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?
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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
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”
It’s said that every little girl’s dream to have a storybook wedding. Ignoring what some would call an obviously sexist ideology, we’ll agree with this to avoid any argument to the contrary. Take one for the bloody team for the sake of this article! I don’t have time to cater to every bleeding feminist war cry out there.
So, if a storybook wedding is every girl’s dream, then the one I just had must be the anomaly. I’m not saying it was bad. Quite the contrary. The result was the same; the groom was blessed with me as a wife until he dies. That’s how I understood it, at any rate. There was something in the ceremony about loving, honouring, and cherishing me. I am pretty sure there was an “obey” in there somewhere.
Not being the stereotypical fairytale wedding, mine was unique. Not jug band, hillbilly unique, but a definite type of crazy one usually has to tune into the tele for some sort of Gary Busey fix.
It was a peculiar mixture of me looking absolutely stunning in my dress, the bridesmaids being beautiful, (but not on my level of beauty, of course), Tresckow attempting to kill one of my bridesmaids, and mini bar shenanigans. This concoction still isn’t volatile enough for you? Well, add a healthy dose of motorcycle gang and ex-IRA and you have the uranium core of a marital super weapon that could take out most of the Pacific Northwest.
As you may remember from Tresckow’s article he bitched and moaned about traveling to my wedding. Piss off, mate, it’s a small price to pay to get a front row seat to the performance of a lifetime. Tresckow and Ren have a type of antagonist relationship that could, possibly, end in the death of small children and the elderly. Don’t get me wrong, it’s cute. She constantly bugs the ever loving shit out of him and he prays for death. Awwwwwww.
Tresckow is my self-adopted brother. Yes, I admit that. Don’t try to understand it, just accept it. Ren, being my husband’s sister (poor bastard), believes that she and Tresckow are brother and sister-in- law via some sort of muddled drunken Mick logic. Whatever the whiskey induced mathematical equation she used to arrive at that conclusion, the result ends in constant emotional and physical pain for Tresckow. It makes me laugh. What? Siblings should revel in each other’s misery.
With the combination of Ren, my mother, Tresckow, Roode, a plethora of alleged “one percenters,” and visitors from the UK (Northern Irish and British- another explosive combination) the event had no choice but to be the Poseidon Adventure of weddings.
It’s no secret that my wedding exploded beyond control. What was supposed to be a small, quiet affair ended up in the newspaper and a blip on the local news. Half of Northern Ireland attended (those legally allowed to leave British soil and otherwise) and a might more bikers showed up than originally thought. To top it all, I actually had a good turn out with my family. That was a surprise. Oh, and Tresckow, my self-adopted brother, was there to be my therapist, confidant, and giver-awayer [insert another obligatory mushy “Awwww” here].
So, out of all this beautiful mess, what have I learned? I’m so very glad you asked. I’ve broken it down into 15 short tidbits of knowledge you may not have known. Also, for my enjoyment (and I suppose for some of you), each lesson is presented by a woman wearing the naughty teacher outfit I wore on the wedding night. No. There will be no photographs of that anywhere near this website.
Hitting someone in the head with a hymnal during a wedding ceremony will make a significant sound that echoes. As will the “Bloody Mary, OUCH” that follows.
You would think this is common sense. Ah, but common sense took a vacation during my wedding ceremony. Long of the short of it, some of the boozed up Northern Irishmen got into a Three Stooges-esq slapfest towards the end of the wedding vows. I hope God laughed, because I did not. Wankers.
It’s not the best idea for your (soon-to-be) sister-in-law to give directions to the groomsmen and have them repeatedly lead to a strip club.
Ren, fancies herself a funny girl. She’s good for a chuckle, I’ll give her that. I suppose that’s why she doctored the directions to the after- rehearsal boozing to lead Tresckow, Roode, and the others to the “Gentleman’s Club” in town. Did I mention they were on foot, hoofing it through a town none of them were familiar with? After the first hour of wandering through the streets, repeatedly passing the same strip club, they started to catch on. In, yet again, another page from the Three Stooges play book, they blamed each other and started a street by street snowball fight. From what I’m told, it was a slightly less organized, slightly more destructive Battle of Berlin. What IS funny about all of this? None of them wanted to call for directions. Why? MEN DON’T NEED TO ASK FOR DIRECTIONS! Bloody retarded.
Fist fights should not break out in public; let alone, in front of a patrol car.
There’s really not much more to say about this. All out brawls should be done in the privacy of a back alley or in the elevator in a hospital. Come to think on it, ANYWHERE that isn’t in front of a police patrol car is a better place for a fist fight. Why in crikey fuck couldn’t they wait ten more feet until filling the air with fists and broken whiskey bottles?
Do I really need to go into further detail on this? Here’s a simple mathematical formula:
Drunken Micks + hungry motorcycle enthusiasts + ham sandwich x 15th floor balcony = very surprised octogenarian on the ground
This is true no matter who you are. It will happen and you’re powerless to stop it. Keep in mind, if you protest too much, they can crush your windpipe.
Your brother yelling “It’s show time!” before rushing your (soon-to-be) sister-in-law in her father’s bar for giving him directions to the previously mentioned strip club instead of the correct location is entertaining, if not slightly psychotic.
Again, there really is no call to go into this any further. Ren cannot be stopped. Tresckow was a fool for trying.
This wasn’t my room. Quite frankly, I would have tossed her off the balcony. This was, once again, Ren’s attempt to be sisterly to Tresckow. Of course, the sisterly thing to do is steal a copy of your “soon-to-be sister-in-law’s self adopted brother[in-law]’s” room key. It’s also sisterly to empty the mini bar fridge, fill the empty alcohol bottles with water, and sneak into his room at 2:30 in the morning to jump up and down on his bed to check if he’s asleep. I’m not quite sure how that rowdy Mick survived. Tresckow must be getting soft in his old age.
This is just good self preservation instincts. It isn’t worth getting castrated, then stuffed in the trunk of your own car for a job that only pays minimum wage. Leave that to the executives.
No, no, a thousand times NO! Wedding receptions don’t have mosh pits for a bloody reason. I’m never going to get that deposit back now.
Repeated threats made against the groom by the bride’s brother as a warning to treat his sister right probably shouldn’t be made as part of a toast during the rehearsal dinner. Or in the church rehearsal. Or at the reception… or in notes nailed to his parents’ door.
Nailed to the bloody door! He Martin Luthered my in-laws’ house.
Let’s just say discovering the bride is missing on the wedding day puts a damper on things. I reckon it also looked like Tresckow kidnapped me. It’s the bride’s prerogative! I wanted to talk to my brother and go on a drive. That drive ended up being a three hour trek to my house, across the border, into Montana. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought I left the iron on. Just let it go. We almost hit a moose and, actually, backed into a big horn sheep. That’s penance enough. Besides, I came back; with an hour to spare, thank you very bloody much.
Need I say more? I’m not sure I legally can.
“Detachable Penis” [music link] isn’t traditional wedding music. It just isn’t. Anytime a mother has to explain to her son the concept of a detachable penis during a wedding reception is just an investment in future therapy bills.
Songs about suicide probably shouldn’t be requested at a wedding reception.
I love Alice in Chains. I really like their new album. As much as I like “Black Gives Way to Blue” I wouldn’t say it’s ideal wedding reception music. Tracks like Check My Brain and A Looking In View cause the slam dancing/mosh pit I spoke of earlier. But, the depression filled, suicide mourning, melancholy lyrics of Your Decision and Black Gives Way To Blue probably won’t provide the appropriate wedding ambiance.
I really don’t want to talk about this one.
Oh, and just in case you were curious (I was), there is a Staring at your hot teacher during class Facebook page. You can find your own hot teacher related porn.
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.
He would only have to hear 50% of these ear canal rotting songs.
*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.
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.
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!
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.
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.