You may or may not have noticed that FWTC has been “off the air” for most of the year. Why? Why in God’s name would be deprive the world of US? I mean, this site is comedic gold! What could possibly explain WHY such a tragic thing would happen. Your reader mail has gone unanswered, there has been absolutely no East Coast earthquake coverage, and NO REN!
To satisfy your curiosity (real or imagined by us) here is a list of five potential reasons we’ve been incognito. Which ones are true? Beats the hell out of me.
- Ren finally got her Playboy shoot and ran away from us.
- Roode finally snapped and went on a killing spree.
- Adel realized that she’s has two Ph.Ds and was too good for this bullshit chuckle factory.
- Tresckow went into hiding for reasons unknown.
- Ren. That’s it. Just Ren.
Actually, it was a combination of things ranging from site glitches, author availability, family issues, career issues, clinical depression, and all sorts of other lame ass stuff. Here’s what we can promise:
- We’re going to ease back into regular publication.
- We’re going to “re-release” some of the “vintage” articles to help pass the time.
- We’ve got an assload of articles waiting in the queue.
- We wish most of 2011 never happened.
- We’ll keep listing shit for the sake of listing shit.
- Ren will be in your nightmares.
You would be surprised how often an artist had to try before he came up with his masterpiece. Michelangelo had to carve countless dongs out of marble to get “David” just right. I don’t know what he did with all the extras, but I’m pretty sure I have a guess.
This is also true with FWTC. As Tresckow pointed out here, many an idea for an article is shit canned, dies on the table, or sits in the queue until someone takes responsibility for it. It’s not that all of these ideas suck (well, none of mine). It’s just that, sometimes, we can’t make them work. Even if we can, something comes along to ball- tag us into submission. The server could shit its pants just before we hit “save.” One of our computers will lock up and give us the finger. Some dipshit (Tresckow) could click the wrong button and end up using a later version of the write-up and derail the train. In any case, it happens to me, sometimes. This instance isn’t because the subject sucked or that I couldn’t make it work. It’s more like it was killed with an over abundance of laziness and cyber-bullshit clusterfuck.
Towards the end of 2010, Facebook’s Friend Finder bullshit was on everyone’s monitor. It would outright lie and do its best to con your dumb ass into signing up for their thinly veiled market research campaign. It pissed me off. I know, it’s hard to imagine. But, I shit you not, it sent me on more than one curse filled rant. So, I figured I’d write an article about it. Why not? If Ren can pull a bit about ConAir out of her ass, I surely can spin hate-fueled gold.
At this point, I’ve got a pretty good handle on things. I’m raring to go and stayed up all night looking for new ways to say, “dick bag.”
I remember when I never used Facebook. Those were wonderful times. I’m naturally pretty adverse to most technology; smart phones, navigation systems, online social media, shoes… Look, the point is that I like life to be simple.
Here, I proudly admit to my complete monkey-dumbassary as far as technology goes. As with most pieces on comedy websites, a well-trained author will throw in a little self-deprecating humour in an effort to pretend he’s on the same level as the readers. That’s not true. In actuality, the author is on a completely different plane of existence; too advanced to be understood by simple mortals and their love for ass-chapping reality television shows.
It took many a round of convincing by the wife that Facebook was a good tool to keep in touch with family and friends. You know, the fuckers I try to stay away from. But, as usual, I caved. Yeah, I’m a complete sucker for my wife. From angrily watching Glee with her to removing the frozen pizza from the box BEFORE I put it in the oven.
Yes, another jab at my baffling incompetence with being a functioning part of society. Please note that I have, once again, put my wife on a pedestal, calling notice to her ability to both deal with my shit and walk through life doing every-ever-fucking-loving thing perfectly. That, and I figured it’s a pretty good half-assed attempt in getting laid. You know, build her up while making myself look like a stooge. In case you’re wondering, it didn’t work.
I signed up for FB, after answering a thousand shit eating questions. Sure, I could have just opened an account and left it at that. But, FB doesn’t play that game. It mocks you every time you sign on. “Hey! Your profile is empty!” “Why not add some interests? Everybody else is doing it!” Even if I can manage to avoid that social networking bastard’s taunts, fucker goes ahead and tells the world that I’m a slack ass.
Now, I still have a pretty tight grasp on where this article is going. Remember, 1. I hate technology, 2. I hate Glee, 3. Facebook is a bag of dicks.
After I waded through all that touchy-feely bullshit I Ronco-ed that bad boy; set it and forget it. One of the reasons I chose FB (other than my wife’s mysterious, yet sexy power over me) is that it didn’t have as many of those annoying aps as MySpace. As soon as I got somewhat comfortable with my virtual existence I was hit by a shit storm of game invites, survey results, and constant advertisements calling me by name.
Yeah, another compliment to the wife. Look, I need all the help I can get. I tend to get banished to the couch a lot. But, my point is clear. Facebook exploits a human’s basic need to play online games that aren’t worth two shits in Wyoming.
Oh, Adel questioned the reference to Ronco; saying no one born after 1978 was going to get it. As with everything else I’ve written, my philosophy is “Fuck you.”
Fuck it. It’s not 100% intrusive. These fucktarded ads are just in the left column. There are ways to ignore bullshit Mob Wars and Whose-it-fuckis FarmVille/town/empire/concentration camp. Wait. FarmVille Concentration Camp may be something I’d get into. Build your barbed wire fences little by little. Earn enough funds from the government to hire all the guards you need. And bullets… lots and lots of bullets.
I’m particularly proud of this section. “FarmVille Concentration Camp” is the best idea in the history of social networking. Someone get on this NOW! I once hammered out a complete schematic of how this game would work. I had to draw it in pencil, because as you can tell, I suck royal ass at photoshop. Once completed, I showed it around to a few friends for their take on it- you know; railway stations, mines, labour groups, random executions… No one really said anything. I just got a call from Amnesty International.
Then, that’s it. It went off the rails. No, my writing didn’t spiral down into a pit of hellishness not seen since Ugly Betty. I banged out another page or two of ball-grabbing hilarity. But, oh no. Life gladly took my efforts on top of Mount Son-of-a-bitch and threw them over the side.
My computer and the FWTC server decided to have a pissing contest. It didn’t matter who won, because I lost. FireFox told me that my session lasted a little too long, so it had to shut it down. So what? The FWTC server generously supplied by wordpress updates and saves every few minutes. I may lose that last joke about vagina hockey, but I can add it once I reopen the file. See? Easy!
Firefox decided it was imperative that I leave the website’s dashboard IMMEDIATELY! Something got its panties in a bunch and it wanted to shut the whole fucking system down. Alright. Fine. I’ll just click “save” on the dashboard and Bob’s your uncle. Wait a second…
What in fuck’s name just happened? the WordPress dashboard won’t let me save my work. In fact, it’s just staring at me like a retarded kid during a school bus ride. I click “Save” once. I click it twice; the little bastard just stands there. The “Save” button doesn’t give a shit about me or my needs. I can’t go forward, because Firefox won’t let me. I can’t reason with the dashboard, because it, flat-out, wants to see me in a rage that will take the house and half the block with it. Hmmm. The back arrow isn’t all grayed out. It’s my only choice, I guess. Otherwise, I’m going to be sitting in front of this fucking computer forever.
So, as I usually say when cars, computers, alcohol, and kids are concerned, Fuck It! The back arrow is my friend. It has to be. I just lost a day’s work here. Something has to still be hanging around on one of the previous windows. Right?
FUCK! That sure as hell didn’t work! It skipped a few dozen pages and took my ass to a page visit from two days ago? Why? Who’s fucking with me? One of the greatest masterpieces of all times is getting shit-canned because, the cyber-world is being a little bitch. All I wanted to do is complete this article, get it copy edited, then click “send.” BAM! Off to the next.
Well, when there’s hope, there’s someone to kick you in the head with an iron boot! I backtracked all the previous versions of my article. WordPress makes it relatively easy to compare and contrast versions just in case you want to include that line about that fat lady being arrested for causing a ruckus (to all you motherfuckas- sorry, I was channeling Busta Rhymes for a second) on that quiet car on that Amtrak train going from Oakland, CA to Salem, OR. I can’t quite remember if I called her a “douche bag with a phone attached” or “illiterate, obnoxious fat ass.” So, I go back into my archives (or versions as WordPress calls them) and check the older saved versions. That would have worked on any other day. Today is not any other-fucking day.
The most recent version that was saved was waaaaay back when I first started the article. It had a title and the by-line. That’s it. I was miffed. Maybe, a tad upset. Fine! I threw my keyboard out the window.
But, I couldn’t let my loyal fans (fan?) down! I diligently pieced together the article, calling upon my photographic memory to fit the puzzle together. After a couple of hours I was stoked. Screw the last version of the article! This one is IT! THIS ONE! It’s funnier, more offensive, and more ROODE than all the other versions combined. I AM ALL THAT IS MAN!
I hit “save” and sent a message to Tresckow that my future Nobel Prize worthy article was ready for copy editing. Now all I had to do was sit back and wait for the final product; a few funny pics here and there, some grammar correction, maybe a new variation on the term “ball sack…” That’s right, Jack. I was sitting pretty.
Somehow, some way Tresckow managed to fuck it up. Who the hell knows what happened? He hit the wrong key? Spilled whiskey on the keyboard? Called the server a reach-arounder? In any event, once again, my article was thoroughly punched in the taint. Half of it disappeared like in a bad Chris Angel sketch (sort of redundant). What I was left with was the original half of the article I lost a day before. Whether I was sabotaged, because of jealousy of my AWESOME writing skills or the server really wanted to dick me over; one thing was very clear:
Yeah, you read the title right. After a series of retarded, drug induced, and batshit nuts events I was asked to attend a Playboy playmate casting call. Yes. Me. What? No, I’m not drunk. I’m not drunk at the moment, just buzzed. It happened, damn it!
How did this happen? I’m not 100% sure. Apparently, a few months back, a few other girls and I were partaking in several mind altering substances and left to our own devices. So, as usual when you have a small group of hot, stoned, and drunk chicks by themselves, we took naked pictures of each other. That happens at other parties, right?
At some point someone came up with the idea that we should send in pics to Playboy. Look, some people get angry when they’re drunk, others send in applications to a men’s magazine. As it turns out, I was the only one stoned, drunk, and determined enough to actually send my shit in. Everyone else backed out. Fuckers. “Oh, let Ren submit nudes of herself to Playboy… we’re going to be lame.” The eerie thing is that my porn star prophecy seems to be coming true.
Then, I outright forgot about the whole thing. I mean, it’s Playboy. OK, pictures of naked women are awesome, but Playboy has been on a serious decline over the years. This is part of the reason they cut their circulation by 38% in 2009. That and we’re all pretty desensitized due to an over abundance of hard core internet porn.
So some chuckle head at Playboy gave me a call and invited me to a casting call. At first, I had no idea what he was talking about. Was this a fucking joke? I would have bet some serious cash that it was Roode pulling some shit. It was legitimate. After a fun game of “What the fuck did Ren do now?” I pieced it all together. HA! That’s hilarious. I would have posed for nudes sober. I don’t really have many inhibitions for alcohol and pot to let loose.
I tracked down the biography I sent to them. After reading it a few times, I was surprised I got a call. OK, Momma can put butts in the seats. But, as Tresckow so thoughtfully pointed out, it should have been obvious to them that I was a complete Irish nutjob. Go ahead. Click on that bad boy below and look for yourself.
Ladies and gentlemen, that application isn’t just some goofy illustration for humor’s sake. That is the, honest to Guinness, genuine article. There was something about the way I came off in that bio that grabbed their attention. Other than the hot ass nude pics I sent in. I mean, on looks alone, I could be the grand poobah of my own nudie mag. They get thousands of submissions from tons of young ladies every year. Some want to use Playboy as a stepping stone into C-list movies. Others want the gig for the cash and the chance to be a washed up C-list actor. No matter what, all these chicks have one thing in common: they care. The quality that set me apart was the fact that I didn’t give one iota of a goat’s shit. Jesus O’Nazareth, I wouldn’t have remembered the whole cockeyed stunt if someone didn’t give me a call.
Did I mention I got the call at work? Yeah, I did. It’s one thing taking a personal call from a drunken buddy when you’re at the cube farm. I mean, what’s the office protocol when you get a call from naked chicks monthly? Naturally, I maintained a demure and refined disposition. By that, I mean, I yelled, “HA! People want me to pose naked!” For reasons unknown, the entire office came to a dead stop. Dude? Why? I mean I had to put up with that sort of shit when someone’s kid shot a baby out of their cooch. “I’m a grandmother,” some dipthong would bellow. Big fucking deal. Women in China and India are churning kids out like it’s the diaper shitter industrial revolution. Posing butt ass naked in Playboy is an achievement. Someone, decades from now, will be researching the evolution of hot, naked, Irish blonds and BANG there I am. It’s on the fucking record, baby. History has been made. No one is going to remember some mouth breeder’s dipshit kid a hundred years from now. Unless the kid turns out to be another Abe Lincoln or Black Gallagher. What are the odds of that?
A parent can only dream.
I mulled the offer over in my head. I had to do this right. Make a list of pros and cons. That’ll help me make a sound, adult decision.
- Free plane ticked to casting call
- Bragging rights
- Inappropriate behavior for a law student
- Casting call held in Philadelphia
- Coach flight
- Family horror
- The whole objectification of women thing
- Inappropriate behavior for a law student
Well, shit. Who doesn’t want to be objectified now and again? This is the sort of thing I would put on my resume (try not to take a double take at that, fuckers) and … fuck it. I don’t need good reasons. Momma’s doing this shit.
Surprisingly, my father supported me. He trusts my decisions and knew I would just have fun with the whole thing.
I’ve never been on the East Coast before. I’ve never really wanted to be. It would just be little ‘ol me in the big, scary City of Brotherly Homicides. In an effort to keep me safe (and to keep others safe from me) I was assigned a chaperone. A cousin. An older cousin who, let’s say, belongs to an adult version of the 4H Club.
So, everything was set for my drunken naked East Coast extravaganza. Almost. Hmmmm… who do I know in that triangle of pigeon shit known as the Delmarva area? Who? Oh yea, Tresckow. That’s it. Being the only one on staff at FWTC not to be in a part of the country where grizzlies roam free and engage in the occasional zucchini fight, he was in the prime location to suffer my wrath. I mean enjoy a visit from me.
Fast forward a month and I was on my way. We landed around 10 at night. Or 8. Fucking time zones. Let me take a moment to tell you about my first impressions of the Philadelphia International Airport and Bus Station. It’s a low brow version of a sewage treatment plant. Tresckow pretty much nailed it on the head when he said it was a piece of shit bundled in fancy gift wrap. Those fuckers like to play a cruel game of checked luggage roulette. No only does it take FOREVER to get your shit off the plane, it’s NEVER at the noted carousel. Flight from Seattle to Philadelphia luggage: carousel B. WRONG! We’re fucking with you. It’s really coming out on carousel D. HA! Wrong again! It’s carousel A. This time, we’re not kidding. FUCK YOU! It’s spewing out on E. Muhahahahahaha!
Being a good friend and pseudo-sister-in-law, I called Tresckow, non stop as soon as I stepped off the plane. I called him when we got into a taxi. I called him when we got to the hotel. I called him when I found the mini bar. I called to tell him what I ordered from room service. I called him incessantly, is what I’m trying to say here. That’s what friends do.
We arranged to meet at the hotel the next morning. My appointment was around 10 AM, but I wanted Tresckow to be there to meet us earlier. I figured he would keep my cousin company while I was getting all naked and shit. I didn’t think either of them would mind waiting for me in a hotel full of hot potential centerfolds and whatnot. I sure as hell enjoyed myself.
Leaving Tresckow and the cousin to their own devices, I took my bag-o-outfits to my interview. They tell you to bring a bikini, nightie, a sexy dress, and be prepared to be naked for a while. I’m always prepared to be naked. So, no biggie. I sat around outside the room for a few minutes sizing up the competition. HA! Competition. No such thing. It begins and ends with me. Fuck-a-yucks didn’t know who they were up against. I’m all charming and shit.
I was called into the room and met a tribunal of interviewers, including one of the hoity-toity photographers. I did the typical dog and pony show that chicks in that situation do; modeled different outfits, went through some awkward poses, and did the whole nude thing. I guess I did well. They didn’t throw a brick at me. A rack full of different clothes was on the opposite side of the room. The photographer told me to pick something out to wear. I went simple- white dress shirt, a Seattle Mariners cap (which I brought with me), and… well, that was all. Dude, those pics turned out smoking hot. I mean, dayummmm. Want to see one? OK, maybe one pic.
After all that, the interview segment began. They fired some of your standard questions at me: “If you cold be a tree, what kind would you be?” “Why do you want to be a model?” “Tell us about your craziest lover.” “What’s the square root of 3044442.008?” I answered each trying not to roll my eyes. Finally, I blurted out, “BORING!” That derailed the interview like locomotive hitting a pile of dead cows.
“Boring?” the dude with the power tie asked. “Are we boring you?”
My parents always told me to tell the truth. What did I care if I offended a bunch of people interviewing me for something I really didn’t want? “Yeah,” I responded. “These questions suck. I’m interviewing for Playboy, not a fucking job at an insurance company. Ask questions with some balls. BIG balls. You know, like ‘If you could dispose of British rule in Northern Ireland how would you do it?’ ‘Why are you so awesome?’ ‘How do you make an Irish car bomb with just a corn cob and a piece of dental floss?’ Those questions have big ‘ol brass danglers!”
Contrary to what you may think happened next, I didn’t get thrown out by security. After I answered my own questions, (start an underground campaign to overthrow the figurehead monarch- because, I fucking rule- hollow out the corn cob and use the floss as a fuse after soaking it in gasoline) they kept talking to me. It all went a completely different direction. I told them about my drunken rampages throughout Northern Ireland, Idaho, and Montana. I told the story of my drunken excursion/invasion of Alberta. Hell, I even pantomimed what it was like to jump out a window, landing on a nun. I was the opposite of everyone they’ve ever interviewed. They loved it.
Apparently, I was so utterly fascinating, they bumped the next interview so they could spend more time with me. Well, duh. I’m a fucking treasure. It’s like I was the first little militant Irish girl from Idaho they’ve ever met. Okay, I may have told them that I fully plan on ruling the Pacific Northwest and the Canadian province of British Columbia with an iron fist. The tribunal just laughed at the joke. Yeah. Right. Joke.
I left after an hour interview (they’re usually less than half that) with a request for another in LA and an invitation to a party later this year at the Playboy mansion. Nah, I’m kidding. No. I’m not. Am I? Maybe. Then again, maybe not.
What does this all mean? Hell if I know. One of their talent dudes told me there is an excellent chance of being on, at least, the cyber magazine with better than average chances at something bigger. You know what? I still don’t care. Either way, I’m cool with it. I’m just along for the ride. And that ride is taking me to LA. For free. FREEEEE! I can handle that.
Once I left the premises with Tresckow and my illegal firearm carrying cousin, I took some time to explore the area. I’m not sure why. It was hot. You people in that area may be used to that. I’m not. Momma wasn’t built for that kind of ass crack moistening heat. Humidity? What the fuck is that? How do you people live like this? Although, I hear winters in the central Atlantic states is pretty mild. It only gets to 30 degrees with a few feet of snow. We call that Spring in Montana. For fuck’s sake there was a winter weather advisory in motherfucking August.
The three of us explored all the excitement interstate 95, northern Delaware, and northern Maryland had to offer. Which was nothing. Delaware? Why are you pretending to be a state? You’re not fooling anyone. You’re living a fucking lie, fudge sacks.
The absolute best thing we did during this whole trip was visit Tresckow’s house. That’s right. He let me into his home. Reluctantly, but he did it nonetheless. We drank whisky and beer. Then more whisky. We gave him a gift bottle of whisky then proceeded to drink it. I raided his liquor cabinet and rooted around in his fridge. Did I forget to say that the fucker put a bag of used, stinky cat litter under my bed when he came out to our place for Adel’s wedding? I did? Well, it was payback time! In the short time I was in the heart of Fortress Tresckow I managed to deal him the pain. I glued all the caps of his toiletries shut, toilet papered the second story of his place, and committed another atrocity he has yet to figure out. That’s right, pugnuts. It’s not over.
The only person I feel some sort of remorse for is Tresckow’s wife. She found herself in the middle of our little Jihad and was an unintended victim. She was none too pleased to see her stairway encased in Charmin.
We were leaving from BWI for home. I planned that so Tresckow would have to drive us there. Yeah, I forced quality time on him. Who wouldn’t want some quality time with me? Anyway, we did manage to stop and see some of the sights.
Somewhere north of Baltimore, Treskcow took us to a place of goodness. A place I never imagined was real. A place that made this little Mick’s dreams come true. What is this wonderland of fun and artery rotting awesomeness?
At first, I figured “big deal, it’s a gas station.” Oh no, my friends. This is no mere gas station. This is a junk food eating, coffee drinking Mecca the likes of which have never graced the Montana, Idaho, Washington area. I ate, my friends. I ate everything I could: schmuffins, schmiscuts, hot dogs drenched in nacho cheese. I basically came in my pants due to sheer gas station grub delight.
I may have gotten slightly hopped up on Sheetz coffee and was an unholy terror on the flight back home. Who’s to say? All I know is that when Playboy offers me a contract, one of the stipulations will be payment in the form of Sheetz food. Oh, and Delaware. I’m talking total annexation. The first state? No. It will be the NO state. I will build Delaware up to Greek City-state status and be the first Playboy model to rule an annexed nation inside the continental United States. It’s a win win!