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It Doesn’t Always Need to be About the Past


Why is is that every time an automaker re-designs a particular model, or brings back a nearly-forgotten nameplate, or even mid-cycle facelifts a car, that the very first fucking thing I have to read is every self-important know-it-all posting that they should have made it look like the 1961 model? SERIOUSLY?!

Here’s a quick thought, you morons: Not every car has to look JUST FUCKING LIKE THE ORIGINAL MODEL. Tastes and design requirements change. You wouldn’t sell a whole lot of Cadillacs today with giant fins or 150-lbs of trim on the flanks. Oh, you can bet your ass that there would be a half-dozen greaseball mooks on the East coast putting in advance orders (“Hey Joey… weez kin paint ‘Teen Angel’ on da continental kit! An’ I gots you some new fuzzy dice, bro!”), but following that, it would have no place in the modern day.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for brand and model continuity, and a little nod to tradition is outstanding. Hell, I bought my Challenger based on that. Then again, that car was done RIGHT. It’s not a cartoon-ish caricature of the original like a certain Camaro. On the other hand, would I have been even remotely interested in the car had it looked like the ’78-83 models? Probably not. It’s about instilling some heritage, and knowing how that will work with the current (and future) brand direction.

Consider the return of the Thunderbird in 2000. Holy moly… what a catastrophe. That whole retro-design phase ruined it for a lot of cars, not to mention design enthusiasts. Back to the Challenger, what if, in 1970, we weren’t offered a fresh take on the Pony Car concept, but rather a 1937 Dodge coupe-looking thing with a wing on the back and a dual-snorkel hood? Would have failed, and gone down as a styling flop. This would have happened because people used to celebrate design and inventiveness. Perhaps this explains why every TV show is the same regurgitated bullshit, and why reruns of said shows sell like hotcakes. Originality just ain’t what it used to be.

Nostalgia can be a great thing, just keep it the fuck away from the new car-buying public in general.


Halloween: Making it Safer for the Rest of Us

Another night of these begging little bastards with their iPhones and $200 sneakers, being dropped off in our neighborhood by yoga pant-wearing women driving Lexus and BMW SUV’s to mooch free food.

In keeping with tradition, we’ll hand out condoms in the hope that these pint-sized ingrates will take them home and prevent their parents from having any more children that they can’t feed.

I’m Not a Monster, After All

Don’t get me wrong, I feel bad for the dude… I’m not a monster, after all.

But in hindsight, two things were working against the man whose stall I barged into in the restroom:

One: That door latch appeared to be in perfect working order.

Two: (and possibly more important than the first) His missing legs most certainly did not prevent him from engaging that fucking latch.

But I’M the bad guy. Perhaps my telling you that taking a “stand” over an honest mistake was, well, a mistake, but cut me some slack here. I was probably just, if not more embarrassed. And just a little freaked-out to be frank.

The Dangers of Poor Spelling, Episode 71: Nudity Roulette

It is “wax nostalgic,” not “whack nostalgic.”

While I may know what you had MEANT, it did not stop my brain from taking a sharp turn into “OH FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST PLEASE NO NO NONONONONONO!!!” Land. So yeah… thanks for that.
Today I had a moment to whack nostalgic, and considering the wonderful memories of bachelorhood during the internet boom, there was but one logical solution to come of it all: All things considered, I’m switching back to dial-up internet. My logic being that all of this high-speed goodness has removed the fun of searching for random things, or as I used to call it, “Nudity Roulette.”
The game was simple enough: You start by searching for something relatively tame (and a bit far from dirty, mind you), and then you’d find that one image that made you think twice before clicking away, but you’d go ahead anyway. In the early days, the algorithms (hang on a second… Internet. That dial-up beepy sound thing. Al Gore. Al-Gore-rhythms. Hmmm.) weren’t really dialed-in (oh, they wrote themselves, kids) yet, so you were taking shots in the dark as it were most days. And then it would begin loading, and with each row of pixels you’d be all like “Oh-kay… certainly NOT what I was expecting here, and what’s with the ocelot?” And then BAM!
The rest loads and “she” has a penis.
Oh, internet… let’s try that again and double-check the spelling of “Italian Pope” a bit closer.

Facebook Privacy? Oh, Puh-leeze.

Dear Facebook “Friend” who continually posts the “Privacy” thing every time it circulates,

If you are posting some copied and pasted “disclaimer” declaring your “rights” regarding any information that you share on Facebook, and honestly believe that you’ve “protected” anything, you are a fucking moron, and should just remove yourself from my “friends” list here.

In the interest of brevity, let’s just roll two key things out for you, genius:
1. You are using an online service to post your thoughts and likes and gripes, and of course, more fucking selfies of yourself than anyone really cares to see, quite honestly… and you do this by choice. Believe me, it isn’t MY choice to see you on a bench, and then walking, and the drinking coffee, and then with your comb, and then with your dog, and then with your dog and your lunch… YOU select to share this meaningless bullshit, and I simply ignore it, because quite frankly, I’m not impressed that you managed to make a fucking sandwich. You’re (and for the record, you illiterate, self-important shit-bag, it’s NOT “your”) an adult. You made a conscious decision to post the pics. Should someone else be equally as fucking stupid as you are, and select to republish your sandwich selfie as a part of some ad campaign in Azibukistabishkan to sell roof rat-based luncheon meats, then it’s your fault for supplying the imagery to begin with, you simpleton.
2. By signing on in the first place, you agree to the Terms and Conditions (that long read you skip past on everything and click “I Agree” to rush into things, because golly gee, Jeb, you jus’ needs to gets yo’ selfie on) EVERY FUCKING TIME YOU LOG IN OR POST. Yes, it says that, fans of literacy. And posting something written by a thirteen year old legal expert from Santa Fe isn’t going to modify that contract. You don’t own the site. Hell, Facebook doesn’t own the site. It’s publicly traded. Take a few hours away from your meaningless life updates (yes, posting a photo of your new iPhone places you into “meaningless” territory, as does any image of you looking at a moon, a car, a place mat, sitting near the booth at that restaurant where they almost filmed a scene in that movie…) and contact the shareholders and board members, and ask each of them if it’s OK to modify the agreement, because holy shit, Universal Pictures is just dying to get at your feed for a movie based upon your updates. Can you see it?
“What’s new in Enterainment News? Let’s check in with Brock Hunkley…”
“Just announced today, the script for ‘Final Moments’, the story of robot uprising and armageddon, based upon the true story of some douchebag’s status updates on Facebook is held up in a legal battle following this loser’s posting of a modification to the Terms of Service on their wall. Braiden McSelfimportant had decided to retroactively claim some ownership of the photos of he and his dog licking an ice cream cone in an undisclosed, poorly-maintained backyard, when someone on his Friends list discovered the image being used to inspire the Vietnam War flashback scene in the forthcoming film.”
Seriously, no more about this. EVER. There is an alternative to sharing your life and every waking moment online. It’s called “NOT SHARING EVERY FUCKING WAKING MOMENT OF YOUR LIFE ON FACEBOOK.” In fact, while we’re at it, do you know why I enjoy our friendship remaining so damned “virtual?” Simply because I’d probably kill myself if I were forced to be around you and that ever-present fucking phone. There should be a law requiring your sorry ass to carry an old film-based camera, and limiting you to one roll per month, if for no other reason than to get a clue as to what a really important moment is. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all of that considered, become absent. Read a fucking book. Do something constructive for once, and see if it serves to better your vacuous, poorly time-managed life. And then you could display those photos in your own gallery, and retain all of the “rights” you want, you imbecile. Go fuck yourself.

Hugs and kisses as always,


Conspiracy Theory, “The M*A*S*H Defense” Edition

klinger defense

If you enjoy a solid conspiracy theory like I do, then you’ll no doubt dig this. You can just bet that everything leading to the trial has been placed into hedging all bets on another Kardashian family member’s defense technique: The old “tuck something away to avoid prosecution” maneuver. In this case, we’ll call it the “Klinger Defense.”

You have a dude that’s into some weird shit, right? Whatever. But in true Kardashian flavor, there’s money to be made, so you work a deal around this guy’s weirdness, and get another fifteen minutes of fame. You capitalize on the shock of “the dude from the Wheaties box wears dresses!” and nab some air time. All is right in the world of “fame at any cost” once again for these people who thrive on being paid attention to.

And then he gets in a wreck and someone dies. Uh-oh.

Fearing prosecution, they spin the “dude in a dress” to “he’s a woman now”, and it places the prosecution (and jurors) into the uncomfortable position of choosing to send a guy in a gown to a men’s prison, or to a women’s prison… or simply throwing their hands in the air and saying “fuck this… we have no idea what to do!” After all… he looks a lot different than the driver at the scene, and according to the media, he’s not Bruce anymore. He’s Caitlyn. She’s a new person. Haven’t we seen this before on TV cop dramas?

Much as Maxwell Klinger sought Section 8 discharge on the TV show M*A*S*H, this guy has taken the concept far downfield, and is hiding behind a serious issue, using it to avoid punishment. It’s genius, really. Manipulate the people just enough for empathy, utilize the media like a politician to plant the right buzz words, and then once they have what they need, they abandon the bandwagoning supporters (namely those who may suffer from some form of gender dysphoria), and he sashays off into the salon. And if you don’t think for a minute that some writer scripted the whole “But gosh, Bruce, Caitlytn, whatever, you’re a Conservative who is against gay marriage?” thing as the perfect doubt-filling seed to plant, then you may just be a stupid enough motherfucker to serve on the jury. Just a touch of controversy to make his “transition” seem all the more real, and give them that oh-so-typical backup argument should they be confronted. Looks strong on the surface… But if you know me, I love finding the cracks.


The whole thing smacks of the OJ/Robert Kardashian hidden murder weapon controversy, as well as the glove fiasco. Double-down on that with support from the President (speaking of media-manipulated gain) and coincidentally-timed awards for “courage” and such nonsense, and the picture of the “tragic hero” is painted with wonderful colors… Look at the under-painting, though, and it’s an ugly mess of the same bland technique we’ve seen time and again from those who think they’ve earned some station in life that is above the law. It leaves me with some concern for all of the “transgender community” supporters, wondering just how many of them are prepared to be run down by this self-serving use of their plight? You’d have to imagine that, should the truth come out looking as described here, that their cause would be set back decades… But much as Hillary would throw around the phrase “champion of women’s rights” and step on the carcasses of feminists everywhere to reach her goals, you can’t escape the feeling that this guy is no different, and has entered a world of ambiguity on so many levels that finding any way back to normalcy is a futile escapade in even the simplest sense.

Am I totally on board with this conspiracy theory? My personal jury is still out on that. I’m just waiting for the trial, and hoping they’ll present the argument that “Caitlyn here couldn’t possibly be the same persona as the driver of that Escalade… That is clearly a man, and she’s, uh, sort of woman-ish,” and then they present the wardrobe of the driver from that fatal day.

The lawyers, beaming with self-satisfaction will go on to explain that “with her breasts, there is no way that shirt could button around the breasts. If the shirt doesn’t fit, you must acquit.”

Roll credits.

Age and Snacking Habits

If it’s true that your tastes change every ten years or so, it bears mentioning just how much I presently enjoy pizza-flavored snacks.

HOWEVER: I should note that if I were ever served a pizza that tasted like any of these snacks, I’d be one pissed-off motherfucker.

The Changing Face of Language

We live in the scariest of times… We witness the revision of the present day alongside the careful editing of history. It strikes me as both odd and funny at once that “new” words are added to the English language, or worse, EDITED TO HAVE THEIR MEANINGS CHANGED.

The latter seems to coincide neatly with some politically-correct dickhead wishing to add a “softer” word to describe something, or worse, some degenerate who expects the world to alter their fucking viewpoint regarding some personal preference of this entitlement-seeker, and by commandeering an existing word and altering its meaning, or developing some fresh jargon to more adequately appease them.

For instance, with this Bruce Jenner in a dress bullshit… He is not a “woman” in any respect, be it “trans” or any other catchy, new-age bullshit prefix. If he took a transcontinental drive in a Trans Am to the Transamerica Pyramid Center while listening to a transistor radio as a friend in the passenger seat transcribed the transmissions of the radio show (discussing transmutation of water into wine), and mis-translating the hoots and howls of the transient illegal immigrants being transported into California, the situation would no more make him a “woman” than would lighting a Pop Tart on fire make it fucking Baked Alaska.

We’ve fallen into this wormhole, wherein we are expected, nay FORCED to bow to the whims and fancy of whatever brain-damaged spoiled brat deems as his or her (or, should you attend the University of Tennessee – that alone begs for me to seek mercy on your soul in the first place, you illiterate turd – the all-inclusive non-gender pronoun “ze”… what in the fuck?!!) “right” to some “respect”, simply by altering the fucking language. We are surrounded by these hashtag-using pukes on their giant phones who are so utterly disconnected to reality, yet so “connected” to social issues that they automatically assume that the two are directly interchangeable. There is no transference in this manner. You simply cannot be so far removed from reality that you can see fit to change it, simply because you “feel” something. It simply doesn’t work that way. Unless, of course, you have allowed the public school system to raise your kids, and you’re transfixed with fear that your offspring will go on a Twitter rant about what an awful sperm donor (or recipient) you are because you don’t understand them and these “feelings.” And if I cannot discern your gender, especially if you’ve taken steps to alter it to make that so, then please explain to me just how in the Hell it becomes my fault that you feel bad or misunderstood, or how I am not “paying conscious attention to your emotional state,” you freak? All of these fringe weirdos demanding “acceptance.” Here’s a thought: JUST LIVE YOUR FUCKING LIFE, AND STOP FORCING ME TO LOOK AT YOU. If I don’t see you, the chances are greatly improved in your favor that I won’t point and laugh at you. It’s as simple as that, honestly. That’s like dressing up as The Mummy for Halloween, but creating your costume from yellow feathers and beak, and then wondering why the other kids are calling you “Big Bird.” A little logic goes a long way there, cupcake. A decision to be “different” or your “inner self” is on YOU, and not me. Should you possess some “great strength and courage” to become your inner weirdo, then at least have the fortitude to take a few jokes at your expense. THAT is the sign of strength or courage… Not crying to just be loved, or protesting to force someone to accept your individual desire. Seriously. There we go, changing the meanings again. And to be frank, I don’t give a flying fuck if you like it, or if it makes you sad. I’ve never come to your door and forced you to gaze upon the Conservative white guy who enjoys punk music and guns and cars and women and B-movies. And I certainly have never forced you to alter your language or manner of thinking to accept with blind certainty that my selection of a lifestyle is protected by any law or otherwise. Force of a belief always meets resistance. That is an irrefutable fact. Going about finding acceptance via a less aggressive manner would breed infinitely more positive results, but it’s probably far less profitable. You’ll find a similar peace and far less self-inflicted suffering once you grasp that, you entitlement-age puke.

Certain words have EARNED their definitions and use and stature in the language. They command a respect for the things they are used to represent. And respect is earned, not forced upon anyone. And while I’m certain that the lily-livered liberal, entitlement-seeking generation we have now will change all of that in the future, you can bet your ass that it won’t be changing soon in my house. Even if your son drops by and threatens to hit me with his purse.

Gondola: Stick a Suppository Up Your App

gondola app

Brian’s Billion-Dollar Business Ideas #5,688,004: Whet Your APP-etite.

For the people who just need to share fucking EVERYTHING, and document each cup of coffee and meal and trek to Target and each time their dog wags its tail and they get the car washed and, well, go get the deal… Welcome to Gondola.

Sure, there are apps to track how many times you poop, and just how much, or even WHERE you’ve dropped dookie. But not one could tell you WHERE IT WENT once you pulled that lever.

Until now.

The Gondola app, via our unique suppository (developed with Garmin), can track your poo from the source to the waste treatment plant. Prefer to drop one in the woods? See if it gets disturbed for up to thirty days! Share the progress of your poop as it winds its way through miles of sewer on top social sites like Facebook, Twitter, and even Chaturbate! Tag your friends, and cheer that turd on. In-app purchases available from sponsors like Green Giant, Planters and Charmin. Ships with seven starter suppositories and sample Tweets.

Gondola: The world’s number two fecal finder.

Infographic Mastery Via Dessert

sweet potato pie

All of this “racial tension” talk, and nobody taking the time to look at the things that bring us all together and blur the lines put in place by some social constructs or other meaningless media-fueled bullshit designed to further divide. We’re all just people, really. And having never seen any of this “white privilege” stuff I keep hearing about in my own life, I figure I may not be 100% white. That in mind, I have created this sweet potato pie chart illustrating the things I enjoy from time to time that don’t quite fit the “white guy” stereotype.

sweet potato pie chart
Greater minds before me had speeches and rallies… I have a pastry. (look for a future post exploring the “Past Generations Compared to My Own: The Great Leader VS Guy Who Brings Dessert Popularity to Social Progress Importance Ratio”).

Looking back at this, I can make two key observations:
1. I should reverse the placement of “I’m Gonna Git You Sucka” with “Chicken and Waffles”
2. Green-colored sweet potato pie is far more disturbing to look at than purple-colored sweet potato pie

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