Only one thing could bring me out of retirement to write on this stupid ass blog again

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...and that happens to be fucking ridiculous mothers with nothing better to do than complain about meaningless bullshit. Like these whores over at onemillionmoms.com. Their latest target is Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream. But why? Why hurt the nice ice cream men? Oh, because they created a special limited batch of delicious ice cream named after a Saturday Night Live skit? That's right, these bored, useless snatches have taken up arms over "Shweddy Balls." Here's their fucking retarded argument (note the anti-gay sentiments too).

Ben & Jerry's Tasteless Ice Cream Flavors

Ben & Jerry's announced their newest ice cream flavor which sounds anything but appealing. Schweddy Balls is the best they could come up with. The vulgar new flavor has turned something as innocent as ice cream into something repulsive. Not exactly what you want a child asking for at the supermarket.

The name originated from a Saturday Night Live skit featuring Alec Baldwin as Pete Schweddy, owner of a holiday bakery called Season's Eatings. "There are lots of great treats this time of year," Schweddy says. "Zucchini bread, fruitcake, but the thing I most like to bring out at this time of the year are my balls."

He then explains that he sells popcorn balls, cheese balls, rum balls—balls for every taste—and the ball puns proceed for about four minutes. Ben & Jerry's chose to go with fudge-covered rum and malt balls for their flavor. The skit culminates in Baldwin stating that "No one can resist my Schweddy Balls."

In the past, Ben & Jerry's has released controversial ice creams, like a special edition of Chubby Hubby called Hubby Hubby last year which celebrated gay marriage. It seems that offending customers has become an annual tradition for Ben & Jerry's.

The ice cream is being released in a limited batch, which means it will be distributed nationwide but only for three or four months. If it proves popular, another batch might be forthcoming, but we hope not.

"The name is irreverent," says Ben & Jerry's spokesman Sean Greenwood. "But we've always been about having some irreverence and having some fun ... We're not trying to offend people. Our fans get the humor."

TAKE ACTION

Please send Ben & Jerry's Public Relations Manager, Sean Greenwood, an email letter requesting that no additional Schweddy Balls ice cream be distributed. Also, highly recommend they refrain from producing another batch with this name or any other offensive names or you will no longer be able to purchase their products.

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Ooooh "Take Action!!!!" Yes, we must stop this unbelievably harmful thing from hurting our children immediately! Fuck texting and driving, this shit is serious. Just imagine what will happen when my child see the words Schweddy Balls on a product? They might actually giggle, God forbid. I hate these cunts. Get a life, you stupid pigs. Get a life and write a blog like me!

(Yes, I am aware this story is very old news. In fact, I had completely forgotten about it until today when I went back into to edit some stupid shit on this useless blog and saw that this post was sitting there un-posted. Re-reading it fired me up and now I feel my one follower should see it. )

Ever have that funny feeling you were raped as a child?

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No? Really, you don't? How odd of you. You must have been an ugly faggot as a kid then, because apparently, I was fucking irresistible. What do I mean? Well let’s put it this way, I still have vague memories from a very young age of absolute sexual discomfort, long before I should have had any feelings of sexuality whatsoever. What's that you say,"tell me more, MSG, I want to see and possibly sniff your dirty laundry." Well back off you fucking pervert, you sound just like my Nana. That's right, my Nana. She is actually where this story begins and ends. A darker soul than MSG's Nana you're unlikely to find. I honestly don't think she raped me but, then again, I've blacked out about 90 percent of my childhood from ages five through nine so I can't be sure. But I have been putting clues together in my head for years now that lead to some shady shit and it’s time I presented you with my fascinating evidence. The problem is, I'm not 100% sure of it's accuracy. All these memories seem very dreamlike to me. Although, why would anyone "dream" these things up? The memories also seem as though they may have been influenced by things I heard later on about Nana. It's all very confusing, but, honestly, I need to just get it out. Why not a burden a therapist with it? Well, I could, but then I wouldn't have the challenge of trying make child molestation humorous. Of course, my wife thought this was the least funny thing she's ever read in her life. But, then, she didn't think The Diary of Anne Frank was funny either. What a stiff! But if you really are sure you want to know why I think I may have been touched in the bad place as a child, then I shall reward your fortitude with yet another of my childhood Tales of Whoa!

(No, there aren't too many priests reading this right now, chalice in one hand, phallus in the other)

ARTSY PROLOGUE: For years now, I have been walking my dog in a public park. In this park, there is a small brook that bisects the trail we often take. Right where the trail is bisected, there is an exposed concrete tube that the water must go through, creating a “bridge” of sorts. The concrete tube has been clogged for years and for as long as I’ve been going there I’ve been trying to dislodge that clog. No joke. It drove me fucking crazy that I couldn't help this stream flow freely. Well, today I did it. I unclogged that fucker. And I don't think it's a coincidence that it happened today, because as I watched the rotting leaves and sticks come out of the tube like putrid black vomit, I realized that’s exactly what I was doing with this post. So sit back and enjoy my putrid black vomit.

CHAPTER 1:

Let me start by saying that as a very young boy, I loved my Nana. She was always so happy to see me and made me feel like the cutest little guy in the world. She never let an opportunity to hug and kiss me or have me sit on her lap go by (that already sounds filthy but to me it wasn't. Not then). She showered me with toys and candy. And occasionally, gold. At least that's what she said it was. She called them our golden showers and I loved to take them with her. She would sprinkle liquid gold all over my face.....oh I'm kidding! Did you think I was serious? My God you people are sick. Anyway, Nana didn’t just adore only me. She loved my brothers too. But I was the youngest and we all know how the young ‘uns are always the hottest, right? My taut little six year-old buns must’ve looked like an unblemished, barely ripe pear next to the decrepit asses of my twelve and fourteen year-old brothers. So I think that’s why I got the most “special” attention. But enough about young, beautiful, succulent me, let’s hear more about Nana.

Nana may have been considered a pretty woman when she was younger but it's not something I ever saw. She always had lipstick that was too red smeared on her lips, which then found its way into the wrinkly folds surrounding her mouth. Even as a young kid who shouldn't know any better, I found that nauseating. She also wore too much perfume. It would smell up the whole fucking house. And that's how she liked it. She wanted you to know SHE was there. Attention, was her drug. Well that and cheap champagne. In an effort to get the most attention, Nana made sure she could be heard from miles away. Especially when it came to her laugh. It was more of a cackle, actually, a sound that could pierce through military bombing. My brothers and I often recollect how we were startled awake at night by her cackle coming from the card game the adults were playing downstairs. Nana was also known for making a grand entrance (ie, a loud entrance) into any room. Do you know people like that? It's so fucking annoying. It's all about them. But, as I child I thought it was like an act on TV. I was entertained by it. Besides, it always seemed like she was so happy to see my brothers and I. She genuinely seemed to love us. Which makes all of this so much harder to comprehend. Because I had no reason to think my Nana was doing anything other than loving me, I would happily play along with her games. Like the game where she would make my brothers and I kiss on the lips. She would literally force our heads together- we fought it every step of the way- until we kissed. We actually have this on film! Then there was the tickle game. That was when she would get me to sit on her lap and then she'd tickle me all over (yes ALL over) and say "come here you little stinker" as I ran away. Thinking back, I was running away because I felt discomfort, but I didn't comprehend that then. I thought it was just part of the game. That tickling never seemed strange to me, just playful. Until a few years later when I realized grabbing your grandson's junk in a "playful" manner isn't cool. It’s not cool in any fucking manner for God’s sake. But I guess a playful manner is better than a seriously erotic one, right?

Well now, this has gotten rather unpleasant, hasn't it? Oooooh I'm so sorry for you. It's must be so agonizing to have to read about an experience like the one I fucking lived through!!!

I apologize for the above outburst. That tends to happen every now and then (little clogs being dislodged from the stream). Please allow me to continue exposing myself to you.

When I was approximately five to seven years-old, I had the most terrifying nightmare. In this dream I woke up to go to the bathroom, which was down a long, dark, thin hallway from my room. This wasn't a dreamy hallway, it was the actual one in my house. But before I got to the bathroom, half of the floor disappeared exposing a black abyss below. With most of the floor gone, I was left balancing precariously on a plank of hard wood flooring barely wide enough for my tiny feet. From within the abyss I hear a deep, sinister voice calling to me. I thought it was the devil. Satan. I was just five or six years-old, dreaming about Satan. Yeah, that’s normal. Anyway, in my dream, I wanted to run away but couldn't and then I felt clammy hands pull me down. I woke up, fucking terrified. "So what, you had a little nightmare," you say? Okay, well, consider that I knew nothing of hell or demons at that age so how did that imagery make it into my dream? Strange but not so freaky, you say? Well, how about this for an M. Knight Shamalamanmanaman twist: the only other room in that hallway between mine and the bathroom was, dun duh duh, Nana’s room (when she stayed with us). In fact, in my dream, I was directly in front of the door to her room when the floor disappeared and the demonic voice called to me. It’s really hard to convey how horrifying that voice was, but try to imagine hearing a demon’s voice calling to you through completely innocent five-year old ears. Deep, loud and full of menace, it’s unlike anything you ever heard before. Pure evil. As you might have guessed, I do think dreams are important stories we tell ourselves to help us navigate through life. This dream didn’t help me until three decades years later however. I mean think of that for a second, I remembered a dream from thirty-five years ago! Normally, I forget my dreams within hours of waking, but this one remained- vividly remained - in my head for thirty-five fucking years. Why? I feel it's because something traumatic, something evil, happened to me in that room. But I still don't know for sure what it was. I have theories. And I know of at least once when something very wrong went down in that room, but more on that later.

If you’ve made it this far, congratulations, you sick fuck. What is wrong with you? I’m going to end this “chapter” now, but I promise to be back to tell you more sordid stories of molestation and

unbelievably inappropriate behavior. And to keep you salivating for more. I want you to know that in a future post I promise to tell you exactly what happened in Nana’s room one night. Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as you think. It was more of a Norman Rockwell rapey kind of thing. I’m kidding again, but it was fucked up, just not as fucked up as you might think. And then I promise to tell you of the unbelievable revenge I exacted on Nana several years later. Surely that you will enjoy. Think of it as creamy, sugary icing on a pile of rotting feces. Thanks for listening and have fun with the rest of your perfect day, you un-molested asshole.

Are you ready for Chapter 2?

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Let's do this shit, yo!

CHAPTER 2: Eating out Nana.

So there I was, a naive seven year-old boy staring into his Nana's crotch. I didn't know why but she had put one of my mom's famous sour cream cupcakes right between her legs and told me to "take a bite, honey." I was repulsed. But I'm even more repulsed now that you think this part of the story is true! What's wrong with you? Don't look at me like that. You don't think this shit is funny? Well you can suck my dick, Nana! Okay, honestly, I don't even find any of this funny. I was just trying to make you comfortable before I do the exact opposite to you. Are you ready? Here's the real story.

CHAPTER 2: Perusing with Nana.

So I'll make this quick and painless for you. Why not? After all, it's only been an agonizingly slow, psychologically devastating 30 plus years for me. You deserve better than that. What happened in Nana's room still feels like a dream to me. Or should I say nightmare? No, I really do mean dream. Not that is was dreamy, but the memory is very dreamlike. It was such an unreal situation that I think my young brain cataloged it in a place that's not easily accessible and thus the "dream" like tone of it. I think it's a natural defense mechanism. If I'm not 100% sure it happened, then it can't really hurt me, right? ( No, I'm not sobbing uncontrollably right now.) Anyway, the reason I tell you about the haziness of the memory is to reveal the thought process of a victim. I can hear Spanish Johnny now, "Oooh, thanks for the psychology lesson, MSG, you raped pussy!" But I do think it's important to the story because for many years I doubted these memories. Until one day when it dawned on me that no kid is ever going to "dream" or create a false memory like this. Who the fuck would (or could) do that? I was way too young to even conjure up such things. So here's what happened. My father, for reasons I will never fully comprehend, used to place Penthouse and Playboy magazines (which he had subscriptions to) on the nightstand in Nana's room before her arrival. It's an act, I guess, that's akin to a hotel leaving a chocolate on your pillow at night. Hey there weary traveler, here's a little somethin' for ya to enjoy! I mean, it's so fucked up, right? Well, around Casa MSG, it wasn't ever questioned. It was just accepted. Hey who was I to judge? I was seven years old for fuck sake. Besides, maybe she liked to read the articles. God, how I wish that were the case. Then I may have never heard her voice call me into that room. And I wouldn't have had to stand by her bedside and look at pictures of giant breasts and fully open vaginas with her. Yes, that's right, instead of cute little nighttime stories like you'll find over on Spanish Johnny's blog, I had to look at Penthouse magazine with my Nana. It only happened once (I think) actually, but once was fucking enough! I remember only one bit of it very specifically. And that is when I very softly and shyly said "yeah" when she asked me if I thought the ladies were pretty (See, now that sounds a little too made up, right? It sounds like how Hollywood would portray it. But I swear that's what I remember. And because it sounds so "perfectly" fucked up, I tend to wonder if I have created this memory for some reason. But why would I do that? It makes no sense.) Anyway, after that, it's a bit hazy from being tucked away in my own personal vault of horror for so long. I've thought about it over the years and rationalize all of it (the tickling, the brother kissing, the Penthouse peeking) this way: Nana was just a terribly sick person (duh!) who didn't know the consequences of her actions. Somehow, that works for me. I doesn't make me less angry or sad. I actually feel sorry for her too (like most victims). But, of course, I feel more sorry for that little boy (I can't even say it's me, it makes me so upset) who's life was irrevocably altered by that crazy bitch. I blame her for so much of my anger. I blame her for a lot of happiness I can't feel. I blame her for my incredible uneasiness with being touched by people. I mean, people NEED to be touched. I can't stand it. I'm deprived of that basic human need thanks to her. To quote from a song by a band I never thought I'd publicly quote, Everclear - from the song "Father of Mine"- "I will never be safe. I will never be sane. I will always be weird inside. I will always be lame." Thanks a lot, you fucking nasty cunt. I hope it was worth it to you.

"CHAPTER 3: The Revengening" will be coming soon. Trust me, it's worth waiting for.

YOU'RE IN for a treat, Nana.

CHAPTER 3: The revengening


So, here we are. Kinda the end of the Nana saga. I guess there are more stories I could tell about her. Enough to fill a book probably. Wouldn't that be a wonderful read to take on vacation with you? "Honey, are we going to swim with the dolphins today or are you just gonna sit there and read about that kid's Nana's pussy hair all day?" Mmmmm, Nana pubes. In my house we actually referred to her as the "Tooth Hairy" because when she would stay over we'd always mysteriously wake up with curly, pubic hair on our lips the next morning. Gee, I wonder how that happened? Okay, okay, you're used to my formula by now so surely you know that was made up. But this next story is one hundred percent true and I remember it vividly. No "dreamlike" vague shit here.

Nana, for all her flaws, was at least always the life of the party. Yes as a grown man now I can see she was the kind of person you would hate to have at your party because she was so loud and just wanted so much attention, but as a child I kind of admired it. I liked to hear the grown ups having fun in the other room, and I could always tell she was at the center of it somehow. Of course, the grown ups always had alcohol at every gathering. My Dad drank vodka. My mom, compari and soda or a kir royale. Nana loved champagne. Cheap, shit champagne. It was brand called "Great Western" but she acted like it was fucking Kristal. Each popping of the cork was celebrated with a howl and she insisted that my mom pull out the super expensive imported crystal flutes for this nasty swill. Nana was indeed a walking contradiction herself so it makes sense. Often times, as the slaves, I mean children of the household, my brothers and I were called upon to fetch drinks for the in-laws. As a real young kid I didn't mind, but when I started getting old enough to not care about pleasing these assholes I resented it. One summer day, when I was about 11, the adult gathering took place in our covered porch. I remember very clearly watching TV with my brother when we got the call to fetch another round of drinks. We were so annoyed. Of course, we were just so angry in general all the time. How could we not be? But, by this time we were no longer easy, vulnerable prey for Nana so we were left alone physically. Mentally, however, we were still tortured. But we started to rise against it in our own subtle ways. Just by simply not fully accepting Nana's bullshit as we used to was a rebellion to us. We knew at this point that she was not normal. I put it mildly because we didn't really know just how fucked up she was. I mean, when you grow up with that as normal behavior in your house, you think it's normal. But then you venture out a little bit. You see how your friend's families interact and you think "hmmm, something's definitely up with Nana." We thought she was eccentric, but we also just resented and hated her without fully realizing quite why (hmm, repressed memories perhaps?). But back to the summer day. After we were called upon to bring a round of drinks from the kitchen, my brother and I dutifully collected the empty glasses and took orders. Nana, of course, wanted her delicious champagne. So off to the kitchen we went. I was pouring Nana's champagne when my brother suggested we do something to it. He was much older than me and thus could usually manipulate me into doing anything. On this particular afternoon, however, I needed no mind games to make me do what I was about to do. I asked my brother "what should we do?" His answer was so beautiful in its simplicity: "Piss in it." At that very moment my life changed. It's like I suddenly saw through different eyes. YES! Let's fucking piss in it. God my brother was so awesome. My hero. What a great idea. I would follow him into hell. Or, in this case, out of it. And so it was set in stone like one of the commandments. Thou shalt urinate in thy molesting grandmother's drink. But who would do it? Well, naturally since it was his idea, I would have to be the one to execute it. I was happy to do it. We snuck outside behind the kitchen with Nana's glass of champagne. It was early evening and it was still light out so our neighbor may have seen us, but I didn't care. My brother held the glass in his shaking (from hysterically laughing) hands and I, well, I pissed in it. Not too much so as to be obvious, but also not too little so as to be innocuous. It was a little less than half piss and half champagne. It was Champiss. And I fucking happily served it her. I handed it to her and walked away a new man. A man barely able to contain his laughter as she happily declared "ooooh a big one!" A big one indeed, you dumb bitch. Choke on it.

-Fin

Allen

CUNT.

Laura Bush Opens Up About Crash

By ANAHAD O'CONNOR (MSG's comments in red, obviously)

Laura Bush has finally opened up publicly about the mysterious car accident she had when she was 17, a crash that claimed the life of a high school friend on a dark country road in Midland, Tex.

In her new book, “Spoken From the Heart,” Mrs. Bush describes in vivid detail the circumstances surrounding the crash, which has haunted her for most of her adult life ( oh yes, she must surely be tortured. Though, not nearly as tortured as the prisoners who had their teeth electrocuted with her husband's blessing) and which became the subject of questions and speculation when it was revealed during her husband’s first presidential run. A copy of the book, scheduled for release in early May, was obtained by The New York Times at a bookstore.

On several occasions in the book, Mrs. Bush admonishes her husband’s political adversaries for “calling him names,” and she pointedly rebuts criticism of some of his key decisions. She suggested that his highly criticized fly-over of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina was in the best interests of the victims and aid workers on the ground.(You mean the aid workers who were already being blocked from entering the city by good ol' Brownie?)

“He did not want one single life to be lost because someone was catering to the logistical requirements of a president,” she says about the Katrina fly-over. “He did not want his convoy of vehicles to block trucks delivering water or food or medical supplies, or to impede National Guardsmen from around the nation who were arriving to help.”(You stupid, blind bitch.)

Mrs. Bush also suggests, apparently for the first time, that she, Mr. Bush, and several members of their staff may have been poisoned during a visit to Germany for a G8 Summit. They all became mysteriously sick, and the president was bedridden for part of the trip. (It's called the Flu you dolt. Rich assholes get it too, you know. It's not just for poor people.) The Secret Service investigated the possibility they were poisoned, she writes, but doctors could only conclude that they all contracted a virus. After noting several high-profile poisonings, she wrote, “we never learned if any other delegations became ill, or if ours, mysteriously, was the only one.”(Ha-ha. "Mysteriously". Yes, I'm sure there was no circumstance whatsoever where only you and the people on your plane could get sick. I wonder how that could happen? It must have been terrorism. It's the answer for everything!")

Later, Mrs. Bush takes on Nancy Pelosi, the Democrat who is speaker of the House of Representatives, for calling Mr. Bush “an incompetent leader” and for saying he lacked judgment, knowledge and experience. She also bristles at the insults thrown at Mr. Bush by the Democratic leader in the Senate, Harry Reid, quoting him as calling her husband a “loser” and a “liar.”(He forgot "murderer", "retard", "war criminal" and "born-again faggot")

“The comments were uncalled for and graceless,” she writes. “While a president’s political opponents, as well as his supporters, are entitled to make what they see as legitimate criticisms, and while our national debates should be spirited, these particular worlds revealed the petty and parochial nature of some who serve in Congress.” ( Hmmm. Interesting, because in an interview with TIME magazine in August of 2004: When asked about whether the swift-boat ads are unfair to John Kerry, Mrs. Bush replies, “Do I think they’re unfair? Not really.” )

But it is her description of the deadly accident, and its subsequent impact on her life and her faith, that is the subject Mrs. Bush had most shied away from speaking about in her public life. On a November night in 1963, Mrs. Bush and a girlfriend were hurrying to a drive-in theater when Mrs. Bush, at the wheel of her father’s Chevy Impala (more like an Impale-a) , ran a stop sign on a small road and smashed into a car being driven by Mike Douglas, a star athlete and popular student at her school.

“In those awful seconds, the car door must have been flung open by the impact and my body rose in the air until gravity took over and I was pulled, hard and fast, back to earth,” she says. “The whole time,” she adds later, “I was praying that the person in the other car was alive. In my mind, I was calling ‘Please, God. Please, God. Please, God,’ over and over and over again.”(Really, the whole time you were in the air you were praying for the person in the other car? Well, hard as that is to believe I do sincerely believe that 0.5 seconds was the amount of time you spent thinking about that person. As evidenced by your selfish actions after the accident.")

Mrs. Bush reveals that she was wracked by guilt for years after the crash, especially after not attending the funeral and for not reaching out to the parents of the dead teenager. Her parents did not want her to show up at the funeral, she states, and she ended up sleeping through it. (Wow. She has the balls to admit that? That's the most selfish thing I have ever fucking heard. EVER. She is unbelievable.)

Mrs. Bush concedes that she and her friend were chatting when she ran the stop sign. But she also suggests a host of factors beyond her control played a role — the pitch-black road, an unusually dangerous intersection, the small size of the stop sign, and the car the victim was driving. (Ha-ha. So it's his fault he died because of the car he was driving. That sounds like about right for a Bush.)

“It was sporty and sleek, and it was also the car that Ralph Nader made famous in his book Unsafe at Any Speed,” she states. “He claimed the car was unstable and prone to rollover accidents. A few years later, the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration went so far as to investigate the Corvair’s handling, but it didn’t reach the same grim conclusions. I was driving my dad’s much larger and heavier Chevy Impala. But none of that would ever ease the night of November 6. Not for me, and never for the Douglases.” (A little late for the humility and humanity, don't cha think, Laur?")

“I lost my faith that November, lost it for many, many years,” she says. “It was the first time that I had prayed to God for something, begged him for something, not the simple childhood wishing on a star but humbly begging for another human life. And it was as if no one heard. My begging, to my seventeen-year-old mind, had made no difference. The only answer was the sound of Mrs. Douglas’s sobs on the other side of that thin emergency room curtain.” (Okay, that's harsh. She has to live with that awful memory. Yet, I wonder if she hears the sobs of the thousands of mother's who lost their sons and daughters in a bullshit war her husband created to make his friends some money?)

Mrs. Bush goes on to say that in her public life, she has encouraged young drivers who have been in serious accidents to speak to loved ones, counselors or spiritual or pastoral advisers.

“But while I give this advice in my letters, I didn’t do any of that,” she reveals. “Most of how I ultimately coped with the crash was by trying not to talk about it, not to think about it, to put it aside. Because there wasn’t anything I could do. Even if I tried.” (That's gotta be the most selfish, rich-white-cunt thinking of all-time.)

What an unbelievable pussy!

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And no, I'm not talking about my Nana's. I'm talking about this fucking gaywad:

Texas Governor Rick Perry shoots, kills 'wily' coyote while jogging

News Wire Services

The governor of Texas has a message for "wily" coyotes out there: Don't mess with my dog.

Pistol-packing Republican Rick Perry told The Associated Press on Tuesday he needed just one shot from the laser-sighted pistol he sometimes carries while jogging to take down a coyote that menaced his puppy during a February run near Austin.

Perry said he carries a .380 Ruger — loaded with hollow-point bullets — when jogging on trails because he is afraid of snakes. He'd also seen coyotes in the undeveloped area.

"I knew there were a lot of predators out there. You'll hear a pack of coyotes. People are losing small cats and dogs all the time out there in that community," Perry said.

"They're very wily creatures," Perry said of coyotes.

When one came out of the brush toward his daughter's Labrador retriever, Perry charged.

"Don't attack my dog or you might get shot ... if you're a coyote," he said Tuesday.

A concealed handgun permit holder, he carries the pistol in a belt. Perry said the laser-pointer helped make a quick, clean kill.

"It was not in a lot of pain," he said. "It pretty much went down at that particular juncture."

The governor left the coyote where it fell.

"He became mulch," Perry said.

He was not accompanied by his security detail when he encountered the beast.


What a pussy. He's afraid of snakes so he carries a pistol? Girl Scouts are manlier than this d-bag. Do you know how easy it is to scare away a coyote? All you have to do is cough and they flee with their tale between their legs like Rick Perry from a spider.

Classy.

(stolen from Spanish Johnny's tagline no doubt)

(Shouldn't these kids be in schoo...oh never mind.)

You fucking pussy

Holy shit, stop the fucking presses!!!!!!

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I don't know if you guys are already aware of this, but according to a woman on the elevator this morning, today is Monday. Now, everybody calm down. I know this is huge news worthy of announcing to no one in particular on an elevator but we must remain calm because this same well-informed woman also noted that "Friday will come soon enough." Phew. What a relief.



Too bad her death won't come soon enough.

Fuck you, eBay

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...for fueling my belief that I can buy back my childhood. It started out with a simple search to find this "toy" I vaguely remember playing with as a young lad. It was the Planet of the Apes (POTA) Colorforms set. Surely the pussiest of all POTA toys, but give a kid a break, I already had every POTA action figure and playset, so this was one of the missing straws in my Apes cap (no, that made sense). I remember really wanting it but not knowing why. Well, now that I've sufficiently got that feeling back, why not go all the way and buy the fucking thing, Right? But why? Why do I want this piece of shit?
After all, it was made of the absolute cheapest materials available at the time in Japan and I think I only played with it once or twice before it got lost underneath all the new things that interested me. Namely Penthouse, Playboy and Jugg Fucklers (Mr. Show ref. #201). Perhaps that's why I want it so bad. Because I never really got to play with it in the first place due to my increasing interests in naked women. I can regale you for hours with tales of my "formative" years, but I'll hold off for now. Let's go back to the innocent time in MSG's life. The time before Chinese Dentist boners and walking in on my parents fucking. A time when my toys ruled. Sure it was short-lived but it was an amazing time. So I guess it's no surprise that I want to buy that back, even though it's a totally ridiculous notion. I mean, even if I got a hold of a POTA Colorforms set, what would I do with it? It would just sit in my basement unappreciated like my recently unearthed beer can collection. Somehow this logic failed to reach my brain, however, as I scoured eBay for ever more toys and my hunger to buy back my youth continued unabated, though not un-masturbated as I jacked off seven times to the following images:


Those are some cool fucking toys, right? I had quite a collection back then. Let's break those down a bit, shall we? The Jaws game was a horrible fucking game that made no sense. I lost all of the pieces that you were supposed to extract from the shark's mouth so it then became just a giant shark to swallow G.I. Joes, which was even more awesome than the game, but eventually the jaw came unhinged and the shark was destined to be yet another toy I set fire to in the backyard.

You can't still be possibly reading this post, can you? Even I'm bored as fuck by it. You are still reading? Okay, I guess I'll continue then.

Anyway, so next on the list is the Kiss dolls. Yes, I was mightily into Kiss in the late '70's just like most adolescent boys (whom I was also into), so it really baffles me as to why, when I finally got all four "dolls" (actually, they were "action figures", a-hole!), I decided to build a fake stage, put them on it, and burn it to the ground, disfiguring them permanently. Well, my intentions were not quite so destructive at first. My primary goal was to stage a Kiss concert and film it on my Dad's Super 8 camera. However, my ambitions got the better of me and I decided that in order to make it a truly authentic Kiss show, I had to have fireworks. Lots of 'em. Of course, being a privileged white boy in the suburbs with two significantly older brothers and a father who couldn't have cared less what his boys were up to, we always had access to plenty of fireworks and other combustibles. On this particular Summer afternoon, I had bottle rockets, firecrackers and jumping jacks. If you are unfamiliar with those terms, go to page 75 in your "I am a fucking pussy" handbook. So anyway, I split the jumping jacks and put them on front of the stage to simulate flash bombs. Then I broke the sticks off the bottle rockets and turned them upside down all around and above the stage to simulate Kiss' famous spark waterfalls. Finally, I taped the firecrackers to each of the four members of Kiss' bodies to simulate...I have no fucking idea. At this point I threw out the idea of being authentic for being cool as fuck instead. Then, to top off all this fucking stupidity, I had no film for the Super 8 camera but I took it out and "filmed" it nonetheless. WHY???? It makes no sense. Well, as you can imagine, the fireworks eventually started a fire on stage and this was the most awesome turn of events ever so I took some lighter fluid (why was that always so accessible? My dad didn't even have a lighter) and turned it into a raging bonfire. Black, toxic smoke from Gene Simmons' burning hair filled my lungs and I didn't give a shit. I wasn't afraid of cancer. After all, I created this beautifully destructive fire, I was the God of Thunder! Then Paul Stanley started to melt. So I took him out of the fire and proceeded to drip his bubbling, liquid plastic all over some ant hills. Poor ants, what must they have thought? I imagined them screaming and running around while the molten plastic instantly cremated their hillmates one by one. I imagined that some of the lucky ones who escaped the burning death were wondering aloud "Oh cruel Gods, what hath we done to deserve the hot Paul Stanley plastic death?" And yes, I'm quite sure that ants speak in ye' old English. What do you think they sound like, Woody Allen? Please. Anyway, that's what happened to the Kiss figures. I'm not sure I want to buy them back. They're expensive. And they're gay.

You still here? What a loser.

Then there was the Stretch Armstrong foe Stretch Monster (not too clever of a name). That thing was cool....for the first day I had it. The novelty of being able to pull and bend this monster as much as you wanted and it would still revert back to it's original shape lasted literally about a day. After that, I was like "fuck you, monster. You think you're indestructible? We'll see about that" and I was off on a mission to destroy something else that once made me happy (not too much of a pattern in my life.) My brother who was 6 years older than me had a BB gun. How many awesome stories start off that way? The gun was a powerful little 10 pump bastard with a solid wood pump and stock, not that cheap plastic shit they make nowadays. This gun was a horrible object for a young boy with no regard for anything to have. Something I feel truly sickened by to this very day is how I caused a mass extinction of frogs in the pond across from my house one summer. I shot so many of the poor things that they could not repopulate. In the Spring of that year, the singing of the frogs was so loud you could hear it all the way down the street. By mid-Summer the singing was gone and has not been heard since. I really think if there's any justice in this world, a giant frog will shoot me in the head with a cannon some day. I deserve it. Anyway, I took my brothers BB gun and my stretch monster out to the stone wall behind my house for a proper execution. I pumped the standard 10 pumps and let him have it. The BBs smacked the soft monster body and sunk inside, but he didn't sustain much damage. The BB wounds just healed themselves. I was astounded. I shot it probably ten times and it never even fell over. "What are you made of, Monster", I shouted to the heavens (not too dramatic and actually untrue). Then I gave the rifle the dreaded 12 pumps. That's two more fucking pumps than necessary, asshole. Let's see you do more. I fired away and the same thing happened, of course. Physics were not my strong suit then or now. Apparently, common sense was something I severely lacked as well because when I squeezed one of the BB holes in the monster's skin a thick red jelly-like substance oozed out that smelled sweet so, naturally, I tasted it. God only knows what kind of weird chemicals I ingested that day.

Good Lord, why are you still reading this?

The last of the toys pictured above is the totally kick-ass Guns of Navarone playset. Even if you weren't into Army men, this was a cool item to have because you could use it for other action figures. I was definitely not a purist when it came to toys. I didn't keep the Star Wars figures separate from the Micronauts or the rubber Godzilla's away from the Barbies.....I mean GI Joes. GI JOES!!! Ha-ha. Honestly, I didn't even know what a "Barbie" was. I know it sounded gay though. Okay, okay, all brilliant comedic writing aside, of course I knew what a Barbie was back then. She was an object that all my action figures wanted to fuck, even though I had no idea what "fucking" was at the time. That changed a few year later when a wise old sage of a cousin told me what "fucking" was (that's a story I'll blog about some other day, but let me just say that if this kid is still fucking they way he told me fucking was meant to be, then he should be in fucking jail. Not to mention Fucking-Jail) So, to make an unbelievably long and boring story short, the Guns of Navarone playset ruled. I loved it on every level. It was a multi-tasker toy and it was cool as hell. Good thing my brother and his asshole friend took it out in the woods one day and lit it on fire. Dicks.

Okay, that's enough for now. If you made it this far, bless your heart. Someday, I will speak of more of the toys from my youth, the objects that made me so very happy and fulfilled. That is, until my dirty dick and balls (What? That's what we called puberty in my house.) entered the picture and rendered all toys completely useless.

Think about this, Eggheads.

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A Malaysian boner is to _________,
as an Angel is to farting rainbows.


















And no, the answer is not "a bloodied vagina". That was the answer to last week's question about what was found in my Grandpa's freezer.

I cannot think of a face I want to punch harder.

....or fuck more gently.

Corpsey Haim

It's super sad how being good-looking, rich, semi-talented (come on, Lucas was good!) and having tons of pussy available at a moments notice can destroy a life. If only Corey had seen this documentary, things might have turned out a little differently.

Toyotal Recall

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Yet another dipshit who has never heard of the fucking neutral gear claims that his life was endangered by a faulty accelerator in his Toyota.



Now, believe me, I don't think that these mechanical malfunctions are cool by any means, but holy fucking shit asshole, throw the fucking car in neutral and then glide to a stop. Use your fucking head. I love how this douche says at the end of the interview "obviously, if I can have a problem then anyone can have a problem." What do you mean "if I can have a problem"? Who the fuck are you, Superman? Get over yourself, you narcissistic asshole. Of course it can happen to anybody. Anything can happen to anybody. God, I hate people who think they are so special. Like those assholes who think that every thought they have is so amazing that it must be shared with the world on a blog.






P-fucking-S Motherfuckers,
I don't know for certain if The Daily Show has already done that headline. It came too easy to me this morning so I thought perhaps I'd seen it somewhere before, but I refuse to Google it and find out if it's been done before because I am so pleased with myself for "creating" it.