Happy Earf Day

25 04 2010

I had trouble with the title of this post. It wasn’t because Earf Day was like a week ago or whatever. In celebrationology, exact dates are generally unimportant, with the exception of birfdays. Religious dudes are too busy arguing about who the daddy be to figure out what day the Earf was birfed, so nobody knows. Not Scientologists, not Google—not nobody possibly Magnum, P.I. Mustaches of his stature are said to be signs of all-knowingness, while goatees denote only some-knowingness and soul patches are often connected with fuck-all-knowingness. But this post isn’t about facial hair divination. You will have to buy my imaginary eBook for that. Food stamps accepted.

They don't even make a harmonica for this situation. Awkward.

Wishing happiness to others in celebration of our shared planet on a day during which I threw an estimated 10-gallon trashbag’s worth of recyclable materials straight into a garbage dumpster without a second thought doesn’t make sense and escapes the overall cohesion of my do shit that makes sense lifestyle.

(Check out these italics, emphasizing the hell out of otherwise negligible content.)

Don’t get me wrong. I like Earth—it’s cool, it’s where my house is, and that’s where I keep all of my shit. Without the Earth, the entirety of my belongings would float around in outer space at the mercy of scandalous types such as Daleks, Ferengi, Siths, Reavers, Dalek-ass Siths, Sith-ass Daleks, skeezers, punk bitches, skip-skop skanks and scallywags, players, heifers, he-haws, huly-hu’s and Robin Williams. At least until my Cash4Gold income flow became large and steady enough to get some tractor beams from the Rent-a-Center on 5th and Uranus. Maybe I’d splurge on a white leather couch with built-in washer/dryer combo while there. Two or three oil painting reproduction prints of some bodies of water with flowers and shit, at the very least. This guy knows what pity I’m trying to sine on the runny kine.

At this point, it seems more reasonable to celebrate gravity. Gravity doesn’t make anyone feel bad for razing a forest to make room for a hovering styrofoam mansion elevated by thousands of perpetually-spraying aerosol cans of insecticide which in turn provide fuel for the surrounding moat of ill-gotten KFC sporks heated to melting point. Pro-gravity activists don’t smell like a jockstrap worn by an aborigine for three months straight. Gravity tycoon families aren’t interested in politics. I could go on, but those two mustaches just reminded me that I’m late for a Mothers Against Beardless Cyclops charity walk. Take care of yourself, and each other.

Chicks, MAN. CHICKS.

14 03 2010

Today is Mother’s Day in several parts of the world. Let’s use that as the explanation for this post.

How convenient. Don’t argue. Fine, I’m going home. No, nothing is wrong. I’m fine. I never want to see you again. Oh. You bought me shoes?! SHOES?! I’ll do anything for shoes. Wait, these aren’t good enough. Did you buy any other shoes? If so, I would like to criticize them at your earliest convenience. Until then, silent treatment will commence. Leave me alone. Are you saying I look fat when I’m silent? Oh now you’re not attracted to me anymore. I get it. No, that’s fine. You can go date your little skinny slut ex-girlfriend again. I know you want her. Get off of me! All you want is sex from me. That’s all you care about. I’m GOING HOME. You had better FOLLOW me and beg piteously or we’re THROUGH.

End scene.

Now that I have caused every feminist in the entire world to feel a disturbance in the BitchForce™, we can continue.

The first thing I have to share on today’s topic is a lovely post on And I Am Not Lying, entitled “Types of Bitches” — Big up to Jess for pointing me to this alarmingly accurate taxonomy of “bitches” created by an unknown 3rd-grader in Washington D.C. The occasional misspellings only serve to enhance the charm.

Types of Biznatches

A bitch is not merely a bitch.

As I always say: The children our are future.

Put that in your tampon and smoke it.

The second and last bit is more of a Final Thought, like Jerry Springer does at the end of his talkshow. Except nothing like that at all, save for the fact that I am wearing glasses and talking into a microphone. Anyway, what in the hell is with women getting themselves as grimy-looking as possible to participate in traditionally masculine activities, with the aim of preaching female empowerment? I thought the point was to be “proud” of not being like a man. I can almost stomach the idea of a gold-digger or a stripper taking the role of my gender’s champion. Anything but this woman.

Crouching Cracker, Hidden Nylon

11 03 2010

Crouching Cracker, Hidden Nylon

How To Be Invisible

When this initially materialized in front of me, I immediately called for a time-out and consulted with my sensai. Being wise in the ways of loud fabrics and the ancient art of trying to blend in with your surroundings by closing your eyes and posing like a tyrannosaurus rex, he quickly assured me that this dude was not getting ready to crane kick my ass to the ground. He explained the concept of whacky white hip-hop dancing, then said a bunch of other things that sounded important and inserted the barrel of a gun into his mouth. Before I could pause Bejeweled to tell him that he’s kind of being an attention whore, a shot rang out. To my utter astonishment, Mr. Fly Girl here didn’t even flinch when I began to beat him mercilessly with a spindle of CD-Rs after losing my game.

I Am Loving All Up On This Free Breakcore.

20 02 2010

Respek and big up at Breakpop Records for helping the world get its core on with their twentieth free release, Breakcore Compilation II [ZIP]. The name of the release is so descriptive that I almost cried—in a good way. In this age of Check Out My New Track “Sanguine Falafel Howl (Electronicmusic Mix)” Released On Douchetrance Records UK!!! LOL1!™, I appreciate the lack of bullshit. Women get enough of that already. Just tell me what the fuck I’m downloading.

It was pleasing to see so many Pacific NW natives on the roster (including one of my brovaries, Amphetamine Virus) as well as a some household names (Producer Snafu, Mochipet, Justin Timberlake).

I’m actually liking this thing. Most notably, I didn’t feel compelled to skip through a single one of the 25 tracks. Why is that notable? Because this was originally a Facebook note thus anything I’ve noted there is worth noting. Hello? Did you quit smoking weed or something? Jesus Christ, pay attention. Anyway, I’m not the Roger Ebert of Breakcore, so this isn’t an official review or anything. I’m more like the Mike Jones of Breakcore. He has more do-rags than I do, but that’s not important. The point is that Mike Jones probably has opinions about stuff when he’s not purple-dranked or drowning in a clapping booty, and has heard (as well as produced) both really terrible and detestably mediocre music in his respective genre.

That’s pretty much all that Mike Jones and I have in common. That’s all we need to have in common for me to tell you that some breakcore is worth downloading for $0. Let’s put it this way: If you don’t download it, then everybody will think it’s because I’m black. You racist piece of Internet.

If that’s not enough motivation, then you might want to know that there’s a good share of hard and/or dark for the TUFF CORE GUYS, but also lighter catchy stuff for GABBER PLUR DUDES. And of course, there’s some jungle and techstep vibes thrown in for PRETTY MUCH EVERYONE. Last but never (ever) least, it’s got artistically-placed samples about wieners and balls and stuff. That’s how you know it’s breakcore.

Friends Don’t Let Friends “Suggest To Friends” A Whole Bunch of Times Until They Get Their Ass Kicked

18 02 2010

This post is about Facebook. You do not need a Gold Account to read it, but you do need a Silver Fanny Pack to understand it.

I don’t mind being invited to become a fan of something. Especially if it is Some Shit From Star Trek or something like Set Chicken McNuggets to Stun. I do mind when I am invited to become a fan of something after ignoring the suggestion twelve- to fifteen-thousand times.

If you have already suggested a page to your entire friends list more than once, please be aware that you are behaving like an Internet Douchebag. This is different than an Internet Terrorist. The latter involves funny pictures involving marine mammals juxtaposed with fluid exchange fetish and poking oneself on Facebook then Twittering about it.

Perhaps the people on your friends list have never heard your music—how can they be your fan? Perhaps they have never attended your club night which is in a city thousands of miles away from where they live, they do not own any records released by your label, they do not attend any events organized by your soundsystem or crew or whatever shit you’re calling it now—how can they give a fuck? (You do want people to give a fuck, don’t you? Publicity is rendered just a tad purposeless without the giving-a-fuck component.) Maybe the victims of your Internet Douchebaggery are indeed familiar with your work/cause/wiener and have no burning desire to endorse or be associated with it.

Whatever the case may be, shit’s just bad netiquette. I only use that word when I’m serious about distributing Stop Whatever The Fuck You’re Doing notifications. I humbly acknowledge that I have the potential to be one of the most annoying people in your news feed, but even I possess the basic level of human consideration required to keep track of who I’ve already invited to suck my etc.

So…you know. Knock that shit off.

Dr. bllix’s Valentine’s Day Handbook (Abridged)

7 01 2010

Hello, Internet. I’ve decided to put together an abridged Valentine’s Day handbook for those of you who are dedicated to ensuring success in being superior to your significant other on the most romantic day of the year.

This is you. Probably.

Over the next few weeks, I will post tips, tricks, gift ideas, miscellaneous shreds of my intellectual property, and loosely-related pictures that are funny to me. Now is a good time to submit questions or Paypal donations in excess of 500$ USD to my charity fund for Kids Who Aren’t Dying But Demand More Toys and to Visit the Moon or Else They’re Gonna Run Away and Never Come Back.

The wisdom imparted herein and henceforth is the result of twenty years spent observing the psychosocial nuances of interpersonal relationships, watching every single episode of Married With Children at least four times, and pursing my lips in disapproval when bitches be trippin’. I also have some formal education and several years of professional experience with the interpretation, prediction and profiling of human behavior, but who cares about that crap? Dr. Phil doesn’t have a degree in Telling People How It Is While Using a Charming Southern Accent, yet this seems to be the basis of both his practice and success. It’s either that or his mustache. I don’t have one of those, so you’ll just have to trust that I have a degree in Telling the Internet How It Is While Eating Chips and Barely Paying Attention.

Valentine's Day - After

Emperor Pope of the Internet

Have you seen that movie about a powerful ring that causes evil to follow the bearer until he is near-dead with the weight of its wickedness? It has a troll in it or whatever? No, not the one with the ambiguously homosexual short dudes that don’t wear shoes. I think it’s called The Wedding Planner.

Anyway, this film offers a valuable life lesson that is often overlooked due to its surplus of troll close-ups and overall unwatchability: Love is unpredictable. Internet tycoon status will always lose to a big butt and a smile, even if it is a troll butt. Your first assignment is to watch this film, or lie and say that you did, and report back to me on what you have learned about Matthew McConaughey’s preference for former Fly Girls.

Now that you’ve been schooled, let’s put this knowledge to work in the coming weeks and formulate a plan to secure success on the one day out of the year that determines how many times you will get laid before breaking up in early Summer. I look forward to enriching the quality of your lovers’ quarrels and Internet boners.

Economicon: Your Personal Grimoire To Paper Money

9 11 2009

Have you ever tried to stretch a dollar? I have. Not only did the damned thing rip, but I didn’t end up saving money in any way. If you think I’m joking, come over to my house and check out my body pillow filled with torn George Washingtons. It took over fifteen years to save up enough money to create the filling for what is best described as one of the most awkward and oddly-scented orthopedic appliances in my possession. Just kidding, you can’t come over. Not with that kind of attitude.

Speaking of going places, I have visited Chicago a record of four times in the last twelve months. If there’s one thing I have learned about The Windy City, it’s that Abraham Lincoln was born in Illinois. Or so I have been told by the state’s license plate design. That ‘ham dude’s picture is on it, so I figure either he was born here or Illinoisians are way into five-dollar bills. Which is understandable. Twenty-dollar bills sometimes throw out an up-and-coming-Jay-Z vibe, whereas ten-dollar bills are a bit awkward, and one-dollar bills are always crumpled, rendering them completely useless for any purpose aside from stuffing material used in human-sized mildly odoriferous bedding.

Speaking of gross sleeping products that nobody would buy, I had a great idea for a pillow a few weeks ago. While it would be easy to turn this into a 3,000 word description of how the pillow “works”, it should suffice to say that it is a snoring pillow. It also has boobs. Still reading? Of course you are. The boobs are wearing a bikini top. Just kidding, that is sold separately. The pillow features several snoring types, which the consumer can select based on whatever neurosis would motivate one to purchase an aurally-irritating pillow in the first place. Snore settings include Enya’s Tampon—for those interested in a rhythmic nostrils-as-pan-flute sound—and Goblin Gangbang, which is pretty self-explanatory best described as a gentle flutter what a miniature hog brothel in a fat man’s throat would sound like.

Volume can be adjusted between Pretty Loud and Hella Loud. The cover is made of dishwasher-safe burlap and the filling has a lifetime limited warranty, valid only on the surface of the moon. You’re probably wondering, “Does this thing run on batteries or plutonium or farts or what.” while also thinking, “Both tables and books make good writing surfaces, but most college textbooks cost more than any table sold at IKEA.“, as you take another sip of Listerine-spiked decaffeinated coffee and continue reading. First of all, that is an excellent question, and I’m glad you asked. Second, I hope that you are drinking the Vanilla Mint variety of Listerine, as it goes well with Kahlua and a nice chianti. Third, the type of energy source required to power a product as inherently sinister as a scratchy pillow that promotes restlessness is a malignant force not to be toyed with or taken lightly or confused with the Death Star. Let’s just say that you can smoke it and get real happy, and that it’s sausage.

If I tell you any more than that, I might as well just give away the remaining treasure trove of my personal intellectual property. I’d never get rich in the meat-grease-for-fuel market and be able to cryogenically preserve my aura, and the terrorists Skynet wins. Nobody wants that. Skynet doesn’t even know how to use Twitter. Like, RTFM, Skynet. So, you see, it is critical that nothing shake the foundations of said financial strategy. We must work together to preserve our world, save the children, or something like that, and have cool stories to dupe our grandchildren with when gathering around the fireplace with Listerine sherbert-flavored hot cocoa on Christmas Eve.

Hold that image of sweat-stained money, cyborgs, and vomited Listerine close to your heart, and think of me the next time any of these things cross your path or sully your dreams.

And with that, I bid you l8rz.


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