Monday, December 11, 2017

The Many Reasons Why You Are Going to Hell

I'm the devil and I'll do what I want.

The Christmas season is almost upon us, so in the spirit of holiday cheer, I thought I'd examine why all of us, including you, are going to hell. Let us begin.

1. You're going to hell because in middle school, you made fun of the mentally-handicapped kid who pulled his pants all the way down to pee in the urinal.

2. Hell is your destiny because you were pretty shitty to your first girl friend back in high school and made her cry, like, a lot.

3. Hell, not Heaven, is your final destination because you attended a Limp Bizkit show in the flesh and Stained was their opener, which bumps you down another circle, you demon.

4. Eternal damnation is your fate because you've never been very consistent about lifting the toilet seat before you take a piss. Thanks, ladies.

5. You will never know the glorious embrace of Jesus because you often give your toddler a cell phone to keep him busy, thus condemning him to a life of technological servitude.

6. You're going to hell, boy, because the last time you were in church, you couldn't help but think about boobies.

7. God has forsaken you because you have never repented for all the times you stayed up late to masturbate to Real Sex on HBO, you pervert.

8. Jesus took away your get out of hell free card because you once parked in a handicapped parking space.

9. If you're a Chicago Cubs fan, you are going to hell.

10. If you voted for Donald Trump, you committed a mortal sin and shall never know the pleasures of eternal life, you stupid hillbilly.

11. Remember that one time you got really drunk in a McDonald's parking lot and tried to pull up a bush, and a cop drove past and told you to mind your fucking P's and Q's? Yeah, you're going to hell for that.

12. Are you a Morman? Jew? Muslim? Protestant? Catholic? Straight to hell for you.

13. Have you never watched all seasons of Star Trek: The Next Generation? You're banished to the third level of hell, where you'll be accompanied by William Shatner and LeVar Burton. Levar's cool, so it's not all bad, though Shatner never stops talking.

14. Skipping leg day? Jesus don't want no upper body only bros. Have fun in hell's Planet Fitness.

15. Recall all the times you downloaded music illegally through Napster, and later, BitTorrent? You're going to hell for that.

16. Ever pooped your pants? Going to hell.

17. Forgotten someone's birthday? Straight to hell.

18. Listened to a Garth Brooks' record? Hell.

19. Not showered before bed? Hell.

20. Ever missed Jesus's message of love and acceptance because you were too concerned about the sanctity of marriage/lesbian parents/black people/uppity women/ancient religious dogma/the decline of the nuclear family? Oh you? You're going to Heaven. Just kidding, there is no heaven. I'll save a spot in hell for you. Merry Christmas!

Thursday, November 30, 2017

The Best Chili Recipe in the World

Stock photo, but looks similar.

This is my contribution to society. Through happenstance, I have stumbled upon the best chili recipe in the world. Behold:

1 lbs of lean hamburger
1/2 lbs of diced pot roast, precooked, or sliced Andouille sausage
3 sliced sweet peppers
1 jar of Kroger hot salsa
4 ounces of spicy cheddar or velveta
1 can of Bush's chili beans
A good shake of dehydrated onions
A dash of tabasco
A dash of generic Worcestershire sauce
A pinch of cinnamon
2 cups of beef broth or beer
Several shakes of generic chili powder
A dash of red pepper flakes
A pinch of garlic salt

Preparation: Cook hamburger in large pot on the stove with onions and peppers until browned. Add all other ingredients and bring to a boil. Simmer for one hour. For absolute best taste, leave in refrigerator overnight and then eat next day.

You're welcome, world.

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

The Consummate Politician Apologizes

Hello, my fellow Americans. It's been a while since you last heard from me. I guess that's either good or bad, depending on your perspective, since I typically only talk to my constituents when I have to, i.e., when I'm apologizing. I guess I've done something else that the liberal media considers wrong. Again. Hell, let's get this over with.

I suppose you've heard about Harvey Weinstein. Maybe the transgressions of Louis C.K. have reached your ears. Perhaps the butt-grabbing antics of Al Franken or the underage predation of Roy Moore have caught your attention. Let me tell you something, before CNN gets it wrong: Roy Moore is a good man, no matter how many teenage girls he's kissed. Everybody's giving him shit because he likes 'em a little young, while forgetting that Alabamians picked him in the Republican primary after he said 9/11 was divine punishment from God and homosexuality should be illegal. This is a democracy, people. If the good folks of Alabama want to elect a possible pedophile to the Senate, well, then that's their prerogative. Roy Moore is a god-fearing man who says what's on his mind. You want tax cuts? You want the ten commandments in your schools? Then you better not vote for the Democrat. It's about priorities, folks. The media just doesn't understand this.

Hell, Nancy Pelosi was bending over backwards to defend John Conyers because she doesn't want to give up a House seat. You don't see Senator Franken resigning, do you? I'll tell you what, when Al resigns and President Trump calls it quits, I'll do the same. There are always allegations dogging you when you're a powerful man. Keep in mind, you can't prove anything one-hundred percent. That's science, which I always use when convenient (and discard otherwise).

Even if these allegations were true (and they most certainly ain't), we certainly must redirect the blame on a culture that encourages sexual aggression in men. I was watching a James Bond movie the other day with my son, and we each took a shot of tequila every time 007 committed sexual assault. By the end of Goldfinger, we were both plastered, and that little tot can hold his liquor, let me tell you. What I'm saying is, the standards for sexual harassment were different until like yesterday. A man used to have privileges, is what I'm saying. Nobody batted an eyelash when the district attorney cruised past the mall looking for some teenage T and A. Your preacher could cop a feel off an altar boy and that was just part of being a good Catholic. Nobody really cared, you know? Men were being men. Now the feminists are trying to breed all the God-given aggression out of the human race, and I have to ask, how is anybody going to get a date? Women used to know when I liked them, because my hand was halfway down their blouses. If they didn't like it, they were free to punch and kick and run until I was too tired to chase them. How do you think cavemen did it? You think there was anything consensual about sex back when Barney and Fred were doing circles around their local bowling alley, drinking fermented dinosaur piss? Come on, give me a break.

 My press secretary is looking over my shoulder while I write this, and I know he's going to edit about about 90 percent of it, so what the hell, let's really let loose. I'm sorry I did the things that they say I did, but it wasn't my fault, and I think what's really important is to remember that I'm for tax cuts, economic growth, keeping government spending down, and putting the F in family. The other guy isn't, okay? He's for killing babies, protecting the rights of the dishonest media, giving handouts to welfare mothers, and marriage to the gays. Who cares how many pussies I've grabbed or dicks I've shook. We need to protect conservative values, and I'm the guy who will stand by you and maybe give your daughter my phone number if she looks like she's game. Let's drain the swamp. God bless.

Sunday, November 26, 2017

Hanging with the Goon

Greetins' an' salutaions, folks, it's been since May since I sounded off on dis here blog 'bout my feelin' and personal man-problems. As you can see from teh above photo, it's only a month out from Christmas, which means I'll be bustin' out my nice blue shirt an' all teh cats one man can handle. Nothin' speaks teh message of Christmas truer than a cat, for it is writtin, second Corthiniosaurs: "Eat, drink, and be merry, and heed teh message of teh feline, for it is paramount amongst God's creatures, and extra special fancy to boot." I think teh true message of Christmas gets lost among all teh commercials, funny hats, an' big ol' bellies swingin' in teh rain. Honestly, has you seen how fat people get right round Christmas time? If you're a chub chaser, tis teh season to go a huntin', specially round Walmart or right outside yur house. If you ask teh Goon, an nobody is, Santa needs to set an example and start eatin' diet cookies and drinkin' diet Mountian dew an' bustin' his ass on teh Ellipetical or whatever it is richies do to keep skinny. Personally, I never has much of a problem keepin' tight and trim. Me diet is on point: a bag of recycled deer jerky fer breakfast an' a sack of leaves marinated in ranch dressin' fer a salad latter in teh day. That's how I keep my ten pack o' muscles.

I suppose I outta weigh in on teh latest controversy evolving our nations President, Mr. Trump. Teh President says he was gonna be on teh cover of Time as teh Person of teh Year, just liek Hitler before 'em, but then tehy said he would have to eat a bag of dicks while conductin' an interview, so he had to decline. I kinda feel liek he should've done it, after all teh stuff he said an did dis year. Our good friend an' resident Alien Hernando got deported fer not turnin' in his DACA papers on time, though he says he did. Me brother Willy has got teh shakes from tryin' to quit Heroin, though he's asked fer help, there ain't no money fer it. There ain't been no jobs comin' to town. Teh orchard don't offer no health insurance, an' since teh Republicans didn't do nothin' to help Obamacare, I don't got many options next year, an' when tehy pass Tax Reform an' take away teh individual mandate, I won't have to get no insurance, which is good, I guess, unlesss I need to go to teh emergancy room fer explosive diareeah liek I've done fer every month teh last few years. I'm jsut pointin' out how all teh President's policies have infected me this year, an' I guess I'm teh lucky one, accordin' to the liberal media, cuz I'm white an male an have ear hair. So far as I'm concerned, he shoulda eaten taht bag of dicks, but whaddya I know? I'm just a simple apple farmer wit a heart of gold.

I feel lieke I outta wish everyone a Merry Chirstmas cuz I won't be around to post on teh Pointless Venture. There's a secret special mission teh Goon's going on: I won't say nothin' else, but it evolves Mexico, cocaine, an' a load of fermented apples. Just remember, it ain't Christmas witout family, an' family can be anybody, an' sometimes yer family get deported because life ain't fair. Merry Christmas, ya'll, an' have a blessed year.

Thursday, November 23, 2017

Let's Bring Back Bulksgiving

It's back, bros. It's that time of year again, the time to start packing on mass like a Walmartian at Ponderosa. Forget your vegan thanksgiving and your gluten-free shit. Bring on the stuffing, bro. Let's get some turkey up in this house. Deep fry that baby if you want. Clean bulking is for natty bros with thirteen inch biceps and a penchant for internet philosophizing. Real men eat a lot. And by a lot, I mean as much as a small elephant.

Now is not the time to worry about your macros or your body fat percentage. It's the offseason, bro. We're going at this shit Lee Priest style, by which I mean we're gonna pack on mass till we're fat as fuck. Dieting is for summer time. That's when the shirts pop off and the babes go crazy. It ain't time for that shit; we're like a bear getting ready to hibernate, but instead of sleeping all winter, we're gonna eat our faces off and lift monstrous weights. Leave your exercise bands and your Fitbits at home with your panties. Real men lift heavy. Real men pack on John Goodman style mass.

Bulksgiving starts as soon as you sit down at that dinner table, and it doesn't end until you've eaten approximately five pounds of turkey, four pounds of stuffing, three pounds of mashed potatoes, two pounds of carrots, and ten pounds of pumpkin pie. Make sure to add enough whipped cream to choke a baby horse--don't skimp on that shit, it helps the pies go down. Give yourself a good hour or so break after feasting, and then start stuffing your literal pie-hole again. Remember, if you want to beat the man, you have to out-eat the man. We're all professional bodybuilders here, if you don't recall. The point in life is to get as swole as possible, and that ain't gonna happen by eating Aunt Petunia's special low-calorie garden salad. Vegetables are for rabbits and people with testosterone deficiencies. Don't let low-T happen to you! Sure, you might get post-bulksgiving diabetes, but that shit goes away after a while. No pain, no gainz.

Speaking of which, there ain't no such thing as lean gainz. Leave that intermittent fasting at the door with the postman; that shit don't belong in my house. If you want to look like a baby grizzly bear, you have to eat like one. Now that don't necessarily mean you have to eat a thousand moths and a gallon of honey with a couple of bees mixed in, but it probably wouldn't hurt. There's a real shortage of sacrifice in this country. Everybody wants to be big, but nobody wanna eat an entire turkey by themselves. Don't eat like a pilgrim, bro. Those guys were the original natty bros--the only things they loved more than Jesus were killing Indians and eating corn husks. They are not to be emulated. There wasn't a Dwayne Johnson or Marky-Mark among them.

So embrace Bulksgiving this year. Live large and prosper. Watch a Rambo movie and then attack that food with gusto. And don't forget the stuffing. Eat as much of you can of that stuff.

Monday, November 6, 2017

Life Is a Bag of Farts

Hey there. I'm back from weeks of meditation, and I've had an epiphany. Stop your endless quest for riches. Cease looking to the heavens for meaning. Don't go to church or find refuge in science. Life, my friend, is a bag of farts. It's time that you realize this.

What's the atmosphere composed of, friend? You might say nitrogen and oxygen, but keep in mind, methane make up less than a tenth of one percent of the atmosphere, which is something, right? Where does methane come from? Well, many places, but farts are one distributor. In fact, cow farts may be contributing to climate change. Think about that the next time you rip one. Your farts are killing the future.

Every time I turn on the news all I hear is the sound of a bag of farts bursting. What is President Trump if not a semi-sentient bag of flatulence? I'd like someone to prove to me that he's not a bag of farts. You want to talk about fake news, hell, I want to talk about the big bag of farts running the country and what we're going to do about it.

You ever have to unclog a sink or replace a toilet? What kind of smell comes wafting up out of the underground? Farts, that's what smell. We walk upon the buried history of our farts every day and never give that fact a second thought. We think that we can bottle up all of our gases, hide them in the subterranean, and pretend that they don't exist, that they are not the natural smell of us and our human doings. Keep a bunch of people in the same room for more than a couple hours, and tell me what you smell. We exude farts like sweat, tears, or blood. You want a prime description of the human condition? Being a human being is like being a bag of farts.

Accepting that you are a bag of farts is the key to nirvana. Suffer no more, friend, for thou cometh from farts, and back to farts thou shall return. Expunge the idea of a sentient being residing within the fleshy bag you call home. States of matter are variable, depending on temperature for their variance. Just because you don't presently look like a bag of farts doesn't mean you won't return to that state. Believe you me, I've seen plenty of folks who are in transition. You shall know them by the fart sounds they make while they walk.

Hopefully I've convinced you. The next time you pass gas, do not hold your nose. Accept that life, like a bag of farts, is transient. Eventually the bag becomes empty. 

Sunday, October 29, 2017

Who Will Stop Heel President?

Between belittling a Gold Star widow and trying to pass a tax plan that will destroy the economy, President Trump has more heel heat than anybody in America. Who will stop the orange menace? Here are some likely candidates:

The Shield. One of the greatest factions in WWE history has just recently reunited. Unfortunately, Roman Reigns is down with bacterial meningitis, so that leaves only Dean and Seth at the moment. Though they are undoubtedly skilled, there's no way that 2/3s of the Shield can defeat the Justice Department as well as Paul Ryan's queefs. Until Roman's back in action, they better wait to challenge Trump's Authority-backed government.

The New Day. Who better to challenge Jeff Session's racist Justice Department than a beloved trio of sassy black men? I tell you, I can't think of a better spectacle than the New Day performing a unicorn stampede on that little troll's face. However, Trump's threatened to bring back a cyborg Hulk Hogan if the New Day throw their unicorn hats into the arena. Cybog Hulk Hogan is like 3 times as racist as normal Hulk Hogan, and I'm not sure even the Power of Positivity can defeat that much racism.

AJ Styles. The new face that runs the place can hang in the ring with anyone. Look out, Pence, you're going to feel the pain of the Calf Crusher! Despite being a face, I'm not sure how motivated AJ would be to tackle the Trump administration, given that he might be a flat-earther, and those people aren't know for their reasoning abilities. Besides, you have to beat Jinder before you lock Agent Orange in a Styles-Clash.

Jon Cena. If there's anyone who can hang with a trash-talking President, then it's the true face of America, Jon Cena. During his long WWE career, the original face that runs the place has gone over nearly everybody without much challenge. Though he's in the twilight of his career, Big Jon can still bring it. He is on a break to film a movie, though, so maybe when he gets back we'll see Trump's spine shatter from the force of an AA.

Charlotte. Whoo! Ric Flair and Trump have a few things in common, namely a flair for tall tales and divorce. I see a feud in the mix! Maybe the Queen can turn heel (sort of?) and take out Ivanka, leading to a mixed match where the first family tap out to duel Figure-Eight Leglocks. Oh who are we kidding? Trump will probably make an allusion to menstruation and how it attracts bears as a reason not to get his ass kicked.

Stone Cold. Picture this: Vince reignites his battle of the billionaires feud with the President, citing Trump's treatment of Linda (who has just resigned her position as head of the Small Business Administration due to some scandal which probably has a basis in reality). Stone Cold agrees to be the referee. The winner has to resign their position (win-win!). Trump wins after paying off Shane to attack his father before the match starts. However, Stone Cold stuns Trump out of nowhere and accidentally paralyses the Commander in Chief, leading to the ascendancy of Mike Pence as President and the transformation of the United States into the Republic of Gilead. So... yeah, there's no easy way out of this, America. Not even wrestling can save us.