Dark Night of the Scarecrow is a made-for-TV horror movie I took notice of while looking for cool images online. That guy up top spoke to me enough to give the movie a shot and after both washing and drying my urine soaked jeans I must say the movie worked, along with the three 40's I drank while watching it. A big handicapped guy named Bubba is wrongly accused of killing a little girl he's friends with and as a result gets murdered by a small, goofy foursome of town folk lead by a sadistic mailman who's out for handicap blood. A series of terrifying and semi-erotic events follow that will guarantee if you watch this movie alone you shouldn't do it stoned but will anyway. Spoilers and shit follow:
Of course you're not supposed to judge a book by it's cover, but people are going to anyway. One of the human species' sharpest abilities is to see, judge, inform and possibly correct anyone around them who might need an umph in a certain direction. Do you think it matters if somebody likes a certain book or not? Do you really think book reviews and your friend's opinions aren't just stuff they heard other people on blogs and at bars say? Trust me, it is. Nobody gives a shit about the actual content of the book unless it was boring. So, in the end, with so many options to choose from on the planet as far as printed literature is concerned, your fastest option is to judge them by their covers, or better yet, have somebody else do it for you. The world isn't gonna sit around and wait for you while you lean on your chin and mull over a decision about nothing. Just get a hold of yourself and let me do the thinking for you, art is subjective.
Living cheap. It comes out pretty easy when you say it like that but when you get down to business, going through life on minimal greenbacks can't really be summed up in two words, but maybe in about 1,500 or so. I myself have been living cheap for years, and due to my success with keeping the fridge full and that peculiar penchant for not being dead while living life on my very light funds -- could be considered an expert on the subject. The purpose of this article is to allow you, the doughy keyboard poker who doesn't pay for their own Netflix account, to have as much access to the not-free comings and goings of life as humanly possible, despite your budget. So, sit back and relax with some hot cocoa and get a grip -- because I'll tell you right now you shouldn't be drinking hot cocoa. Not if you're broke I mean, especially if there's no alcohol or caffeine involved. Nobody said this shit was gonna be easy.
When not attending to his duties as an intergalactic diplomat and general renaissance man, George William Kessel IV likes to travel around a funny little planet called earth to filter out and examine it's varied, colorful culture like a high tech dolphin net built by the military to strike fear in the hearts of people who like dolphins (everyone). What I'm trying to say is that this man is important, and despite our lack of worthiness to his attention, he has donated to us beautiful color photographs of his exploits to share with the masses. So it is my pleasure to say dear citizens, welcome to Around the World in 80 Gays with George William Kessel IV!
Of all the sales representatives at my job I am, without a shadow of a doubt, the most picky when it comes to females. In the dull hours at the office, me and my co-workers do what any bored male with a working penis/brain combo on the clock does: stand around and rate women (pass or fail, bang or no-bang) as they saunter past our window throughout the day. My pickiness had gotten so bad, I had failed so many of my overly concerned workmates’ expectations of what a man wants that it almost became a running gag at the office that I was gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that).
I am a product of a youth spent watching Seinfeld, exclusively and every weekday at 7:00, when it would come on with that chunky bass line between The Simpsons and Malcolm in the Middle. Everything from my soft attraction to tall women (See George Costanza: Season 3, Episode 35/36; The Boyfriend) to my acute fault finding tendencies (See Jerry Seinfeld: The entire series) is derived from hours upon hours of watching what I felt was the only clever show on television. Kyle, a co-worker of mine and probably the most handsome guy in the office, the only one worthy of being called a gentleman, has this philosophical term he likes to throw around called “standards.” I like to call them rules, or better yet, laws I use when I’m drunk and need the force of the term to deter me from sleeping under my curve. But drunk or sober, there is one rule that will never ever be broken: NO WEAVE. My mother and father owned a hair braiding shop downtown when I was a kid. The only concrete memories I have of the place was learning how to use a cash register and a mouse found in the wastebasket that one of the wash girls burned alive. I was around plenty of weave growing up. Before, I would hardly notice. Now it grosses me out to the point of goosebumps, like fingernails would when found apart from the body. I never noticed how upsetting I found it until after I slept with a particularly memorable girl that happened to wear a piece:
Posted by Argyle Jones
The following is a collection of scans I put together that were all once pinned to my bulletin board. As I bailed from my last home in a hurry, my old b. board had to be left behind; currently all of these things are spread all over my floor amidst a sea of empty beer bottles, notebooks and a shit ton of really fly ass dirty clothes. Everything was gathered in and around Gainesville, Florida, during the time I lived there, and were found in the street, on telephone poles, inside abandoned houses and other random spots happened upon during regular patrols of the area.
After I read the excellent throwaway filler piece I Hate Old People, I had a bit of an ephiphany. Not only did the article rehash the same "I hate stuff" theme that we go for here on the blog perfectly, but also it made me realize something very important: babies are annoying. Old people suck and all but on the other end of the spectrum, babies are stepping on people's toes and shitting on things way more frequently than old people do, and those little idiots haven't been shit on once on this blog, so I figured I would give it a shot. After all, my girlfriend is always saying I have "baby fever."
The problem with hating babies, though, is that unlike getting old -- something you can stop yourself or others from doing -- just about everybody and their grandma has children these days, and sometimes popping one out is almost inevitable. So, if you happen to get your girlfriend pregnant, fine. But I think we should all collectively practice a good "I don't fuck with you, you don't fuck with me attitude" about the situation and designate some rather obvious places babies should not be allowed:
Posted by John V. Snackerton
Must we go over this again? Old people are a hazard to the health and happiness of the world's youth and an unsightly waste of taxpayer wallet space who have done nothing but slowly and steadily suck the life out of America's broken-down junkie blood vessels for the past 20 to 30 years or so. And hey, not to sound like a crotchety you-know-what, but I think this country still has a lot of spirit left in it. No one would ever guess that, what with the pasty-faced vampire fucks known as senior citizens riding the healthy asses of everyone under the age of 65, but it does. Old people are the reason we still have a two-party political system where nothing can ever get accomplished, because their votes help uphold archaic laws and ideas and entitled bullshit that characterizes the country we live in and how we should treat and perceive it. Senior bitterzens are an embarrassing sore on the lips of this country and the only reason Two and a Half Men ever got popular.
Old people are gross, they smell bad, they aren't funny, they look like shit all the time and they're cheap. Senior citizen discount, seriously? Do you really need a discount on that moldy orange and jar of pickled chicken eyes you're buying? You know you're never gonna eat that orange. It's just gonna sit on your kitchen table until one of your fucked up kids comes over and picks it up and goes "Geez, ma, don't you ever throw anything out?" Then you'll just wave it off and make some pathetic joke about your age because you know everyone will feel bad and continue to let you fly under the radar like every weak, shriveled-up piece of caveman shit your age does.
|Photos left inside journal.|
Scorpion Jones is a hippie Slash Dribblez and Mark Harvey met while hitchhiking through Central Florida. Encountered at a truck stop somewhere between Daytona Beach and Gainesville, Scorpion said she would do almost anything to raise cash to fund her trip to New Los Angeles. Mark had already slept with her that morning, so, it was a somewhat tough call. But -- she needed help, and, as you know, that's what those two live to do. The quickest idea they could think of besides more sex was of course the one other thing also seriously lacking from their lives: blog material.
When asked if she wrote or had anything she might want to contribute to BSA, Ms. Jones wrinkled her forehead and stuck her nose up as if thinking really hard, then thought of something. She dug through her bag for a minute and pulled out some beaded shit, a doll's head and a beat-up old Mead notebook with the word "Ghosts" scrawled on the front in Sharpie. It was mostly illegible but here's what we could make out, we called it a diary instead of a journal because we're sexist:
- Boy ghosts are less creepy than girl ghosts in my experience. Girl ghosts want to talk, and to be seen as well as heard. Dying’s scary, so my reaction is to pretend like otherworldly communications are just infrasound or whatever and leave it at that.
- Rundown cities are famous for its ghosts. One time, walking down 3rd Ave in Gainesville, I glared at a girl smoking a cigarette. She said, “You look mad, do you want a shot?” and I said yes. I actually wanted a cigarette but I ended up with a steak dinner, as well as a few shots and a Dr. Pepper. It was the night of her graduation, so I guess she was feeling generous, and her boyfriend wore an apron and had spiky hair. She asked how I liked my meat and I said “medium,” and we shared a meaningful look that lead to us bonding over some of her Camel Crushes. It turns out her grandmother was a medium, and one night after having a stroke she showed up perched on top of my new friend’s chest telling her unspeakable horrors. That night I learned that being rude is realer than smiling, that you don’t have to be dead to be a ghost, and that sightings run in the family.
Posted by Scorpion Jones
Of the all the different types of shocking videos caught on camera that float around television specials and the Internet, some of the most viewed and talked about clips are of people getting attacked by animals. People find these videos exciting in an adventurous/dangerous sort of way, and everyone in the video rallies behind the hapless victim that's managed to belly flop into a polar bear cage or whatever dumb shit they come up with or bad luck they have. I, however, find them to be quite whatever.
Wow, how obvious, right? Slash Dribblez, blogger/pornstar extraordinaire taking a pessimistic little fuckboy view on something that's actually super super sad and vewy vewy weal. I guess you're right. Deeming animal attacks as not a big deal for the sake of shock value is a cheap shot. These are innocent people we're talking about, laughing at their expense is just stupid, and... HEY, wait a minute! I eat meat!
Not to get all PETA on your ass, because I'm a practicing non-vegetarian, but let's not kid ourselves: animal harvesting is pretty brutal, and huge slaughterhouses are about as common across America as -- well, fast food joints. Just today, some guy behind me in the street was walking his cute-looking little dog and I heard him command firmly, "Walk. Don't run." A FUCKING DOG. We mass-produce and stockpile these big, adorable fatties in these huge factories just long enough to carve some tasty beef off of them, and yet I and many others turn the other cheek in order to get "third pounder" burgers from McDonald's. No problem. So with that on top of other strange things afoot -- dudes getting their dicks blown off in Afghanistan for college money, child slaves being bartered constantly in complete shadiness across the globe, and people still pretending to find Ricky Gervais funny -- I'm gonna have to go with my gut instinct and say animal attack victims get thrown in my Too Bad, Who Cares file.
As America veers further and further away from the post World War II model superpower that it once was and further and further into a drama-prone/has-been country with massive debt and unemployment problems for the world to the obsess over, you've probably heard some dark shit about society melting down or huge food shortage and class wars causing collapse of social order, death, explosions, et cetera. Whether it's gangsta rap, neo-nazi skinheads, Marilyn Manson or George Bush, any time the price of oil shifts in this country suddenly some asshole in line at the DMV starts running their mouth about how everyone's in for some shit and we all deserve it.
The truth is real large scale wars between superpowers are over and for the most part we as a modern, functioning country are entirely safe. I don't think World War III is ever going to happen, I don't think the system is going to fail and I don't think the cushy 90's existence America and other less caveman-like countries have laid the groundwork for in the last 60 years or so is ever going to die in our lifetime. We live in a society where the last real war we've been involved in was the shoving match known as the Cold War, where the only real conflicts we deal with are on TV, happening in other countries to paid soldiers or your occasional unwavering terrorist attacks. Obviously when the Twin Towers went down, people were wavered, and for good reason. But seriously, how much more not involved could we have been with the 9/11 attacks? I've never been to Afghanistan before, have you? I don't at all believe there was a conspiracy but if in 2002 they were like "it turns out the pilots of all three planes were androids built by Haliburton" I just wouldnt be all that surprised. It's not like terrorist attacks are safe, fun or ironically funny, they're just always loaded with bullshit feelings that have nothing to do with us, plus, you're a million times more likely to kill yourself in a drunk driving accident or die of cancer than be killed in a terrorist attack.