A Pale Horse Named Schick

3 Jan

Sometime around my 18th birthday I received a plain brown package in the mail. It was about the size of a VHS tape and had no return address. Turns out it was a gift of sorts, though it wasn’t from a relative or a friend. No, this was a present from the kindly folks at Gillette, who had sent a package containing a Mach 3 Turbo and a tiny bottle of shaving cream, as if to whisper from afar, “Shave that neck hair, you sloppy fuck. You’re a man now.”

The Mach 3 was notable because it had three blades crammed into its pivoting head, making it a destroyer of hair, a veritable neutron bomb compared to the Bic muskets of yesteryear. At least that’s what the packaging seemed to promise. On it, the Mach 3 beamed with the intensity of a solar flare, and a single tendril of blue light weaved its way out of the conflagration, off of the package, and into the heavens, presumably, where it dry humped the face of God. Shaving was no longer a rote exercise; it was a daily expedition. Like a monkey blasted into space, you could scarcely fathom the enormity of your undertaking.


BEHOLD, THE PINNACLE OF HUMAN ACHIEVEMENT. (Not pictured: weeping onlookers.)


If three blades seemed like overkill, and it fucking did, then a brave new world lay ahead. Supping up shaving kits was once comic fodder, but with the razor wars continuing apace, we find unleashed upon the world monstrosities such as the Schick Hydro 5, which I received in my Christmas stocking this year, much to my consternation. (Five blades? FIVE fucking blades???)

Edward Gibbon, an 18th century British historian, wrote: “History is indeed little more than the register of the crimes, follies and misfortunes of mankind.” The Hydro 5 is a footnote in that history — an overwrought, unwieldy footnote bedecked with blood. The “5 Ultra Glide Blades” lovingly shred your skin like a meat slicer going to town on a hunk of applewood smoked ham. The “Hydrating Gel Reservoir” secretes not soothing aloe but the concentrated venom of a million fire ants. Mid-shave, you tremble as you realize that this is it. It’s all over. One of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse will be bursting through your bathroom door at any moment.


As foretold by Nostradamus.


Recommended for: masochists, undiscerning yetis, apocalypse enthusiasts

Proof That the Internet is a Hilarious Clusterfuck

1 Feb

Search Terms That Directed People to This Site:

mary todd lincoln nude
people who eat scabs
colostomy haters
i want to eat my daddy to shreds
hamburger crotch
sexy larp
abe lincoln gets beaten up
old people eating cat food
best short haircut for woman with jowls
rich white people
useless liberal arts degree
ugly people that look like cum

Looking for support groups dedicated to old people addicted to cat food. It's not going well.










Search Terms That Directed People to “Let There Be Danger,” Which Used to Be Called “Neurotic Apes with Bad Haircuts” and “End of the World News” Before That:

asian girls being finger fuck on buses
how to cheer yourself up after a bad haircut
why did people stand on the mountains in utah thinking the world would end?
monologue character who is a little off-center neurotic and slightly vacuous
neck veins tv
dangers of greyhound buses

Now THAT'S some quality public transportation fingerbangin' action. Thanks, internet!

A Brief History of Schaumburg, Illinois

10 Oct

Alfonse Schaumburg, armed with only a wagon train, a mustache, and Prussian moxie, headed west in 1883 to seek his fortune. At the plot of land where Roselle and Schaumburg Road now intersect, he tugged the reins of his steeds and spat a mouthful of sauerkraut onto the prairie, declaring, “Someday Italians will swarm upon this place and sully it with tomato, bread, and cheese.” And it was so.

From humble beginnings, the town soon blossomed into a destination for entrepreneurs and adventurers. In 1892, Teddy Roosevelt set up mining operations and struck a large Jamba deposit, dancing a jig as the neon, sugary syrup rained down all around him. Capitalizing on his new venture, he shipped thousands of barrels of Spaniard blood back to the U.S. from Cuba in 1898 and created his patented drink “The Madrid Dandy,” a favorite of Mark Twain. Twain was later arrested in 1909, a year before his death, when he traveled to Catalonia and began biting everyone willy nilly.

In 1919, in the midst of the first Red Scare, city planners decided that “gathering places breed slander tongue” and proposed that the town adopt a policy of “sprawlification.” Created by Edmond Hammerkilt, sprawlification espoused a conviction that “legs are an outmoded vestige of the past…like those monkey tails we have at the business end of our spines.”

In 2003, a local businessman patented an American flag decal inset with yellow ribbons and then everyone died of diabetes and hypertension.

Chuck Norris Wrote Propaganda Songs

14 Aug

Chuck Norris is a wart on the dick of pop culture. First Conan had the Walker, Texas Ranger lever that unleashed bad acting and untold laughs with each pull. Then there were those jokes about him. You know, stuff like: “Chuck Norris walked into an Indian restaurant and skull fucked the chef until someone cooked him a steak.” Chuck Norris kitsch storm! Don’t mess with Texas! OMG, that’s what it says on the shirt you’re wearing!!!

But here’s the thing: Chuck Norris is kind of a dickbag in real life. And he looks like the dad who would drink too much at a block party, bust out an acoustic guitar,  and play out-of-tune Bob Seger songs before falling face down in the grill pit. Whoops! Someone’s mug is going to look like brisket in the morning!

Still ruggedly handsome.

Okay, full disclosure: When I was a kid, I owned a Chuck Norris action figure. Why? Because I was dumb. All kids are dumb. And when I saw Delta Force 2: The Bloodening in the ol’ Hulu queue, I just couldn’t resist the chance to relive my stupid, stupid childhood.

So here’s what some Hollywood dimwit barfed onto paper over two decades ago: A nefarious Colombian drug lord goes on a rampage, murdering villagers and government agents alike. But then God and the ghost of George Washington send Norris into the fray to deliver a hefty dose of badassery. And compassion. Because, you know, it’s not all mixed martial arts and body counts.

Anyway, the drug lord and his henchmen murder Norris’s best friend and there’s a reckoning. A dead reckoning. (GUITAR RIFF!) In the end, the kingpin is caught and his ponytail is chopped off, thus stripping him of his evil powers. Then Norris firebombs a gay dance club and America wins the war on drugs.

U! S! A! — U! S! A!

Also, this movie’s portrayal of America’s criminal justice system is HI-LARIOUS. Indicted for murder and a bevy of other charges? No problem! Some bleeding heart liberal judge will find a loophole so you can continue to walk the streets and murder more people! Well played, Delta Force. Well played. Maybe we ought to have the courts run by a cabal of guys who look like this instead?:

Jaywalking, eh? Bring me my machete and I’ll fix those legs for ya.

In sum, Delta Force 2: DEA Jungle Party provides all the elements expected from an 80s action flick: guns, mustaches, not so thinly veiled jingoism, and more guns. Yes indeed, it’s a failure platter served with a side of hate sauce.

Eat it.

I give it 0 Just Say No t-shirts out of 4.

Endnotes: “Winds of Change,” the song that plays during the credits, was written by Chuck Norris, Ronald Reagan, and the orangutan from that one Clint Eastwood movie. Helluva collaboration.

The Road or How to Make Your Life Look Awesome in Comparison

10 Aug

It’s easy to get bogged down in life’s day to day annoyances — the crummy job, flagging relationship, or raging case of hemorrhoids that turn every pair of your underwear into a Japanese flag. These things are enough to send anyone into a shit fit, right?

We’re gonna need a whoooooole lotta Tide.

Well then, hold on tight to your plasma screen TV, ya spoiled brat, because The Road tears asunder all that modern society holds dear. Not only are there no longer any motorized carts at the grocery store, there is no grocery store at all. There’s no industry. No agriculture. No animal husbandry. Poof! All gone! Smiles are practically extinct, too. And if people still bother to have sex with one another, it’s probably done ruefully, listlessly and with lots of apocalypse tears. Plus, dirt probably gets into all the crevices, and no one wants that.

We’re never told what exactly happened, but it looks as if the earth were punched in the face by the fist of God. It’s a world of fire and ash, a world without green. The landscape is a tableau of dead trees and deserted highways. All the animals are dead and any canned food left in the rubble has long since been scavenged, for the most part. Gone are the ethical parameters that rein in people’s baser instincts. Vegetarianism? Hoo-hah! A relic of a daintier time, my friend. Now, with an empty stomach and a buck knife, that button-nosed kid next to the burned out Chevy looks like a walking buffet.

Just add salt.

Viggo Mortensen, as The Man, looks like a scarecrow version of his Lord of the Rings character. He is haunted by the suicide of his wife. But, having been tasked with the responsibility of protecting his son, he pushes ahead with his rickety shopping cart, knowing only that he’d rather put one foot in front of the other than give up. “When I have nothing else, I try to dream the dreams of a child’s imaginings,” he intones. The Boy, played by Kodi Smit-McPhee, carries with him the kindness and purity of a child despite what he’s experienced. When they meet strangers on the road, he implores his father to be merciful and share their food, much to his father’s chagrin. Trust is a waning commodity, after all.

The Road is a tale of endurance, duty, and mutual commitment. The Man and The Boy stumble through endless blight armed with nothing but caged necessity, a revolver, and two bullets (later just one). They’re headed toward a coast that may or may not grant them a reprieve from the waking hell that is Post-Convenience Store America. And as they slog their way through cannibals, injuries, sickness, starvation, and an unrelenting pall of gloom, The Man still has to look in the mirror every once in a while and contend with…

Follicular face rape.

I give it 3.5 wails of despair out of 4.

Okay, now go hug all of your piddly modern conveniences. I won’t judge you. Go on.

The Brown EP by “Richardson” Richardson

4 Aug

Dekalb, Illinois is a college town ringed by cornfields. It’s located just far enough from the orbit of Chicago to ensure a measure of insularity (read: CABIN FUCKIN’ FEVER). The same houses host the same beer swilling parties night after night after night. Winter seems to last two months longer than it should. All the single girls in town used to date one of your friends. Manure wafts in on the breeze, Asian beetles descend like a Biblical plague, and carloads of frat boys scream “faggot” at you as they drive past, because, hey, that’s funny, right? Oh, and if you don’t own a car, you’re pretty much stuck in Fucktown, because the closest commuter train line is over fifteen miles away.

Is it Russian Roulette season yet?

But good times do exist beneath the fray, and Dekalb’s “Richardson” Richardson exemplify what happens when small town malaise and hard drinking collide with bass guitars, a drum machine, and a sense of humor.

Usually I don’t care much for bands that do the whole “hey, we‘re funny dudes” thing. For whatever reason, I instead fall in love with soul crushing songs about heartbreak or pissed off songs about how screwed up the world is.

A pictorial representation of my record collection.

But with The Brown EP, “Richardson” Richardson kick out some catchy, bass driven, let’s-do-this-shit-in-under-thirty-seconds jams. Highlights include “There Will Be Bronson” and “Mad Money.”

Their style is difficult to pin down. Sure, I’ve been using the umbrella term “punk,” but let’s step away from that label for a moment, shall we? Allow band member Tony to paint a picture for your ears (wait, what?):

“Have you ever been at a party where all the girls were unattractive and all the guys wanted to do was play beer pong in some nasty basement and listen to the Smiths? The Brown EP is the answer to all your problems.”

I have indeed been to the Basement of Despair he speaks of (haven’t we all?), and yes, “Richardson” Richardson is the sonic antithesis of that bore-filled party of barfy boringness.

As for their lyrics, here‘s a random sampling: “Bitch sunglasses / Can’t even see your face.”

Wait, did I say random sampling? Those are the lyrics of “Bitch Sunglasses” in their entirety. That’s the whole song. All of it.

And hey, I know I already mentioned it, but I wanted to bring it up again: These guys use a drum machine. How awesome is that? I mean, I know it’s just a little control panel and shit, but whenever I think of “drum machine” I automatically think of “Johnny 5,” because I’m “dimwitted” and the thought of a drumming robot makes me “smile.”

I snort motor oil off of a waffle iron’s ass before every show.

Final verdict: This EP is pretty good. Not mind blowing. But it does manage to break free from punk rock redundancy and sound unique. That alone is a feat. Plus, these guys put on a fun show. Their between song banter will probably hit you in the chuckle box. So get on it.

I give it 2.5 warm cans of Old Milwaukee out of 4.

Battlefield Earth

3 Aug

I know, I know. You’re asking yourself, Why would you do this? Why would you rent this atrocity? All I can say is, well, sometimes you know something is going to be really, really bad but you want to see it anyway. Sorta like in 12th grade when your PETA friend was all like, “Hey, check out this animal rights video,” and you were thinking, Man, this is gonna be rouuuuuuugh, but you said okay anyway, and now when you eat bacon you hear gargling blood-screams emanating from the death factory inside your soul.

Thanks a lot, asshole.

Okay, let’s get the pithy shit out of the way: yes, this movie is exactly as bad as you’d think.

With that said, let me tell you a tale. A tale pulled from the sweaty slab of ham L. Ron Hubbard called a brain.

Sooooooooo a bunch of CHUDS escape from New York City sewers, grow dreadlocks, and become alien overlords. Their human slaves get all Planet of the Apes, telling their captors, “These homespun leather pants are TOO TIGHT.” Meanwhile the director yells, “Travolta, you need to give more! More botched, effete British accent! More flamboyant hand gestures! More yellow-toothed, D-grade Fangoria grins! MOOOOOOOORE!!!”

Then the credits roll, I perform trepanation (as per the YouTube instructions I found), and pour hot candle wax into my frontal lobe through a crazy straw.

I can still taste the Lavender Jamboree.

Did I mention that this movie is obsessed with wipes? Holy christ, talk about obtrusive. These are the kind of wipes where the screen splits down the middle and pulls apart, as if the director were trying to employ a heavy-handed metaphor for cinematic birth. Instead the baby is stillborn and there are labor turds all over the place and everyone’s really, really sad and embarrassed.

Hey, I’m not going to lie. I liked it when the man-apes went nuts at the end and smashed a whole lotta glass (to say nothing of the MOTHERFUCKIN’ NUKE). But if I wanted unruliness, I’d just watch Over the Edge again and again and again. Post-apocalyptic man-apes don’t have skateboards. Early 80s SoCal kids do. Plus, they have better drug hook-ups than man-apes.

I pretty much just chew on the adrenal glands of my slain foes.

I give this movie 0.5 gnarled alien dreads out of 4.


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