Thursday, April 17, 2014

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Yeah, um, what the fuck was that?  Did that robot monster just turn itself into a ball, roll down the hill and try to act like nothing happened.  We saw you, you scary bastard!

But seriously, why?  Why did someone say, "We most certainly need a robot that can turn into a ball at a moment's notice"?  I will wait the rest of my life to get that answer because I really don't see the point. It's all fun and games until someone gets their ass whooped by a robot roley-poley.  

We made a robot soccer ball, but my train to work essentially caught on fire this morning.  Priorities, people.

Monday, April 14, 2014

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KFC has gone and done it again.  The Colonel messed around and effectively changed prom night forever.

It goes without saying that I'm super jealous.  Borderline seething.  I'd be lying to you if I didn't say that I almost threw my cell phone across the room when I read this story.  Why do these kids get to chew original recipe chicken off their dates' wrists when I couldn't? 

This is going to become my version of "back in my day, I had to walk 10 miles to school" except it'll be the fat person version.  Drugs, alcohol, sex?  Nah.  The only prom advise that I'm dealing out will have to do with "grilled vs. original recipe" and what kind of dipping sauce you need to go with.  I'm going to be an awful awesome dad.

Friday, April 11, 2014

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Nothing, and I mean nothing, will teach you the intricacies of sign language faster than a couple of Jehovah Witnesses telling deaf people to stop masturbating.  The gold standard.  I mean, all of this transcends language:  

Reasoning, execution, shame and forgiveness.  This guy nailed it.  No need to take any expensive classes or spending hours learning when you have Curtis Jackson and a few overenthusiastic Jehovah Witnesses teaching lessons on Youtube.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

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RANGE of emotions here.  Initially you're confused.  Then you're very excited.  Then you're terrified.  Then you're intrigued.  And finally, you're confused again.  

This is clearly voodoo magic and I need answers.  Lots of answers.

(I also need the fake Emma Watson face/boob costume for Halloween)

Monday, April 7, 2014

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No?  You didn't want to see that?  Well, you're here now and it happened.  You saw one of our Presidents eat popcorn that was too buttered and let out a fart in front of 10 million people.  That was your Monday night.

We see you, Bill.  He's got that "If you don't think I'm hitting on that blonde via inception right now, you're out of your mind" look on his face.  Basically calling us idiots for thinking otherwise.  

True Detective: Season Two?

Friday, April 4, 2014

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It's no secret that I have spent most of my blogging history/life bashing babies for being idiots.  They're very, very stupid creatures.  If there is one thing that I can't blame them for, it is their fear of shadows.  As a little kid, nothing about shadows makes a lick of sense.

How do you look a 3 year old in the eye and tell them the definition of a shadow?  Shit's not worth it.  You just have to let them deal with the phenomenon on their own.  Young Dub J, for example, had some severe issues with shadows in the early stages of life.  For a solid year, I tried to race my shadow.  Thought I was the fastest kid in the world, but was never able to beat that asshole.  Every time I thought I was going to win, it would disappear like the punk bitch that it was.  So yeah, I cried like 4 times once about it, but  that's what you get when you're an idiot kid.  Living and learning.

First life lesson I'm going to teach my kid: sometimes you eat a penny you find on the ground, throw it up and learn not to eat pennies anymore.


Wednesday, April 2, 2014

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I'm not going to lie to anyone here.  I can't stop staring at this lounging ass dog getting snacks dropped on it's face.  It's mesmerizing.  Why is the dog sitting like a person?  Is dropping snacks on a dog from a short distance considered "cruelty"?  I need answers.  Fast.

Monday, March 31, 2014

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My sails are so windless right now.  I don't know up from down.  I'm just plain disheveled.  If you've been living under a rock today, Google told the world that they were recruiting for the role of "Pokemon Master" and made an update to Google Maps that included a Pokemon catching game.  Well guess fucking what?  It was an April Fool's joke.  A joke.  My life, at that very moment, made into a joke.

Yeah, I have my regular job.  I also have my blogging job.  I have hopes, dreams, aspirations and all of that other sappy shit, but being a Pokemon Master is my calling.  I was literally not meant to do anything better in life.  The moment Pokemon Red and Blue came out, it was like everything was decided.  I was going to spend the rest of my life catching fictional cartoons.  One of my biggest struggles in life is holding back the fact that I once caught all 150 Pokemon in middle school.  It's 2014, the fact that such a thing is not a positive quality that you can add to your resume and/or job interview is maddening and oppressive. 

So yeah, I'm hurt.  You can't pull April Fool's jokes on March 31st.  Shit's just mean.  I was ready to quit my job, buy a bike, head to Cinnabar Island, swim on the coast, fight a blurry creature named MissingNo like 30 times, acquire unlimited rare candies and Master Balls, catch ALL the cartoon animals and become a celebrity.  Nope, Google had to be petty.  You ruined a life today, guys.  You ruined a life.

PS: If you're going to throw out a April Fool's Day joke, at least be an irritable NBA player that drops a fake R&B album:

Friday, March 28, 2014

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Remember And 1 shirts?  They were those novelty basketball shirts that did the shit-talking for you because you were likely too busy missing layups and thinking you were way better than you were.  It made me think about how some of those shirts crossed a couple of lines.  Namely, every single shirt attacked all of your strong female relationships:

This jacked, bald-headed, faceless (he black though), dude is just straight up implying that he already stole your girl.  Like, before even getting on the court and assessing each other's skills, he ended your relationship and convinced her to date him.  That's pretty outlandish and frankly, logistically hard to believe. 

That's a picture of simple assault.  No way around it.  That's a woman getting attacked.  Oh, you want me to think that woman being attacked in the graphic is my mother too?  AND you're implying that her wig quality is piss poor?  This might be the lowest of the low as far as diss shirts go.

Yikes.  Well at least this one isn't attacking my mother or my girlfriend - we're finally making progress.  I'll be honest, if a guy killed me out there and just pointed at this shirt, I'd probably go home.  I wouldn't necessarily "give up" the game, but I'd definitely reevaluate things.  For one, I'd NEVER try to play with that guy again because he's clearly scary and marked his territory all over my carcass.  

"Oh shit, your mom has type-2 diabetes and they had to amputate her right foot, dawg"

"Yeah, I dunked on a kid with a genetic disposition for high cholesterol"

"Your mother has a nice butt and I'd like to have sex with her"

None of these are ok.

This is clearly fake (h/t Collegehumor), but is it really that far off?  Dude wants to eviscerate your soul over a pick up game.  Shooty hoops.  He wants to eat your soul and floss with your hopes and dreams all over some after work exercise.  

With all that said, Hot Sauce just stole this dude's girl and his mother, forced him into retirement and Grim Reaper-style absorbed his soul and left him in a abyss of despair. If he was wearing an And 1 shirt, there was a very good chance that he would be arrested right on the spot.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

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Well, everything has officially changed.  Apparently the years 2003-2014 have been a complete wash from a dancing standpoint.  Listen, I'll tell you this first: I can't dance.  I have a semblance of rhythm and can follow a beat, but I'm not a dancer.  I'm not triple jointed, I'm not going to shift my hat off my head, onto my shoulder and onto my shoe like a Chris Brown and I'm certainly not trying to sweat out there.  I keep my perimeter tight and, barring how intoxicated I am, don't try anything too outlandish.  

According to science, drunk me was apparently "Mr. Steal Yo' Girl" and Albert Brennaman was one of the great dancers of our generation.  

Scary unpredictable movements of the legs, head and hips are apparently what's hot in the streets.  Any time you come close to kicking a girl or spilling her drink, you are building a deeper bond.  If you're smart, you're buying all of the stock in "The Running Man."  

You know what sucks?  The arms getting no love.  If anything, I'm a GREAT arm dancer.  I mean, what the hell am I going to do with this move now?

Had this shit in my back pocket for like 12 years.  I guess I have to live life without a "Plan B."  If anything, this blog may serve as my "I don't want to take a salsa class" opus.