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5 Better Ways the Grinch Could Have Stolen Christmas

By, Adel-

So, the other day, How the Grinch Stole Christmas was on tele.  Per usual, I watched it.  It’s hard to ignore things like that from your childhood.  My son loves the program, but seems to root for the Grinch.  He makes me so proud.

Don't worry, my boy. We'll get it all back someday.

The clever boy that he is, he pointed out that the Grinch didn’t really steal Christmas.  He just stole “things.”  As long as the Whoos were still around, they would keep Christmas alive in their hearts. I sat there and pondered his observation for a bit.  He was completely right.  It’s not possible to steal an entire day, let alone one with such reverence and centuries of religious ideology.  The little furry buggers would still sing, wish each other a “Merry Christmas,” and be as annoying as ever.  No, sir.  It wasn’t the day that was the problem.  It was the Whoos.  They were the problem.  In order to effectively end his torment, the Grinch has to dispatch of them. ALL of them.

Get it?

But how?  How could the Grinch take care of his Whoo problem in one, efficient moment?  Well, building a bloody sled, making a Santa costume, and dressing up your little dog sure as hell won’t help.  He has to get creative.  Luckily, human history is riddled with pointers for the person who wants to wipe out an entire people.

Look, don't give me shit about this.

1.  Nuclear explosion

Perhaps the most obvious way to take care of the Whoo menace is to detonate a nuclear warhead in the center of town.  It’s fast, thorough, and (if done correctly) will leave the area completely uninhabitable for decades.  The Grinch lives far away on a mountain top.  There’s a good chance that the trade winds will blow the fallout away from his cave.  However, just to be safe, he will want to invest in the proper safety equipment.  Hey, to solve the problem, one must make sacrifices.  The bastard is already green and covered with fur.  How much more damage can radiation do?

Plant it under their town Christmas tree. It's brilliant!

Alright, some of you may wonder how the Grinch could get his green hands on such a device.  Apparently, it’s not too difficult.  With thousands of surplus Soviet nuclear weapons out there, every half assed wanker with enough cash and a certain level of insanity can start his own collection.

It's more fun than drunk dialling South Korea.

2.  Blankets infected with small pox

This method of extermination is nothing new.  Conspiracy theories tell us the US Army perfected this little ditty in the 19th century when it wanted to get rid of those pesky Plains Indians.  Well, that’s what wannabe Indian and political controversy whore Ward Churchill would have you believe.  This story is, more than likely, a complete fabrication and a poor attempt to shoehorn douche bag behaviour into history.

(Allegedly) Making shit up and stealing from others is fun!

Regardless of whether the US Army actually did this or not, it’s a viable option for our grinchy fellow.  Under the guise of making peace, he can have crates of infected blankets sent to every Whoo in Whooville.  He just wants to make sure they are all warm and snuggly throughout the winter.  But, wait.  Something is wrong.  One Whoo gets sick.  Then another.  Then another.  They’re dropping like flies now!  I guess the Grinch kept the small pox vaccine all to himself.

Oh you magnificent, ethnic cleansing bastard!

3.  Fuel-Air Bomb

A Fuel-Air bomb is a thermobaric weapon that, quite literally, sucks in all the available oxygen and sets the surround atmosphere on fire.  This gives you all the horrific face melting punch of a nuke, without those pesky radiation side effects.  The only issue is that this Satan-spawn engine of destruction must be dropped on its target.  I’ve watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas many times.  I don’t recall ever seeing an airplane hangar carved into the mountain side, so it’s safe to say he doesn’t have adequate air transportation.  He could have a helicopter sitting on a pad somewhere, but the topography of his mountain makes it terribly unlikely.

No. That's avalanche territory.

Given the Grinch’s knack for building, I have no doubt he is fully capable of constructing some sort of rudimentary catapult on his mountain top in order to sling that bad boy to its target.

4.  Zombiefication

If Zombiland has taught me anything, it’s that the walking dead are dumber than a bag of hammers and easily killed.  An assortment of other zombie movies show that, once the human food supply runs out, they start to feed on each other.  It’s a win-win for the Grinch.

I’m going to skip over how, exactly, our green genocide machine can acquire the needed  mutant gene/bio-weapon/magic spell.  It’s the bloody Dr. Suess world.  If those little hairy tossers in Whooville can invent completely ridiculous contraptions to play with (and they work), then the Grinch can be just as resourceful and get his hateful hands on some zombie-making fuel.

If this monstrosity can exist, surely so can a Whoo zombification super weapon.

Once the plan is in motion, that yellow eyed engine of hate can sit back and watch the fun.  What he chooses to do is completely up to him.  For a little sport, he can set up shop on a rocky outcrop of his mountain fortress and pick off the zombie Whoos one by one with a high-powered rifle.  Or, if he’s in the mood for something more passive, simply watch the Whoos turn on each other and feast, feast, feast.

Looks like they've already started.

5.  Poison the Town’s Food and Water Supply

If the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan taught us anything it was that the fastest way of eradicating an entire town is by poisoning their food and water supply.  Well, that and the historical precedent of easily invading Afghanistan, but being unable to leave it once you’ve finished.  That’s another story, entirely.

Chances are Whooville’s water comes from a source in the high mountain tops surrounding them.  Perhaps a cold mountain stream like the one shown in the Coors commercials.  Yes.  Just like that, but without the horrible, tasteless moose piss that is Coors Light.

All I'm saying is that your beer of choice shouldn't look like a urine sample.

As with old Cold War nuclear weapons, there are multiple caches of unused biological weapons dating back to the First World War.  He doesn’t even have to break into the Deseret Chemical Depot in Utah and pinch a few pounds from their stockpile of over 6000 short tons.    That’s a good thing, because 1. He will, more than likely, be killed trying to break in and 2. He won’t have to set foot inside Utah.  If given the choice between the two, choose death.

Pictured: Fate worse than death.

Luckily, our Grinchy Grinch doesn’t have to make that decision.  No, sir.  This green embodiment of Whoo hate can wait for the shells of World War I mustard gas to come to him! A clamming vessel off the shores of Long Island is hauling this stuff in like there’s no tomorrow.  There won’t be a tomorrow if someone drops one of those bad boys.

Future, shmuture. We want to dump our chemical weapons now!

These are just a few ideas off the top of my head.  No doubt the Grinch could come up with a dozen more ideas; all equally effective and horrific.  Then, he doesn’t have to worry about sneaking into every Whoo house in Whooville, stealing all their decorations and gifts, and avoid the mind games of Cindi Lou Whoo.

Oh, she's a demented, twisted little bitch.

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5 Things Society Would Give Up If It Was Serious About The Environment

By Adel

Far be it from me to associate myself with Roode or any of his articles, but I felt the need to expand upon his Earth Day piece (of shit). It got me thinking. No, not thinking about how Roode has kept out of prison for this long. Not this time. I started thinking about how, exactly, would society have to tackle environmental issues in a way that matters. Then it occurred to me, most of the big changers would never be done, because society is only willing to go so far. Sure, some will toss a plastic bottle into a recycling bin, but you bet your ass someone will drive a block to buy their lottery tickets and cigarettes instead of undertaking such an arduous journey of walking.

Sidewalks? Are we savages?

So, what would society REALLY have to do without in order to actually make an impact on the environment? Check that; a POSITIVE impact. My list of ways to make a negative impact is pretty much never-ending.
Setting a river on fire is way #23, in case you were curious Ohio.

So what would the Earth’s population have to sacrifice to make a dent? I have a few ideas. But, we all know none of them are ever going to happen….

1. Make Country Leaders Give Up Personal Jets

Right out the gate I’m taking a swing at politicians. Well, sort of. I’m not talking about government policies. I’m talking about the non-stop, gas guzzling trips made by most of the world’s leaders.  General air travel has skyrocketed after that pesky Luftwaffe was grounded in ’45. The “lower prices” and bigger airline fleets made air travel a practical reality. Until the early 21st century, that is. Now it’s nothing more than nickle and diming, TSA strip searches, and big shiny targets for terrorist groups.

Our world leaders need to be able to travel at a moment’s notice. They have to tour earthquake areas to acknowledge that, yes, buildings have been reduced to rubble. They need to attend state funerals for people they never knew for PR and, during election season, be able to drop themselves in whatever state they need to whore themselves in for electoral votes. But, isn’t this all outdated and nonessential? Let me answer that for you. Yes. Yes, it is.This is the modern age, you silly pillack. Everything’s virtual or digital… and other things that end in “al” I imagine. First, invest in a Skype or WebEx account. You don’t have to physically be everywhere to give your partisan speeches. Pipe that digital goodness into the Brazilian government‘s multi-purpose room. You don’t see Bin Laden jetting all over the West to distribute his messages of death and infidel fueled rage. It’s all recorded, baby, and posted online. Yes, he’s got a blog and their whole operation is hiding in a cave!

South-park-640x480.jpg

Second, downgrade the bollocks out of the fancy pants transportation. Air Force One, do you really have to be the size of a jumbo jet? I’m thinking more of a Cessna or a Piper Cub. What? It’s just as secure as a gigantic jet aircraft. In fact, it’s even better. Everyone knows that small planes are infinitely harder to hit and easier to land when damaged (The Big Bopper thing was a fluke). Cram the president’s entourage into one of those things with a WiFi ready system and, Bob’s your uncle!

Trust me. I will look a lot better with the Presidential seal on it. Maybe a little less yellow.

2. Stop driving.

 We’ve all heard the non-stop ramblings about how the individual driver is really the cause of much of the Earth’s pollution. So? Billions of people drive every day. China and India have just started the joys of modern auto travel (modern for 1955, that is). Trust me, they’re not going to stop anytime soon. If anything, nations that are just entering their automobile phase are going to rape and poison the Earth in a fraction of the time it took North American and Europe. It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better. Let’s face it, if China can’t be bothered to NOT add antifreeze to cough syrup, what makes you think they give a shit about emissions testing?

Mmm. Breathe in that fresh city air, Beijing.

Are you really serious about saving the environment, society? Then stop driving, unless your vehicle is hydrogen powered. What about the Toyota Prius? It’s rubbish. If the only alternative to good old fashioned fossil fuel burning automobiles is a car with a glorified D cell battery, it’s best not to drive at all.  Alright, fine. I suppose some vehicles could be allowed. Service vehicles like, trash trucks, UPS vans, and pizza delivery wagons. But, in the spirit of maximizing efficiency and radically lowering emissions, they all have to be the same vehicle. Just think of all that o-zone we would save with our trash-UPS-pizza delivery trucks!

In some cases, the pizza may actually taste better.

What about the children? Surely, they need transportation to school. Why bother? Each generation is getting progressively dumber. Society might as well admit defeat now and end schooling of any kind. Not only would it save billions of dollars, it would finally usher in the downfall of society we’ve all been waiting for.

3. Stop using electricity. Everywhere.

You read that right. I’m not talking about simply turning the lights out when you leave a room. I’m talking about turning the lights out forever. Do you know how much fossil fuel is used to generate electricity to run our televisions and industrial strength wall outlet powered marital aids? Neither do I, but I’m guessing it’s a lot.  Imagine the money your average Joe would save by jumping off the grid. Citizens of nations everywhere would save thousands of dollars a year without electricity bills! Alright, so some of that money would have to be invested in glow sticks. I suppose most households would have to find an alternative heat source, too. Our ancestors managed without electricity. They used fire for warmth, light, and cooking. What’s that? Burning wood is still polluting the environment? For fuck’s sake! You can’t have your cake and eat it too.

Not that you’re really going to be able to make too many cakes in our new electricity free world.

Kicking electricity to the curb may even enrich our society. Without electricity there will be no computers. Without computers there will be no blogs. It will no longer be easy for any half-witted dipshit to vomit typed out dumbassary for the masses. It will be like the old days, the sheer expense and effort weeding out the posers. We’ll have to go back to reading actual books and newspapers. I hear you, an increase in newspapers means the death of more trees, yadda, yadda, yadda. Well, society is going to need to wipe their asses with something. Newspaper is one hell of a multi-tasker! Just be sure to read BEFORE you wipe.

 

Wait until you read and wipe with the first print edition of The Fuse Was Too Cold.

4. Wipe out big chain stores.

Nothing embodies the crushing of the very soul of world commerce like the Wal-Mart or Target empire. Mom and Pop stores went the way of the Utah Raptor and Hammer pants. At first, we all cheered. Finally, there is somewhere to go for our economy sized enema needs! Want to buy a pair of boxers and a head of lettuce? At the same store? Well, my friend, you can do that. Never again will you have to make multiple trips to buy condoms, baby lotion, and duct tape.Well, I guess you’re not really serious about healing the planet, then. These gigantic chain and bulk stores are generating enough waste and energy consumption to make Mr. Burns blush.

mrburns.jpeg

According to this article, states have accused Wal-Mart stores of polluting their water with shitty construction practices. Do you know how much electricity retailers need to refrigerate food, power lights, and operate the exit theft alarms that go off for no apparent reason? Our research tells us it’s a shit load [citation needed]. Even when the store is closed the energy consumption keeps trucking on. Do we really want to hurt our environment for a cheap 12 pack of socks and a case of Dr. Thunder? Well, I’m fine with it, but that’s just me.

What WOULDN’T we do for a 12 pack of Dr. Thunder?

Bring back the Mom and Pops. Not only will that diversify the market, it just might bring scurvy back in style. Quick, it’s the middle of winter in northern Saskatchewan and you want an orange. Tough luck. I guess you should just get used to those bleeding gums. Mom and Pop stores, although romantic and quaint, probably won’t be able to carry anything out of season. Your average corner shop may never be able to buy and stock anything outside of an affordable geographical radius. If a store owner was lucky enough to get a hold of a crate of Spanish clementines, they would have to jack up the price to, about, $10 an orange. Scurvy is cheaper.

5. No more concerts, rallies, or protests.

How many of us have a brilliant sexual, drug, or cop beating concert story to tell? Maybe at that Screaming Trees concert the midget next to you projectile vomited so hard at he actually propelled himself through the air. Or what about that rally/protest for something or other you’ll remember for the rest of your life? There’s nothing like showing up somewhere, en mass, to support/protest the troops/president/lactose/soap…. Seriously, there are rallies for anything these days. You don’t really have to know what you’re protesting about.

 

Be warned, Betty White.

It’s nice to know that people out there are willing to express their opinions and use their right to free speech while punching the environment in the face. The millions of people around the world that go on pilgrimages to see Winger live are also killing the environment. Well, in addition to murdering musical taste.

If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem, Stewart.

 Think about it. For your average concert you’ll have one bus for the band, 10 or more trucks for the equipment, one bus for the whores, a catering entourage, a couple more buses for the crew, and a huge power supply for all those trippy lights. Take all of that and add the thousands upon thousands of cars driven by the attendees. Well, why not just set a baby deer on fire?

Go on. Do it. Get the lighter fluid and have at it you monster.

 Protests pretty much cover the same ground. Perhaps, the pinnacle of contradiction is when thousands of people, rock bands, and politicians blow a million tons of fuel to attend some sort of global save the world rally. The environment would be better off if everyone stayed home and live streamed Bono’s pretentious egotism on YouTube.

Little known fact: Bono’s ego and sense of self-satisfaction can power a city the size of London.

A Girl, Her Whisky, and an Irish Holiday

By Ren

I know; Saint Patrick’s Day was a few weeks ago. It’s way to late to publish an article about it or any shenanigans that took place. I’m lazy. It’s time to move onto another topic. Fucker, I just sobered up enough NOW to write about it!
Don’t ask.

So, for you neigh sayers, piss off. I’ll write about what I want, when I want! I’ll write an article about mother fucking Christmas of 2000 if I want. You’re going to sit there and like it.A real Irish chick/dude has to prepare for the drunken joy that is Saint Patrick’s Day. Part of this prep was to take Wednesday through Friday off work. Look, I know my genes. In the past I’ve tried to contain Irish alcoholic’s day to the Wednesday it fell on. But, after considerable research and tests (see: binge drinking), I came to the conclusion that Saint Patrick‘s Day is more of a multi-day holiday like Hanukkah or Wrestlemania.

Our tree is more kick ass, though.
We’ve got the menorah covered, too.

So, as an Irish girl whose father is right off the potato boat, I’ve learned just to accept the truth. I’m going to get completely asstarded drunk, so I might as well take the work days off and get paid for it. Shit, it worked for Ted Kennedy (too soon?). I said “goodbye” to my co-workers, not knowing if I would ever see them again. By this time, tomorrow, I may be in another RCMP holding cell. At the very least, I knew I was going to end up passed out on a pool table.

Deceptively comfortable.

Any good alcoholic gets her recovery kit ready for the aftermath. Surely, you have one. No? Amateur. Alright, I’ll share my ancient Gaelic secret for a proper recovery kit. Warning: there can be NO substitutions.

  • 10 bottles of Gatorade
  • 1 Pair ear plugs
  • 1 box of Saltines
  • 20 pre-penned letters of apology
  • 3 extra dark sunglasses (to be worn at the same time)
  • Passport
  • 2 bottles of Kilbeggan Irish whisky
  • 1 bottle of Excedrin Migraine (to be taken with the whisky- 2 pills and 3 shots every 2 hours)
  • 1 twenty gallon bucket from Home Depot
  • 1 Box of adult diapers
  • Rosary
  • 1 Whisky Makes Me Frisky tee shirt

Having made sure my recovery kit was packed and stowed in a safe location (behind the toilet in the second floor bathroom) I was ready. Ready for what? Damn if I know. I still don’t really know what the fuck happened for those three days. Whatever happened, it was enough to make me swear off drinking Sunday. That’s saying a lot for someone who comes from a nation where bar brawls and domestic abuse are the national past times.

Above: Our nation’s Olympics.

I had to play a little bit of Nancy Drewto piece together whatever the fuck happened from Saint Paddy’s day until when I woke up under my bed with ice skates on my feet Saturday. My recovery kit was emptied out, including the box of adult diapers. That was odd, considering I wasn’t wearing any this time and they were no where to be seen in my room. I argued with gravity for about twenty minutes. Gravity can eat shit. It’s always trying to keep the Irish down. Asshole physics.When I learned to walk again, I peeked out the window to see if there were patrol cars out front. Nope, not this time. There were no signs of a riot. There wasn’t even one person passed out on the lawn. I guess the biggest surprise was that I wasn’t passed out on the lawn. Again.

You can usually see my feet sticking out the bush, here.

I cracked the door and peered into the hallway. No wreckage there either. All the same, I wanted to avoid human contact until I found out if I owed money or had a bench warrant waiting for me. Fuck!Stairs! The one kink in my otherwise perfect plan. I would have held the railing with both hands if I wasn’t holding a half filled bottle of whisky in one of them. So, being the innovative little girl I am, I just slid down the steps on my ass. Here’s a bit of advice: don’t slide down the steps when you have a hangover/still drunk. Halfway down I ended up turned around and crashed on the landing head first.

You win, again, staircase!

I laid there waiting for someone to rush over and help… or yell at me. Whatever. One of the dogs meandered over and sniffed my face. He was judging me. I know it. Fucking dogs. Ooooooooooo! They have paw-eye coordination and can walk in a straight line! Big deal. Show offs. I could walk just fine if I had four legs too. As it stands, crawling on all fours isn’t quite the same thing. That’s how rumors get started.

Hot rumors…

As the dog walked away I say where one of my adult diapers went. I guess I thought it was a good idea at some point to put one on the dog. HA! I’m hilarious! I could safely assume that four diapers were accounted for; two dogs and two cats in the house. I’d never stop with diapering just one animal. That would be half assed.

Just like this, except the dogs in our house are 90 pound Alaskan Malamutes. How the hell did I manage to do that?

I decided to concentrate and do my damnedest to piece together the jumbled jigsaw puzzle that was the last 72 hours. Based on the evidence and the strange fact that I had bird seed in my pocket, I came up with this cobbled together time line.

Wednesday, March 17- Noon
Pre-programmed local area blood banks and hospitals into my GPS. Ate a nutritious Saint Patrick’s day lunch of black bread and Guinness. Either that or a severely moldy slice of bread I found behind the toaster… and Guinness.

Wednesday, March 17- 5 PM
Polished off a case of Smithwhick’s and bummed a ride to the pub. Now, from what I can put together, I either had a friend pick me up or I hitched a ride with a clown. I did find a rubber nose down my pants at one point.

Seems trustworthy enough.

Wednesday, March 17- 11 PM
Sang some Irish karaoke, even though the bar didn’t have a karaoke machine and I was, apparently, singing into an empty toilet paper tube.

May explain the shitty sound check.

Thursday, March 18- 10 AM
Have the feeling I was in Yakima for some odd reason. I don’t have much to base this on other than the appearance of a brand new “I Heart Yakima” t-shirt that I was suddenly wearing.

I really fucking don’t. God, how I fucking hate Yakima.

Thursday, March 18- 1 PM
Something to do with a zoo…

Thursday, March 18- 4 PM
Had a quickie wedding with the bottle of whisky I was drinking.

Thursday, March 18- 4:15 PM
Divorced said bottle of whisky due to irreconcilable differences.

Son-of-a-bitch ran out on me. Literally.

Thursday, March 18- 8 PM

Signed up for the Peace Corps

Thursday, March 18- 9:23 PM

Realized I didn’t sign up for the Peace Corps.  It was a waiver for a wet t-shirt competition.

Thursday, March 18- 11 PM

Inexplicably wearing a soaking wet “I Heart Yakima” t-shirt.

Friday, March 19

A complete fucking blank.

OK, so truthfully, I really don’t have a shit-faced leprechaun’s clue as to what really happened. Oh, I’ve heard rumors. I’m happy to accept that this is one of those Unsolved Mysteries type deal. Well, without the convenience of Robert Stacknarrating.

“Join me in solving the mystery of Ren’s missing bra.”

Family Quality Time = Emotional Anguish

By Roode-

Let’s face it; no one wants to be with their family for the holidays. Anyone who says differently is a fucking liar. Each year many of us ruin a perfectly good Christmas by spending it with people we voluntarily severed ties with. Somehow, the rules change for the holidays. We have to be all nice and social and shit.

This is especially true during Christmas. Somewhere along the line Charles Dickens brain washed society into believing Christmas is a time for forgiveness and family. Well, I don’t forgive and family is the reason why I wake up crying at night.

Dear Charles Dickens: Fuck you.

There is no way I can avoid this train wreck. My wife is very traditional and… well, normal. She had a normal childhood with normal relatives. Her family seems to … um… do that love thing. She has two sisters, bringing the total to three girls in her immediate family. I don’t know what that was like to grow up with. I imagine it had something to do with holding hands, singing Kumbaya, and pillow fights in their underwear. Sorry. That sort of shit is in my head all the time. I mean all of them are smoking hot. Let a guy dream. Hold on. Now I have the most amazing picture in my head. Give me a minute.

Do NOT ruin this fantasy for me!

I, on the other hand, grew up with two brothers. Three boys in one family spells clusterfuck. I’m the middle child, and therefore, the most awesome. Where there may have been tickle fights among the sexy sisters in my wife’s family, there were fist fights and constant emotional pain for us. Our childhood years were devoted to seeing how many swirlies we could give each other before one of us snapped. For the record, it’s eight.

There has always been a certain amount of animosity between me and my older brother, “Greg.” By animosity, I mean outright shit-tastic rage. Greg is a holier-than-thou fucker that lives to point out when I fuck up. Hey, asshole, I don’t need that. I’m married. That shit happens by default.

My little brother, “Gene”, is almost as awesome as I am. Being the youngest, he doesn’t feel the need to live up to anyone’s standards. It’s completely OK if he wakes up in a dumpster smelling of cheap vodka and Chanel. It’s Gene! He so crazy!

How I hate him.

The wife makes me go home for a lot of the holidays. I guess it’s alright to a certain extent. Her family is nauseatingly affectionate. They’re so polite and sweet to each other. That shit makes me sick. There’s so much nice floating around, I usually have to step out for some air. Where’s the fucking animosity? How are you supposed to unwrap gifts without throwing a bowling ball at someone? This is just insanity.

The tree usually caught fire at some point, too.

We’re from lower/central Alberta. It’s a good twelve hour ride o’ hell from where we live in Montana. That gives me plenty of time to plan for the circus of horrors. At any given time it’s 5 degrees, but the rage Greg and I emit raises the temperature to a balmy 10. My loving and oh so naive wife gives me a pep talk every year. I don’t have the heart to tell her that it does nothing. The only thing that would truly help is a bottle of Windsor and a shit ton of explosives.

Just add alcohol.

So, why do we subject ourselves to this bullshit? Tradition? Sentiment? The possibility of putting my Yule log in my wife’s fireplace? Yeah, it’s that last one. Like you’re above bartering for sex. Married sex is a game of Risk for the husband. You’re constantly attempting to figure out the other’s next move. For the wife, it’s more like a game of hitting a bunch of bottles at the fair, except instead of a little shit BB gun, she has a friggin rocket launcher. Husbands just aren’t hard to get. I’m proud of that shit.

Something about this doesn’t seem fair.

Everyone has some issues. Some have enough issues to fill a fucking newspaper stand in Times Square. There are a metric shit-ton of dysfunctional families out there. Even the most functional suffer a core meltdown during the holidays.

In some families it’s sibling rivalry. In others, it’s the cold hard truth that your dad always wanted a boy. There are always those precious few that have an “uncle” no one talks about. Be it Uncle Joe and his disturbing obsession with women’s underwear or Uncle Sheamus who spent the better part of the 80’s building bombs for the IRA using alarm clock parts and road flares.

Yeah… One of Sheamus ‘ “novelty” alarm clocks.

So, again, why do we do this to ourselves? We all have our reasons. I already told you mine (married sex). Some of you have forgotten what hellish treats the homestead has in store and need a refresher. Either way, we’re all idiots.

After surviving the arctic tundra that is southern Alberta, well pulled into my parents’ driveway. My parents love my wife. She’s the daughter they never had; which is sort of disturbing, because that would mean we’re in an incestuous relationship. That shit may happen in Manitoba, but not here, Bub. Don’t believe me? This article (about inbred sparrows) says it all!

OK, I just ASSUME there’s a lot of inbreeding in Manitoba. Have you ever been to Winnipeg?

My record for the shortest amount of time between arrival and being fuck-shit pissed beyond belief is one hour. Sorry, it WAS one hour. Within thirty minutes the rage fuse was lit; middle son fighting oldest son while the youngest son eggs them on and takes bets. The mother begging them to get along and the father pouring himself another highball… that’s Christmas mother fucker!

Above: Means of escape.

I won’t bore you with the bullshit details. Let’s just say that someone assaulted someone else with a wreath and that someone else returned fire with a life sized baby Jesus.

As if I need another reason to go to Hell.

After a fifteen minute bourbon break, we resumed the thirty year war. Efforts to barter for peace were futile. My nephew asked if I was “Going to kill daddy?” Being the great uncle I am, I told him “Yes.”

Yeah, I hear you judgmental pricks. “But, Roode, assaulting your brother with the baby Jesus isn’t the grown up thing to do.” Shut the fuck up! In familial situations like this, there are only three options.

1. Keep drinking Cisco until your liver literally punches a hole through your abdomen and leaves.

2. Lock yourself in the bathroom and assume the fetal position.

3. Assault your brother with a plastic baby Jesus.

At the time, number 3 (with a healthy dose of number 1) was the most logical choice.

+

= SOLUTION

Somehow, we made it through Christmas without sending someone to the hospital… again. No, I don’t hate Greg. I have been programmed to love my brother. I wasn’t programmed to like the son-of-a-bitch. I wouldn’t want to see him killed. That is, unless, it was by my hand.

Tough love.

After the goodbyes were said, my wife begged me to be the “bigger man” and let the ceaseless war drop until next year. So I did. To her knowledge, anyway. I may or may not have shampooed his car’s carpet with spoiled eggnog before we left. Suck on that fucker!

I don’t know if a full and real truce will ever be reached. At the moment, we’re more like Israel and Palestine; with a lot less ethnic cleansing and a lot more alcohol. I guess that would make my parents’ house the Gaza Strip.

Somewhere, in there, my dad is pouring himself another highball.

Sincerely,

Roode

 

 

 

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.
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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.
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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.
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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.”
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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.
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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.
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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.

Delish.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.

Bundy.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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!
Sincerely,
Roode