Thursday, October 30

Charm Fail

Please Note: This is a response to my previous post written by my girlfriend. I agreed to post this in the interest of fairness


I'm going to make this quick. You probably aren't used to that on Ryan's blog, but I am. All I need to do is tell you one story for you to fully grasp his lack of charm.

A few months ago my boyfriend was to pick me up from the airport. Before my flight I told him that I would probably be hungry when I landed, and he said he would have food for me when I arrived. What a great boyfriend, right? 

There are lots of places to get good junk food at the airport. So what does Ryan have for me when I arrive?

A ziploc bag full of sliced bread.

And when I say "full of bread" I mean it was probably full of bread when he left for the airport, but when I got there only 2 pieces were left.

Not a bagel from the deli. Not some fries from McDonalds. Not even a candy bar. Just two pieces of bread in a plastic bag like I am some pigeon he is going to feed at the park.

So charming.

P.P.S. If he does post this it's only because I told I wouldn't blow him until he stopped lying to the internets.

Wednesday, October 29

"You used to be charming"

These words were produced by the mouth of my girlfriend and flung towards my heart. If not for my abnormally strong ribs due to my bizarre habit of drinking a gallon of whole milk a day, these sharp words would have pierced me to my very core. Still, the blunt force of it hurt. It hurt bad. I have this strange high pitched wheeze whenever I exhale, and I can't read certain fairy tales without openly weeping.

I know you are suffering from a similar shock that I was experiencing after hearing this statement. How could anyone say that I am not completely charming? I apologize for what may be a boring post, but I feel I have no choice but to defend myself.

Oh Girlfriend. Have you considered that I am, in fact, no less charming than when I first got into your pants? Maybe it only seems like this because you dismiss the nice things I say and do for you.

Early on in our relationship if I were to comment on the loveliness of your hair, you would smile your gorgeous smile and start making out with me. If I were to make the same comment to you today, you would say, "Whatever. It's gross. I need to wash it. Make me french toast!" 

Many months ago when I would purchase for you an inexpensive but thoughtful gift, you would thank me and rub your hand over my crotch. Now you often tell me, "Buy me shoes" and elbow me in my tender shanks.

Maybe this is my own fault. Maybe I have too often proclaimed you beautiful and told you that I love you, and as a result it is no longer as special as it once was. This I can accept responsibility for. But to say I used to be charming and no longer am? Baby I got charm hangin' out my ass.

I'm only 65% sure I will regret this.

Tuesday, October 28

Real American?

This is a photo of a business card that was found on a bulletin board at a supermarket.
I apologize for the cell phone quality.

I'm concerned that "Deer" is secret code for wife.

Monday, October 27

DJ Restraining Order

Is it normal to have a big party for your child's 1st birthday? I can see a healthy gathering of friends and family would be appropriate, sure. A nice yard party perhaps.

What about if you have the party in a hall? With a bar? And a DJ?

That's what I was at yesterday. Instead of ranting about what this says about the current state of society, I have to discuss this DJ.

He was a large fellow. He was about 6 feet tall and dressed in all black. His gut was light years passed the point of entertaining any thoughts of fastening his belt over it. Lifting it has to take so much effort that he has resigned himself to sitting down to take a leak. He had a short pony tail and arrived in a creepy vehicle that my cousin's husband referred to as a "rape van."

I'm not sure how a 1st birthday party rates on the scale of gigs for a DJ, but I can't imagine it is very high. I'd have to put it above Nursing Home Christmas Party but below a Bris. The self loathing this DJ was experiencing had to be monumental, and it started to show at points during the shin dig.

When he asked the father of the birthday boy if he should play music to entertain the many kids present or some more adult jams for the bulk of the crowd, he was told, "I'd say focus on the kids, but don't forget about the adults." This couldn't have cleared matters up, but I still don't believe it is a valid excuse for playing unedited versions of "Crank Dat" and "Jump Around." I can only imagine the awkward silences and near collisions that were caused when more than one child asked their parents what "Supaman dat ho" means during the ride home.

I will give him credit because the kids did look entertained. He showed them had to dance to several of the songs. Sure he commented on a woman's large breasts into the microphone while the children were limboing and wouldn't stop talking along with the singers, but the kids expectations seemed very low.

And it's a good thing the kids didn't expect much because this guy had the absolute worst balloon art skills anyone has ever seen. It was obvious he couldn't make anything resembling an animal. Maybe a dead snake, but that's it. Most of what he handed out was, I hope, supposed to be a sword, but more resembled a giant drooping cock. I have no idea what the other objects he made were supposed to be, but here is a picture I took of what I can only describe as a pile of fail.

As I left I saw him sitting at a table eating his third piece of birthday cake. Two kids whacked him in the face with their big pink balloon dicks as "Number of the Beast" by Iron Maiden blared out of the speakers.
I'm going to check the paper today for any reports of a fat guy hanging himself with his own pony tail.

Friday, October 24

Criminal or Just Creepy?

Yesterday a gentleman I work with, the one who used to make pancakes in his office before someone ratted him out, approached me at my desk and threw some papers onto it. They were pictures he printed out, pictures of some girl walking along Broadway. Four of them. From different angles. Not expecting to see paparazzi photos of some strange woman walking down the street, I didn't know how to react which lead to my default setting of staring blankly. 

"She's hot huh," Pancakes said to me. 

"Oh. Oh! yeah. She is smokin'," I replied, deciding it was better just to act like I wasn't wondering if viewing these photos made me an accomplice. The girl was very hot though. She looked to be a tall, large breasted Asian gal in a small plaid skirt. I have always been sad I have never had the chance to experience the joy that is a large breasted Asian gal, but looking at these pictures still made me feel lecherous, even the shot from behind.

"She was wearing that same outfit the first time I saw her. Oh my god I love her." Ooookay this
sentence was enough for me and I went to hand him back the pictures.

"Oh don't worry about it. You can keep those. I have my own copies. Just put them in your desk so no one sees them."

"Oh.. cool. Thanks," I muttered as I buried them under a pile of junk in a drawer.

I feel gross.

Thursday, October 23

The "H" Word

None of you know what this is? Really?

I'll paypal 5 American Dollars to whomever knows it first.

If you really want to know you can always take off your pants and call me. I'll say it eventually.

Wednesday, October 22


Lately I have taken to using the seaborne portion of my commute as a time to write, or at least think of, things I can post on here. I do this with a ball point pen and a spiral notebook I keep in my man bag along with an uncanny ability to block out all ridiculous chatter around me.

Most of the time this chatter comes from groups of Russian people spewing out noise that sound like me when i vomited after trying borscht. In high school I took 3 years of Russian, but I can not understand more than a word or two of what these Chatty Katyas are saying. Unfortunately the only bits of Ruski that remained in my head after graduation were "The milk is near the window," "I live in a summer house," and "I love men in sour cream." Therefore I do my best to ignore them.

Yesterday I was in the early stages of writing what could have been an award winning short story, when my obliviousness was destroyed by a wackjob that sat across from me. This fella was a straight up weirdo. He didn't need to open his mouth for me to gauge his lunacy because he was wearing a bright blue cap with big silver wings sticking out from the sides. It looked like something Thor would wear if he was a slow adult. The hat was so bizarre it took me 5 minutes of discreet staring to notice that he was also wearing one of those always stylish leather jackets with hundreds of tassels hanging off of it. Topping it off was his ratting almost ass length pony tail of pumpkin colored hair. This bizarre vision blew out some fuses in my brain, and my attempts to block out the surrounding noise were about to fail miserably.

The weirdo was chatting to a more normal looking colleague across from him.

"Sunday I got up early and got ready before heading to the cat show"

This is when I realized what I would blog about today. I didn't expect to be nearly blinded with confusion and rage as his comments continued.

"You know, for all the Italian people around, there is a lot of bad pizza on Staten Island..."

What the?! Having lived on Staten Island all but one year of my life and being one of these Italian people, I couldn't believe what i was hearing. I had maybe run into a bad slice once or twice. Don't ever order from Monty's. Aside form that it's a regular pizza heaven. He then dropped this nugget out of his unbrushed mouth.

"We got Domino's the other night. In all the times we ordered from them, this was the first time they got there in less than 30 minutes."

What? What?! 30 seconds ago he is complaining about bad pizza. Now he is saying that he orders from fucking Domino's? More than once? That's like saying "Man music today is really bad...I love this Scarlett Johansson CD."

Domino's pizza should only be eaten by students away at college in a place where people say "Eye-talian."

Thanks for the post, asshole.

Monday, October 20

867-5309 Meghan

I have had a healthy amount of phone sex. I have had it with girlfriends, people I've never met, and even a married woman. I do not count the time my aunt had an asthma attack while on the phone with me despite it sounding virtually the same as my previous telephonic encounters. This is story about the first time I participated in the act of the Phone Bone in one part.

At the tender age of 19 I had begun to spend more and more time swimming in the cesspool known as online chat rooms. Until this point, I had only used them as a source of mirth and merriment by way of insulting people until I got banned from AOL. Things started to take a much more mature and unfortunate turn for the worse when I began to use them for socializing. I found myself enjoying it far too much as a result of this pesky social anxiety problem I couldn't seem to shake. Conversations were had. Jokes were made. Girls were flirted with.

There was one broad in particular who enjoyed my textual stylings a great deal. Her name was Meghan. She was from New Jersey, but I didn't hold it against her because she talked about her boobs a lot and would send me winking smiley faces. ;) 

Meaghan and I had talked quite a bit for a few weeks when it was suggested, I don't remember by who, that we should maybe talk on the phone. Up until this point the depths to which our sexual chatting had gone was only at a level of half-joking genitalia mention that was usually followed by yet another lame ass emoticon. For example:

Megan: Oh it's so cold in here. I guess I have to put my pants on.
Me: :-O
Meggin:  hehe

Within minutes of getting on the phone however, she ratcheted  up the raunch a notch or eight. Her vocabulary became peppered with "F" words, "P" words, "C" words and even an "H" word. I feel uncomfortable even thinking about that one. She not so casually mentioned she was strumming her harp and suggested I start tuning my mandolin. Only in a much filthier and less musical manner. My brain quickly abetted my loins. 

Brain: "Well she definitely sounds like a girl, and that fake picture she sent us was pretty hot. Go for it, cowboy."

What followed this decision, aside from hellatious chaffing, was an awkward realization that I had zero clue what I was supposed to say. I mean I knew I wasn't supposed to ask her what she thought of the latest episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer no matter how much that would have aroused me, but at this point in my life I did not have the best friend-like familiarity with the language of filth that I do now. Mghan was well underway when I decided I need to pipe up before I lost her. Not having formulated a plan yet, I sent out an array of fail.

"I want to kiss your boobs," didn't sounds as bad as you think when I followed it up with, "I bet your vagina feels really good." Yes, I said "vagina."

Miraculously her enthusiasm didn't wane one bit. In the midst of my futility I came up with an ingenious strategy. Or maybe it was a tactic?  We all know how well a man thinks when he is full on masturbating. I brilliantly decided that since Meghan was clearly much better at this than I, taking what she said and using it in my response would be my best bet. This plan resulted in a series of exchanges that went something like this.

Meghan: Do you want to fuck me?
Me: Oh yeah I want to fuck you.
Meghan: Oh god I want you to fuck you now.
Me: I would fuck you now.
Meghan: Yes! Fuck me now!
Me: I am fucking you now!

I can't even get into how I tried to force some grunts and moans out in response to hers. Let's just say that for a week after this, neighbors were asking me to come over and play with the sea lion they heard me training. This all went on for a surprising 15 minutes due mostly to my confusion delaying the inevitable mess I failed to plan ahead for. 

Alas, no mess was to be had as suddenly I heard a door slam shut. Before I could realize what was happening,  I heard  my mother's voice say, "Ryan ! Come down and help me bring in groceries!" I froze in terror which only resulted in her yelling again. My lack of response caused her worry which led to the sound of footsteps on stairs.

Panicked, I stood up and tried to return to some state of dress as Meghan continued to frost her cupcake. What the? With my mother's presence looming on the other side of my bedroom door, I blurted out "GOTTA GO," and hung up. I stood there sweating and out of breath as I told my mom I was just getting off the phone with Johnny and didn't hear her come in. Smooth.

I actually told Meghan what had happened later on. She thought it was funny and for some reason wanted to have phone sex again. Crap, she was a dude wasn't she?

Friday, October 17


Next week I plan on posting a story that is large in both size and embarrassment. My dilemma is whether or not to break it up into two posts because of it's intimidating girth. It worked pretty well previously when I broke up my nightmarish Jean Shorts epic into Part 1 and Part 2

So what do you prefer? One over sized post, or a two part special with some time in between to digest how ridiculous a human being I am?

My other question is equally as dull. I need some new books to read. They make my commute more bearable.  Recent ones I have read include Pound for Pound by F.X. Toole, Agent ZigZag by Ben Macintyre and The Wizard of the Crow by Ngugi Wa'Thiong'O. I picked out the last book because the guys name is awesome, and it turned out to be a fantastic choice. I also read a few by my second favorite writer from the damp and lush land of Northwest America, Tom Robbins.

So what should I be reading? Books involving dinosaurs will go to the top of the list. 

Thursday, October 16

Mistakes on a Plane, Part 2

Previously, I told a tale of fail regarding my method of dealing with air travel. This is basically to deprive myself of sleep the night before my flight, resulting in sleep filled, but panic and boredom free flight. Never one to give up on a bad idea, I put my method to use again even after spraying hot saliva all over economy class on my way back from Florida.

One reason I had been so enthusiastic about the idea of sleep flight was the whole not sleeping bit allowed me to engage in obscene amounts of procrastination. So the night before I was to fly to Minnesota I had a grand ol' time packing 3 items of clothing every time I felt like taking a break from Nintendo, the Internet and On Demand Showtime porn.

Previously my flights had left early in the morning which facilitated my plan. This time however, the plane was not due to leave the Earth until 2PM. As you can imagine, after about 32 hours without sleep or even listening to Losing My Religion, I was not in the most solid of mental states.

I have no recollection of how I made it to the airport, through security and onto the plane without  falling down or asking someone if I could pet their unicorn. Somehow I stumbled into my seat feeling like tiny Shaolin monks were kung fuing my brain. It felt like they were using the Plum Flower Fist style. Had I fallen asleep when my ass hit flotation device, things would have gone swell. It seemed as if some part of my tea totalling self was enjoying this euphoric brain damagey feeling and wanted it to continue.

The plane was not full by any means, but the few people who walked by me on the way to their seat stared as I made feeble attempts to fasten my safety belt. I had struggled with insertion before, but never in such a public venue. We pulled away from the gate and I still was not buckled in. A kindly, and somewhat cute, flight attendant felt sorry for me and offered to help.

"Let me give you a hand. They can be tricky," she said before leaning down, snapping the two ends together and pulling the strap tight with ease and grace. " There you go. You're all set."

Under normal circumstances my brain would be exploding with ridiculous thoughts that would paralyze my vocal chords. Right now though, my brain was mush. Out of my mouth slipped, "You smell pretty."

Mercifully, sleep came quickly after. When I exited the plane I nearly sprinted off the plane staring at the floor as to avoid her gaze of disgust. I also tried to hum loudly to avoid hearing anything horrible, but I did make out someone saying, "Man that guy must really love Minneapolis."

These days I sleep plenty and bring lots of reading material.

Tuesday, October 14

Mistakes on a Plane, Part 1

I have mixed feelings about flying. I like the idea that in a few hours I can be in a strange new place where I don't have to work. I do not like that this place may be a giant  fiery wreck 35 miles away from my destination.

In the past my main concern before a flight would be how I could avoid freaking out to the point where I am squealing as I eat fist fulls of my own hair. These days I am much more comfortable with airline travel. The main thing I worry about a flight now is how best to make the time in the air pass quickly, so that I do not get so bored I start asking people if they want to play a game of "Guess Who has the B.O. Problem."

The plan I devised to solve the problems of boredom and mid-air panic seemed fool-proof. If I were to not sleep the night before a flight, I will be so tired that once I am strapped in on the plane I will pass the hell out. Not only would I avoid  the risk of soiling myself thinking the plane is going down when I sense vibrations as the fat guy next to me farts into his seat, but it will feel like no time had passed when a kindly flight attendant wakes me up telling me that if I don't get off the plane they will release the dogs on me. Sounds perfect right?

Almost. While I had several successful runs with Operation pass out on a plane, there were two incidents.

The first occurred as myself and a number of my high school classmates returned from a Senior Trip to Florida. Nothing 17 and 18 year-olds want to do more than go to Disney World. I was asleep for much of the flight, and only awoke as we descended into Newark Airport. I began slipping back and forth from being awake back to unconsciousness. On one jolt out of dreamland I gained some awareness as to my situation. My head was leaning forward. My mouth was agape in a bass-like manner (the fish or the Lance) .  

Even being somewhat out of it, my embarrassment alarm went off when I realized how ridiculous I looked. Seeking to correct this, I quickly jerked my head backwards and my mouth shut.

Unfortunately, in my woozy state I failed to notice the thick strand of drool that hung from my low hanging  mouth. As I attempted to avoid humiliation by yanking my head back, the almost pillar-like drool was flung from my lower lip  through the air and landed across the back of the seat in front of me with a surprisingly audible SLAP.

I stared at the glistening gob for a good ten seconds before slowly turning my head toward the aisle, now fully awake. Across from me sat a girl named Holly. Holly with a pretty smile. Holly with a nice ass. Holly with a look of complete revulsion on her face. You know, one of those looks where your top lip curls up really high and you kind of look like Ellen Degeneres does all the time. I was frozen by her Medusa gaze of disgust shooting across the aisle as the wheels hit the runway.

Holly and I never had a thing like I thought we would. I wasn't ready for a serious relationship being at the end of my high school run, and she didn't want me to drench her in saliva. For some reason, this didn't not cause me to abandon Operation Pass Out On a Plane.

Friday, October 10

Does the Dalai Lama have nice breath?

This morning I needed a number. No one else knew the number, so I had to turn to the big Rolodex.  This thing is massive and filled with almost 15 years worth of numbers and cards. It looks like it should be powering a Mississippi riverboat.

So me and three other guys haul it to my office and I start to look for the name in the section called G.

Abert Gargano
Gateway Casting
Amanda Gaul
Richard Gere
Michael Giordano

Wait a second...

This card says nothing on it, but Richard Gere and a phone number with the area code 310. I checked and it is sunny Southern California.

No one knows why this is in the Rolodex. I asked around. 

The question I pose to you, is not if I should call him, but when I do, what should I ask Richard Gere?

Please no hamster/gerbil related suggestions.

Wednesday, October 8

Don't forget de Willie

Last week, a man who used to work at my office passed away. His name was Guillermo, but everyone called him "Willie." About a year ago he was diagnosed with liver and colon cancer , and as a result stopped working shortly after. 

Not having him around the office was a great loss. Without him strolling into my room all day long to tell me bizarre things or call Oscar De LaHoya a pussy, the only reason for me to get up and come to work was the chance that my "work wife" would brush a boob against my forearm.

It is unfortunate I can not tell this story to you out loud as I feel my humble impression of his accent better conveys the hilarity that was Willie. Despite having moved here from Puerto Rico about 40 years ago, his accent was still thicker than London fog, and he often forgot the a word in English, usually during the punchline of a joke he had spent the past 10 minutes telling you.  

So picture a short, energetic,  bongo drum playing sixty year old Puerto Rican man with this heavy accent as I tell you this story. 

One day during my lunch break, myself, my work wife (yes I feel the urge to clutch my man bag every time I say this), and two other co-workers were in my office hanging around my computer. We were looking at some old sex pictures of a girl who was on American Idol, or Survivor, or So You Think You Can Kazoo, or whatever. The point is, on my computer there was a picture of a girl with a penis in her mouth.

As we are observing and discussing said photo, Willie happens to walk by and looks in to see what all the hubbub is. Upon seeing the reality contestant engaged in  her vocal exercises, the following conversation ensues:

Willie: "ooooOOOOOOOOH"
Me: Laughing
Willie: "Is like... Is like de chicken."
Me: "The chicken? what?"
Willie: "You know is like de chicken. How you say? Chicken? With de corn?"
Me:"Chicken with corn? what?"
Willie:" You know de chicken! With de corn! De Chicken!"

Willie then proceeded to open his mouth wide, lean forward and bob his head up and down, simulating a chicken eating off the ground. After realizing what he was talking about finally, this yanked a great bellowing laugh out of me that I would dare say might even be classified as a guffaw.  Once he saw I got it he said "yeah! De Chicken!" And then walked down the hall laughing, Ah...Ah...Ah" like the count form Sesame Street. 

For the next week Willie would walk by my door multiple times a day and say, "Hey. Hey Ryan. Ryan...Don' forget de corn. Ah... Ah...Ah."

I really need to figure out how to record something and put it up here so you can get the full experience. But, even if I can't I now plan on sharing the story he told me where he got too drunk to have sex, why he loved Derek Jeter and why he called me "Ryan de Octopus."

Tuesday, October 7


Should I respond to comments left by those of you who are kind enough to leave them? 

In cases where a blogger does respond to comments, do you actually go back to check what they said in response to yours? I do, but I am a filthy attention whore, so I can't know what others do.

Who has it harder in life, a very ugly man or a very ugly woman?

Sunday, October 5

It's got a good beat, and you can hump to it

Until somewhat recently, I had never made sweet love on a woman while music was being played. 

I should clarify here and say that I have never intentionally done it. There was one time sex was in full effect while the TV was on, and I wound up winded due to the Price is Right theme. There also was a time  where I was receiving an oral gift on a park bench and, in an attempt to act nonchalant, I whistled "White Christmas." Neither of these count.

I had been with a girl who had mentioned she wanted to bang to Closer by Nine Inch Nails, but I couldn't be bothered to burn it to a CD. I have often mused about having sex while the Mortal Kombat Techno Theme plays, but it might lead to me breaking my neck when I try to jump off a dresser. I can understand why some people might feel some sexy music can enhance the mood while hittin' the skins, but I personally don't see how anything can enhance a mood better than actual intercourse with a woman does.

That being said, this past Valentines Day I decided that for the oh so special night I was planning for my ladyfriend I would purchase a CD by a musical artist she loves. This Compact Disc would be played as I romance her down using candles, exotic oils and a precoital dance I like to call "The Lusty Gibbon."

The music played as we did our thing. I can't say I noticed the music very much at all once the heavy petting began. I have the ability to tune things out during lower stimulation which in the past has lead to many awkward moments with my family during my youth. I feel it was a blessing in this case however. 

As we lay in the bed afterwards, sweaty and ignoring the disappointment that hangs in the air after I do it, I put my arm around her and said...

"I can't believe we had sex to Purple Rain."

What is the soundtrack to your reproductive acts?

Friday, October 3

Sex? In my Dreams!

As pathetic as it is, I have always had problems getting laid in my dreams.

Unlike when I am awake, the trouble is not the whole tricking a girl into agreeing to let me mount her. The problem has always been the complete randomness of the unconscious world I reside in during the night. Many a time I have been in dream land lustily groping a young lady with skill and dexterity I could only hope for in real life, when suddenly members of my family will enter onto the scene, abruptly ending my march toward a perfectly enjoyable wet dream. Upon turning my attentions back to the young lady, it is too late. She has turned into my 4th grade teacher, Mr. Schulman, or a giant pair of chopsticks.

You know I can never recall having an actual wet dream. I may have had one, but I pissed the bed until I was 23 so maybe I missed it.

There was an instance where I actually achieved dream penetration. The dream sex was like a bowl of hot clam chowder. Steamy. Bubbling. Exploding with flavor. And full of the finest ingredients New England has to offer. What the? As I lay on my back and she used me like a hippity-hop, I felt the final moment approaching. Eruption was imminent.

Just as the celebration was about to start, she placed her hands on my stomach and proceeded to lift herself into a full handstand. She held herself there for a good five seconds and then violently brought herself down, driving her knees directly into my balls. This was kind of a precognitive dream as it turned out to be a good metaphor for the relationship I wound up having with her.

I do not have these kinds of dream problems currently. Something new and horrible has arisen from the darkest parts of my brain.

Last night I had a dream that start off with me in the audience for some kind of debate. The situation quickly changed into an odd scene where two semi-nude and fully-hot chicks began getting all up in my business and drawing me into a threesome. What a fantastic dream!! I was so aroused that I couldn't help myself and had to say something to spice things up! I opened my dream face and said...

"I have a girlfriend"

Wait. That can't be right. let me try that again.

"I can't do this. I have a girlfriend"

No! NO!! Stop it mouth!

"No really I have to go. I have a girlfriend."

AARAGGHH!!! This is wrong! But as I attempted to take the controls and guide myself back into the situation I saw it was too late. I was in a cafeteria with all new people who were discussing pudding.

This has happened 3 times in the past week! I think my brain hates me.

Thursday, October 2

Bourne Right

Today I just want to share a quote related to yesterdays Jurassic Rant.

During a recent interview, international super secret agent Jason Bourne was asked about Sarah Palin. He said of her

"I need to know if she really think that dinosaurs were here 4000 years ago. I want to know that, I really do. Because she's gonna have the nuclear codes."

A-fucking-men Matt Damon.

Here are some dinosaur pictures for your enjoyment.

Wednesday, October 1

The Line Has Been Crossed

It may come as a surprise due to my recent eruptions, but I have a high tolerance and a very long fuse. I will listen to all kinds of nonsense and not say a word. I will put up with unseemly amounts of ignorance from a person, yet still think they could be an OK guy. As long as I can zone out and manage to spit out "uh huh" and "I know, right?" a few times, I remain in a place of serenity.

There is one subject however, where I see zero room for any freedom of opinion. It is not up for debate. Any deviation from what I believe is an indictment of one's character and a sign of complete and total worthlessness. The subject?


More specifically, the reality of, and facts regarding, the existence of dinosaurs. As incomprehensible as it is, there are people who will debate these things.

I was recently sent this here tidbit by Girlfriend which describes how, widely recognized genius, Sarah Palin believes that dinosaurs existed 6 thousand years ago.

Now, if you go on TV and make an ass of yourself trying to speak on subjects you clearly know nothing about, I may sympathize with you. I will laugh and send the YouTube link to everyone I know, but there will be some sympathy in the air. If you want to proclaim yourself knowledgeable on a subject due to your geographical proximity to it, I may lose some confidence in your intelligence. But as soon as vomit up insane bullshit about dinosaurs and people running around together you go on the list of people I want to violently pelt with a metric ton of wet paper towels.

Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?How can anybody with enough brain power to dress themselves believe something as ridiculous as this? Has she seen what a fucking Tyrannosaurus Rex looks like? Obviously not. Look at this motherfucker.

He is 7 tons and 40 ft long. He has teeth that can reach up to 12 inches in length and an estimated bite force of 230,000 newtons! You know how many newtons it takes to puncture a human skull? 12 newtons! Don't bother to look it up. I didn't. The point is, if people were running around in loincloths with zero machine guns, we would be wiped out. No civilization. No technology. No Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers. Nothing!

Shockingly there are people out there who are even more despicable and useless. My closest encounter with one of these walking pile sof refuse was when Girlfriend informed me that a "friend" of hers does not believe in dinosaurs. It is difficult for me to put into words the amount of fiery visceral rage this causes me to know such a person exists, so I will just say this...

jklilsnsfeuopsfe8psen JDNLLUIN:EONEjn;nuen983pn3;3s8938pj9

I normally do not care whatever nonsense people choose to believe, but if you think that all of these bones that have been dug up over the years are some part of a massive scientific conspiracy then you need to be flat out eliminated. Anyone who can maintain this powerful a dellusion can not be of any use in the progression of mankind. When your religious beliefs cause you to ignore reality to this extent, it is time to lay off the sacremental wine for a while.

Strangely, I am not allowed to meet this acquaintice of Girlfriend because she feels I may immediately start a fight. She is correct, and it is probably for the best because I would feel terrible if a dinosaur-hating harpy beat me up. I'd be remiss if I also didn't mention that this lunatic will refuse the existence of dinosaurs because of her religion, but routinely participates in group sex, wife swapping and has tried to get my girlfriend to have a threesome with her and her greasy husband. Praise to you Lord Jesus Christ.

I'f you've made it to the end of this monster, I would like to leave you with one last thought.

A Vote for Obama is a Vote for Dinosaurs.

Spread the word.