdered transvestite on the other day and my first thought was, he’s hot. I don’t give a shit, I just write it; none of you are ever going to meet me. I’m just some weirdo with a twisted sense of humor on a keyboard somewhere. Fuck you! I don’t know why I became so irate with you just now. That was uncalled for, and I apologize, but really, we both know I don’t mean it. I never do. It’s all just an act to subdue your displeasure with me. I only make you happy via lies and manipulation. It’s better for both of that way. I find joy in playing puppet games with you, and you find joy in my nice-guy façade. Mu-hahahaha! Fools! I will kill your children!

I’m joking no I won’t. Unless I’m like 95.5 percent sure I’ll get away with it. If I’m positive there’s no witnesses, and I just happen to have some gloves, the chain from a chainsaw, a duffel-bag, and happened to be near a large body of water, sure I’ll off ‘em. I’ll choke the little bastard with the chainsaw chain, puncture any organs which might balloon with posthumous gasses, stuff his gut and intestines with rocks, stuff him in the duffel-bag, zip up the bag, and sploosh under an overcast night sky.

I kinda hope no one reads this, yet I’ll post it anyway.

Olive Garden Kills the Unhappy

The other day I was at an Olive Garden, in Cheyenne, Wyoming. I happened to notice a strange quote on a decorative black-board, which met me as I entered. It read “If you’re happily, you’re family”, and I thought, that’s a horrible thing to say to unhappy people. Then my mind laid out a rather extreme and unlikely scenario.

Let’s say for instance, a man’s mother just died. He is an only child, and his father let them when he was born. Now he’s all alone in life. His mother, whom he loved dearly, just died in a fire, while trying to save his puppy. The puppy didn’t even survive. This guy’s down and out. He’s never been more unhappy in his life. So, he decides to go to the Olive Garden for, what he hopes to be, an uplifting Italian meal.

As the man passes into the dining area, a black-board catches his eye; a black-board which joyfully high-lights his isolation. Oh, hello Mr. Frumpy-Pants, you’re not really welcome here. Sure, we’ll feed you, but honestly we won’t accept you. How could we? We don’t give a shit what atrocities have befallen you today. You’re not a part of this cheerful family. Why don’t you just head home, eat some Vienna sausages, pop a bottle of Tylenol 3s and wash it down with a bottle of Popov Vodka, and die.

I hope you’re satisfied with yourself Olive Garden. You killed this poor man. Oh yes, he took you’re advice (in my interpretation of this hypothetical situation). Now he joined his ghastly roasted mother’s corpse as maggot food.

I suggest everyone contact their local Olive Garden and complain about this travesty of humanity.

Unemployment Solution

I think it’s pretty well known to everyone by now that our nation is in economical turmoil. Our unemployment rate is ridiculously high, and I heard on POTUS this afternoon somebody said it would be at least six years before it even returned to where it was before the downturn (“somebody said”- you can’t fuck with my research skillz). Anyways, the point is, I have discovered an elegant solution to the unemployment problem, and I believe it will help with some of the other factors economic problems.

Before I get too far into my answer to our current state of affairs I would like to point out that these are desperate times. Our economy is taking a beating like Rihanna telling Chris Brown that dinner’s cold, and the dishes aren’t done. So understand I will be asking a lot of the American people.

The answer to unemployment is deceptively simple; suicide. If two thirds of our unemployed population swallowed a .45 slug it would effectively cut our unemployment rate by two-thirds (My math skills, also unfuckwitable). Think about it, the American depression rate is nearly 54 percent; according to a figure I just put in this sentence. That’s around 1.3 billion people, I guess; I’m making up all these numbers.

Let’s be honest; we really don’t need these Prozac popping drains on society. You, the Xanax zombies of the world; you can accomplish one thing to benefit our great country. Off yourself. All you have to do is flush your meds down the toilet, or sell them to some local elementary school kids (they’ll buy whatever, they’re stupid). Then, let nature run its course. You probably wanted to swing from that pole in your closet with a belt at one time or another anyway. That’s instincts. Who are our psychologists to play God? Obviously your brain is telling you that you’re unworthy of breathing, and you shouldn’t argue with that.

Depression isn’t a mental illness. It’s nature’s way of thinning the herd, since lions don’t eat us anymore, and religion isn’t killing everyone fast enough. You’re brain is telling you that you are extra weight. You are America’s man-boobs. Do everyone else a favor, and liposuction, er wait, lipo-blow your brains out all over your garage.

If you really want to help, take out some families on welfare while you’re at it. That’ll really cut back on American expenditures which show no return. Hop in that broken down piece of shit jalopy you drive, and ram right through your local Habitat for Humanity.

DISCLAIMER: Do it faggot!

Meeker, Co and teh DOW Douche-Bag

I’d like to take some time to write about Meeker, Co. The people in Meeker are some of the nicest you’ll ever come across (outsiders are their main source of income). However, the law is formed from a bunch of bitches.

While I was there my dad and I decided to hit the shooting range to buck off a few rounds. We had a fed-ex envelope as one of our targets. There was this old piece of shit couch out there that we stuck it in, and forgot to grab. Anyways, now, two weeks later a DOW douche-bag calls my pops to inform him he’s getting a littering ticket. What kind of shit is that? It was in a fucking couch. It was a little piece of trash firmly fastened to a huge piece of trash. There was trash everywhere. It was a shooting range, cans, bottles, unwanted pets, babies whose mothers had a date they wanted to go on.

I want to know how this incredibly perceptive Douche o’ Wildlife officer even noticed the damn thing. I guess when you don’t have much to do in a day you find shit like that. Then, I wondered if he really became irate upon its discovery. I wonder if he was all pissed standing out in an open canyon like “what kind of monster would defile nature’s majesty with the white cardboard rectangle of Satan? Oh, what is this? A name, well I have a surprise for you pal.”

I realize we should have grabbed the damn envelope, but come on. You can’t let one fucking envelope in a mound of shit slide?

Basically there’s two morals to this story; 1.) Don’t use shit with your name on it as target practice, and 2.) Never go to fucking Meeker, Co.