Archive for September, 2010

Apologies for not providing you your Wednesday entertainment per usual yesterday. KaosTheory had to go and be a big man and become another year older and another year closer to the grave. In this course of his celebrating his slow, plodding walk towards death, he straight up just forgot he had responsibilities. The situation has been remedied and he will no longer have birthdays. We feel this will be an adequate compensation for you not getting your entertainment on time. As well, we will be providing today’s list (the fourth in the series) as 1.5 times longer than the previous ones. Do try to enjoy this sadly late installment, won’t you?
“a water cycle comics”: Are we talking about comics written ABOUT the water cycle? Because…holy crap, that shit would be boring.

“fuck your soul”: I don’t quite know what this one means although I’m certain that it would probably cost double at some brothel.

“wecatbakdan”: This one actually makes me smile a bit. I picture this slow guy yelling this to his troops. “WE CA’T BAK D’AN!”

“rough porn guide”: Sorry, friend. We no longer produce that guide as we’ve found that it leaves us legally liable for sexual assault. Apologies!

“i am the doctor”: Then what the hell are you doing online! Shouldn’t you be off somewhere saving lives and writing illegible prescriptions?

“what are awesome things to do?”: Sex, booze, driving fast, explosions and respecting your elders. Bitch.

“daniel p. orner”: P. Orner is the BEST legal name for someone who represents the sex industry in court. Yes it is.

“adult daughter eats catfood you tube”: What the hell is it about this site that continues to bring in visitors who want to see their DAUGHTERS and CAT FOOD? And videos? What the hell are you putting on the Net, you sick freak?

“cat the inferno”: Okay, if I ever get a cat of my own when I actually live by myself one day, this is going on the short list of names to call the furry little bastard, for sure.

“pissy tins”: Pissy tins. You want to see something called pissy tins. PISSY. TINS. What the FUCK?

“retard velociraptor”: This would be an AMAZING band name, first off. Secondly, the mental image that this produces is really funny. A big old raptor stumbling along behind the rest of the pack, refusing to stay silent and tripping over turtles and shit in the middle of the jungle, noises like parrots with laryngitis coming from its throat.

“mistresses scat tasks”: These should not be on the Internet. These should be written in a bold, flowing script inside a crisply-bound notebook, put away inside a hidden drawer in the giant oak desk sitting in the den and THE HOUSE SHOULD BE SET ON FUCKING FIRE.

“rapeasaurus horse potato”: I mean, that just says it all, doesn’t it? Those are words to live by. My life is changed. I think I found inner peace.

“i masturbate to food porn”: This either means that he watches shows on the Food Network and rubs one out or he likes seeing people fucking with peanut butter and applesauce. I don’t really know which is a more distasteful option.

“compell to eat scat vids”: Correct me if I’m wrong, but even WITH the misspelled word in the phrase, this still means to forcibly feed someone SHIT by ramming it down their throat or, worse, threatening their family if they don’t do it, right? Because…damn.

“dan gulla screenwriter”: Oh boy. This could may well lead to some legal problems down the road. I can see them coming already.

“albert sousa horse meat”: There’s a whole lot wrong with this one. First off, I don’t recall there ever being anything about Sousa on this blog. Secondly, his first name was John Philip, not Albert. Thirdly, I don’t see how horse meat really enters into the equation…well…anywhere. Ever. And finally, and probably most unsettlingly, THIS WAS SEARCHED MORE THAN ONE TIME. THIS DAMN SEARCH RESULT CAME UP NO LESS THAN FOUR TIMES on the list. FOUR. “albert sousa horse meat” was a desired result that led to this blog no less than FOUR TIMES. Who the HELL needs to see this shit FOUR TIMES? WHO NEEDS IT ONCE?!

“old felony can i goto japan?”: I mean, you could give it your best shot. They may not let you in though. I mean, if Paris Hilton can’t even get in due to one measly little coke charge, what the hell chance does a nobody like you have?

“grinding noise when cat eats”: Well, I was hoping I wasn’t going to be the one to have to break it to you, buddy, but your cat is actually a high-powered food disposal unit. And when you’re “feeding” it? Well…your neighbors are going to start missing their dog any time now. And their kindergartener. You might want to hire a good attorney.

“jan.5, 2009 cowboy eating cat”: I’m really not particularly comfortable with the explicit dating of act in question. It’s like they were looking for archival footage which is…we don’t offer that here and I’m glad we don’t. Because it’s weird.

“what if you have two felonies”: That means that you have less than three but two more than the normal, functional members of society. You know, the people that can vote and get any job they want and generally aren’t looked at with suspicion the rest of their natural lives? You know…NOT you.

“divorced and living with mother who eats”: I’d rather you live with your mom who eats. If you lived with your mom who didn’t eat, you would in fact be Norman Bates.

“teats ass monkey comic”: Again, are you asking about a comic that deals with the teats and ass of a monkey? Or are you implying that the monkey would have a comic routine in which it bared its teats and ass?

and finally

“always dress well three piece suit fine”: Well, hell! This is one we can agree on, partner! Damn straight, rock the three piece suit.
And that’s that. Once again, these are all completely true and accurate search results that lead to this page. I’m going to sign us off before Ed gets all pissy so DEUCES, BITCHES!

Obscure Rulings Inside The Baseball Sexual Metaphor

Posted: September 15, 2010 by kaostheory in Informative
Tags: , ,

Everyone knows the “bases” metaphor for sex, especially if you’re above the age where you just start growing hair and feeling weird and unfamiliar emotions while peering at the blue-checked-dress-clad ass of the substitute science teacher whose pretty blond hair and winning smile make you tilt your desk without using your hands. By this, we mean she gave you an erection. Anyhow, for those of you who still exist in this world as cave-dwelling sub-humanoids whose only encounter with sexuality has been lightly grazing up against the carcass of the elk you slaughtered and groaning at the contact, we’re going to explain – before the article – the five basic bases. Yes, our scale is a bit different than the usual one but it’s more thorough.

Okay. So here’s how it goes:

First Base: Your basic making-out stance. You play tongue-war with the lady of your choice and maybe – MAYBE – get the chance to feel around with her fruits – above the shirt or at very best, the bra, of course.

Second Base: Bra’s gone, thrown to the winds or potentially the windowsill, and you’re attacking the released natives with gusto, your mouth, your hands and your pants tighter than an emo boy’s. You are still firmly ensconced in the “Sexually innocent if a bit naughty” stage so…yay to you, maybe?

Shortstop: You have progressed past the balancing point between “This is just playful sexuality that we can end at any time” and “Okay, boys, let’s get ready for action”. In the best scenario, she’s got her hand (tiny and delicate or NFL wide-receiver size, we don’t judge) wrapped around Sir Mix-A-Lot while you have The Pointer Sisters jammed up into her Bay of Tonkin. Ejaculation may result at this point, but only if you’re a total fucking wimp or haven’t been touched intimately in, oh, let’s say two years.

Third Base: Either she or you slide in head-first, you spelling the alphabet, her all acting like you’re a hell of a bratwurst. You can hold at this threshold if you have to but it’s an uneasy truce. One that can get broken. Especially if you don’t warn her about Old Faithful blowin’ his top, in which case all-out war ensues.

Home: You get to fuckin’. Simple as that.

Now that those are settled, here is our attempt to further expand this metaphor into wildly inappropriate realms.
Hitting the Backstop: Well, it’s when your pitch misses home plate and strikes the area behind it. You know, the area located directely behind home plate. BEHIND it. We’ll leave that to you to figure out. It’s anal, by the way.

Infield Fly Rule: You’d need to be in a threesome where person B is making out with person A in first base and person C is groping person A. Person D enters the room to get in on the action but has no luck. The infield fly rule would keep the threesome going without person D having ruined it for everyone else, Pred3000.

Ground Rule Double: Where you’re making out and accidentally grab her chest and think you’re “out” but she just shrugs and keeps going. It’s not as good as a homer but damn near as exciting. Plus, it gives you a tentative greenlight for further baserunning, which is always a plus.

Triple Play: C’mon. C’mon. We’re not even going to explain this one.

Caught Stealing: The opposite of the Ground Rule Double. You’re trying to go all Rickey Henderson and snag a base or even two further than you were expecting and she, with anger and a little bit of being offended, pushes your octopus hands off of her, refastens her bonnet and goes back to her MORMON FUCKING ENCLAVE like a BITCH who doesn’t give two fucks if you’re BLUE-BALLING the SHIT out of LIFE.

Corked Bats: Well, let’s be realistic here. We’re probably all young dudes here. However, that doesn’t mean that The Horror of Horrors can’t wreak havoc on Mr. Mister, especially in the light of getting twisted on Mssrs. Cuervo and Jagermeister. That’s where a little blue pill, a large pump and plenty of prayer comes into effect, “corking” your Louisville Slugger.

PEDs: The spiritual yin to the Corked Bat yang. Or vice versa. In any case, these aren’t being taken because there are problems with the old operating system. No, there are done to ENHANCE the performance. Try horking down some Oxycontin or ecstasy. Whatever you do, though, don’t rub coke into your dick. That way priapism lies.

Pine Tar: Sometimes you just can’t get a good enough grip on things. That’s where this comes in. Leather works pretty well. So do edible panties, although if you’re going with the kind that is basically like fucking wearing Froot Roll-ups, you are going to have some serious problems in the future. I don’t want to get too far into it since it hasn’t been technically proven yet but it’s called…well…think of like what happens to non-self-stick envelopes. It’s that.

Pinch Hitters/Runners: We understand. We really do. Sometimes you just can’t get things going the way you want them to. The spirit is very very willing but the flesh is so fat and out of shape and weak. That’s when you call in Juantonio, the chiseled Colombian day laborer, to come in and sex up the lady while you sit and watch, stroking your useless do-gooder and drinking a scotch and soda.

Fielder’s Indifference: The last one is, yet again, a counterpart, this time to the Pinch Hitter/Runner. This is when The Honda Pilot is raring to go but…you just don’t want it. You want to sit back, crack a brew and watch the Bengals ass up another game. There is a compromise here. Your upper and lower halves can operate independently of each other. You can still slam into her like Marmaduke and watch the game and beer it up. Do her a favor though. Reach down during commercials and play with her tits a bit. It makes it seem like you’re paying attention.
(This is one of the most sociopathic things I’ve read in a while. – ed.)

You love it.

(Compared to last week? Rubbing your balls on a piece of paper until it became translucent would be like the Mona Lisa. – ed.)

That can be arranged. Deuces!

Anatomy Of A Really Nasty Hangover

Posted: September 8, 2010 by kaostheory in Slice of Life
Tags: , ,

Blrugh. Mrrgn. Wh…what? What? Oh…’s light out. Fuck. Ughhh. Urp. Okay. Okay. Oh my…guh. What the hell time is it anyways? Three in the afternoon? Awww damn it.

Phew. Alright. So…time to think. What happened last night? Okay, think. Think really hard.

There was a bar…it was…where was it? Damn it! I don’t remember. I walked there since I was already drunk, that I DO remember. Oh hell. Heh heh. I really must have tied one on. I guess I should…

Hold on. What? What the FUCK?! THESE AREN’T MY BOXERS! These damn sure aren’t the ones I wore last night! Wait…I DIDN’T EVEN WEAR BOXERS LAST NIGHT! I remember! I was freeballin’ because all my shorts were dirty after…well, last weekend. How did these get here and on my body? Did I get laid?

Whatever. If that’s the craziest thing that happened last night, I’m set. Ugh. I want some fuckin’…fuckin’ Golden Grahams. Yeah those sound awesome. Do I have any? Am I going to have to go get some? I hope not. Probably should check. Time to move the body. This is going to hurt.

Hrrrrrrrrglh. Waaaaaaaaaaaaragh. Prrrrrap ap ap ap. Pleh. Okay. Okay, so I puked. Whatever. Whatever. It’s just my stomach telling me I had a hell of a time last night. Where are those Golden Grahams?

What…what is that on the table? Are those…keys? Yeah, they’re KEYS. What the hell? I’ve never seen these before. This one looks like it goes to a safety deposit box…that one looks like a car key…don’t know what the hell that third one is for. Why would I have these? I left my car at home last night. Eh. Figure this out after Golden Grahams.


Okay. Okay. Calm down. Calm down. Don’t aggravate the stomach more. We’ll just go buy more. Just grab the keys and…

Okay. Well that’s not my car. That is a rusty blue ’91 Jetta, not a white ’01 Camry. That explains the key though. Oh holy crap, did I DRIVE last night? Oh my God. How am I not in jail? Well…I mean, I guess no harm no foul. I would still like to know how I got that car.

…oh shit. I need to check my phone, don’t I? Oh boy. This won’t be…FORTY-SEVEN MESSAGES?! Oh hell. Oh hell. Who did I call? Who did I talk to? Who did I embarrass myself in front of? Did I call my mom?…oh shit, DID I call my mom?! Okay no. Good. Thank God for that. Huh. These all seem to be from the same person. I don’t recognize the number. Oh good. Voicemail. Let’s listen.

Hey baby. It’s Krystal. I just wanted to thank you for being so sweet last night to my little brother. He really appreciated that ride back to Cookesville. He said you were really happy and laughed the whole way there. He just adores you. Just thought you should know. Bye, handsome.

…this is pretty bad. I have no idea who this chick is. I drove a HALF HOUR blacked out drunk with what I can assume to be a less than teenage kid in the car with me. Oh good. There’s another voicemail. This is going to be just as good.

Hey baby, it’s Krystal again. I forgot to thank you for ME last night too. Mmm, baby, you rocked my world. My girls at the club were asking why I was walking so funny! Hah! Care for a rematch at your place again tonight? Let me know, lover.

Huh. I DID get laid. By a stripper. Somehow this makes drunk driving better. Best to not think too much into it. What was I doing again? Oh, right. Golden Grahams. God, I’m hungry. Do we have even any PopTarts to last me through the drive to the store?

Apple cinnamon? Not with this hangover. Fuck. Eh. Might as well just take the Jetta since I can’t really see if my Camry is out there.

Eh. Not the best car, but what the hell. Alright let’s see if she WHAT THE HOLY SHIT IS IN THE BACKSEAT?! Is…that a SPONGEBOB COSTUME? What HAPPENED last night?!

I’m not asking. I’m not asking. I’m just going to drive to Publix, pick up some freaking Golden Grahams, maybe run by the bank to see just what the hell is in the safe deposit box.

*time passes*

Okay that’s not quite what I was expecting. Fifty thousand bucks in cash and a pinky ring with a gold nugget in it. I mean, what the hell. I’ll take it but…


What the HELL?! Okay! Okay! I’ll cooperate! Just don’t shoot! Fuck! What is this?!

Perp in custody. Search the house.

Will you tell me what the hell is going on?!

Oh like you don’t know, asshole.

I don’t! I am working off the worst fucking hangover of my LIFE! I don’t remember anything that happened last night!

Last night? Son, the girl that we’re pretty sure we’ll find in your house has been missing for half a week.

Half a week? Girl? Oh shit…

That money in the box was the ransom money from the girl’s parents. You’re going away for a long time, sicko.

Can I just ask one question?

I guess. It won’t really matter.

Is her last name Ball?

Uh…no. It’s Johnson. Why?

I just…wanted to make a joke.

A joke? Son, if that girl is still alive, you at least won’t get the death penalty! You want to make jokes at a time like this?

Well, yeah. I guess you could say that it’s…

Son, if you make a pun, I will jam this nightstick where the sun don’t shine and make it look like suicide.


*awkward silence*
(What the hell is this, Kaos? – ed.)

It’s called anti-humor!

(You’re right about that in the sense that if you put it next to humor, they will cause a cataclysm. We’re stopping here. Sorry, readers. He won’t be so rockfuck stupid next article, we promise. – ed.)

Kitchen Talk

Posted: September 1, 2010 by kaostheory in Slice of Life
Tags: , ,

Yes, we cook. What of it? Cooking is both incredibly manly – enough to give weak dudes a set and non-weak dudes an EXTRA set, which means we each have like…seven sets of stones – and is 28% more likely to get you laid if you talk about it. Even more so, you get to wear awesome aprons, go on shows, get screamed at…wait, maybe not quite that far. Still, cooking DOES make you more sexually desirable and that has been verified by no less than four actual, real-life women. True facts. Anyways, we figured we’d give you a little peek into the world of Dan Eats Cat Food cooking so you can see just how we get down. KT, lay it down.
Chicken Empanadas: I know, I know. I know what you’re going to say. “But Kaos! Empanadas are intended to only be used as appetizers. Like chicken fingers! Or a fifth of bourbon!” I hear you, fictional people. I really do. But you gotta understand. It was something to do and I was enamored with them because Superfly and I got some free at N9ne Steakhouse when we rolled through Vegas. Don’t get me wrong. These were still some pretty bitchin’ empanadas. They were all “Hey dude” and I was all “What up?” and they were all “Eat us” and I was all “I’m down” and then they were all “BAM! Cumin, motherfucker!”. It was awesome. Chicken wasn’t shredded though, which was my bad. You gotta make that chicken all torn to shit and THEN wrap it so it can bake in the pastry. You live, you learn.

Crab Rangoon: Now these are way tasty, but a pain in the ass to make. You gotta mix up the crab filling which, let’s be honest here, is so damn tasty that you could just get a spoon and gorge yourself on it straight up, even though that would make you a fat-ass loser with bowel problems. From the straight filling, of course. But once you get that all mixed up, you have to peel individual sheets of the thin-ass pastry and then fill them so that they’re full but not overflowing (a task not for the faint of heart, mind you). After that comes the worst part. You have to use a tiny-ass brush to wet down the edges which WILL make your fingers sticky and unpleasant (not unlike…well…you know). Damn tasty after being baked though. Damn tasty. Sweet and sour sauce really brings out the flavor in them so…you know…use that.

Red Lobster Biscuits: Don’t ask me how I got this recipe. It involves stuff that you probably shouldn’t know, mainly because it would make you an accessory to a bunch of different things. But trust me on this: it’s the real deal. It’s legit. And awesome. I’m not going to tell you how to do it. You can find the recipe yourself. But I tell you, there is NOTHING that these biscuits won’t make better. Steak? Better. Pork? Better. Chicken? Better. Sex? Probably better although I haven’t gotten a chance to try that little thing out yet. I’m assuming better though.

Soy Chicken: Straight up easy cooking. Mix up a little soy sauce, sugar and other shit, boil it until hot, drop chicken tenders in, flip the bitches four times, pull them out and serve them on buttered rice. Nothing difficult about it at all. Unless, of course, you’re retarded, but I can’t help you there.

Now those four foods are pretty easy to make. Maybe a little bit of labor required on them but generally pretty low on the challenge meter. These next four, though, they take some real effort.

Manicotti: Okay, maybe this is easy if you’re fucking Italian. But guess what? I’m not fucking Italian! So it takes some work. It’s not so much mixing up the cheese filling mixture – which incidentally is even better tasting than the crab rangoon stuff – or even cooking the noodles which basically look like thick yellow condoms missing an end. Those parts are just fine, even kind of fun. It’s FILLING the damn things that is so time consuming. You have to cut the corner off a plastic bag and use it like a tube of frosting to squirt your still-warm, white semi-liquid into the hot, waiting hole of the pasta. Is anyone else turned on right now?

Chicken Breasts Stuffed with Shiitake Mushrooms and Provolone Cheese: NOW we’re fucking talking. Nice and complicated. Actually, to be perfectly honest, it’s not even that hard. Just chop up the mushrooms and cheese and stuff the cut-open chicken breasts with them. What you don’t expect is how damn TASTY it is. Seriously. You wouldn’t think that something with the a word reminiscent of SHIT in it would be good, but damned if it just doesn’t make the chicken moist and tender and add a salty bite that’s…well…fantastic. I call A+ on myself for making this one.

Portobello and Beef Burgers with Celery/Green Apple Slaw: First off, let me say that if these are done correctly, they’re amazing. Gotta warn you though. They are DENSE as SHIT. Especially if you make them full 1/2 pounders. Word from one who now knows: drain the fucking mushroom/onion mix before blending it in with the beef. Otherwise it gets way too wet and doesn’t cook properly, leading them to fall apart. And I know, I know. You think that the slaw sounds nasty. Normally I would agree with you but – no shit – it actually enhances the flavor of the burger. It’s sweeter and not as bitter as regular cabbage-y coleslaw. Although next time, I want to use buffalo. Fuck the Great Plains. Give me my prairie cow, you assholes.

Finally, we have the Thyme Roasted Pork Chops with Serrano Ham Vinaigrette: You want nastily hard? You got it with this one. Do you know how hard it is to MAKE your own vinaigrette? I’ll give you a hint. IT’S REALLY FUCKING HARD. You have to waste bacon. No, you didn’t misread it. For this stuff, you actually want the bacon GREASE. The actual meat can just go fuck off somewhere. That is so alien to every sense of my being a man. Oh! And you waste ham too. I know! You don’t need the ham, just the ham flavor. It’s like you slaughter a pig then say “Oh you know what? Fuck this pig. I don’t like it anymore”. It’s LIKE THAT! It’s damn good though. I mean, pork chops are pork chops. It’s the sauce that will ass-fuck you if you aren’t careful. Be warned.
(Were you DRUNK writing this one? – ed.)


(Which is it? – ed.)


(Well, that about answers that one right there. – ed.)

Yay cooking!