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2010: The Year of the Ren

By, Ren-

That’s right.  Read that title over again.  Again.  One more time.  Got it, now?  I fucking rule.  Of course, this is no surprise to you readers.  How many other little blonde Micks can mock international law, escape molestation by a clown on Saint Patrick’s Day, and manage to rub elbows (among other body parts) at a Playboy Mansion Halloween extravaganza?  None.  You know none.  Don’t even try to pretend you do.  You’re just embarrassing us all.

You know who you are.

2010 will be known for a lot of things:  um, something about whales, maybe?  There was a lot of bullshit surrounding the IPhone.  Then, again, 2010 was the year when people, the world over, were smacked in the taint by the roughest recession since the years of Warner Brothers cartoons in movie theaters and cars were built to last.  Come to think of it, 2010 sucked a major amount of yak ass.  Companies downsized, business went broke, government lost its mind, and that Justin Bieber fucker was everywhere.  2010 was such a shitshake, even my own Da pined for the “good old days” of the Cold War.

Say what you want about it. The world was a lot more stable, food and fuel a shit ton cheaper, and if worse came to worse, mankind would go out in a fiery vengeance of style.

There is one shining part of 2010 that must be remembered and recorded for the sake of future history.  We don’t want our future history only talking about gun fights at Florida school board meetings or devoting an entire chapter in a text book to the cluster fuck that is BP.  There was one brightly burning light that 2010 emitted during its waning hours filled with party goers blowing chow then trying to get into the pants of someone who just might end up being a distant cousin.  What was this shining beacon of hope?  Where was it?  What did it mean?  Calm the fuck down.  I’ll tell you.

It was ME.  That’s right world, ME.  I joined FWTC in 2009.  I did what I had to do to get on the ground floor of something that will never make a dime or win any journalism awards.  That kind of shit is gold!  After the arguing, death threats, and constant hazing I clawed my way to the top!  I made it to “COLUMNIST.  There’s no pay, no perks, and little in the way of publicity.  But, Momma was determined to break the racial barrier and shoe horn a nutty little blonde Irish chick into the ranks of FWTC.  Roode and Tresckow bitched and moaned about it.  Roode didn’t want more chick shit on the site, being that Adel had that covered.  Tresckow was convinced I would use the site as a soapbox to spread my anti-loyalist beliefs to the masses. (if hating Loyalists in Northern Ireland is wrong, I don’t want to be right).  The point I heard time and time again was, “You’re not a writer.  There’s a difference between doing funny things and WRITING about them.”  Fuckers didn’t believe I could translate my drunken comedy of errors into an article.  What BULLSHIT!

After a bit of whining and the occasional exercise I like to call, “Total War” (steel Roode’s tires, sign Tresckow up for a fuck ton of large and lovely women catalogs to be sent to his home, and harassing Adel every day by rearranging her furniture in innovative and surprising ways) they finally threw me a “guest writer” gig.  It got a good amount of hits and FWTC decided to keep me on.  Like I was some sort of lost fucking puppy.  Like adding The REN would have done anything but make this piece of  shit, dime-a-dozen blog rocket to the stars!

That's right. That's me, the brightest motherfucking star in the galaxy.

I had a bit of a handicap going for me; the other writers having a year head start and all.  Adel, Roode, and Tresckow already found their niches and some “loyal” readers.  That didn’t deter me.  I jumped right in to hammer out some flaming awesomeness in 2009.  Then, I decided that 2010 was going to be Momma’s year!

Interesting thing is that after I was two or three articles in, the site’s readership went up.  On our Facebook Page it seemed that my articles were getting passed around a lot more than the others.  What could that mean?  Am I eons funnier than the other writers?  Is it because I am witty and urbane?  Perhaps it’s because I have been elevated to FWTC‘s sex symbol?  Yes.  Yes, to all of these.  I’m fucking fantastic.  The readers know it.  Our sponsors know it.  Future history knows it.

I fucking rule!

Perhaps, the best indicator that tells us 2010 was the year of the Ren are the readership stats.  The boring side of any blog is, without a doubt, the admin side.  That’s where our geeks look at all the statistics to see which article was the most popular in any given week or month; which author was the most popular, etc.  Tresckow and Adel are the number crunchers; plowing through it to get the quarterly stats and come up with a game plan for the site’s sponsorships and whatnot.  Well, as most sites are want to do at the end of the year, we wanted to connect all the dots and see just who among us was the most “popular.”  Which one of us had the most read articles, who stayed on top the longest, blah blah blah.  I have no interest in calculations.  I’d rather drink the better part of a bottle of Shanahans and wake up with a stripper (a HOT stripper, please).  I’m the sort of girl who just wants to hear the end result.

For the love of God, Tresckow! Just tell me what the fuck all the math means!

I tuned out just about everything Tresckow’s said about growing our sponsorship base, advertising, topic and writer expansion…  JUST GET TO THE FUCKING END!  Flipping to the next slide, a table was shown listing all our articles, writers, and topics in order of popularity and readership.  I looked up, expecting Roode to start tap dancing; fucker always thinks he’s the one who puts butts in the seats.  All I heard was, “Are you fucking kidding me?” bellowing from Roode’s mouth like the words were on fire.  The top author of EVERY quarter of 2010 AND the number 1 author for the entire year was

ME MOTHERFUCKERS!

I’m shocked! Speechless! I didn’t prepare any remarks.

I wasn’t ahead by a small amount either.  No, baby, Momma holds a 60% lead over everyone else.  ME!  Fuck you, Roode!  I’m putting butts in the seats now!  Always bet on the tiny Irish dark horse.  ALWAYS!  She’ll ruin your shit every time.  EVERY TIME!

So, what will 2011 bring for the NUMBER 1 writer on FWTC?  I’m not sure.  Maybe a series of video blogs instructing the viewer on the proper ways of peeling a potato.  Or a pod cast where I can dispense my worldly wisdom of the most efficient and orgasm-tastic sexual positions.  Oh, yeah.  Bacon.  Bacon must be a steady theme throughout 2011.  Shit, maybe I’ll contract with cable and launch my own reality show.  Well, “surreality” show”

 

Momma ROCKS so hard it whips a bull's ass!

 

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Company Mascots We Want to Send on a Death March

By Roode

I’m on a roll! To continue my “Things on TV I Want to Physically Hurt, Then Shit On” series, I’d like to expand my musings beyond brain hemorrhage causing jingle jangle commercial jingles. Yes, once they get into your head, you’ll cut your own ears off to be free of the pain. But, we can do without ears. You tell me what the shit in this world is really worth listening too. Don’t give me that artsy fartsy answer of “music.” I love Alice In Chains just as much as Ren and Tresckow, but I would sacrifice hearing some of the best heroine and death oriented lyrics in the known universe if it meant no more shit grinning jingles.

Sure, Vincent van Gogh was batshit insane, but maybe there was a method to his madness.
He would only have to hear 50% of these ear canal rotting songs.

Our eyes, ladies and gentlemen… what would we be without our eyes? We would bump into shit constantly, be unable to watch Sons of Anarchy, and would miss out on some serious eye candy during the summer months. 

Seriously, if I couldn’t enjoy sights like this, I might as well be dead.

*Note: If you are blind and offended by my statement… No. Forget it. What the fuck are you doing on the web in the first place. This shit doesn’t come in Braille.

Why would anyone even consider plucking out their own eyes? Seeing your parents bumping uglies on the kitchen table? Getting a glimpse of ANY man in a speedo? Well, yeah. But, what are the odds of that shit happening. Eh, the speedo thing plaques Europe, I’ll give you that. However, there is a more sinister force that penetrates your inner sanctum like Michael Jackson NO. Not this week. I’m nixing all MJ jokes from this damn column.

What the shit was I saying? That’s right. There’s a more sinister force out there that knows where you live and can get to you anytime it wants. It comes disguised as sequential images of douche bag wanna be celebrities, chefs, and (not enough) Hayden Panettiere.

Trust me. This Canadian is saluting the red, white, and blue.

Television provides another conduit for ass hair pulling, fucktarded bullshit devised to drive you tin foil hat wearing insane. What am I talking about now? Mascots. Company mascots, spokes people, whatever you want to call them, are an outright assault on all things ocular. Sonsabitches are everywhere. No matter where you flip to, there’s always another one of those shit painting jackasses prancing around on TV. We want them to be deported to concentration camps. Admit it. I know you’re thinking about it every time you see another asshat doing cart wheels for Vagisil. Shit like…

Burger King: The “King”
You know what’s a brilliant advertising idea? Give up? How about creating a mascot that embodies every viewer’s childhood fears? Smooth job, Burger King. You fuckers are making sandwiches without bread.

What is this thing supposed to communicate? It’s sure as hell isn’t the flame broiled taste of a grill kissed bacon cheeseburger. Using a stone faced, silent, pantsless creep with all the charm of a rapist doesn’t quite hit the mark. The King is there, watching some dude sleep. He’s there at some chick’s bedroom window. The fucker is shoving his hand into random people’s pants pockets on the street. Right, he’s “giving money back.” I’m sure it has nothing to do with copping a feel on an unsuspecting pedestrian’s junk.

The King’s next step to deflower Whopper “virgins.”

Geico: Kash
While we’re on the subject of outright nonsensical bullshit, let’s devote some time to this bugged eyed, Mysto & Pizzi jamming motherfucker. Why, it’s the money you could be saving with Geico! You asshole! That’s cash you could have spent on porn, Quaaludes, or a hooker (sometimes the three come as a package).

This is another creepy bastard that just stares. It doesn’t say anything, it’s an inanimate stack of filthy 5 dollar bills. What the fuck does it want? So what? You opted for State Farm instead of Geico. Does that mean you’re going to be haunted by this googly eyed prick until you switch? Here’s an idea, pick the fucker up, rip his eyes off, and hit a strip club. Tear him apart, one bill at a time and cram them in a stripper’s g-string. Now THAT makes financial sense!

Pictured: A much better investment than GM.

Geico: Cavemen
Geico is such a mascot shit generator, I had to put it on the list twice. I was on board the Geico caveman commercials in the beginning. They were short, funny, and semi witty. But, just like everything else on TV, the Man had to bludgeon our skulls with a once good thing. These mop heads are almost as tired and played out as Paris Hilton. Or, pretty much anything on the E! network (except The Soup, although McHale’s NBC show sucks a massive amount of slug sphincter).

When did it all go downhill? The commercials were still bearable until around 2007. Shit, I was still drinking the Neanderthal kool aid when they launched their own micro site. Then, the executives had to piss all over it. They threw the caveman concept down on the ground, unzipped, and rained yellow all over its parade. You know what I’m talking about. This piece of rotting warthog shit: the TV series. I knew this was going to be the death knell for the whole concept. What made the commercials work was the quick timing and brevity. Stretch out that concept for a full 22 minutes and you have a televised suicide note. It redefined bad and not in the “so bad it’s good” way. This was Teddy Z bad. OK, some of you children may not get that reference. How about this one? The show was “Jay Leno Show” bad.

Above: A crime against humanity.

Aflac: The Aflac Duck
How do you move insurance? Dub one of the most annoying voices in the history of mankind over a duck. I don’t have anything against the duck, per say. I like ducks. Ducks are fine. I guess this is more of a hatred for Gilbert Gottfried.

Wikipedia identifies his “distinctively loud, obnoxious, rasping, grating voice” as a trademark. OK, fine. If that’s the case, then sufferating pustules are the Bubonic Plague‘s tradmark. Barbed wire and zyclon b are Germany’s. While we’re at it, we can say male on male rape to banjo music is the trademark of the US South. No? Those aren’t trademarks? Just because something’s associated with a person, a place, or a thing doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a trademark. It just means Godfrey’s act is a big old pile of annoying smothered in shit sauce. I wish that fucking duck would peck your larynx out.

Six Flags: Mr. Six
Take a good, long look at this fucker. That’s right, take it all in. We don’t even have a Six Flags within a thousand mile radius of here. But, that doesn’t stop those corporate ass cracks from barraging us with this creepy, latex laden, fake geriatric ball buster.

Mr. Six, as they call him, dances like a scary epileptic patient to shitty Euro-trash pop music. If that wasn’t enough, they gave the asshole his own bus to, apparently, roam around the country and pick up children. I wonder if this guy hangs out with the King. Jesus, now I feel unclean.

It’s no wonder why these dill holes have gone bankrupt. Hey! Assholes! Your mascot is freaking everybody the fuck out! What the hell is wrong with you? You would have a better chance of dragging people to your playground of death if you advertised all the random animal attacks and appendage severing incidents.

I just don’t have the words.

Sincerely,
Roode