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Amnesia Lane: Halloween Pumpkin Carving: Gateway to Mass Murder

Yeah, it’s almost December and we’re just now putting this into the AMNESIA LANE chute.  Don’t care.  READ IT!  Who wouldn’t want to read about Roode’s pumpkin carving inadequacies?


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?

Retail Hell On Earth- Stores Need to Stock More Bras!

By, Ren

Yeah, I know.  I kind of blew the mystery of this article right out the gate.  I’ve even had running arguments with Roode and Tresckow about it.  They don’t want “an article of chick shit” to dominate this week’s update.  Or was it they didn’t want chick shit in FWTC at all?  I guess it really doesn’t matter, because I’m doing what I want, anyway.  Who’s gonna step up and try to stop me?  I’ll go all Sinn Fein on your ass!

We even turned on our own. Poor bastard, Michael Collins did what he could to hammer out a treaty with the British, but shut the door on Northern Ireland. That got his ass killed.

Oh, buck up, little camper.  No one is going to shoot you in the head for not digging an article written about the trials and tribulations of the trials and tribulations that women face at the department store.  Well, I wouldn’t shoot you in the head.  I know plenty of people who are fully capable of sending jacketed metal crashing through skull.  But, there will be no need here.  Will there?  Don’t make me find a need!

It will give me a reason to wear my Baroness costume. And I fucking ROCK in that thing.

What is this thing about?  I’m sorry.  I’m on my second bottle of Johnnie Walker Black and I’m not sure where I put my jeans.  That’s it!  Jeans!  Well, to be more specific, clothes.  Where do we get clothes?  Stores.  Why do we go to stores?  To shop for things we need/want.  What makes it a good shopping experience?  Finding something in that fashion pushing abattoir that’s at least your fucking size!  Sound easy?  Does it?  Then you’re a dude.  And, dude, you don’t know SHIT about clothes shopping atrocities.  You fuckers get new clothes, maybe, three times in a decade.  If one of those times you find that you have joined the fatty circus America has been running for the  past 20 years no worries!  Just look down.  Yuppers, has your cute beer gut added on guest quarters?  Shit, just root through the lower shelves of jeans in the men’s section.  It’s like hitting the piñata dead on, every time and getting a maelstrom of relaxed carpenter’s jeans or a twelve pack of tightie whities.  You swinging dicks are in and out of a store in 3 minutes.

Roode: "Jesus Christ! I just need to know where the socks and plain white t-shirts are. CHEAP socks and t-shirts! I have to get outta here in 3 minutes or less!"

That shit does not happen for women.

Don’t you even say that’s because we don’t know what we’re looking for.    Don’t start preaching  like Ben Affleck in  Mallrats, “I have no respect for people with no shopping agenda.”  Suck it, ya sack.  I always go to the mall or department store knowing what it is I’m looking for.  Sure, I may not have run a reconnaissance mission the night before to get the drop on the turtle neck to black “fuck me boots” ratio, but I know what I need, damn it.  Alright, I may come back with extra.  The men that tag along need to clamp it.  It’s fucking hard for a girl to find exactly what she’s looking for, let alone the correct size.

This shit is unacceptable.

So, women- join my fist shaking.  Men, sit there and shut up.  If you guys want to reap the rewards of the end result (little skirts and tight tops with knee high boots), then you’ll fucking grin and bear it.  Don’t make me take out my Baroness costume again!

1.  Jean sizes lie

You know, it must be nice for guys to use the S, M, L, XL system.  That shit doesn’t really work for most women.  Why?  Because some fudge sack at every manufacture makes all their sizes just a little bit different than every other clothing manufacturer.  A small in Lee’s may be a bit larger in Silver Tab.  What’s that mean?  Well, instead of just grabbing shit off the counter, we have to try EVERYTHING on.  We don’t just go into the fitting room for an hour and a half to piss you off.  Well, that’s not the whole reason.  Frankly, women can’t fucking trust what the labels say.  A small is not a small is not a small.  No one in either gender is built identically, but clothing manufactures for guys seem to be able to generalize like it’s no body’s business.  Women get shafted with the “Goldilocks Porridge” scenario.  You have to pick what fits right the first time or you’re pretty much doomed to having a pair of jeans that strangle your ovaries or have enough room left over to rent out.

For shit’s sake, Consumer Reports actually conducted a study on the batshit craziness of jean sizes.  Comparing the same style of jeans, they found a difference of 2 inches in the waist and an inch in length.  THE SAME FUCKING STYLE!  So, even if you know what size of a particular brand fits you, all bets are off if you start looking at another one.  It’s the fucking wild west!


2.  Blouse proportions suck

I’m small.  I’m little.  I’m mother-chucking teeny tiny.  I make no apologies for it. I’m a wee 5′ 1″ and hover around 100 pounds.  I’m a leprechaun.  But, I’m a well proportioned leprechaun.  Mama’s got a nice rack and a butt that doesn’t quit.  There’s a problem though.  Other women have bigger racks and small asses.  Or, some have smaller boobs and gimungous hips.  Any way you slice it, blouse shopping sucks.  Why, you may ask  Well, Calvin Klein doesn’t design a top for every boob-butt-hip-torso scenario.  The same shirt that looks awesome on me will be utterly useless for a chick with a long torso.  A blouse that said long torso chick can wear will make me look like I’m wearing a friggin smock.  It’s hell finding the right blouse that, not only is the proper size, but suits your proportions.  Many a time I fell in love with a top that looked great on the rack, but looked ridiculous on me.  So, what does this mean come shopping time?




3.  Jean sizes are cryptic (Yeah, I’m still stuck on jeans)

Again, I have to draw a comparison between guys and gals.  Let’s say my brother wants to buy a new pair of jeans (presumably, because his old ones have literally ceased to exist).  Well, shit cakes, it’s easy!  If he (more likely, his wife) knows his waist and inseam measurements it’s a walk in the park.  He goes into the mall, roots around for his size, and now has another pair of jeans he can wear until they disintegrate.  He doesn’t even need to try them on.  It’s a fucking love story.

Sometime ago, some sadistic fucker decided that it wasn’t proper for women’s jeans to show such personal information.  The measurement of a chick’s inseam and waist were just too taboo.  A gentleman never asks and a lady never tells.  BULLSHIT!  Thanks to all that mess, women are consigned to a living hell of distrusting their eyes and needing a goddamn Enigma Machine to decipher the top secret sizing code.


According to the Enigma Machine, this pair of jeans is actually a size 4 and not the posted size 2.

Guess what this all means, again.




4.  Finding the right bra is a pain in the ass

No, finding a bra isn’t like finding a pair of underwear for a guy.  Good ones don’t come in three packs and you just can’t guesstimate it.  Our boobs need more than a bra from the drug store.

Firstly, there are no less than a million different types of braziers out there.   There’s full cup, demi cup, padded, underwired, strapless, convertible…

No, not this kind of convertible

Finding the right bra is like finding the Ark of the Covenant for us.  The difference being that the Ark is easier to find.  The bitch of it is that, unlike blouses and jeans, not every store lets a girl charge back into the fitting room and try on some boobicle restraints.  I guess I sort of understand that reasoning.  They don’t let you try on underwear.  But, fuck, it’s almost impossible to find a bra that fits you like Cinderella’s glass slipper.


Yes, this is an actual glass bra. I can't even imagine what type of situation would even call for this thing.

Here’s a little know tidbit of trivia:  bra sizes aren’t an exact science.  As with other clothes, each brand will fit a girl differently.  Buy one too big and your boobs are bouncing around in the cups.  Buy one too small and you got yourself a designer vice grip.  Women don’t screw around when it comes to breast support and comfort.  Once we find a brand that fits like the proverbial glove, we don’t deviate.  This usually means they cost more.  Fuck it!  It’s worth it to properly showcase the goods.


Women will pay out the ass for a bra that fits this well. The garters and thigh highs are a bonus.


Oh yeah, guys.  Being braless isn’t always sexy.


Blind yet?



Lowest Bidder + House Construction = Crap

By Tresckow

Doing home repairs and little home improvement chores is the number three cause of rage induced killing sprees [citation needed]. There are already two strikes against me when I attempt to “fix” anything in the home. A short temper and hammer typically don’t bode well together outside a Saw movie. The last thing I need is to suffer for the actions of the asshats that slapped the place together thirty years ago.

I am an advocate of putting the “mentally special-capped” or “retarded” to work, but not when it comes to building houses

Something about this isn’t right.

If the majority of housing companies and associations opt for the lowest bidder, the group of monkeys that shit my house out decided to have the construction done for free. It’s painfully obvious that the crew of drunken cavemen that built my house were either completely insane or just plain mentally rat-shit retarded.

Me no work now. Me on break. Talk to me union.

Would you like to hang a shelf up? Fuck you! Make one mistake and you’ll have to tear down the whole wall and rebuild. Why? Because the group of ass monkeys that “built” our place used the absolute shittiest dry wall on the market. Check that… I’m not sure it was actually on the market. It may really be some concoction one of the suckos made in his bathtub. I’ve had saltines thicker and more stable than the walls in my house. Nice job you shit eating crotch grabbers!

Shown: Superior building material.

It’s like the place was built believing that there would be NO INTENTION OF REPLACING ANYTHING!! Why simply screw in that shower head? Weld the fucker! That’s right. Weld that sumabitch on. I’m sure the owners thirty years in the future will be just as jazzed about this no thrills bargain basement shower head as our drunken incompetent asses are today!

Let’s see those fuckers replace this shower head NOW!

Excellent move fucknuts! This shit isn’t built to last. It’s built to fall apart and piss you the fuck off. I would stone you simple ass clowns if I could! I mean it! A full fledged out of the Old Testament stoning!

I got my throwing stone ready!

Oh shit, don’t get me started on our front door. What kind of twisted dillweed would use the rarest, hardest to find, obsolete piece of shit door knob in existence. Why is that a problem? Because the hole used to install the knob is TOO SMALL for a conventional, NORMAL, MODERN door knob. I had to spend a damn HOUR with sandpaper and a hammer to get that pain in the ass opened enough to replace the knob. I wouldn’t have had to replace it if that piece of shit didn’t fall off in my hand! What kind of vomit inducing bullshit is this? You sadistic crack whores! I hope you get typhoid.

Funny thing is the Before repair picture looks exactly like the After repair picture.

Don’t get me wrong. This is our first house and owning is definitely better than renting (aside from the joy of letting someone else worry about repairs, snow shoveling, and building codes). A syphilitic monkey with his eyes jammed up another monkey’s ass would have built a better house. The goons that built this place recognized quality when they saw it. They recognized it and walked the widest fucking circle around it. Nice job! I wish I knew these jackholes in real life so I could seal them in a wall.

Screw it. Just tie it all in a square knot and let’s hit the Hooters.

I’m sure there will be more to come of this saga. I’ll have to talk about the circa 1970’s goat vomit green rug in my office. Oh how I hate you contractors from hell. I want to hurt you, but I can never hurt you as badly as you hurt me!

I have a few ideas, though.

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!