Posts Tagged ‘Alcohol’

Adult Solutions to Board Games

Posted: December 31, 2012 by kaostheory in Advice
Tags: , , , , ,

First off, Merry Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Eid/non-denominational holiday/atheistic irritation day to all our readers. We appreciate your support, especially in light of our not writing for shit this year. Hopefully next year will be more funny and less, you know, angsty/drinky/depression and anxiety…y. Anyways, since 2012 is almost over, for good or for ill, we figured we’d give you one last hurrah before the new year dawns in the middle of the night. Now, parties are always fun, but you may get stuck playing board games. That’s okay, though. We’re going to offer you some adult alternatives to classic board games so that you can spice up the mood of the room. As always, all of these games can be improved by drinking but that just goes without saying.
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Monopoly: Collaborate in secret with the other players to perform a daring heist of the bank. At a given time, jump the banker and tie him or her up with rope and duct tape. Clean out the vault and spend an agonizingly long time deciding whether or not to kill the banker since they have seen your faces. Be serious and talk to the point where they don’t think that you are joking anymore. End up in a Mexican standoff and then say “fuck it” and go grab a couple Coronas. Start a new game.

Clue: Treat the game like an actual murder has taken place. Dust for prints, seal off the area, interview witnesses. Have one player come in as CSI to search for DNA evidence and have another player act as CIA and take over jurisdiction, angering all the other blue-collar players who want this case to make their careers. Go behind the CIAs back to find a critical piece of evidence (e.g. the candlestick) still dripping with the victim’s blood. Turn on each other as you realize that the killer is one of you. Trust is broken forever.

Risk: Build alliances covertly with every player and then implement nuclear warfare through Kamchatka. Nuke the fuck out of Africa and go middle fingers all over. Strategy be damned. Turn the world into a parking lot. Glass the fuckers. Risk always ends in fistfights anyways. Why not make them deserved?

Candy Land: Rename the various characters into wars. Queen Frostine is Grenada – quick and easy to get out of. King Kandy is WW2 – if you reach that point, you’re one of the baddest people in the game. Gramma Nutt is Iraq – it’ll take a while to get out but you can make progress towards it. And that motherfucker Plumpy is Vietnam – easy to get caught up in, impossible to get out of, and when it happens, it just ends up with Jane Fonda pissing on your face. Wait, I’m not sure I did that last one right.

LIFE: It’s a deadly serious game. The inevitable slog towards the grave lined with the stones of mounting debt, alcoholism, adultery, children, divorce, dating, depression, and suicide. The game of Life indeed. Nobody makes it out alive. If you really want to go dark, go with Russian Roulette as the spinner. Drive your fancy car to work, players. Your wife is now a lesbian.

Connect 4: You make four yellow or red coin-things in a row. You can’t adult it up. Oh! Okay. You put your penis through the hole and await the falling of the pain rings.

Operation: Create a fun little ambiance to it. Dim the lights, put on the sound of loud beeping. Monitor the patient’s condition. Have alarms going off and nurses/other players screaming. You’re not performing a real operation just trying to pull out some stupid plastic bone or whatever. You’re performing a real operation when touching the sides gets you sprayed in the face with pig’s blood. Don’t ask me where you can find pig’s blood. That’s your job.

Sorry: Real men don’t apologize. You knock someone back a few spaces, you give them the finger and tell them to suck a cock, asshole. Play to win. Ain’t nobody wanting you to be British or Canadian polite, move them back, and buy them a drink. What are you, some kind of blustery axe wound? Motherfuckers go down. Throw their piece at the wall. You are King Dick. Act like it.

Chutes and Ladders: I…don’t know how to make this one adult. Something about the ladder and chutes being sex? Shut up. I’m drunk.

Yahtzee: Treat it like a real game. Place bets. Get into fights. If you roll two ones, curse the skies about getting snake eyes. Go way over the top with competitiveness. Break a bottle and use it to menace a five-year old. You don’t care. You’re playing Yahtzee. All bets are off.

Battleship: Shots on shots on shots. Military strategy. Mourning those brave seamen (*snrk*) that gave their lives. 21-gun salutes. Frightened neighbors. Arrests. Trials. Tears. PTSD.

Mousetrap: Use actual mice. Just capture some and paint them primary colors. That can’t possibly traumatize little children. And hey, even if it does, you can chalk it up to a learning experience. Win win!

Twister: If you haven’t already tried to use this while drunk for some cheap sex, you are a fucking failure.

Perfection You’re an Asian child and you’re in high school. Instead of putting pieces into holes in rapid succession, you are fighting tooth and nail with other teens for valedictorian. You succeed but get to college and suck off the entire Phi Beta Chi fraternity while on a copious amount of cocaine. Perfection.

Don’t Wake Daddy: Have sex while playing. That adds an extra element of danger to the whole thing and the anticipation factor will keep you going to the point where when Daddy wakes up…well, you know. I’m talking about orgasm. For both of you, ideally. Don’t be selfish.

Trouble: Shoot a cop before playing this. That will add a darker tone to this as well as an added edge of danger. Plus you’re “GET TIN’ INTO TROUBLE!”, you dicks.

Hungry Hungry Hippos: Taunt those who lose for being anorexic. Tease them into tearful acceptance of any kind of offering of sex. No better way to enter the new year than to be inside a girl with low self-esteem! Da DA da da da DA.

Guess Who: Turn off all the lights and get naked. Instead of picking which one has a beard or which one has glasses, go by who you can feel. Does this person have pierced nipples? Does this person have a rigid cock? Does this person have scars all over their sexy torso? Guess with yo’ mouth!

Crossfire: I won’t offer a suggestion here because it’ll sound more racist than it should. Uh oh, Spaghetti-Os.
——
(You’re a sociopath, huh? – ed)

Drink drink drink! Happy New Year, bitches!

Halloween For Kids: Then and Now

Posted: October 31, 2012 by kaostheory in Informative
Tags: , , , , ,

First off, all of our wonderful readers on Twitter need to follow @GrigorNR immediately. It’s an occasional dose of DECF compacted into 140 characters. Basically, it’s a free laugh. So…you know…do. Follow. The account. Yes.

…okay.

Halloween is a time for ghosts and ghouls, goblins and…um…gallavanting? I’m not sure where I was going with that. But the point is that it’s one of the most fun holidays of the year, particularly when you’re in college and drunk and all around you are just masses of dancing, writhing, walking slut-costumes. You could practically walk around a college frat party with your dick jutting proudly out like a royal sceptre and trip and fall into sex. You know…if you were so inclined.

But Halloween isn’t just for obscene amounts of alcohol consumption and promiscuity in the bathroom of a frat house with a ballerina. It’s also about the children. NOT making the children. The actual little crotch-spawns running around being all cute. But Halloween is different now than when old men like me were walking around in the cuteness. No, it has a…darker edge to it. Why don’t we just compare Halloween traditions from back when we were children to the way they are now, hm? Well…we’re going to do it anyways.
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Party Games
Then: Remember all the games that you would play at your school Halloween parties? You know, games like the spaghetti being brains and peeled grapes being eyeballs, bobbing for apples, cake walks…um…knife throwing. Maybe? The point is that they were all fun and could even be a little spooky. Which is nice.

Now: Yeah, spaghetti and grapes? Fuck that noise. When you put your hand into the bag and feel something cold and slimy and gross and you giggle because it’s fun to be grossed out but then you peer into the bag and, hey guess what, it’s actually a HUMAN BRAIN…welcome really fast to adulthood, kiddies.

Recess
Then: Hide and seek and tag and football with miniaturized sports stars and witches and the occasional Scream-face guy for those kids whose parents just didn’t really give a shit about them – you know the kid, the one that was allowed to watch any movie he wanted on TV, even the stuff on the dirty channels, so you went over to his house on weekends so you could glimpse just the occasional, first confusing attraction to softcore porno – all laughing and enjoying the cool, even cold, autumn air as the last vestiges of warmth are drawn away from the earth.

Now: Grim, silent plotting as the rival gangs of Princesses, Rap Stars, and Poor Kids divvy up the playground area into territories, laying down boundaries with Pixy Sticks and the corpses of kindergartners, clad in Power Rangers costumes, who ventured too far away from the safe area right next to the school. The further out the playground extends, the more lawless it becomes. The Outland is ruled by fifth-graders, surly and experimenting with the stolen bottle of apple schnapps one stole from his dad’s liquor cabinet. That way lies death for trespassers.

Costumes
Then: Adorable for girls, monstrous for boys. You would have pretty princesses, cute witches, little bunnies or puppies, fairies, and other forest creatures. You would have devils and knights and ghosts and spiders and that same weird kid with the Scream-mask and a muffled voice. It was tame.

Now: Slutty. Everything is slutty. Slutty princess. Slutty witch. Slutty bee. Slutty Michael Jackson. Slutty Twilight. Slutty Dora the Explorer. Slutty Iron Man. And no, I’m not talking at a frat party. I’m talking for kids. Once you’ve seen your third “Octomom’s Masturbation Video” costume, that’s the time to turn the lights off and drink.

Abuses
Then: Urban legends about razor blades shoved into apples or pixie sticks laced with poison. Parental caution to burgeon childhood fears just enough to make sure that the children remain safe and lusting over the chocolate until they can get home and have their parents check to make sure everything is safe (while taking their ten percent candy tax, the lazy criminal fucks).

Now: A child puts his hand into a candy bowl. Boom. Three days later they find his Master Chief helmet on the side of a highway in New Mexico, his head still in the helmet, the body about a mile away, raped and mutilated beyond recognition. Do not choose “trick”, kids. Don’t ever choose “trick”.

Trick or Treating
Then: Going door to door, knocking on the houses that have lights on. A kindly elderly couple answers the door and coos and gushes over how cute you are or how fearsome you are (depending on girl or boy). Then they would hand you a few pieces of bite-sized candy, you would thank them, and you’d be on your way. You would repeat this a few dozen times or more, depending on the size of your neighborhood. Your parents would be back on the street, keeping a watchful eye…or they would be drunk as a lord, depending on how long a day your dad had at work.

Now: Your parents carry you up to the door, knock sharply and, when the neighbor comes out, holds out the bucket, tells you to say trick or treat, then demands they drop it in and close the door. Halfway down the sidewalk, they start crying and hold you tight, commenting on how close they were to losing you and how much they hate this night. That’s when you smell the vodka on Daddy’s breath.

Scary Stories
Then: The hook in the car door. The lipstick message on the mirror. The ghostly passenger in the car. The monster in the woods. The weird neighbor next door. The disappearing naughty children. You know, all the crap that’s scary when you’re little but makes you laugh now. Like Large Marge. Okay, maybe not that because I still piss myself every time I hear that name.

Now: Student loans coming due. Mommy and Daddy are taking a break from each other. The babysitter with the roaming hands. The gym teacher that plays Tickle Monster at Penn State. The neighbor that you think is scary as hell because he’s quiet and bearded but then you find out he’s alright because he knocks out two home invaders that are going to cut you apart but then, oh wait, he fucks you and buries you in a shallow grave anyways. Womp womp.

Decorations
Then: Fake spider webs all over. Cute and funny (to old people) posters and cutout witches and Frankenstein’s monsters and vampires. Maybe a skull or two. The pumpkin out front, obviously. Maybe those fake gravestones and some spooky lighting if they’re a fucking overachiever, CATHY.

Now: The neighbor that, upon finding his wife cheating on him with his business partner, his son having sex with the left tackle of the football team, his daughter fucking the rest of the offensive line, his job being eliminated due to “cutbacks in fuck you, you’re fired”, his Nissan Sentra having been egged with the tires slashed, windows broken, and CD player stolen, and his dog dead of choking on a squirrel, hangs himself from the big fir tree in his front yard the afternoon of Halloween.

Carving Pumpkins
Then: A family affair, making silly faces (Mom), scary faces (Dad), a clown face (other Dad), a kitty face (Sis), a monster face (Bro), and a penis (You).

Now: All of them are penises, except for Other Dad, who makes the clown face still…just with a penis in its mouth. And Dad’s in his. Womp womp again.

Parade/March
Then: A joyous celebration of the Halloween spirit. All the kids at school would dress up in their best costumes and dance and cheer their way down Main Street. Parents and volunteers would toss candy at them, trying to reach their plastic pumpkin buckets. That one poor opportunistic kid acting as a street sweeper and grabbing ALL the candy that doesn’t quite make it to the buckets, biting the parents that try to get him to share.

Now: Seven hundred painted Jokers, Hulks, and Ice Queens marching in silent, determined, perfect lockstep down a barren Main Street, the joy of the holiday being lost as the inexorable Bataan Death March to oblivion commences with the size 7 children’s boots tramping down the faces of those volunteers pleading for mercy, though mercy will not come.
——
(Holy. Shit. THIS was a little dark, wouldn’t you say? – ed.)

Maybe.

(And what’s with all the child abuse jokes this time? – ed.)

What do you expect? It’s Halloween!

(Good point. – ed.)

Happy Halloween everyone! May your night be warm, your skies be clear, and may you not experience a naked dude coming to the door holding a bottle of whiskey and a ragged, sexually violated clown puppet!


We here at Dan Eats Cat Food are nothing if not helpful…so, really, many times we are nothing. But we’re here to make up for it. You see, upon going through the site statistics, we noticed something odd. The most popular article is, in fact, written by Pred3000. This, of course, cannot stand. I mean, really. He hasn’t posted an article in well over a year! Then again, to be fair, we’re only giving you an article about once a month and that’s only because we have to justify the cost somehow. Shut up about it. KT is an anxiety-riddled, depressive, incredibly sexually frustrated, and probably alcoholic grad student. He SHOULD be perfectly suited to being funny constantly because of that, we know. Basically, he’s just a lazy bastard. Where were we? Oh yeah. The article. Since we can’t allow the most popular article to go un-piggybacked on,we are going to present to you today a more informative and in-depth guide to masturbating to Internet pornography than that bastard did. We hope you enjoy and can make use of our…um…useful suggestions.
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DO: Use the Internet to your advantage. It’s a wild, woolly, wonderful place full of literally quadrillions of ideas and thoughts and pictures and words being thrown around. This is the Golden Age of information transference and it is at your fingertips with the click of a button. You can go from researching the Fall of Rome by way of Norwegian black metal to reading a webcomic written and illustrated by some desu weirdo who likes drawing anthropomorphic leopards in leather pants kiss-fighting with a ficus in a bikini to watching a video about a cat firing a brick through a plate glass window and howling with laughter. Anything and everything you can dream of is there. Also there’s a whole lot of fucking that you can look at.

DON’T: Assume that because something is on the Internet that it is worth seeing. Remember, 50 Shades of Grey started as a Twilight fan fiction online. There but for the grace of God goes every single hardcore slash Gandalf/Harry Potter/Spongebob/Jabba the Hutt/Vishnu/Alec Baldwin fic out there.

DO: Sample the bounty of the Net. See what’s out there. Don’t be afraid to branch out. Maybe you come across a fetish you didn’t know about and have one of the most rocking-ass orgasms of your life. It’s possible! Not necessarily likely but possible. Who knows? You may actually enjoy watching a naked teenage anime chick being inflated like a balloon, being popped by a black man’s cock, and having mice come to eat her entrails. YOU might. I just kind of threw up. A lot.

DON’T: Be stupid about it. There are clearly areas to avoid. Horse porn. Maybe want to steer clear. Child porn. That’s a no-no in the bad place. The area where the underwear covers. Sex with bridges. You should not also rise. The aforementioned “inflationigrarumpebanturmuresextaphilia”. Even just putting that into a translator brought on the urps again. Damn you philiacs!

DO: Learn alternative ways of masturbation. Self-love is still a love life and you should switch it up to keep things fresh. If you’re always a southpaw (or a south-gnarled and withered claw), why not try pitching to Righty? Or on your knees? Or on your back? Hell, even the shower could be fun and you can clean your filthy,war-torn body afterwards. It’s a double duty dunker!

DON’T: Fuck your boxspring. Seriously. Don’t do it. You will never repair the damage an errant coil does to your dickskin.

DO: Use an aggregation website (you know the ones that are out there) to explore your tastes freely with relatively minor risk of viruses or random gay porn popping up and murdering your hard-on with great vengeance. They are free to use and have an incredibly expansive display to choose from. Just be careful not to Wiki-jump the different videos, especially the stuff with titles that are just random numbers and letters and/or are written in Spanish. Just…don’t do that. Save yourself a whole lot of terror-crying.

DON’T: Download those bullshit programs that some sites demand you use in order to…utilize their website. Fuck that noise. It just adds more clutter onto your PC and makes plausible deniability less likely down the road. Besides, if you are so desperate to download things, there are ways around every problem. I obviously don’t recommend or support those since they are the mark of low character, but I cast no such aspersions on the stoner dude down the hallway from your apartment that stays up until 4 in the morning listening to Rage Against the Machine, smoking pot and probably meth, and working on his anarchist’s manifesto. He can probably hook you up with some Debbie Does Six Day Laborers Behind the LA Fitness in South Central.

DO: Pay for porn when you can afford it. I know, I know. You just felt your heart seize a little. Let me explain. Paying for porn = more porn being made = more choices for you to make. And the cycle repeats. Also it’s someone’s career choice, you asshole, and nobody wants to fuck for free. Or so I’ve been told.

DON’T: Decide that, hey, this actress I jerk off to is on Twitter. I should Tweet her my dick! Stoppit. If you had people who wanted to see your cock, you wouldn’t be jerking off to Internet porn, would you? Leave her alone, get your Jergens’ and cry about yourself.

DO: Figure out what you like best and go wild with it. You like redheads (and who doesn’t?), you find every redhead video out there. You like big black girls taking it up the butt, go nuts. You like trannies rubbing each other with I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter and pouring white wine everywhere while La Vie Boheme plays? …try RedTube. That shit has everything.

DON’T: Become so well-versed in porn stars, their names, and their appearances that you can name them in polite conversation. If you’re talking about your pornographic tastes in public, there is something severely wrong with you in the head. Either that or you are playing a DANGEROUS gambit of which we can’t approve. If that is where your path is taking you, know that we cannot follow you.

DO: Finally understand that they are real people doing real, sometimes horrifying acts on camera for your amusement. They deserve your dignity, your money, your respect, and about five squirts of baby batter or so, depending on how long you’ve done. Bon appetit, horndogs.
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(This was disgusting. – ed.)

You’re disgusting! HOOOOO!

(And we’re done here. – ed.)


I’m not exactly the kind of person that one would call “up to date” on trends. I don’t wear skinny jeans, listen to pop music, or understand the appeal of why the hell anyone would produce a movie detailing the life of a current pop star. The world doesn’t need more movies about Katy Perry or Justin Bieber or, God forbid it happen, Ke(dollar sign)ha. I actually include the “never happening” of that last one in my prayers every night. I do wonder about the title though. “Memoirs of a Drunken Whore” sounds pretty good. It doesn’t quite cover it though. Maybe “My ‘Music’Sounds Like A Seagull Being Strangled To Dubstep But I’ll Blow You In The Alley Behind Starbucks For A Mocha Latte And A Gram Of Coke So You May As Well Love Me”. That’s better.

Anyways, the reason I mention this is because I don’t understand one damn bit why that crapsack of mutilated paper pulp known as ’50 Shades of Grey’ is so damn popular. All I DO know is that its existence and popularity means I get to write a follow-up piece to the wildly successful (well, relatively) article about Twilight. It’s the Golden Age of mockery and sarcasm, I tell you what. Regardless of how great things are as a comedy writer, I could always use some extra cash to line my pockets with pornography, alcohol, and bootleg Joss Whedon DVDs. Thus, I am resolved to write chick porn using 50 Shades of Shit…I mean, Grey…as a barometer. And as a bonus? I’ll explain to YOU how to do it too.
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First, as in last time, murder any thoughts you have about being a respectable or even literate writer. You aren’t going to be writing for the elite, the well-read, the academics. You are barely going to be writing for middle schoolers reading at a college level. You are writing for lonely, bored, horny housewives, teenagers, and bored talk show hosts. Having it have a legitimate, engrossing plot is kind of like adding parsley, fine china, and a glass of wine to spice up the presentation of a steaming horse dump. Focus more of your time on how you can use the medium to create the most filthy, degrading situation possible while still maintaining a semblance of respectability. Think “upgraded fan fiction” because, let’s face it, that 50 Shades garbage is literally that. It can’t hurt to be a fan fic writer either. Anyone who writes that has a throbbing tumor called “I hate literature” inside their heart and uses it to crap out “ships” of any potential character pairings under the sun. Don’t get me started on fan fic.

Next, decide what you want your main characters to do. Oh. That’s right. You want them to fuck. The rest is just gravy. Cool. Check that off.

After that, figure out what your characters are named. If you’re writing chick porn, this will take up a solid 80% of your work time on the “book”. You can’t name them something like Amy Jones and John Smith. Those are boring names, names of IRS agents and middle management candidates. Likewise, you can’t use names like Jagatha Messy and Hondo Awesome. Nobody is going to take you seriously (let’s be honest, they won’t anyways but I digress) if you write ‘Hondo and Jagatha boned like archaeologists on top of Hondo’s 1997 Chevy Pylon’ or whatever. You need to create dark and steamy names, like Vanessa St. John and Juan Carlos Fancypants…I mean, Trenton Green. If it sounds like it could conceivably be a porn star but only in one of those high class X-Art ones (as opposed to, say, Gaping Assholes 8), you’ve hit the sweet spot. And so will your readers…if you get what I’m saying. I’m saying that they will play with themselves.

Naturally, take into account the audience while describing the characters. Naturally, the protagonist must be a legal-aged girl, probably a fresh-faced college student or even right after graduating. She has to be shy and naive, with no more sexual experience than a half-hearted handjob in the back of a Denny’s kitchen. Obviously, she must be a virgin. She has to have no confidence in herself and see herself as a plain, unassuming wallflower. Basically, if you do a copy/paste of every garden variety Twilight knockoff bullshit, you’ll have it down. And the man must be tall, strikingly handsome, broad-shouldered, and brooding, with impeccable taste in clothes, a high-paying job, no current relationship to speak of, and miraculously well-endowed. Of course, he has to be irresistibly attracted to the protagonist and, by proxy, the reader. I swear to God, this shit is like porn had a retarded baby with a chick flick. It’s like Naughty America banged 27 Dresses or some shit like that.

Also, since you’re writing porn for girls, which is much more about the experience than the actual act, you need to use euphemisms to describe what is happening. You can’t go too clinical, since “He placed his penis inside her vagina and performed intercourse until they both achieved orgasm”. Yes, that may be what happened but…snore. You also can’t really go too vulgar, since that can be a turnoff. “He fucked her cunt with his dick until they both came” also describes what happened but it’s so…inelegant. And yes, that is a concern of yours. Instead, use lines like “Trenton teased her gently opening flower with his turgid manhood. Vanessa felt her nethers quiver with excitement and, as he pushed her open, she felt herself becoming filled with an almost holy sensation. They began to merge as only lovers can and (yadda yadda yadda) they both felt a surge of heat as they crested at the height of their passion and fell to the bed, a tangle of limbs and satisfaction.” THAT is what gets the housewife tang all stirred up.

Since this is apparently the trend, don’t be scared to introduce some ‘taboo’ elements to the sex. 50 Shades decided to dive into the BDSM lifestyle (wrongly, I’ve heard) with the main dude apparently beating the crap out of the girl? I don’t know, I haven’t read it. So that’s right out. Since you want to distinguish yourself from the soon-to-be-arriving herd of copycats, why not take things to the logical extreme? Instead of spanking and handcuffs, try watersports and bloodplay. Instead of contracts and submission, have the girl take a dump on a glass coffee table. Make your characters have the kind of sex that even Max Hardcore would call “a bit too extreme”. End the series with snuff. You know you want to.

Lastly, after it naturally takes off and becomes a poorly-hidden dirty pleasure for soccer moms across the world, hang yourself with a shower curtain. That way, your poison and evil can’t infect the world with sequels, PLUS your faithful readers will call it a fitting way to leave this world. Win-fucking-win.

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(You really have a problem with popular lit these days, huh? – ed.)

No. I have a problem with literal fan fiction and its metamorphosis into something considered worthy of publication. I have a problem with crap like Twilight and 50 Shades becoming popular while real writers struggle to make ends meet. I have a problem with the increased retardation of the next generation. You are going to have twelve-year-olds choking each other with a belt within six months. Mark my words. These are the End of Days.

(…a bit dramatic, wouldn’t you say? – ed.)

There is no such thing as too dramatic, Ed. Not while evil reigns. I need a drink.

(You always do. Goodnight, everyone. – ed.)

What Birds Actually Are

Posted: April 13, 2012 by kaostheory in Slice of Life
Tags: , , ,

We’re going to start by saying that this one may well be controversial. A lot of people may get upset by what we have to say but the time has come to no longer be afraid of our beliefs. The truth must be told. Too long have we just sat to the side while things have happened.

Ladies and gentlemen…all birds are assholes.

I know, I know. It’s shocking to hear but hear me out. I know you all think that birds are the cute little things that cheep prettily and fly around, munching on seeds and the like. But you’re wrong. Let me explain to you how some of these so-called “adorable” creatures are just really average sized dicks. With wings. Flying dicks.

(Note to self: trademark that name. It could be a hot as hell meme.)
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Blue jay: Right off the bat, fuck these guys. Little psychopaths. For one, they are bigger than most songbirds so they can throw their weight around. They’re basically the meathead juicers from New Jersey walking into a bar (or birdbath) and shoving the chickadees to the side in order to get their Jagerbombs and suet pinecones. They are aggressive, territorial, and outright mean. When I worked at a furniture store, I had to fight one off with a freaking BOX CUTTER just to get the little bastard to stop dive-bombing my eyeballs. True story.

Chickadee: Oh no, we’re not gonna let this little prick off the hook. All flying around, looking adorable with its little black and white coloring and tiny body. Yeah, it’s got a deep, dark secret though. Meth. You heard me. Chickadees are meth dealers. Think about it. Why would they NOT be? Yeah. I thought so.

Mockingbird: This jerk is just like that dick at the bar that gets liquored up and makes fun at everyone nearby. Guess what, jagoff? Mimicking other birds isn’t funny. It isn’t cute. All it does is show that you can do impressions. Whoop-de-shit. Who know who else does impressions? The cast of MADTV. Do you really want to be like them? You know who else does it? Those jackholes who are raping the memory of the Three Stooges. You’re a stooge! How about you use your own voice for once, you animal kingdom Frank Caliendo bitch.

Cardinal: Strutting around, thinking he’s all hot shit because he’s got loads of color prettying up the neighborhood. Feh. It’s called trying too hard and you’re the fucking physical exemplar. And that’s the males! The females are all brown and drab with just a little bit of coloring. You KNOW that he beats her. Comes home drunk to the nest one night, dragging her along by one wing, starts whipping the shit out of her with an extension cord because she had the AUDACITY to wear that dress with the plunging neckline which makes him look like a cuckold with all the other birds staring at her. Get some therapy, Cardinal. Get help.

Purple Finch: Could it BE any more of a homosexual?

Robin: You know how there’s that jerk who, whenever he hears that “You’re one in a million!” compliment, always chimes in with some tired-ass joke about that meaning that there’s still at least four people just like them in Atlanta alone? Yeah, that’s who the robin is being compared to. These birds are EVERYWHERE – cheeping, genociding worms, shitting on cars. It’s like a biological cloning experiment gone wrong. It’s like zombies. If birds could be zombies, this would be that kind of bird. Plus, one of the lamest sidekicks in comics history adopted you as a name so…fuck you, Robin.

Titmouse: HAH. What an unfortunate name, both for the bird and for the world. When you hear the name ‘titmouse’, I prefer to picture Minnie as a stripper in some dank club on a Thursday night, high as a kite with three grams of coke up that nose, dollar bills stuffed into her g-string, gyrating listlessly for Bluto and Pete (the douchebag neighbor on Goof Troop) as Mickey sits at home, wife-beater stained with the grease of a thousand cheeseburgers, a fifth of rye dangling from his gloveless paw. Okay, that went to a darker place than I was expecting.

Grackle/Raven/Crow: You know what’s a really fun kind of creature to be? One that has its mere presence exist as a DIRECT PORTENT OF DEATH. Know what’s even more fun? Edgar Allen Poe freaking the hell out over you and some long-since-unaddressed grief and trauma. Know what’s even more fun? Being a fucking grackle. One of these things is not like the other. Be honest. You just sang that to yourself, didn’t you?

Vulture: This is a creature that has its sole purpose in life to be eating the dead, rotting, and probably skid-marked remains of whatever furry little housepet got obliterated by a F-150 on the highway. I can’t even say anything about this. It’s like the Kardashians. You can try to insult them all you want, but the reality of the situation is that they will shit on themselves more than even fiction could.

Eagle: Keep on gloating, jackass. If Ben Franklin had been given his way, the national bird would have been the turkey and we would have been having roast eagle on Thanksgiving. And remember, it’s a quick hop, skip, and a jump from majestic to extinct, so maybe don’t be such a high and mighty prick all the time.

Turkey: Dude, let the Ben Franklin thing go. AND STOP RUNNING THE HELL IN FRONT OF MY CAR. Seriously, I don’t want to have to replace my windshield because one of you douchebags decided that you wanted to lay your wattles in the back seat of my Camry. Come on, man. I know you’re delicious with your anal cavity jammed full of bread crumbs and seasoning, but you don’t have to be a full-on retard near moving traffic.

Towhee: I don’t even know what the hell kind of bird this is.

Carolina Wren: THIS MOTHER FUCKER. Sure, he LOOKS like an adorable elderly gentleman, with his fat body, long beak, and regal stature. He’s an absolutely cute as hell bird. THEN HE OPENS HIS GODDAMN MOUTH. When he opens his beak, every scream every screamed by every soul in abject torment in the very deepest and darkest pits of Hell comes together to RIP THE WORLD ASUNDER. This is the Bird of the End Days. This is the Bird that Eats Men’s Souls. THIS IS THE LITTLE COCKSUCKER THAT DECIDES IT’S FUCKING FUNNY TO WAKE ME UP WHEN I’M STILL DRUNK AS SHIT ON TWO BOTTLES OF WINE AT SIX IN THE FUCKING MORNING. If there was every a bird that deserved to be cast, wingless and dipped in barbecue sauce, into a pit of hungry feral wolverines, this would be the little bastard most deserving. I hate you, Carolina Wren.
——
(You just kind of…think of an idea and go, don’t you? – ed.)

I don’t always listen to myself talk.

(Clearly. – ed.)

When In Doubt, Stay Home

Posted: March 31, 2012 by kaostheory in Slice of Life
Tags: , , , ,

Instead of going with the standard ‘rant and rave about x issue’ polemic or the ‘pack as much violent and sexual content into an article as possible’, we’re trying something different this time. We’re going to offer up a cautionary tale so that you may understand the depths of madness that sometimes infest our daily lives.

Okay, there will almost certainly be violent and sexual content packed in too. Because that’s how we roll.

Anyways, on to the recounting of our trip to the Mouth of Hell.
——
The letter that came was, even before it was opened, an ominous portent. Even though there was what appeared to be the Disney logo on the back, the letters looked…odd. Reversed maybe. The envelope itself was ragged around the edges and there was a brown, leaky stain in the lower left-hand corner. When it was opened, the paper ripped with nearly no effort required and four asymmetrical chunks of paper and a creased sticky note fell out. The note read as such (naturally [sic] applies):

“Congrates! Yu an ur famly ur frens ar invted too bee spehshell gests at thee furst universery selleebrayshun of Dosneyworl! Heer ar for tikets fur u. Com on March 20, 20_year. Yu get thre gests. Bring moneies.

(signed)

(something unintelligible and probably racist)”

It was…a concern. Something definitely smelled fishy and it wasn’t even the leaky stain (which eventually was determined to be Kentucky Fried Chicken gravy). None of us (us being myself, Superfly, Pred3000, and Raybestos) had ever had any direct interaction with Disney but we came to the conclusion that would could reasonably assume that they wouldn’t send such shoddy quality material. At least not since Walt went in the freezer, at least.

Our opinions were split. Superfly and Raybestos thought it would be funny to give it a shot, while Pred3000 and I were more interested in not being abducted, raped, and our kidneys being sold for crack money. Finally, we came to an agreement: we would go but we would apply for and get open carry licenses first, just to be safe.

After each getting comfortable with our respective weapons (Raybestos and Pred3000 chose 9mms, Superfly got a .22, and I went all out with a Desert Eagle), we hopped in Raybestos’ car (another requirement for going was that I was allowed to be drunk and not having to drive) and set off for Puerto de la Muerte, Florida. Yes, you read that correctly – Port of Death. Not Orlando – although I suppose it could have an alternate name.

The drive was long and boring and I was starting to nod off from a combination of the rhythmic hum of the car and the half a bottle of Jameson I had killed on the drive when the car slammed to a halt, only to start up again at a very slow speed.

“What the hell was that?” I grumbled as I felt the car make a turn and finally stop.

“We’re…here?” Raybestos said, the question in his response worrying, even through the whiskey fog. We all unbuckled and got out of the car (I admit that I had a bit of trouble with the seatbelt, but I’m allowed). Blinking my eyes, I peered at what stood in front of us. It was…troubling.

The park itself seemed to span a couple acres of land but we couldn’t quite tell. A giant red and blue sign welded to a telephone pole read “Welcum too Dosneyworl” and flashed rapidly every few seconds. If any of us had been epileptic, it would have been dangerous. As it stood, it just added a “carnival of the damned” feel to the whole experience. We looked further ahead of us as we walked. Behind a very tall chain-link fence, complete with barbed wire rolls at the top, we were able to view what were ostensibly rides. I could pick out a roller coaster, merry-go-round, Ferris wheel, and various other attractions you would expect to see at an amusement park. For whatever reason, that actually frightened me more. But we had made it this far. We couldn’t go back now. As we walked to the front gate, the ticket-taker glared at us, surprise and resentment in his eyes. I don’t think he wanted us to be there. That made five of us.

He growled at us when we reached him. “‘kits, now.” We handed him the ragged scraps of paper and he tossed them in the garbage. With a sigh, he pressed a button, shifting the large steel doors apart. “Park closes at 7. Don’t be late. Seriously.” We scurried in, all checking our watches. We had four hours to spend in there. We all agreed we’d spend three at most, just to be safe. Bad things come at night.

The ‘road’ beneath our feet was a mixture of gravel and sawdust and kicked up little clouds with every step we took. A wooden sign nailed to a lamppost nearby read “Man Stret Yousa”, scribbled in the same retard patois that the invitation was written in. It was about this time that I really started to regret not eating lunch. I made this fact clear to the group and, fearing that any puking in this tortured land would invite its denizens to feed on our souls, they hustled me to the nearest food cart to get something greasy and delicious in my stomach.

Let me tell you. Nothing changes your “I have to puke” status than realizing that your other option is choking down a ‘befstik’ or ‘shulsie’. I just got a glass of water and even then it took all I had to kick it back. It was tap water but that was comforting since I was expecting bleach or something.

“So what do you guys want to do first?” Raybestos asked, trying to keep up a brave face.

“You mean besides go home?” Pred3000 muttered, already sulking in fear.

We wandered the streets of the park, only occasionally seeing a handful of other people, all with the same unsure looks on their faces. We passed the ‘Fast-circly-go’, the ‘Spiny-tal-circle’, a tea-cup ride that looked more like a human-sized centrifuge, and what looked to be a haunted house. Yeah. We sure as shit weren’t going to go in there. We kept wandering and and were about ready to mercifully leave when the 5 PM Parade started.

Have you ever seen madness walking? Like upright and walking? You lucky bastard. You never saw the mascots then. Let me give you the rundown.

First up was Mackey and Mornie Moose. Giant towering moose creatures with gloves on their hooves, pendulous hanging breasts and genitalia, and fur that looked to be at least half-mange, if not more. Instead of the charming “Ho ho!” that Mickey would always give, whoever developed these outfits really went all out to nail the sound of an angry, horny moose. The gronking and howling was beyond unsettling. I think that was the point that I realized that I had unsnapped the holster on my gun. Unconsciously, mind you.

Next up was Gorfy. You know that look in the face when something just isn’t…right in the head? Like the glossy, unfocused eyes, the slack jaw, the aggressive stance. Yeah. Gorfy had that. He also decided to stuff a live chicken through the mouth hole while right in front of us, so all we could hear for the next couple minutes as he ran around in pain were agonized screams and clucking.

Then we had Ronald Pigeon. I won’t say much about this one but you know how birds shit EVERYWHERE when they’re startled? Yeah. Gorfy startled Ronald Pigeon. I’ll leave that to your imagination.

I can’t really say what all happened next. All I know is that one of us – probably Pred3000 – started firing into the crowd and, well, we’re not going to leave our buddy out to dry. Did you know that guns can overheat if you pull the trigger too fast? I sure didn’t!

To cut a long story short, we’re not allowed to enter the state of Florida for the next ten years, we had to spend a week in firearm responsibility training, and I have a moose head mounted above my fireplace.

All that being said, would I call it the worst Spring Break ever?

Nah. I mean, have you SEEN Panama City Beach?
——
(Ending on a punchline. How classy of you. – ed.)

Shut up, Ed. Sometimes you can create gold, sometimes you can just be happy with creating lead.

(I don’t think that’s accurate. – ed.)

I don’t think you’re accurate! Deuces!

An Experiment Gone Awry

Posted: February 15, 2012 by kaostheory in Slice of Life
Tags: , , , ,

By now, I’m sure you all have heard about or read about or sensed coming out of the dark aether that lies between this world and that of the nether realms the existence of Jack in the Box’s new “delicacy” (read: affront to God, man, and the natural order of things) – their bacon milkshake. Yes, you read that right. A milkshake, also known as ‘What the hell, give me Type 2 Diabetes already’ In A Cup, with what I can only assume to be either hard, salty chunks of fried pig or, worse, pork drippin’s mixed in with the vanilla or, God forbid, chocolate or strawberry ice cream. While the potential to create a geek nexus around it by marketing it with zombies emblazoned on the cups and ‘gamer girls’ awkwardly fiddling with Xbox 360 controllers in commercials is yet to be untapped, the fact is that this abomination does actually exist.

But what is one to do if there is no Jack in the Box nearby that does not exist in the heart of the ghetto (or barrio or whatever unsafe area exists in your town)? Or if the prospect of actually paying a restaurant for them to kill you sounds like a sick German fetish rather than indulging in an ostensible “drink”?

It’s a very simple solution: create your own.

Well, simple in theory. In actuality, it is about as big a clusterfuck as a men’s rugby team playing tennis against a women’s volleyball team. Blindfolded. And naked. With a bowling ball.

We attempted just such a “simple” activity a couple days ago when we were bored and apparently wanted to experience what true despair and frustration feels like…without masturbating. For once. What follows are the (abortive) attempts that we made at creating our own version of this helltreat. Enjoy.

——
Attempt #1: This should be pretty easy. I don’t see why we’re making such a fuss about this. Just some vanilla bean ice cream, milk, a rasher of bacon…simple. Put all of that in a blender and hit ‘puree’. Easy.

Result #1: Forgot. The fucking. Lid. This is an ominous portent. It’s probably for the best anyway. I mean, not for the kitchen. The cabinets just got a nice coat of “sticky cream and raw bacon”. That’s going to be a bastard to clean up. No, it’s for the best for, you know, our bodies. Also, cook the goddamn bacon before putting it in the shake. Come on. That’s bush league.

Attempt #2: Okay. Materials? Check. Bacon COOKED? Check and check. Maybe a little too crispy. Should be okay though. Everyone loves crispy bacon. Well, except for vegans but the day I give a crap about how crispy they like their bacon, I’ll french kiss a live outlet. Where was I? Oh yeah. Blender? Filled to the brim with stuff so that works. LID? Triple damn check. Okay. Let’s do this again.

Result #2: Um…unappetizing is a good word to describe this try. We clearly used too little ice cream or too much milk and probably too much bacon because it looks like a porn star’s dick exploded in this thing. It’s just kind of this watery, chunky mix. Pass.

Attempt #3: This is a little disheartening, but nothing delicious was ever easy. Well…except in a couple cases. Regardless, we soldier on. Less milk, more ice cream, less bacon, and let’s throw some damn butter in with it to try to thicken it up some.

Result #3: Well, there are good and bad aspects of it. The good is that the thickness is about what we want in a milkshake. The bad is that everything else is not. The butter added a weird yellow tint to it and didn’t break up too well (probably should have unfrozen it first) so there are butter chunks floating next to bacon chunks and, really, whichever you bite into isn’t going to make your mouth happy. This is starting to blow.

Attempt #4: Okay. Gonna try something different with this. I’m going to take a shot of tequila and then a second shot of tequila and then we’re going to take the butter out and try cream cheese. Why cream cheese? Because who fucking cares by this point? Maybe it’ll be good!

Result #4: Cream cheese was a poor choice. I think we’re getting further away from the ultimate goal here. Time to reduce.

Attempt #5: Two more shots of tequila down the hatch. The edges of my eyes are a little fuzzy. Rad. Milk, vanilla bean ice cream, cooked bacon chunks. Let’s do it.

Result #5: PIECE OF SHIT LID. I’m not cleaning this shit sober again.

Attempt #6: Two more tequilas. Tequila. Ta-key-lah. That would be a pretty name for a baby. Oh, right. Some sort of milkshake. Milk, ice, cream, bacon. Easy. Just push play.

Result #6: …that was like a bacon margarita except violence in the mouth instead of liquor. Who’s the asshole that put ice and cream so close together? I thought they had a comma. I guess not.

Attempt #7: Hadda drink a beer to get that taste outta my mouth. Does your face feel hot? My face feels hot. Just like my DICK. Ho ho ho, bitches. What? What do you mean I’ve had enough? You’re an enough! Let’s blend some shit already!

Result #7: WELL! That’s what happens when you let a drunk guy handle appliances. Someone is going to get creamy stuff all over because he forgets to put the lid on again.

Final Attempt: Okay. That looks good. That looks like the right amounts. Can I press the button? No? Okay. You do it.

Final Result: Huh. That’s it? I guess you want me to review it? Fine. *ahem* It tastes like a stupid vanilla milkshake except for when you get a chunk of bacon. Then it tastes like a salty vanilla nightmare. Happy?
——
In conclusion, the fact that the bacon milkshake actually exists is a stain upon the good name of American production everywhere. That it is actually being sold and marketed by a company is a shameful result of not using that hot blonde woman in their ads anymore. For shame, Jack in the Box.

Wait, Double Downs still exist?

…shit, count me in then.