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I Hate Glee. What Are You Going to Do About It?

By Roode–

If you’re a regular or semi-regular reader of mine, you’ll know that I have a profound dislike for most everything.  Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of things I like.

OK, so this pretty much encompasses all my “likes.”

Perhaps, television is both my favourite and most hated of life’s little staples.  It’s a harsh mistress; dressing up for you all pretty like one moment, then pissing all over you the next.  God knows I hate television networks.  These wonder-tards are responsible for some of the worst decisions in entertainment history.  Fuck it.  I’m talking about FOX.  FOX has been anally raping its viewership since the dawn of Married:  With Children. Let’s check the score:

  1.  Arrested DevelopmentCANCELLED
  2. Terminator- The Sarah Connor ChroniclesCANCELLED
  3. Lie to MeCANCELLED
  4. FuturamaCANCELLED
  5. Family GuyCANCELLED
  6. DollhouseCANCELLED
  7. FireflyCANCELLED

Then, there are the shows that FOX execs gave a collective, “fuck it” and greenlit baffling shit like:

  1.  Who’s Your Daddy:  Fatherless child + paternity tests + slut mother + a group of guys who couldn’t keep it in their pants + TV audience + cash reward = eventual suicide
  2. Married by America:  The viewing audience could now get involved with helping young couples fuck up their futures
  3. The Littlest  Groom:  He’s a midget!  Get it?  [It actually pained me to type “littlest”]
  4. Babes:  Fat chicks.  That’s it.  There’s nothing else.
  5. House of BugginJohn Leguizamo’s latest tragically unfunny attempt at replacing “In Living Color

Even more ball-smashingly painful are the shows FOX, not only keeps on the air, but seem to have an L. Ron Hubbard type following.  Again, let’s go to the board:

  1. American Idol:  Definition of beating a dead horse and making it sing.
  2. X Factor:  What they’re calling “American Idol,” but with Simon Cowell and Pepsi.
  3. House:  Look, he’s a cranky ass, drug addicted, pompous, douchebag doctor.  We get it.
  4. Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader:  Short answer:  No
  5. Glee:  Fucking Glee

Although I can shake my fist and send human waste to FOX for the first two lists, there is no one to blame but the American people for the last.  What the fuck is wrong with society?  “But, Roode,” some of you are no doubt saying to your monitors like I give two shits, “if you don’t like these shows, don’t watch them.”  If you’re one of the people who just said that, punch yourself in the kidneys as hard as you can.  I’ll wait.

Or, have Batman do it.

The excruciatingly painful root canal of a problem is that these entertainment equivalents to eyeball AIDS don’t just stay on TV.  They’re everywhere.  They spill over into every other aspect of life:  water cooler chat, trite morning show coverage, bullshit marketing shenanigans, and a host of other methods designed to shove this camel piss down your throat.  For fuck’s sake, you half expect the doctor to give you a rectal exam with an official “GLEE” probe.

“Collect them all!”

Glee. Fucking Glee.  Outside of “reality” shows, Glee has to be the prickliest cactus that has ever been shoved up my ass [figuratively, sickos].  It combines all the things I hate in life:  singing, high school drama bullshit, singing about high school drama bullshit, hair styles from the 80’s, poser-hipster-geekdom, a Barbara Streisand wannabe, and all the douchebaggery contained therein.

And this goofy fuckstick.

Impossibly aggravating twirling paraplegic aside, I’m completely baffled as to how in the fuck this show became the runaway success it is.  I guess it has all the ingredients of an asinine network TV show popular with the toothless public:

Unrealistically pretty high school “teenagers” + mismatched couples + painfully dubbed singing + forced and contrived gay character(s)



Alright, maybe most of that is superficial for a list of reasons why I hate this show more than a punch to the yam bag.  But, it’s a goddamn TV show.  What else do I need?  It’s television cancer!  The background music, itself, is enough to drive one into a murderous rage.

I tried to watch the show once [read:  woke up on the couch while wife was watching it].  I timed myself.  It was exactly one minute until I was filled with homicidal rage.  It’s like fingers on a chalkboard.  It’s not any ONE thing.  It’s EVERYTHING.  Individually, I’m pretty sure I could stomach each vomit inducing annoyance for an hour-long show.  I hate singing in a television show, but I managed to put up with episodes of The Simpsons that shoe-horned musical sketches into the show.  High school drama on TV makes me want to set fire to an orphanage, but I was able to sit through Veronica Mars.

Kristen Bell might have had something to do with that, though.

But, all those little annoyances in concert is like being hit with a bag of oranges.  It’s a constant left-hook, right-hook combination.  It’s one of the few situations when running headlong into a wall is the better of two evils.  Take the hits too long and you’ll end up like Sylvester Stallone in Rocky V.  No, not the Rocky character.  I really mean Sylvester Stallone.

Poor bastard couldn’t tie his own shoes with help from Mr. T.

Glee has become oh so fashionable!  Why, everyone who’s ANYONE wants to have their songs shit on, ham-fisted into a “plot” then have the very essence changed to discuss the problems of kids in wheelchairs not being able to get enough blond poontang.

Look, I just really fucking hate this kid.

Ah, that’s what FOX wants you to think.  Every now and then an artist is able to withstand the evil and money to protect his work from being shat out the prime time sphincter.  Who?  Who dared defy the FOX gods and deny them their power and inefficient hybrids?


Back in March of 2011, Dave declined to give the rights to his song, “Everlong.”  [Read:  Go fuck yourselves]  Grohl feels that musicians shouldn’t feel pressured to bow down to Glee’s awesomeness and beg to give them any song out of their catalogue the studio wants.  Check this:

“It’s every band’s right, you shouldn’t have to do fucking Glee,” Grohl, 42, told The Hollywood Reporter. “Dude, maybe not everyone loves Glee. Me included. I watched 10 minutes and it wasn’t my thing. “

Translation:  Fuck you, Ryan Murphy, creator of Glee.  Your shit absolutely DOES stink.  Not only that, but we can see what you ate for lunch.

“Someone’s not eating enough roughage.”

But, I suppose Dave Grohl’s story isn’t indicative of the norm.  Well, that would be true if Slash and Kings of Leon didn’t do the same damn thing and FLAT OUT REFUSED to let their music be a part of that bile gargling sing-com.  I can only hope this becomes some sort of movement within the music industry that has musicians actually KNOW what their songs are being used for when they accept a fat check. Just say NO, Alice in Chains.  JUST SAY NO!

Do these fuckers look like they WANT to have “Check My Brain” or “Man in a Box” used to sell toilet scrubbers, let alone be butchered on Glee? Layne Staley would come back from the grave and kick EVERYONE’S ass!

The ONLY redeemable decision this holocaust of a show ever made was just chance.  Heather Morris was hired, originally, to work out the coreography for the mind numbing dance scenes.  She worked with Beyoncé and knew a thing or two about choreography.  It was her job to teach the cast of mouth breathers how to dance well enough for prime time television.  I guess she did pretty well, because they ended up hiring her to play Brittany Pierce in a recurring role. In the second season she was made a full cast member.  I wish I understood why.


Oh, yeah.  I see why.  Excellent job!



Rock Meets Window. My Foot Meets Ass

By, Tresckow-

For decades, hell, for centuries adults have uttered the same phrase over and over again.  For the Greeks it was Εκείνοι δεκάρα παιδιά κάθαρμα! For the Vikings it went a little like Þeir sem fjandinn börn fantur! The Germans, the planet’s nation of Hallmark card poets gutturally spitting out their words use the phrase  Jene verdammten Bastardkinder! We English speakers just say:  Those damn bastard kids!

I hated it when “old” people told me to do shit.  “Don’t run.”  “Don’t play in the street.”  “Don’t smash a land line telephone junction box.”  And my favorite, “Don’t gouge obscene messages on someone’s car,” even though you assumed it was a gesture of trust and understanding.

A lesson the Mooninites did not learn, much to Carl’s dismay.

But, then I grew older.  I’ve matured.  More or less.  OK, I still think it’s hilarious when I shove someone’s [read:  Ren] camera into a mini bar fridge and lock it.  I still giggle like a 5-year-old when I watch Adult Swim.  And, as you read this, my latest mission in life is to see a movie about a supernatural, mass murdering tire.

A complete and utter conspiracy that this  movie wasn’t even nominated for that piece of shit farce that is the Academy Awards.  It’s because Robert the Tire is black, isn’t it?  Fucking racists.

One of the reasons Robert went on his bloody, head exploding rampage.

But, I am fully aware that in the eyes of the US federal government that I’m an adult.  I’ve got a mortgage, car payment, gym membership, and all that good shit grown ups have to shell out money for in order to sit comfortably with society.  Hell, even if you wanted to start your own militia in the middle of Montana somewhere you would still have to cover your initial expenses.  You work hard to set up a state-of-the-art security fence with sensor flood lights and barbwire.  That bunker isn’t going to dig itself.  Next thing you know, some jackass is going to charge you $50 a gallon to haul all the necessary armor and collapsible guard towers to your Bartertown that will surely be a feature story on CNN one day (if you play it right).

Look, Master Blasters arent cheap.

Apartment or estate, condo or compound in the middle of Idaho; there is one common denominator.  Everyone is protective over what they have.  Stuff breaks.  Sometimes it’s shit that can wait a few years until it REALLY has to be fixed or replaced (screen doors, toilet seats, starter motor).  Other times it’s shit that needs to be repaired ASAP.  We’ve worked hard on our hovels and already have two strikes against us.  With all the snow storms, heat waves, floods, and Yeti attacks, the last thing any of us needs is to have some snot nosed little bastard breaking our shit, because he’s bored.

Bored? I will personally drive your ass to the Virginia Military Institute for four years of hilarity.

One fine morning in the Tresckow home (read:  way too fucking early) I was woken up out of my normal drunken stupor after a night of mixing whiskey and vanilla extract. Apparently, our kitchen window was broken.  OK.  Fine.  I’ll do something Roode never does and take a deep breath.  I won’t jump to the worst conclusion.  There was one hell of a windstorm the night before.  Shit was flying everywhere.

Something like this, only not as subtle.

It was completely reasonable that the wind from hell slammed something into our window just so Mother Nature could have a good laugh.  Suck a dick, Mother Nature.  I had hope that was the case and I wouldn’t have to start hating so early in the morning.  I mean, if I start hating before 10 AM I get burned out by 3.  It throws me off kilter.  But, I should have known better.

It was, definitely, a Captain Picard facepalm moment.

I went outside to find the branch or squirrel, or whatever that the wind sent smashing into our window.  My plan was to set it on fire and damn it to hell.  Sifting around through the rubble of broken glass and morning sleep, I saw it there.  Staring at me.  Mocking me.  It was a big ass rock.  Not just any rock.  It was a throw’in rock.

Let me clue you in on some of the mouth-breathing fucktarded children that roam around the neighborhood.  They do not deserve to exist.  They walk in the middle of the street, laugh at on-coming cars (surely 2 tons of SUV can’t hurt them), and break shit when they’re bored.  You know those big boxes Verizon uses to carry land phone lines and the internet?  Those shit grinning dicks demolish them on a weekly basis.  Writing racial epithets on the side of someone’s house?  We’ve got that too.  Throwing rocks through car windows?  We fucking have that!  In fact, the first week we moved into this little paradise, one of those snot flinging dipshits broke the rear window of our truck.  And, before you smartasses say something about my winning personality being a magnet for rocks, keep in mind that we were in the house for less than THREE DAYS when this happened.  Trust me, three days isn’t enough time for the Inner Tresckow to shine. Mother f’in Theresa could have just moved in.  Those shit stains didn’t know either way.


I know what you’re thinking.  No, I don’t live in downtown Beirut or somewhere along the Gaza Strip.  It’s your average neighborhood filled with a mixture of hard-working people, retirees, assclowns, and bored groups of free-range children.  These ape shits wander around the neighborhood like it’s their job.  Their parents don’t seem to give a shit.  Ma and Pa are nowhere to be found when little Jimmy is taking a nap in the middle of the street or when Leroy is playing a rousing game of “dump the trash cans.”  Nice parental guidance, cornholes.  Prepare for the day when the only time you get to talk to your delinquent is through a sheet of plexiglass while he’s sporting an orange jumper.

So proud.

The rock still sit there.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe as a reminder that the next generation is full of assholes.  Maybe I’ll use it as a weapon.  It’s quite possible that I’m too lazy to pick it up.  If I knew how Voo Doo worked, I’d stick it with pins or something on the off-chance the jackass who threw it end up in blinding, mind crippling pain.

It’s not just the damage to the window that put chocolate pudding in my trousers.  It’s the fact that I had to call all God’s creation to report it.  I’m not paying for this shit.  You have to call your homeowner’s association, insurance company, the police…   Oh, yeah.  The police.  Maybe, if they applied themselves and really worked hard, they could give even less of a shit.  Here’s a hint that the police have no interest in your little vandalism problem:  they take your report over the phone.  You don’t know what the hell is really happening on the other end.  For all I know, the desk jockey was washing his taint while occasionally saying, “Uh-huh.”

“Sir, can you tell me at approximately what point in time you thought we’d give a shit?”

I, suppose, the lesson I learned is that today’s kids can roam free and do whatever they want without any consequences.  And, I’m still not allowed to shoot them.  How is this fair?

There Can Be Only One (Little Blonde Nightmare)

By, Ren-

Allie Brosh is giving Mamma menstrual pains.  In the past two weeks, I’ve had friends send me links from her site, Hyperbole and a Half .  Don’t know who Allie Brosh is?  Fucking loser.  She’s an internet sensation that racks up millions upon millions of visits on her site.  People love her.  She’s funny.  She’s hot. She’s blonde.  She’s a nut.  Motherfucker, I’m a funny, hot blonde nut and people fucking love me. I SHAKE  MY FIST IN ANGER!

Sure, her illustrations are hilarious, but… Damn it! I thought I had something there.

That pic is from her article God of Cake.  God of Cake?  Oh sure, the entire piece is set up perfectly and makes you laugh until you pee.  But, consarn it!  Her childhood experience completely mirrors mine.  I discovered cake when I was 5.  I stole a hunk of it before my mother could put it away.  I went completely fuck-shit berserk, too.  OK, Allie was a child prodigy and worked all the angles she could; guilt trip, instilling fear in grandma, and taking an excursion to the summit of the refrigerator where her mom put the cake for safe keeping.

OK, first, where’s your grappling hook? You didn’t even put on your safety harness.

FINE!  My cake story veers off course here and there.  While Allie used her devious cake obsessed intellect, I added brute force to the mix.  Oh, don’t worry, this little Mick was scheming like it was NOBODY’S business.  Using the stories I’ve heard about our family and possible IRA connections, I made a rudimentary bomb, then…  Shit.  No, I didn’t.  I just used my cousin, Joey, as a battering ram.  Who cares?  I got in and ate me some cake.  I guess since it was a German chocolate cake with HEAVY amounts of brandy is why things really stepped off the curb.  Have you ever seen a rowdy drunk 5-year-old Irish girl?

It’s like this, only with deep-seeded hatred of the British.

Look, I’ve worked my entire life to the “that” little blonde nutjob.  You know, randomly running down the street with plaid boxers on my head or filling my brother’s socks with pudding.  Now, I’m “one of those little blonde nutjobs.”  There’s only room on the Interwebs for one of us!

Meet me on main street. At NOON!

This goes back way before Allie started her critically acclaimed blog.  We’re both from Northern Idaho. We share some eerily similar characteristics.

I smell a secret government-funded cloning project!

The conspiracy doesn’t stop there.  Our hometowns are less than an hour apart, we both were on our school/university’s respective track teams,  and we can run like Hermes with his ass on fire.  You know, the messenger of the gods in Greek mythology.  No?  Was I the only one paying attention in world cultures?

No, dude. Not this Hermes.

Shit, we both lived in the same town in Montana at the same time for a while.  I’m so wigged out.  Could my title of “Little Blonde Banana-Sandwich-Making-Crazy Nightmare be up for grabs?  Roode gave me that moniker.  I think he meant it to insult me.  The joke’s on his dumb ass.  I had that phrase put on a t-shirt and wear the hell out of it!

Do I need to dye my hair?  Put on weight?  Move to a different region?  The Pacific Northwest just isn’t capable of handling the two of us.  I’m pretty sure the universe will implode at some point in time.  Or, at the very least, it’ll rain fish.

Can you even imagine how high car insurance premiums will get when it constantly rains fish?

The two of us have even been “detained” by the authorities.  Well, she got slapped by Johnny Law out of no fault of her own.  I was busted by the RCMP for violating international law.  That shit still pisses me off.  Fucking racial profiling.  At least my experience didn’t involve an angry farmer with a shotgun.  I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse.

I imagine it was something like this, only with a 12 guage.

OK, Allie cranks out some funny computer art.  She does it all via laptop touch pad.  I guess that takes some skill.  Hmmm…  I can’t draw worth a shit.  I tried paint by numbers once.  It didn’t end well.

Seriously, this was supposed to be a painting of Elvis. I have no idea how I turned it into a scowling Vladimir Lenin.

Allie also bares her soul to her readers.  I, alternatively, have no soul to bare.  Most of my inner workings are fueled by whisky and hatred of the British oppression of Northern Ireland.  And bacon.  Allie has the affection of her readers.  I’m not even sure I have readers.  To top it all off, she responds to some of her harshest critics in funny and irreverent ways.

I usually just tell people to fuck themselves then hire a contract killer.  Hey, I never said I was clever.


Fuck it!  I’ve broken my own argument like a yeti clubbing a piñata with a mountain goat .  I love the girl.  I can’t hold anything against her; unless it’s my body…  but that’s another issue, entirely.

Another SEXY issue.

Who am I kidding, Allie?  You had me at, “mandatory sex party.”

Shop Amazon through the FWTC site or Ren will show up at your house and beat you with a fish.










6 Animated Honeys Drunk Guys want to Bonk: A FWTC Study

By Roode—

I can hear you judging me now. How disturbing. A grown man who wants to bone cartoon characters. First off, you judgmental prick, it wouldn’t be “boning.” It would be banging. The difference is subtle, but it’s there. Secondly, this is just all theory. Hot is hot. If the opportunity ever arose that either 1) you found yourself in cartoon form and able to knock water-color boots with the animated hottie of your choice or 2) you were able to blur the real world/cartoon world boundary and do some of the inter dimensional nasty.

There are just some two-dimensional girls on the tube a guy wouldn’t kick out of bed for eating crackers. No, not the two-dimensional girls you see on E! or other mindless television programming like Rock of Love . Venereal disease ridden yeast oozing frat whores can’t touch any of these animated honeys.

Enough bacteria here to make one hell of a bio weapon.
So, who makes the cut? Let’s take the old standbys off the table. No Jessica Rabbit or Betty Boop bullshit. It’s the 21st century. Let’s get current. While we’re at it, might as well take all the anthropomorphic cartoon animals off the table too. Sorry, guys. If you want to fantasize about cartoon bestiality, that’s another site. If you can get a boner for Gadget from Chip ‘n Dale Rescue Rangers you need some professional help, you sick fuck.

Yes, Gadget. I would look appalled too, if I found out there were people out
there drawing their personal R rated fantasies of a cartoon mouse.
So, who are they? Who are the vibrant, computer animated vixens that drive real life biologically based guys nuts? Where are the cartoon divas that fill our sleep with dreams we could never admit to in public? Well, The Fuse Was Too Cold did a highly unscientific research survey to find out. I searched far and wide to get the answers. Literally tens of men participated in this research. By “research” I mean to say: drunk talk about stupid shit that happened to focus on what cartoon hottie you would bone. The research team consisted of five mostly employed men in their 30s. For the sake of this article we’ll call them James, Tom, Phil, and Ryan. Being dedicated to the scientific method, I rounded out the group. So, when I said we interviewed “tens of men” I was full of shit.So, here they are, in no particular order…. fueled by perversion and alcohol.

*Alcohol consumed during the research process: Beer

Hey, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. Lois is a hot redhead with one hell of a computer animated body. She’s into S&M, bondage, and the occasional cocaine binge. I’m not making this shit up. It’s all in the series.

The research team had no problem coming to a consensus with Lois. She’s that wild MILF that has no problems twirling around a stripper pole at night. Ryan was particularly adamant about her “boneability” factor. Hey, don’t give me that look. It’s a scientific term, just like bangtastic or humpalicious.

The only thing that took away from Lois’ bangable factor was that she has three kids. One way or another, we’re thinking some elasticity was lost in the fun zone along the way.

We’ll let you do the math.

We are sort of baffled how she ended up being married to a buffoon. Yes, there are chubby chasers out there. Are there functional retard chasers too? If there are, that opens up a lot of opportunities for some of the research team.

Oh, yea. If your first response to the “We are sort of baffled how she ended up being married to a buffoon” line from above was something like “I don’t know, Roode. Let’s ask your wife,” I hope you catch gout you fucker.

2: The Princess of Hyrule/Zelda- Legend of Zelda

*Alcohol consumed during the research process: Vodka

After deciding that beer was for chumps, we started downing vodka. We kicked around a few more animated cuties, before Phil brought up the old Legend of Zelda television series that aired  every Friday on The Super Mario Bros. Super Show in the late 80s. Hmmmm, intriguing. All of us downed another shot of vodka and mulled it over.

[Yes, in this pic, Zelda is high beaming. Hey, I didn’t draw it.]

Yes! Absolutely! Now it all came back to us. Zelda was hot! I don’t know what the hell the animators were thinking when drawing this bangable cartoon Betty. Many a Third World tracer had a stiffy while diligently cranking out the animation cells for the weekly show. It almost made up for the shitty wages DIC was tossing to them.

It’s cool if we pay you in magic beans, right?

In this cartoon, Zelda was more than some stuck up princess locked in a tower somewhere. That dumbass just sat there waiting for someone to rescue her. Shit no! This Zelda was proactive; going on adventures with Link because, she knew that elf dipshit would fuck it up alone.

As young boys journeying to manhood, having a shapely, active, and oh so nimble blond to watch on TV was friggin OK with us! It was our version of porn damn it! She had a better rack than most of the girls we knew in the real world at the time.

We know Link desperately wanted her hand wrapped around another handle..
That made even me feel dirty.

Link didn’t even want to be there. His entire motivation for putting forth the effort to thwart Ganon was to get a kiss from Zelda. For our purposes, we decided “kiss” meant using his sword to penetrate Zelda’s secret treasure.

OK. We know we’re supposed to retrieve the Triforce of Courage.
But, um, we’d like to watch her sleep for a little longer..

3: The Black Cat- Spiderman animated series

*Alcohol consumed during the research process: Whiskey

Anyone who watched the 1994- 1998 version of Spiderman, the Animated Series should be familiar with the character Felicia Hardy. Yes, she’s another cute cartoon blond. But, her alter ego, the Black Cat gave all of us a new standard for female cartoon hotness. Not to mention another way we could defile the cartoon world with our sick and twisted male minds.

About ten minutes after we traded up from vodka to whiskey, James made a fantastic philosophical proclamation. The Black Cat was groin grabbingly hot. Shit, look at her. That outfit was made for form AND function. What better way to incapacitate the villain than by wearing a get- up that all but promised to suffer a wardrobe malfunction? We imagine that a few bad guys had problems standing up and just surrendered after a quick bathroom trip and a cigarette.


Because nothing says "JUSTICE" like a costume that can barely contain your boobs.

It wasn’t even just her look that got her on our scientifically compiled list. Her constant double entendres, sexual innuendos, and all out aggressive sexual behaviour helped knock the ball out of the park. After a minute or two of the “deep soul-searching in this clip from “Spiderman- Web of Shadows you’re not sure if she’s prodding Spiderman to throw away the mask and run away together or get him to sling his web in her secret hideout.

This is based on a kid’s show? How many super heroines wear costumes tight enough in the crotch to sport camel toe? Not enough, damn it! We have a feeling that more than a few young men wore out their VCRs pausing and slow motioning the tape when the Black Cat’s scenes were up. Not that we would know anything about that.

4: Rogue- The X-Men Animated Series

*Alcohol consumed during the research process: Bourbon

Somehow we went from single malt whiskey to cheap bourbon. But, with the switch, came a new entry into our scientific research. That’s right, this is STILL scientific research. This is all in the name of science! Stop being judgmental!

In 1992, FOX blessed us with X-Men the Animated Series. This show was arguably the pioneer of animated comic book cartoons. Why? It did stay pretty faithful to the comic plot. Not that we cared. When the research team reviewed all the available data (drank), Tom postulated a hypothesis. This series was successful because Rogue was built like a brick shit house.

Alright, I feel like I’m losing you now. Let me take you back to 1995. This show was in its prime. Story lines were finely crafted; the characters well defined. What mattered even more than character development and story arcs? The fact that the cartoonist decided that Rogue should have the body of a porn star.

Nothing says mutant powers more than a 40D

We’re beginning to think that every animator/cartoonist/artist has a hardwired need to draw female cartoon characters that will increase that chances of male viewer pitching a tent. That’s what we call developing a loyal fan base.

That’s right, baby. Give us angry.

Rogue was sassy, impervious to most types of harm, and could beat a guy to death with the Rock of Gibraltar. There is no part of that last sentence that isn’t a turn on. Why do you think Gambit kept trying to get in those ridiculously tight spandex pants? Sure, Rogue could absorb his powers, potentially killing him. Quite frankly, it would be worth a life force draining or pelvis crushing to get some of that action.

5: Belle- Beauty and the Beast

*Alcohol consumed during the research process: Rye

By this time, we were drinking rye straight from the bottle. Ryan may have vomited all over Tom’s shoes. It’s also a sure bet that someone was just in his boxers at this point. I’m just not sure which one of us it was. Amazingly, we were allowed to continue our important research.

No self respecting man has ever seen Beauty and the Beast the whole way through. Somewhere between the singing furniture and realizing the portly mantel clock butler was really the even portlier Major Charles Emmerson Winchester from M*A*S*H, we bailed.

Resemblance: Uncanny.

The only thing any of us remembered was Belle, the hot little peasant brunette that had a thing for hairy, tall men with anger management issues. It’s probably because she heard somewhere in the village that the size of a man beast’s tail is directly proportional to the size of his…forget it . This is crossing that whole bestiality line I drew in the sand earlier.

“Yes, Belle, the singing flatware all call me ‘tripod'”
The research team concluded that Belle has one bonafide Disney dish. She’s one of those girls that looks hot in a whatever she happened to throw on that day. Don’t believe us? See for yourself and tell us that you wouldn’t get a case of cartoon wood.

See? She’s equally pants tightening in naughty school girl wear or boob highlighting formal attire.

6: Erin Esurance- Esurance commercials

*Alcohol consumed during the research process: Grain

Our research was almost complete. We were missing one last animated vixen, however. At this time only James and I remained conscious. The rest of the research team was exhausted after a full night of scientific investigation. Some may have mistaken their exhaustion for being passed out under the pool table. That’s dedication damn it! That’s mother fucking commitment!

When we ceased to be able to function under our own power, we were hit with an epiphany. Erin Esurance was on television all the time. You couldn’t watch a show without her strutting her fine self around. She’s a double agent in a, you guessed it, skin-tight body suit. We really couldn’t ask for more. We really couldn’t speak without slurring.

Because James and I were drunk to the point of being color blind, I made a quick call to Tresckow to verify Erin’s cartoon boneability. His contribution of, “Oh, yeah, I’d get full coverage with her. In my PANTS!” substantiated our deduction. He then proceeded to launch a long soliloquy about the prospect of Ms. Esurance and Eliza Dushku in a three-way with… To tell the truth, I don’t really remember how the call ended. I hurled my phone at the head of who I thought was Oprah Winfrey. Don’t ask.

This mistress of insurance is athletic, flirtatious, and a closet dominatrix. She shoots out sexual innuendo after sexual innuendo. That’s our kind of woman! Well, animated woman. Shit, we’re past the point of semantics.  She even has her own Chickipedia page.

That’s it you nimble little minx. Sell me that car insurance. I’ve been bad.

The cartoonist doesn’t even bother attempting to hide Erin’s blatant ani-sexy-mation. It’s his intention to make us stop fast fowarding the DVR during the commercials. Nothing makes you want to buy car insurance like a tight bodied pink haired secret agent donned in what might as well be black body paint.

We're not really too sure why selling car insurance requires Erin to get in the cowgirl position. Honestly, we're OK with it.

We would have no problem taking it out for Erin. Better yet, she can reach in and grab it. Just put her hand in there…

What? Reach in my glove compartment. That’s where I keep my insurance card. What did you think I meant? You’re a pervert. What did you think I was talking about? Sicko.

Esurance has even set up Erin’s World on their website. Essentially, you are in her apartment and can snoop around. You can watch her adventures on the flat screen, read her diary, go through her pics, and check out her Andy Warhol-ish art gallery. I know what you really want to know. No, there isn’t an option to root around her underwear drawer. We tried. We tried for hours.

Erin even has her own Chicipedia page.  Did I mention that already?

A quick spin around the internet revealed that our petite car insurance fox is much appreciated by her fans. Maybe disturbingly so. The sheer volume of erotic/pornographic fan art [NSFW] is both impressive and frightening.  As much as we would love to fill her insurance application… we are only willing to take it so far. We’re not total perverts.

Shit, we are.

Can we forget this article ever existed?  Now that I’m sober,this all seems wrong, somehow.

Movies That 3D Can’t Save

By Roode-

Every few years, Hollywood comes out with a new fad based on decades old technology.  New sounds, special features, inventing a media format, then making it obsolete by inventing another one the next year.  Blu-Ray can suck sweaty shaft!

Perhaps, the flavour of the year is movies in 3D.  It supposedly “enhances” the movie watching experience.  The only enhancements I want at the theatre is butter substitute MIXED throughout my popcorn (enough of this dumping it on the top shit) and a means to silence bullshit slack asses who pull wondertardery during the film.  You know those fuckers.  They text each other, don’t turn their cells off, and conduct loud ass conversations as the movie progresses.  It doesn’t have to be complicated.  Maybe each seat is over a trap door.  Once a douche bag starts cracking wise, the seat falls into some sub- basement where all of his kind are trapped.  Forever.  I’m envisioning a room that looks like the sub-basement bathroom from Saw.

Yeah, that'll do nicely.

Some of you may not be old enough to remember when black and white movies with sound were state-of-the-art.  I don’t.  How old do you think I am?  Well, when the glorious break through of COLOR came into the picture, movies were more vibrant, which allowed for more creativity.  Then, some douche bag (Ted Turner, maybe) thought it would be a great idea to colorize everything that has ever graced the silver screen.  Well, not everything.  I’m relatively sure “Birth of a Nation” is still in black and white.  Come t think of it…  that’s sort of funny.  The KKK can either stick with the current version they show at bake sales and club sheet washing day and be forced to live with a BLACK and white film.  See how black is all up in the craka’s face?  The alternative is to colorize it.  That’s right, COLORIZE; adding COLOR to the klan.  Can’t a person get killed for bringing color to the group?

Call it whatever you want. But, you guys are one leprechaun wearing assless chaps away from a full on gay pride parade.

In the past year or so, movie directors and a large segment of movie nerds have been pissing in their pants over 3D movies.  Oooooooooooo!  3D!  People are convinced that it adds depth and dimension to the film.  We’ve got news for you; if a movie’s plot sucks complete and utter sweaty platypus scrotum making it all pretty in three dimensions and whatnot isn’t going to make it any better.  For fuck’s sake, Jaws 3 was in 3D and that piece of shit all but caused eye cancer.   The only thing that made it bearable was the cinema viewing atrocity that followed it and subsequently killed the franchise.

Seriously, what the fuck was Michael Caine doing in Jaws: The Revenge?

OK, so adding a third dimension is supposed to add “something” to the experience.  This shit really started picking up after Avatar stomped a mud hole in everyone’s ass.  Blue cats!  Now there’s rumor of George “piss all over the original Star Wars movies” Lucas is contemplating the re-working and re-release of the first three Star Wars movies (episodes 4-6 for the retarded) in 3D.  Whooooohooooo! Now we get to see Greedo shoot first in 3D!  Maybe they’re right and a third dimension will add another layer to the films.  Another layer of suck, that is.

No matter how hard you try, most movies won’t be any better with an added third dimension.  Some of them may even be worse.  Don’t believe me?  Well, how about:

1.  The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004)

Few movies exemplify suck as well as The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou.  Here was a Bill Murray vehicle that was advertised as a quirky, ironic, and funny film.  I fell for it.  Lots of people did.  Instead of quirky, ironic, and funny you got low grade version of Yellow Submarine , a baffling role for Jeff Goldblum, and Owen Wilson’s bullshit.

Pictured: A steaming pile of cinema.

The only thing that could possibly make this theatrical barf bag worse would be if some smart ass with too much time on his hands turned it into a 3D shit sandwich.  Why, with 3D you can see the indifference and trippy kindergarten art leap off the screen.  The “action” scenes (read:  horrible play acting) would slap the audience in the face with red hot mediocrity!  When I say “audience” I mean that one guy asleep in the back of the theatre.  Nevermind, don’t wake him.  It’s best if has no memory of this pile of monkey spank.

2.  Kazaam (1996)

If we, as a society, ever lost the words, “shit” and “abortionKazaam could go to bat for both.  It is both a pile of fly drawing shit and a cinematic abortion the likes rarely seen since the beginning of film.  If you’ve read any of the FWTC articles, you know that we like formulas.  They just seem to put everything in perspective.  Our scientists worked hard and came up with this mind-blowing, award-winning formula for you.

Shaq + complete inability to act + no-name cast + magic boom box – any semblance of talent


A film not even the Nazis would use on prisoners

Just a plain bag full of acting holocaust here.

So what is there, exactly, to 3D?  Is Shaq the kind of person we want to add a third dimension to?  If you said yes, I want you to bean yourself in the head with a shoe.  Right now.  NO!  If anything, this piece of camel dung needs a dimension taken away.  This bastard needs to be downgraded to 1D.  That can be done, right?

If only Kazaam was this good.

3.  Manos:  The Hands of Fate (1966)

Look, the less said about this turd, the better.  Let’s just skip this one.  Even Joel and the bots had problems passing this kidney stone of a movie.

Servo and Crow start losing it at the 5:50 mark.

4  Stop!  Or My Mom Will Shoot (1992)

If you’re too young to remember this movie, considered yourself blessed.  You see, about 100 years ago, there was an action star named Sylvester Stallone.  Fuck it.  Rocky.  Remember Rocky?  He was the slightly functionally retarded boxer from Philadelphia.  He both lost and won to the best name any boxer, fake or real, could ever have.  Apollo Creed.  Damn it, why can’t that be someone’s real name?  It’s completely wasted in today’s society.  Before you spout that little ice skating douche, Apollo Ono, I urge you to shut the fuck up.  I’m not going to the trouble of repeating myself on this issue.  Re-read, A Canadian on the 2010 Winter Olympics:  AKA Televised Suck.

I said read it!

All that is beside the point.  This was a “star vehicle” capitalizing on Stallone’s ever fleeting stardom and Estelle Getty’s, um…  Golden Girls fame?  That doesn’t sound right.  Who the hell came up with this idea?  Pairing an action star with one of the Golden Girls.  Alright, I can definitely see Bea Arthur in an action movie; considering she had bigger balls than Stallone.  In fact, why wasn’t that a movie?  Now, I’m pretty pissed.  That would have rocked hard!  Damn it!  I just high-fived my computer monitor due to the sheer awesomeness this movie would have created.

We're damn sure Bea could both kick Apolo Creed's ass AND be the ultimate Bond villian.

5.  The Piano (1993)

The Piano is a chick flick that made me want to drill a hole in my head, but that’s not why it’s on the list.  Stated plainly, no one wants to see Harvey Keitel’s junk in 3D.

Look, Mr. White. I don't care about the stolen diamonds. Just keep your pants on.

6.  Battlefield Earth (2000)

I don’t even know where to fucking begin with this genocide of a movie.  Battlefield Earth was a Scientology suck-fest created to be a cinematic circle jerk for the followers of the all mighty L. Ron Hubbard.  Shit, that just probably got FWTC and me on some sort of international Scientology hit list.  That sort of shit has happened before.


Fuck! They're going to send a bloated, dredlocked Vinney Barbarino after us now.

They might have to invent a 4th dimension for this movie to suck any less.  I’m not even sure what the hell that is.  With our luck, it will involve smell.  Nothing propels a shitty cult movie to stardom like being able to actually smell Barry Pepper’s pit stink.  A 3D image of a rotund Forrest Whitaker isn’t going to do this film any favours.  Moses smell the roses!  I’m pretty sure this tard-a-thon is classified as illegal by the Geneva Convention.

6.  I Know Who Killed Me (2007)

There used to be a time when Lindsay Lohan was hot.  Think about it.  When she was in Mean Girls she was supremely bangrastic.  [I can say that, she was 18 when this movie was filmed.  Therefore, that statement wasn’t creepy at all]


Like a lost civilization, we're still searching for remnants of a once sane and hot Lindsay Lohan.

Then, I Know Who Killed Me was released.  What the fuck happened?  No, the change wasn’t gradual, but I expected some sort of movie magic to revert her to her former, hotter, healthier self.  CGI that fucker!  Nope.  What we saw on the screen was a half step away from the Lindsay Lohan tabloid crotch shot or mug shot of the week.


OK. This picture doesn't help my case.

Shit, I think I’m changing my mind.  Maybe producing this in 3D would help.  Not for the entire movie, but just the stripper pole scenes.  With the sound muted.  And all the non stripper scenes cut.

7.  The Hottie and the Nottie (2008)

NO!  Fuck this!  I refuse to write anything remotely connected to Paris Hilton.  This is bullshit!  This article is over!


To quote the Geto Boys from the Office Space soundtrack: Die motherfucker, die motherfucker!



Con Air: A Cinematic Traffic Accident I Can’t Ignore

By Ren

I guess humans, as a species, have a predilection to do things that do harm unto themselves. Smoking, drugs, bull riding, and shopping cart jousting are but a few examples of this biological programming.

I bet you thought I was making this shit up.

 I, too, suffer from the sucktitude that is our self destructive DNA. Sure, I’ve done all the shit I listed above, but none of that compares to what I found myself doing a few nights ago. It’s something I’m not proud of. It’s something a girl would never let her parents discover. Porn? No, dude I wish! I’d be the fucking porn queen of the Pacific Northwest! But, only the classy shit. None of that cable guy coming by to tighten my connection bullshit. Movies with real plot and soul. Movies that explore the depths of the characters’ being before the 30 minute long fuckapalooza. My porn would be so good, it would go mainstream. 100 years from now, the Academy will still be talking about that Irish porn star who won every Oscar that record setting night. Somehow, I would have gotten the award for best foreign film. It doesn’t matter how! Point is my shit would sweep the Academy awards and, probably, the Emmys.

Finally a bigger whore than Sean Penn will win an Oscar.

Where the fuck was I going with this? Oh yea. I found myself doing something the other night I wasn’t proud of. There I was, on the couch, in the dark… watching Con Air. I’m sorry Mom and Pop! Your little girl is ashamed. Despite all you taught her as a child, she still lost her way and drifted into the shameful life of watching a movie with Nicholas Cage, John Malkovich, John Cusack, Ving Rhames, Steve Buscemi, Chief O’Brien from Next Gen/DS9, and Danny Trejo. Danny motherfucking Trejo!

Otherwise known as the MexiCAN from Once Upon a Time in Mexico.

I was channel surfing around 2 in the morning. Going through the channel guide aimlessly, I saw that Con Air was being played AGAIN. For reasons unknown, one of the premium movie channels has had a Con Air hard on for a month. The bastard is on no less than twice a day. I joke about it. I make fun of it when I notice it’s on. But, before I knew it, I was pressing “ENTER” on the remote to watch it.

Above: Immediate access to damnation.

I figured I would just watch it while I continued to scroll through the program guide. Scroll, scroll, scroll… holy monkey fuck! There’s nothing on! It’s been so long since I’ve seen this movie. Hey, the entire first act is complete shit. Why am I watching a movie as lifeless as the eyes of a bored stripper?

So, Nick Cage was put in prison for defending himself and his wife? Harsh.

I forgot that, in order to get to the more important story lines, Jerry Bruckheimer raced through the entire set up. One minute Cage is wearing an Army uniform , sporting a receding hairline with short hair. The next minute he’s wearing a wife beater, sporting a receding hairline with long hair. I’m going to let the whole muddled, ear rape of a Southern accent thing Cage has going on pass. It was as annoying as sand in your ass crack, but if Keanu Reeves got away with his shit-tasticly horrific “British” accent in Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Cage can slide on this one.

“Like, cheerio and pip pip. Whoa, I know Kung Fu.”

I was trapped in a cinematic mind grip. I couldn’t change the channel. Dave Chappelle? Oh yea, I forgot he was in this… for ten minutes. Damn. Why can’t I be watching Chappelle’s Show now?

With a case of Samuel Jackson.

I can’t tell you exactly why I was stuck in the Con Air tractor beam. It’s like a traffic accident, except you rubber-neck for an hour and a half. Maybe it’s more like 2 Girls 1 Cup. The whole thing is bile swallowing terrible, but you can’t stop watching it. And you can’t help but make others watch it with you.

The love story sub plot between these two was the visual equivalent of eating your own shit.

Part of the magic of movies is to make you care about the characters. We want Sherlock Holmes to foil the dastardly plot while managing his own batshit crazy personality. For the first time in my relatively short history as a human being, I cared about Will Ferrell. OK, that’s exaggerating a bit. I cared for Harold Crick in Stranger Than Fiction. When I watched Patriot Games I felt for the characters, deeply. OK, I sympathized with the IRA in the movie. Does it matter? The point is that I was under the movie’s spell to feel for these people. Does the movie magic work for Con Air? Magic 8 Ball, guide us in our quest for truth.

I don’t give a three year old yak shit about anyone in this movie. I’m not emotionally invested in this heaping pile of angry stereotypes. Well, maybe the plane. That poor thing didn’t as for this. It didn’t ask to be the sound stage of a movie only drunk people at 2 in the morning watch. What? Yeah, I was drunk too. You gotta issue with that? I was drunk and on the couch watching Con Air in my undies. You have a fucking problem with that?

I didn’t think so.


Back to the point, I felt sorry for the plane. It sat there while cinematic gems, like these, were vomited out in front of the camera.

Run this segment at random. Go ahead. Fast forward, hit play, whatever. The fucker is 10 minutes long. I guarantee that each and every word the actors spat at each other caused rivets to pop from the plane. By the end, if you look closely, the C-123 was praying for death. Each time Ving pushed out a monotone “Grrrrr grumble grumble” the plane would cut its proverbial wrists just a little deeper. Shit, not to mention all the paint peeling body odor and, what would later be know as, the leaky bean farts of 97. I’m so sorry plane.

That’ll do plane. That’ll do.

Then, for some reason known only to the functionally retarded kid making script changes, the characters of DEA agent Duncan Malloy has an unprovoked, misplaced, tacked on loathing for US Marshal Vince Larkin. There’s no rhyme or reason for it. As soon as they meet, Chief O’Brein starts  shitting all over Martin Q. Blank from Grosse Pointe Blank. Why? Did Larkin sleep with Malloy’s wife? Are they childhood chums gone bad? Someone tell us that there is more to this dynamic than random chest beating cock waving!

Nope. There’s nothing deeper.


And then there’s the whole bunny scene. I’m not sure if it was supposed to be funny or ironic. Maybe it was supposed to break up the colon clenching action. No, I’m pretty sure some fucker just tacked it on as a joke and no one noticed until the screening. I’m also pretty positive that killing people over a child’s toy is common place during the holiday shopping season.

Still, somehow Cage manages to take this “funny” scene and give it the Hershey squirts.

Oh, come the fuck on! Really?

At this point in the movie, I was pretty pissed at myself for watching it. What the fuck is wrong with me? Jumping Irish Jesus now Cage is under a truck talking to himself? Exactly how the fuck did a dozen or so prisoners pull a full sized C-123 out of the sand? Does being shirtless help?

Prison must have one hell of a weight lifting program. That’s what you want; convicted murderers, arsonists, and rapists getting buff.

Oh, yeah. Then Cage does the whole “I’m running from an explosion and flip through the air in a way that gives physics the finger” thing.


Because, as we all learned in school, fire is slow and can be easily outrun.

Somewhere between when Chief O’Brein’s car being destroyed and the mid-air fire fight, I just accepted it. I was watching Con Air. It’s too late now. I can’t turn the channel, I have too much invested in it. I have to see it through. I have to see every last fudge sacking second, now. Besides, this movie makes menstrual cramps feel awesome in comparison.

Ouch, my uterus! This is STILL better than watching Con Air.

Yippie! The plane crashed and people die. Someone or another gets cut in half by an engine prop blade, someone else, I don’t know, gets killed in some way. I guess the lamest part was when Nick Cage and John CuSACK jump on police motorcycles and give each other a “let’s get ’em” look.

Awwww. They even finish each other’s sentences.


So, in the end, the bad guys are punished, destroying the Las Vegas strip is completely OK, and Nick Cage gives his on screen daughter a soggy, dirty stuffed bunny. Way to go, Poe. You gave the daughter you’ve never met typhoid.

Something like this, but with the scent of urine and man-on-man rape.

I blame myself. I was drunk enough to get trapped into watching this movie, but not drunk enough to forget about it. At least it wasn’t Short Circuit 2 this time.

I may have only been 3 when this was released, but even then I knew this movie sucked copious amounts of sweaty dick.

Halloween Pumpkin Carving: Gateway to Mass Murder

By Roode

Kids love Halloween. It’s the one time of year they can get free candy that doesn’t involve creepy old men in bathrobes. Adults love it, because it’s the one time of they year that dressing up like Tyra Banks isn’t exclusively for drag queens.

Remember when Jamie Fox was funny? Of course you don’t.

I don’t dress up. I don’t trick or treat. I don’t have kids so I’m not forced to pretend I give a shit. This may surprise some of you, but I’m not a happy go lucky holiday celebrating person. I wouldn’t put up that fucking Christmas tree if I didn’t get a guilt trip from the wife each and every “have to buy new strings of lights because the ones from last Christmas never fucking work” year. I suggested we just forgo the tree one year. It was like I proposed we put on cleats and go kitten stomping.

My bags are always packed for the latest guilt trip provided by The Wife Travel Agency.

Last weekend I hung out with Ren. I was bored and sober. I knew that belligerent Irish drunk had booze. I had wifey in tow for a low key Saturday evening. Adel was out of town making plans for her wedding (that’s right kids- more on that another time) and who the hell knows what Tresckow was doing. Maybe storming Poland?

Tank rental is surprising affordable.

I was quite happy to sit there, watch TV, and suck down Guinness. The hens were yapping in another room and Commando was on TV. Awesome! Beer, violence, and HDTV. I defy you to come up with a better combination. Defy you, I say!

Somewhere around the part when Schwarzenegger is slaughtering the island army lead by Nick Tortelli Ren had the most horrible idea since CNN’s coverage of the Michael Jackson funeral. “Hey! Let’s make Jack O’Lanterns.” Bitch.
Sure, I protested. You married guys out there know resistance is futile. Over the years my “Fuck it! Whatever!” switch developed a hair trigger. I learned about three years into married bliss that it’s the path of least resistance that gets you laid. So, when someone has a fucktarded idea like this and the wife is into it, fuck it. I’m as powerless as Valtrex is on TilaTequila.

This fucker is pretty much always set to “on.”
I knew I was in for a rocket ship to a ball taggingly painful night when it took the girls 30 minutes to find the right pumpkins. It was the like the Goldilocks of pumpkin searching. This one is too small. This one has too many bumps. This one has a funny looking stem… damn it! At this point I didn’t give a shit if the son-of-a-bitch was oozing blood while demonic voices chanted an ode to Satan. Why the fuck can’t women find ANYTHING in under half an hour? Holy yeti piss, the fucker’s going to end up a rotting corpse on the stoop anyway.

Pictured: Good investment.

After buying four medium sized pumpkins (four, because the odds of fucking up are excellent when you’ve been drinking since 3) we carted the orange bastards back to the house. First off, let me say it’s completely fucking ridiculous the amount of goddamn work you have to put in just to cut the top off. Then, there’s a shitload of stringy, gag reflex slapping innards that have to be scooped out. This shit looks, feels, and acts wrong. Not only does it feel like goopy, stringy shit from a camel with diarrhea, it’s nye impossible to keep it in one place. If you’re lucky, it just falls on the floor like so much spaghetti of the damned. If you’re not so lucky, it can find its way into your pants. Don’t fucking give me that look. It happens.

Look at this putrid, stringy mess and tell me you don’t want to blow chunks.

It’s not over yet. Oh no, there’s more labor intensive bullshit waiting to play ping pong with your dangly parts. Now you have to scrape the meat of the friggin thing. There’s nothing remotely appealing about that phrase. Scrape the meat? That conjures up all sorts of fucked up Donner Partyimages.


Hold on! Before you start scraping chunks of pumpkin meat, you need to know two things; 1) No kitchen utensil in the known world is built for this and 2) if you take too much out the whole fucking thing will collapse. Who knew this was a science?

I don’t know, Bill. Maybe there is no cure for Jack O’Lantern carving rage.

Of course, my wife is a friggin genius with this shit. She’s the artsy crafty one. I’m the one that gets pissed off and dynamites random things in nature. Ren, the dumbass that came up with the idea, redefined suck. She bought one of those stencils that is supposed to help you carve designs. That fucker was too complicated for a drunken Mick. It didn’t end well.

After giving up on ever stenciling this thing right, she decided to carve the fucker with a hammer.

Well, that gourd was out of commission. Mine, on the other hand, was still in the race. Sure, it frustrated me a little…

The fucker had it coming.

This sucks! Who started this butt fucking tradition anyway? Liquored up, pissed off people shouldn’t be asked to hack the almighty shit out of produce. That’s how Bundy got started.


After another (4) beer, I went back to the taunting, round poop stain. OK, I just stabbed it a few times. It’s fixable. I’ll just get to work cutting out the nose and smile. This shit has to be getting me brownie points with the wife, right? RIGHT? Besides, I know I can do better than Ren’s second attempt.

I’ve never seen a Jack O’Lantern with Downs Syndrome before.

I decided, then and there, that I would not be defeated by a piece of fruit… or vegetable… whatever. With each slip of the knife and fucked up tooth, I started to fantasize about setting fire to all its smug ass brethren. All of a sudden I understood punkin chunkin. Its not a bunch of drooling momma’s boys who smell like a mix of body odor and Red Bull (not exclusively, anyway). It was mankind’s way of getting back at those sack lickers.

This may have cost more money and time than any sane person would invest,
but, it must be therapeutic to see that mother launched into the air and disintegrate on impact.

When the dust settled, there were three Jack O’Lanterns. Mine looked like it was married to Ike Turner. Ren’s did an amazing Sling Bladeimpersonation. My wife’s… that’s not important. Shut up!

One of these days she’s going to fuck SOMETHING up and I’ll be there to see it.

If the night wasn’t rage inducing enough, this Jack O’Cock Knocker saved the best for last. As soon as I picked it up to carry outside the asshole started to cave in. Remember that whole don’t scrape too much of the meat off thing? Well, guess what? I didn’t fucking pay attention to that at all. The face started collapsing faster than Michael Jackson’s cosmetic surgery (yes, two MJ references in one article. I’m not proud).

Stick a candle in his skull and it’s the spitting image of my imploding Jack O’Lantern.

It was over. The damn thing didn’t even stay together long enough for me to make it out the door. I snapped. To quote a great philosopher, “That’s all I can stands and I can’t stands no more!”

Wise beyond his years.

I bellowed “Fuck you gourd!” OK, so it was a bit loud and I’m pretty sure someone called the cops, but I didn’t give a shit. This sadistic orange fuck has toyed with me for too long! I let it drop to the ground and I nailed the mocking tea bagger in the mouth. That’s right, pumpkins everywhere can eat me. It’s on now. Every assclown pumpkin I find will die. I hereby declare my plan for pumpkin cleansing! Pumpkins, watch your backs (wherever the fuck your “backs” are). It’s war now!

He was, but the first to fall!