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.

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Weightlifting: Training the Lower Body without Squats or Deadlifts

Due to the back injury I wrote about earlier (which seems to involve my sacroiliac joint), I've had to lay off of heavy squats and deadlifts for the time being. To prevent becoming the thing in the above picture, I've had to find alternative methods for training my legs. Since I train at home, the leg press isn't an option. Here's what I'm doing instead:

Split Squats

Also called Bulgarian split squats for some stupid reason (I believe a member of the Bulgarian weightlifting team was messing with people and attributed his success at the Olympic lifts to this exercise, which is ridiculous), this exercise can be quite challenging if you've never done unilateral training before. You'll find your dominant leg handles squatting easily, while your other leg will have a bit more trouble. I avoid loading my back by using a pair of dumbbell like the above picture. To compensate for the lack of heavy weights, I do higher reps, usually 4 sets of 10.

Lunges are a basic movement that everybody has probably done at some time or another. Shorter steps will increase tension on your quadriceps, while longer strides will stress your glutes more. Higher reps are recommended. Can be hard on your knees, though still easier than leg extensions.

Leg Curls

Leg curls stress the hamstrings, unlike leg extensions, which target the quads. I usually don't go over sixty pounds with these, at least at this point. 4 sets of 8-12 reps, like everything else.

Leg Extensions
Leg extensions get a bad rep because they put a lot of sheer force on the knee joint. For that reason, you shouldn't do them with heavy weights. I usually use about fifty pounds per leg, just aiming for a pump.

Calf Raises
Never really did these, and my calves are a paltry fifteen inches, so I decided to start working on them out of vanity, which is the best motivator. Doing these for 4 sets of 20, three times a week.

Other than these, I usually do some side leg raises for my hips. Hopefully, the above routine will help me retain muscle mass while I wait on my back to heal.  

Thursday, October 12, 2017

Your IBS Is Your Fault

Hey, you. Guy with three hot dogs in his mouth. I got a message for you. Your irritable bowel syndrome is your fault.

No one's making you cram two eggo waffles, a plate of chicken alfredo, and a bucket of animal crackers in your pie hole. Nobody forced you at gunpoint to sprinkle tabasco sauce all over the jalapeno scrambled eggs you ate for breakfast. That McDonald's value meal you just devoured? Pretty sure that wonderful amalgamation of soy fillers, trans fats, and carbonated soda didn't crawl down your gullet on its own accord. Naw, man. You put that stuff in you.

Cap 'n' crunch isn't made to be eaten three times a day. Diet coke was originally designed to clean coffee pots, not the lining of your stomach. That blockage in your intestinal tract was not put there by God. Just because you can eat a whole pizza doesn't mean that it's a good idea. In fact, if you've ever considered eating a whole pizza, I can assure you that good ideas come as frequently to your brain as the nightly cloud of dementia comes to the current President of the United States. Stop putting garbage into your mouth, dumb ass.

So you had a cleanse the other day. You drank spring water and ate nothing but graham crackers like some 19th century prude. You still don't know what a vegetable is, or how to cook anything other than refried beans, but your Medusa's nest of an intestine is feeling somewhat better. Your bowel movements are beginning to resemble the droppings of a large, herbivorous mammal rather than the shit-water of a man dying from dysentery. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking about how good a bowl of Skyline chili would taste right now, followed by two or three chili cheese coneys. Let me tell you a secret that only folks from the Natty know: Cincinnati chili is recycled hobo shit. You can't digest it--it's already been digested. It's impossible, like a unicorn or a skunk ape. Don't try it, you can't do it. You just can't.

I once lived like you did, if you could call what I led a life. I dined on cases of Miller High Life mixed with bathwater bleach and ammonium nitrate. I ate the carcass of a dead animal, no matter what condition it was in. Once, just for the hell of it, I chewed up all the plastic in my house. What the dog ate, I ate. The stomach pains I suffered through were the stuff of legend. Sometimes it took weeks for me to poop. Other times, it just took a second. Underwear was a scarce resource. You can't wash the unwashable. You just have to throw it in the trash.

So don't tell me about your IBS, bro. Pull those hot dogs out of your mouth and get a grip before you find yourself eating gravel and tree bark. If I did it, you can do it. You can do anything.

Sunday, October 1, 2017

Conan Brothers Q&A

RealAmeriKKKan asks "What do you guys think about all those loser football players kneeling during the national anthem? If they don't like it here, they can just get out!"

Dave: Been a while since we had a true moron ask a question.

Arnold: That's not true, Dave. Usually we just ignore them, but I feel that this one's query deserves an answer.

Dave: Let me ask all you hard-ass patriot motherfuckers something: What do you think black Americans owe this country?

Arnold: Oh my god, Dave, what are you saying?

Dave: I know it's impossible for a sociopath to put his or herself in another person's shoes, but all you Trump supporters out there, just try for a second. Imagine you're a black American. I know! The horror! Let's think about your history. Americans stole your ancestors from their country and enslaved them for two-hundred and fifty years. When they finally gained their freedom, they were treated as second class citizens that were often lynched, beaten, or unfairly imprisoned if they stepped out of their designated social arena. While things improved after the passage of the 1964 Civil Rights Act, racism and systematic discrimination continued, even though plenty of white people like to pretend that prejudice ended with Obama. "They got their black President, now I don't want to hear about racism!" these people screamed, even though the election of a black President resulted in a massive racist backlash that ultimately manifested itself in Trump. With a noted racist sitting at the head of the DOJ, and a police culture that continues to treat blacks like dead men walking, what do African-Americans owe this country? Honestly, jack shit.

Arnold: Well spoken, white man.

Dave: I find that patriotism is too often used as a shield against criticism.

Arnold: Yeah, I guess that sounds about right.


IntellectualHorseMan3000 asks "Do you assholes ever read anything besides muscle rags?"

Arnold: Cereal boxes. Craiglist ads for pool boys. Stuff on the internets.

Dave: Arnold thinks a book is something you use as a weapon or as toilet paper in a pinch.

Arnold: Actually, brother, I have just finished an excellent science fiction novel called Blindsight by Peter Watts. It's a first contact story set in a high tech future where baseline humans are redundant and vampires have been brought to life by the miracle of genetic engineering. The aliens are nicely alien, and the big twist of the novel has a certain Lovecraftian horror about it. The main theme of Blindsight is consciousness, and whether or not it is an advantage or a disadvantage to an intelligent species. I probably read it in a week.

Dave: So that's what you were doing in there all night. I figured you were twisting the bald headed moose or whatever.

Arnold: Well yeah, I was probably doing that too.

Dave: So do you think we qualify as conscious beings?

Arnold: You don't. Half the time you speak, I can tell it's the machinery underneath that's doing the talking.


GamerBait asks "So what have you losers been playing?"

Dave: Besides the skin flute?

Arnold: Enough with the masturbation euphemisms. Prey is really good, and a nice companion to Blindsight.

Dave: It's basically System Shock 3, although I've seen a lot of people comparing it to Bioshock which makes sense, I guess, since the Shock series has been defunct for a long time now.

Arnold: Talos, the space station in Prey, is probably the best fully-realized environment in gaming. It really feels like an actual place.

Dave: I feel like the horror angle is due more to the initial weakness of your character, rather than the alien design, though every time a Phantom walks by making those creepy sounds, I shit my pants.

Arnold: Yeah, and they're not even much of a challenge. I do agree, though, Prey is refreshingly difficult on normal, though not Dark Souls hard.

Dave: Nothing is Dark Souls hard. Not even the game of life itself.

Saturday, September 30, 2017

New Music: The Ringer

An old Theme Park Mistress song about a cereal killer/accordionist. Enjoy.

Friday, September 22, 2017

Taking Apart the Tenets of American Conservatism

Hey look, two assholes.

Good ol' fashioned conservative values are something we constantly hear Republican politicians harping about. If something is bad, then it surely doesn't adhere to the principles of conservatism, which were handed down from God to Ronald Regan at the summit of Mount Rushmore. Accepted as gospel truth by a good portion of the electorate (by good portion, I mean the handful of people who vote in this country), I thought I'd turn a critical eye toward sacred dogma, because it's 4:30 in the morning, and I'm pissed that I'm awake.

Principle # 1: A smaller government is always a better government. I don't think there's any truth to this, and it doesn't make sense if you give it more than a second of thought. America is the third most populous nation on earth; over 326 million people live here. That seems like a whole lot of people to govern! It seems reasonable that you'd need a considerable federal government to deal with a population of that size. Well, maybe they mean that the federal government is too powerful, and more power should be returned to the states. Crazily, it appears that our ancestors fought a long and bloody civil war over that very subject, and the consensus of that war was that federal power supersedes that of the states. In any case, a large state government is required because a lot of people live in the states. There are 39 million people in California, the largest state by population, and 585 thousand in Wyoming, the smallest. That's still a lot of people in Wyoming, though, isn't it? Still, they probably shouldn't get any electoral votes. They're responsible for Dick Cheney, after all. Remember that guy? He was like an evil George Costanza, and he was still better than any of the maliciously useless member of the Trump administration, which is looking more and more like a mentally-challenged version of the Legion of Doom.

Principle # 2: Free-market capitalism is the solution to every problem, ever. Sure, if you are the majority owner of a powerful corporation, then yes, less regulation will probably be good for your business. If you're a small entrepreneur, well, maybe not, because with less regulation, that powerful corporation we were just talking about could easily drive you out of business. If you're a wage slave like most of the population, then free-market capitalism probably isn't helping you out much. Corporate profits have soared over the last decade, while wage growth remains stagnant. You see brain-addled politicians like Rand Paul cling to this tenet like the hem of Marilyn Monroe's dress even in circumstances when it's blatantly obvious that capitalism is failing us, such as our health care system. "Obamacare is socialism! If we let it, the Market will find a way!" screams Paul, even though we allow hospitals to charge patients ridiculous prices which then get passed on to insurance companies, who in turn pass the expense back to the consumer. That's free-market capitalism at work, folks, and that's why your insurance premiums are sky-high and yet you still have to pay a fortune every time you visit the doctor. Really, every time Rand Paul opens his mouth I hope he'll just projectile vomit over anyone he's speaking to, since his words are basically repulsive nonsense at this point. Fuck you, Kentucky! You're also responsible for Mitch McConnell, a failed human-turtle hybrid so riddled with hypocrisy, it's a goddamn miracle he hasn't dropped dead from lying out of his asshole.

Hey, there's old Mitch. What a fucking bitch.

Principle # 3: Christian values are American values, and when we abandon them, we lose our souls. I don't really think Republicans believe this one; they're just pandering to evangelicals, which are a decent portion of their base. I mean, would the party of family values really nominate Donald Trump as their Presidential Candidate? Donald Trump thinks a family is something you evict and then sue until it goes away or dies. He's been married three times, and he had to buy his third wife in some Eastern European country, and it's fucking obvious that he's a shitty husband and she wants to kill him. Getting back to the subject, Christian values are all over the place. You've got denominations that think women shouldn't speak and that homosexuals are an abomination, and then you have Pope Francis, who thinks Trump is a dumb ass and that maybe the Catholic church should like, lighten up a bit or something, man. This country was founded on religious freedom, and the hallowed founders, who've been mythologized by conservatives to the point where they sit on the right hand of God himself next to Christ, insured that America was a secular nation with a clear definition between church and state. So the next time some so-called Christian starts moaning about whatever moral crisis we're apparently suffering through, tell them to shut their ignorant pie-hole and stop shitting all over the Constitution, which currently allows queers, unwed mothers, and atheists just as the founders intended (hah, yeah probably not, but fuck those guys, right?).

Principle # 4: Let the people have all of the gunz! The gun lobby is one of the most powerful in Washington, despite the fact that only 36 percent of Americans own guns. Republicans think that you should have a gun on you when you go to the movie theater, when you attend school, and when you're taking communion at church. Secretary of Education Betsy Devos thinks that we should have armed guards in public schools to shoot bears, for Jesus's sake. Guns are as American as apple pie, type two diabetes, and big, bouncing fake titties. What are the consequences of letting people have all the gunz without requiring any training or reasonable level of vetting? Why, gun violence levels that are 25 percent higher than the average of any other developed country. Every time there's a school shooting, you should call your Republican representative and thank them for not taking all the gunz away. Sure, little kids had to die, but isn't your AR-15 more important? Remember those Christian family values!

I'm part of teh gunz lobby.

Principle # 5: Our god-level military is the only thing keeping us safe in a dangerous world. The United States spends more on defense than the next eight countries combined. Yet Trump thinks our military is weak and wants to jack-up spending by 54 billion. This supports my theory that conservatives are fucking terrified of their own shadow. A lot of people will say "Well, we are a superpower, why shouldn't we spend a ridiculous amount on our military?" I dunno. Look around you, buddy: can you think of any other area where that money might be better spent? I dunno, maybe health care? Public infrastructure? Education? What are our priorities as a country? To be big, dumb, sick, and well-protected? Shit, I answered my own question.

So yeah, I think I'm done here. I'm about to fall asleep in my chair. Hopefully I don't dream of Ronald Regan.

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

Weightlifting: Training Around a Back Injury

I've had a sharp pain in my lower left back for some time now. It's not terrible, but it's fairly constant. Because I've always had a strong back, I think I've gotten careless and lifted too often with a round back. My injury seems to be lessening after doing a few things:

1) Cutting out problem exercises. One of my goals was to deadlift 600 lbs this year, but I've had to lay off heavy deadlifts for the time being. One armed deadlifts are a good temporary substitute because the weights handled are relatively light, and although the motor pattern is slightly different, it is similar enough that you're still getting deadlift practice, as well as improving your grip. I've also stopped low bar squatting--it was the worst exercise for my back pain. High bar squats and front squats can be done with a minimum of pain, so I've continued to squat.

2) Working the back directly. I've always gotten the majority of my lower body volume from squats and deadlifts, but I think that was a mistake. Good mornings hit the lower back directly, and after performing them for a couple weeks, they've become a necessary part of my training. I do good mornings with a heavy dumbbell for reps instead of a barbell, because the movement feels more comfortable with a dumbbell.

3) Remembering to tighten your torso before lifting. Before a squat, deadlift, or press, make sure to flex your abs and tighten your back. Doing so will prevent an injury due to bad form. This is common sense, yet I've certainly gotten into the habit of just getting under the bar and unracking it.

4) Foam roll. Lying on the floor with a foam roller under your spine can alleviate sore muscles and elicit a couple good back pops. A massage would probably be even better, but we take what we can get.

That's all I got.  

Friday, August 18, 2017

Meet the Deplorables, Eight Months in

Pointless Venture thought we would check back in with all of those humble souls who voted Donald Trump President of the United States. What do the deplorables have to say?

Bret Adkins, 27 years old, formerly employed at Borg Warner, favorite hobby was jerking it to big diesel engines.

Current Whereabouts: County jail after arrested for selling heroin.

Evaluation of Trump's Performance: "Big D's sure is fucking over a lot of those Washington homos, ain't he? Heard he rustled a few feathers for not criticizing white people when Black Lives Matter terrorists ran over a white girl in Charlotte. White people should have the ability to protest just like all those whiny minorities. Met a solid bro who was jailed for speaking German and cosplaying in a Stormtrooper uniform. When I get out, I might meet with his gang and burn some crosses and shit. Trump will protect our rights! Go big D!"

Candice Lawrence, 35 years old, professional house wife, favorite hobby was gradually letting herself go.

Current Whereabouts: Parents' house after husband left with secretary.

Evaluation of Trump's Performance: "I'm a little disappointed, to be honest. I thought Ivanka would have a bigger role in President Trump's White House, but her Jewish husband is hogging the spotlight with all his Russian meetings. Really think Ivanka could've done better--if she had to marry a Jew, then why not one that looked more like Paul Rudd than Jessie Eisenberg? Oh my, that's the wine talking. Please don't print that."

Anita Dooger, 40 years old, employed at In His Holy Fire church, favorite hobby was producing offspring.

Current Whereabouts: Walmart, loading up on toilet paper and paper plates.

Evaluation of Trump's Performance: "I think President Trump has done a wonderful, blessed job. God's wisdom has influenced his hand! Trannies are no longer allowed in the military, and Muslims better watch their backs! I have felt liberated to express my support in public for the crucifixion of homosexuals, which is a wonderful thing to share, let me tell you. President Trump will turn this nation back into a haven for Christian values!"

Bretfart1942, 22 years old, formerly employed at community college dining hall, favorite hobby was trolling for the lols.

Current Whereabouts: Mom's house, taking a break from the crushing pressure of two classes a semester.

Evaluation of Trump's Performance: "Honestly, I was hoping the whole system would just crash, and all the bitcoins I've mined would make me king of the wasteland, but things haven't quite proceeded as planned. The feminists are still working hard to undermine my masculinity, and President Trump hasn't done as much to rein them in as I would have hoped. Still, I've gotten plenty of lols from his presidency so far (have you watched a White House press conference? It's like a masterclass in internet doublespeak), and I only imagine they'll continue. Trump 2020! Pepe forever!"

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

The Diary of Mitch R. Singer

Somewhere over the rainbow, where skies are blue
Gangs of nazis drag people down the street, fat, fetid man-boys clad in sweat pants and army surplus camouflage. Spittle flies from their lips; when they speak, nothing comes out but haggard squeaks, mice-like squeals of discontent and fury. I sit around the table, nestled indoors, while my family sings for my thirty-second year. Thirty-two years seems too long--I feel as though I have crawled through sewers for eons and wandered dead woods for eternities--but I wear the sad face of acquiescence, smiling the toothy-smile for fate. One of the gangs has decided to beat a man in my front yard. Everyone keeps singing, even though his screams pierce through the thin glass and reverberate in these long halls. "Happy birthday to you," they say. Indeed. Happy birthday to me.

In the orchard, the smell of rotten apples in the air
One hand rises up while another comes down. Into the sack it goes, a fecund piece of fruit. After a while the weight of the picking bag hangs around your neck like a yoke. Around I go, a busy beast, my labors quiet and mechanized like the efficient piece of heavy equipment I have become. When the bag is full, it is emptied with great care, its contents as beautiful as any painting in a museum. I stare and become mesmerized by the red stripes, the splattering of color across pale, white flesh. Sometimes I can't help myself and eat as many as I can. Under my boots the failed droppings of the harvest melt into the earth, releasing an odor of vinegar that seems to linger for months, far after the memory of picking has faded. It is a pleasure being a tool, a senseless, yet useful, thing.

Outside my house, looking at the night stars
I come outside with a piece of birthday cake. It has white frosting and red and blue sprinkles. My neighbor has a huge American flag strung up on a pole in his yard. A night breeze rustles it, sending waves through the stars and stripes. I spot a hole in a white stripe the size of a bullet. There is shouting and chortling, and the gang that was out earlier walks down my street. There are about five of them, ugly boys, gangling or overweight. One of them sees me watching with my birthday cake and shouts something crude about my mother. It is strange; nights like these feel limitless, as though I could be any person if I only reached down into the depths of my history and pulled out a face to wear. A smile cracks my visage. The fork in my hands has ragged prongs, as though someone has taken the time to pull each of them into twisted metal teeth. "Happy birthday," I say as they stop and watch me approach. Happy birthday to each of us.

Saturday, August 5, 2017

Weightlifting: Hypertrophy Macrocycle Conclusion

I've been working with block periodization for four months now and have just concluded my hypertrophy macrocycle, during which I focused on multiple sets of eight reps with variations of the competition lifts. Working with lighter loads and higher reps has been more of a challenge than I predicted, but I'm confident that all this work will pay off in the coming months as I transition to a strength macrocycle and then finally to a peaking block. Let's go over how my training progressed, reviewing how I succeeded and what I could have done differently.

For my two squat days, I started off (as I did with all of my lifts) with 60 percent of my 1 rep max for 4 sets of 8. My first squat day was low bar squats, and my second was high bar. I probably should have started with front squats and high bar squats, which was the change I made after two months. The loads for the back squat variations are too similar, which made recovery difficult. I didn't do any assistance for my squat in the end, though I started off doing weighted step ups and pistol squats. I train in a basement, and I don't have access to a leg press or any other machines, so other than lunges or hack squats, my assistance options were limited, and honestly I didn't feel that I need them. 5 sets of 8 reps on the back squat pretty much drains me for the rest of the day. I went from doing 245 for 5 sets of 8 to doing 265 for 5 sets of 8 in the high bar squat--62 percent of my high bar max (390) to 68 percent. Looking at my record log, 275 is my 8 rep max in the high bar squat. Approaching your 8 rep max for 5 sets is good progression.

On deadlift day, I started with just 3 sets of 8 reps, using 295 lbs. Four months later, I was using 330 lbs for 4 sets of 8. So I went from 58 percent of my 1 rep max (510) to 65 percent. You can probably get away with using lower percentages with the deadlift because it is such a taxing lift. I plan on starting out with 70 percent in my strength block, just like everything else. We'll see how I progress. Had I more time and a less physical job, I would've added straight leg deadlifts as an assistance exercise.

The bench press had the most variation of all of my lifts. I cycled through incline benches, dumbbell presses, military presses, and paused bench presses. The close grip bench press was my only constant. I went from doing 185 lbs for 4 sets of 8 (70 percent of my best close grip, 260) to doing 4 sets of 8 with 210 lbs (80 percent). I felt like my bench form improved a lot and that I gain muscle in my pectorals from doing close grips. Looking at the percentage I ended up with, it's obvious that my max close grip bench press is greater than 260 lbs, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to do 4 sets of 8 with 80 percent. My best wide grip bench is 290, so hopefully that has went up.

I'm pretty content with my progression during my hypertrophy macrocycle. I added weight, volume, and improved my work capacity. Although my weight didn't seem to increase (hovering somewhere around 195, 196 lbs), my body composition changed for the better. The next three months will be devoted to a strength macrocycle, with the fourth month changing to a peaking block, after which I will start the whole thing again, provided I see some decent results. I'll post my strength program some time next week.

Monday, July 24, 2017

Detroit Rock Stars I'd Rather Have in Congress Besides Kid Rock

Yes, Kid Rock is your fat redneck uncle. He'd be great in the Senate, right?

Kid Rock is thinking of running for Senate. This is the world we live in now, a world where the writer of "Bawitdaba" can say he's considering a political career, and we all have to take it seriously, because Donald Trump is President, and there is no God. Here's a list of rock stars from Detroit that I'd prefer to Robert Richie.

 Don't eat the mic, Iggy.

1) Iggy Pop.

I have no idea what Mr. Pop's political affiliations are, but I have to imagine he's something of an idiot-anarchist. I can see it now--the Godfather of Punk enters the Senate chambers clad only in a pair of ripped jeans. He has a jar of peanut butter in one hand and some shards of broken glass in the other. He stares at Majority Leader Mitch McConnell and asks "What the fuck happened to that guy's chin?" Then he starts gyrating and smearing the peanut butter over his torso as he dances on broken glass.

Winners: Anarchists and gutter-punks who need a hip replacement and Uncle Sam's support.

Losers: Anyone expecting any sort of coherent position on any issue whatsoever.


2) Jack White.

Professional musician and professional weirdo Jack White has always been something of a prickly character. He looks like Tim Burton and Jonny Depp's love child, and he has a fondness for taxidermy and beating up other rockers. Like Kid Rock, he is also something of a musical chameleon, switching from garage rock to alt-country to juke-joint blues. Unlike the Kid, he can actually play the guitar, although his voice sometimes sounds like a goddamn cat in heat.

Winners: Indie rockers, dead-animal enthusiasts.

Losers: Lovers of bananas and haters of guacamole.

Looks like he's about to rob a convenience store for a Mountain Dew and a carton of Menthols.
3) Eminem.
I mean, if you're going to pick a white-trash dude from Detroit to serve in the upper chamber of Congress, why not Eminem instead of Kid Rock? He's a bigger star, better rapper, and far greater innovator than the guy who wrote a whole fucking song over Sweet Home Alabama and Werewolves of London like that was okay or some shit. I'm sure Marshall Mathers has some perspective on the opioid crisis and low-class living, and despite his many beefs and crises over the years, he always seemed pretty intelligent to me, at least compared to Kid Rock.

Winners: Dr. Dre, trailer-parks, your teenage self.

Losers: Insane Clown Posse, your mom, maybe your children's children.

Looking good, ghost of Sonny Bono.

4) Ghost of Sonny Bono.

Flesh and blood Sonny Bono was a member of Congress, serving in the House of Representatives. Now that he's dead, why not shoot for the Senate? Sure, he might not get anything done, being dead and all, but if you're going to elect a Republican, why not a dead Republican? That's a compromise that I can live with.

Winners: The American People.

Losers: Kid Rock fans.

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Shit Paul Ryan Has Been Dreaming of Since Drinking out of Kegs in College

Never forget.

Paul Ryan has been dreaming of cutting Medicaid since he was "drinking out of kegs in college." Here's some other shit the third man in line for the Presidency has been dreaming about since he was enjoying a college education paid in part by a federal aid program (Oh the hypocrisy!).

Mr. Speaker has been dreaming of a threesome with Ayn Rand, Ronald Regan, and Barry Goldwater since that one time he got really drunk in college and almost fucked a trash can.

Paul Ryan has been dreaming of internment camps for poor people since he read Atlas Shrugged and concluded that the world is divided into makers, takers, and candlestick bakers.

One of the leaders of the Republican Party has been dreaming of a lithe black man clad only in a pink thong named Shamoose every third Wednesday of the month for three years and is considering visiting a witch doctor to figure out what the fuck is up.

Mr. Ryan sometimes dreams of a 200 lbs bench press but he knows he will never possess the strength of a fourteen year-old boy, let alone a strapping sixteen year-old.

Sometimes, late at night, Paul Ryan dreams that he cannot hear all the suffering he has wrought. On nights like these, only a drink concocted with copies of the Fountainhead and the Holy Bible blended together with animal fat and virgin's blood can ease his troubled mind. Afterwards, he sleeps like a baby, though he'll awake early in the morning to vomit out a cud of half-digested paper.

Paul Ryan dreams of a version of Harry Potter where Voldemort wins, and all of Hogwarts is put to work building a magical version of Auschwitz that is powered on centaur blood.

Paul Ryan dreams of sleeping an entire night without letting out any bed farts.

Paul Ryan dreams of sitting on Donald Trump's face until he suffocates. This dream is usually followed by another where the President takes a huge crap on the Speaker's chest and then makes him eat it.

Paul Ryan will occasionally have a dream where he is a Batman villain. He always starts the dream as either the Joker or Bane, but by the end, he's turned into Calendar Man or the Mad-Hatter, and Batman always beats the shit out of him, quite literally.

Paul Ryan dreams that someday, he will be a real boy, but then he remember that he has no soul and Pinocchio was just a fable.

Monday, July 3, 2017

Theme Park Mistress: Vintage Park Mistress

A mean, lean collection of vintage songs from Theme Park Mistress. Marinated in cheap guitar pyrotechnics and cases of Miller High Life. Shake but do not disturb. Play loud on a broken stereo with all the lights off. You're welcome.

Writer's Block: The Key to Happiness

The key to happiness

is to not be a philosopher.

Philosophers dwell in

Dead dark depths

of infinite despair

Where time is but a way

to measure motion

in the vast meaninglessness

of space.

If happiness is key

then think of nothing.

Do not see the strings

which pull you to and fro.

Live in ignorant bliss.

Amor fati.

If God is omniscient and omnipotent

then time is a joke

Had at our expense.

I hope he had a good laugh.

I fail to see the humor

In playing a puppet's part.

Friday, June 23, 2017

Writer's Block: Villains

We are villains, all of us

Shuffling around our lairs

Loading the gun again and again

Spinning the cylinder like a child's toy

We aim it any direction

We shoot when we feel like it

If anyone dies, we shrug our shoulders

And spin the cylinder again.

Violence is all we know

A practiced indifference to pain

To its sources and its purpose

A body is something we kick from the streets

A corpse is a piece of meat

Everyone is doomed, after all

We cannot imagine anything better.

Fear is the cloud that hangs from our skies

If we shoot at it, we can keep it away

I am scared as you are scared

We will always be scared

That's why we will all die.

Monday, June 19, 2017

Why Are So Many Babies Full of Snark?

I've noticed a troubling trend. Babies are all full of snark now. It didn't used to be like this. Used to be you could look at a baby and not be worried about what that baby was thinking about you. Those halcyon days are gone, buddy. Welcome to planet Earth.

Babies have had it with your stupid baby talk. They don't like peekaboo; that's so 1960. If a baby is going to wear a onesie, it's going to say something sardonic. "I had boobs for breakfast." "I own you." "Future smartass: just like my daddy." I've seen these statements on baby clothes. There are far worse, but we won't talk about those babies. We might as well reserve a place in federal prison for them. I'm talking about the babies we can still save. I'm talking about the babies that are just following a trend.

Let's face it, babies can't spend money until they're like two or three. So we have to blame the parents somewhat for all the snark. They are the ones buying the snarky clothes. They are the ones putting the 'tude in attitude. I understand, parents, that it can be scary to have a baby. It's a life changing, disruptive event. All of a sudden you have to worry about paint chips and rocky mountain fever and stray tacks. You might want to react and let everyone know that you're not one of those parents, those fools growing fat and slow-witting as they degenerate into middle aged. Your baby is going to share the same cynical view of the world you've had since you turned 13. So you start him or her off early with a snappy t-shirt. Pretty soon baby's entire wardrobe is composed of teenage, shit-head angst. It's like you're trying to raise the next Bevis or Butthead. Who are you helping here, mom and dad? Bevis and Butthead died twenty years ago. The world doesn't need anymore Bevis and Butthead.

Let's go back to dressing babies in sailor outfits or dinosaur suits. Let's save the 'tude for later times, when you have to worry about whether or not your teenage is listening to murdercore/deathhop/grindsaw music. Let them decide to wear snarky clothes. Then there will be plenty of snark remaining for the future cyberpunk-dystopia we seem to be aiming for. Maybe then your grown-ass baby will think twice before buying a Female Body Inspector t-shirt.

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Batman and Robin at Dinner

Robin sits down to dinner. The table is huge, and it spans most of the similarly-gigantic room, which is full of suits of armor and gargoyles and other gothic crap that Batman collects. On all four walls enormous televisions blare Fox News. The monstrous visage of Sean Hannity looms above Batman, who glowers fifty feet away. Steak again, thinks Robin, as he watches Batman skewer a piece of rare meat and chew it loudly with his mouth open.

"You're late," says Batman. Robin wonders how Alfred has never said anything about Batman's ridiculously audible mastication.

"I was out," said Robin, picking at the side of beef on his plate. You could feed a lion this steak and it wouldn't be hungry for a week, he thinks.

"You were at one of those goddamn rallies again, weren't you?" says Batman, his voice rising.

"Yes," admits Robin. He doesn't want to have it out again, but he can tell from the empty bottle of Chardonnay that Batman has been drinking, and so a row is inevitable.

"See if Gotham University gets any of my money next year," he says, stuffing a huge chunk of steak into his mouth. "It's become a goddamn liberal haven for commie pinkos and theater majors." Batman does a little gesture with his arms when he says theater majors that Robin interprets as a homosexual stereotype.

"You don't think there's anything wrong with the direction our country is heading?" asks Robin tentatively.

"There's nothing wrong with the United States of America. Name one thing. One goddamn thing," says Batman, spitting some meat on the table.

"The President, for one," says Robin, almost under his breath.

"He was elected by the American people!" screams Batman, pounding his fist on the table.

"He lost the popular vote.." begins Robin.

"If all the goddamn Mexicans hadn't illegally voted, then it wouldn't have been close!" says Batman, throwing the empty bottle of wine across the room. It shatters against a gargoyle statue, breaking off a tip of the wing. "Fuck!" screams Batman. "Alfred! Get in here and sweep this shit up!"

"Congress is about to take healthcare away from 23 million people," says Robin, still level-headed.

"Welfare queens and lazy fuckers who don't want to work!"

"I don't even know how to respond to that," says Robin. "You're a billionaire. An heir to a fortune. You were set for life the second you were born."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" screams Batman, jumping up on the table. He whips out a batarang and hurls it at a suit of armor, causing it to tumble apart. "You think I've had it easy? My parents were murdered in front of my goddamn eyes."

"You really need to see somebody about that," says Robin. "Like a psychiatrist."

"Shrinks are for lesbians and fat kids who masturbate to pterodactyl porn!" babbles Batman. He jumps down from the table and tries to flip it, but it's just too long and heavy.

"I think I'm going to go upstairs," says Robin, getting up from his seat.

"Don't you dare, don't you goddamn dare! Alfred hasn't even brought the fourth course. Where the hell is that old man? Jesus, I need to get myself a Spanish maid."

"Maybe if you offered him a better health plan he'd get that hip fixed," suggests Robin, already leaving the room.

"It's not my responsibility!" yells Batman, who has succeeded in breaking off a piece of the table. He throws it at Robin, but he has vanished, and the projectile bounces harmlessly off the open door. Batman then falls down on the floor in a drunken stupor, where he will remain till morning. Alfred will clean up the mess, as he does every night. He thinks of moving in with his brother in Metropolis, but he doesn't know what Batman will do without him, and he doesn't want that on his conscience.

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Republican Excuses for the Coming Nuclear Armageddon

Unable to weather the increasing calls for his impeachment for being involved in an Illuminati/Reptilian/Moonpeople ponzi scheme, President Trump decides that he is a Big Man with a Big Gun, and that gun is nuclear. As a multitude of mushroom clouds blossom over the world's horizon, the GOP's bigwigs step up to the plate to cover for their President. After all, who is going to cut taxes for the Rat King or deprive the wasteland's mutants of affordable health care?

House Speaker Paul Ryan: "You have to remember, the President is new at this. He's new at being President. I think we should all give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps total nuclear annihilation is the right direction for America. I think we should all trust the President."

Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell: "The President was elected by the American people, and no matter how many lives are lost in the coming months from radioactive fallout, I think we have to keep that in mind."

Senator John McCain: "This President is a fucking... (unintelligible).. must support Party at all costs... dignity, I left you in a Vietnamese prison camp... Goddamn it, we must support the President. Nothing, I mean, nothing else matters."

Congressman Devin Nunes: "The alleged reports of nuclear sunrises are not corroborated by Fox News, so we must assume that they are pure liberal dishonesty. Trust the Whitehouse, not your eyeballs. Anyone who says otherwise is a partisan hack."

Congressman Lamar Smith: "Americans should get their news directly from the President. If the President himself or a Whitehouse surrogate hasn't told you something in person, then don't believe it."

Senator Lindsey Graham: "Well, I can't say that I support the President's decision to turn the country into a radioactive hellscape, but how are we going to tackle tax reform without the cooperation of President Trump? People forget that there's an agenda we have to push here."

Senator Susan Collins: "Nuclear warfare is absolute unacceptable. This President is not making decisions that are good for the American people. Am I going to do anything about it? That's not a fair question. No comment."

Congressman Jason Chaffetz: "(Fart noise)... (rolling belch)... cannot forget about Hillary's emails... (wet, sloppy fart). Let me ask you something: Where was Obama during all of this? I don't think we can let him off the hook. It is possible that he left the Oval Office in such a condition that the President was forced to nuke America. There will be a congressional investigation, I promise you. They won't get away with this."

Senator Rand Paul: "I think we have to blame poor people, particularly people of color, for the President's decision. If they weren't so poor and so prone to getting themselves thrown in jail, then maybe the President wouldn't have been forced to push the nuclear button. Doesn't that make any sense to anybody? I know it does to me."

Wednesday, June 7, 2017

Beware the Rat People

Watch out, people. There's a new danger lurking in our streets. Forget about the opioid epidemic. Washington sure has. Bigfoot isn't real, and neither are voodoo economics. But the rat people are. Christ almighty, they are.

There are a lot of stories floating around about the origins of this humanoid-rodent hybrid race. Some say they are a product of government research. Others claim that they come from beyond the stars. I heard an old lady at Walmart ranting about how the rat people rose up out of the earth, bringing with them their rat-dogs and their rat-rats. She was obviously high and probably suffering from years of mental and physical neglect, but I think her hypothesis is worth considering. After all, there are a lot of weird things in the earth.

I went to school with a rat/human hybrid. He was of a generally gregarious disposition, which compensated somewhat for his off-putting appearance. He wasn't terribly intelligent, but that's no mark against him, not in this world. Really, the biggest thing wrong with him was that he was an ardent supporter of the Kentucky Wildcats, despite being from Indiana. That's like being a fucking Yankees fan in Boston. Some sins are forgivable. Others are not.

The rat people are no longer content to lurk in the shadows, however. They have been emboldened by the sea change. A zeitgeist has come to shake our very foundations. There are allegations that the President of the United States himself may be of the rat-human race. Maybe that's the dirt that Russia has on him. I don't know. All I know for sure is that my eyes do not lie. The sons of the father cannot hide their heritage behind executive privilege and ancient malaise. Search your heart. Do these look like human faces?

Congratulations, you killed a leopard, you pieces of shit.

We must not let the proliferation of the rat people continue. Please stop supporting the rat people at the ballot box. Call your congressman, even if he/she is a rat person, and voice your displeasure at the power the rat people have amassed. Let us place them back in the shadows where they belong. There certainly is no place in my America for them.

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

What is the Best Kind of Monkey?

There's a question that has befuddled your brain for quite some time. You try to sleep, but you just can't stop thinking about it. You can't get anything done at work. Your wife complains about your thousand yard stare. You're forgetting the names of your children, Peter and what's-her-name. Well, it's high time that you found an answer to that question. What is the best kind of monkey? Surely there is a definitive answer.

I mean, we have our basic types of monkey. Big monkeys with long arms and sloping heads. Little monkeys with long tails and round faces. Scary monkeys with sharp teeth and red asses. Then there are the monkeys that speak sign language. Don't forget the monkeys that smell like rotten eggs and baby farts. I don't want to get too scientific here. Those are the basic types of monkeys as I understand it, in layman's terms. We won't get into the mythical monkeys like sasquatches and king kongs. There is no place for them in our discussion, unless we hear something new on the internet, in which case we'll have to reevaluate our argument.

Pros and cons of various types of monkey:

Big monkeys with long arms and sloping heads--There's a lot of hearsay about this kind of monkey. Some says that they don't have what it takes to hang with the big dogs. Others claim that they're too dumb to be the best type of monkey. Supposedly they hide all of their bananas in garbage bags, which is really stupid because everybody knows that bananas spoil quickly when encased in black plastic. Personally, I don't like the looks of them. They are probably the strongest kind of monkey, though, so that's a point in their favor.

Little monkeys with long tails and round faces--These are the type of monkeys that throw poop at you at the zoo. Some would say that's a point against them, but I think it shows personality, which is always prized in an animal. Their tails are prehensile, and they use them to grab beers. You can't have this kind of monkey with a dog, though, for they are mortal enemies. That's a deal breaker for me.

Scary monkeys with sharp teeth and red asses--For all the horror fans out there, these are the scariest monkeys in the world. They will mess you up and use your skull for a cup like Doctor Doom. Their asses are probably the scariest part of them, because you never know if a little head or another monkey might pop out. I like scary movies as much as the next guy, but these guys are too much.

Monkeys that speak sign language--I can't abide a monkey that speaks with its hands. Call me old fashioned, call me what you will. It ain't right. I guess some people like this kind of monkey. Those people are wrong.

Monkeys that smell like rotten eggs and baby farts--You are not supposed to keep this monkey in your house because it will tear up all of your shit and drink your coffee. They are really funny, however. They can also open doors and smoke cigarettes. Mixed on this one.

And the best type of monkey is...

Goddamn it. It's a trick question. Every type of monkey is the worst type of monkey.