BAMF

So I could start this post off by apologizing for my absence, and carry on and on about what led to my disappearance and subsequent lack of posting, but I won’t. Well… I won’t apologize, I mean. I had a lot of shit going on last week, what with a family member in the hospital, birthdays, Christmas parties galore, and a new Xbox 360 to keep me preoccupied.

On the positive side, the new House of the MoFo is going to receive an awesomeness injection with a side of belligerance. Collectively, this place received the following liquor-friendly gifts during this holiday season:

• A full marble-top bar
• A wine storage refrigerator
• Shot dispensers
• A dual ice shot luge

We’ve got the bar, the giant hi-def TV, and the surround sound. Now we just need a plush velvet couch and we can turn this place into a full-fledged brothel.

My girlfriend also got me a set of these bad boys for the main empty wall in the living room. I’m thinking we’re going to paint the room a dark color, line one wall with the invaders, and the opposing wall with some badass quotes or something. Any suggestions are welcome.

I’m sure everyone is tickled pink that Time’s Man (Person? Feh.) of the Year is, in fact, you. This has essentially rendered the internet unreadable today, as every site was inundated with the obligatory egocentric “Yay I’m Time’s Person of the Year!” post. Great, thank you for being the 8 millionth fucking idiot to cash in on that completely obvious joke. It’s quite apparent that Time simply realized that we had all become so ridiculously idiotic and egotistical that we’d rather hear about ourselves than any figure of actual importance. In the last year we’ve elevated bloggers’ opinions to a level of near-Gospel-like factual relevance, exposed millions to the inane ramblings of meaningless twits on Youtube simply because they own a webcam, and given pedophiles easier access than ever to children’s awaiting virginal orifices. Truly, this is a golden age of information and entertainment. Pat yourselves on the back everyone, we’ve accomplished deeds of such importance that we’ve earned similar accolades to Hitler.

Time did do something that I agreed with, however, when they declared the PS3 a bust. I haven’t wanted a system less since the 3DO, and that includes the Jaguar. They did bag on Snakes on a Plane, which to my knowledge was quite enjoyable to most people, myself included. Maybe next year they’ll put themselves on the list and I won’t have to suffer through their redundant magazine in my doctor’s office anymore.

Besides, I don’t need them. I have blogs staffed by millions of Men of the Fucking Year to keep me informed.

On Sunday, I received a nicely sized check for a project that languished in limbo for the better part of a year. On Monday, the bank processed the check. On Tuesday morning, I had the money in my account. On Wednesday, I wrote checks to the people who had worked with me on the project.

Thursday rolled around, and the money was gone. Vanished. Claude Rains. The deposit was still there, but the money… not so much.

Today I spent all afternoon arguing with about 12 different bank representatives, after finding that a hold had been placed on the check after the funds were posted to my account. Naturally, they figured it was my fault, silly man that I am, for assuming that a vastly inflated balance meant vastly inflated funds. I, conversely, placed the blame on their parents for deciding that incest and moonshine could yield desirable results.

Sharkey: “So explain to me how you can possibly justify TELLING ME that I had this money, and then taking it back without a word the next day?”

Manager Lady: “Well you see, that’s just it. You do have the money. It’s yours. It’s in the account. You just can’t see it or use it.”

Sharkey: “…So by your logic, it is quite possible that Santa Claus could indeed exist. Sure, I can’t see him, and he’s never done a damned thing for me, but he’s up there. And he’s makin’ toys. Lots of toys. Believe it.”

That’s when she got tired of my shit and released the hold on the check.

I did mention as we said our tearful goodbyes that if any fees were assessed to my account, I would be happy to pay them, provided that I am allowed to pay in the same invisible and intangeable money that they had credited to my account.

Sony: Wii Is A “Novelty”… PS3 Will Reign

OK… so I know that marketing types have to hype the machine that pays the bills which keep goats blood flowing through those dust and brimstone-filled veins that course throughout their soulless corporeal bodies. Thats a given that was instilled upon us in kindergarten.

But I cannot stress to you enough the simple facts of the situation. I am a visual being. I am quite succeptable to flashy lights, crisp text, and large polygon counts. Aside from Vegas, the PS3 is pretty much my preferred bet for seeing some voluptuous parts of the female anatomy in a high definition setting. However, I am faced with a hinderance every time I step into a Best Buy, Target, Gamestop, or any other retail chain that effectively has me by the short and curlies. And that hinderance, my friends, is the Wii.

I have played it. For many hours on end. And that was just Wii fucking Sports for cryin’ out loud, I barely had a chance to get my lazy digits around Zelda or any other official title. And that didn’t fucking matter, because all I could think was “Gee… my girlfriend would actually play and enjoy this… OH FUCK ME, THAT WAS A STRIKE NOT A SPLIT YOU FUCKING STUPID BOWLING GAME!”

I will give you some opposing factual data, just to establish a reasonable hypothesis. You see, whenever I approach a PS3, I think immediately that the graphics are wonderful, the hi-def visuals quite appealing, and the gameplay… fucking ridiculously boring. I actually told some 13 year old kid in an EB Games to “shut his fucking undeserved oxygen hole” for stating his preference of the PS3 (which was playing that God-awful Rally-X successor) over the Wii, due to the inferior graphics.

Yes, he argued. Yes, he was quite the little pompous prick. But being that I am smarter than… well, all of you, in addition to my correctness in the situation, he was persuaded to see my point of view. Why? Because I pointed out the obvious superior factor of every single Wii console out there:

If your dorky, Final Fantasy loving ass is capable of coercing a woman into bed with you, she might actually have some Goddamned fun with the Wii.

Wii = Less Nagging = Possibly More Sex (really, if less nagging is possible then who gives a shit?)

I hope you’ve learned something today, because I (drunkedly) typed a lot of shit while my girlfriend sleeps in the other room and I play Final Fantasy XII, hoping that I can nab a Wii on Sunday. Sleep tight.

I think that honesty is important. And there is no person more in need of your honesty than one’s self. As cliched as it may sound, it can be freeing to admit to yourself the most shameful and debasing facets of your own personality.

Yet for some reason, I still cannot own up to the fact that I like the film Simply Irrisistable better than My Dinner with Andre.

On a long-overdue alcohol run to the local supermarket, I happened to spy an oddity clad in a green flower-covered sundress. Somewhat large, and in her late forties, she was accompanied by children that must have been produced fairly late in the life cycle of her womanhood. I can only imagine that my treacherous eyes singled out this particular undesirable due to her completely ridiculous hairstyle. Rather than a typical dye job of blonde atop a thin strip of black roots, she had a half & half mixture that was seemingly the product of laziness or a visually impaired hairdresser. It was like one of those half chocolate/half vanilla ice cream cones from my childhood, only far less appetizing.

Perhaps it was due to a certain analytical curiosity, or more likely, my inebriated state of mind, but I stood outside of the supermarket and pondered her completely idiotic choices in life. But I stood there, bags of liquor in hand, watching traffic go by, and felt somewhat bad about my train of thought. Perhaps this woman had chosen this hairstyle in an attempt to appear more youthful and carefree. Or another option, this may have been an attempt on her part to obfuscate her less appealing features, namely her face. I hadn’t taken a look at her ring hand, for fear of my dick never again heeding my call to action, but I could imagine her trolling the singles bars at night… hoping to attract a new temporary father figure for her potentially obnoxious (and possibly bastardized) children.

It was at this point, lost in my train of thought, that I turned my head and found myself face to face (mere inches away) with the object of my mental pause.

Unfortunately, I had turned my head to let out a viciously large and somewhat appalling belch.

I don’t know why I’ve been assaulted with this barrage of time-wasting games lately, but I have. And I care about your time just about as much as I care about my own so… here’s Bowmaster 2: Prelude.

Fucking dragons.

And in the “make-you-feel-better-about-yourself” department, we have this juicy little tidbit: apparently the majority of men in India are too small for normal condoms.

The study found that more than half of the men measured had penises that were shorter than international standards for condoms.

It has led to a call for condoms of mixed sizes to be made more widely available in India.

“Smaller condoms are on sale in India. But there is a lack of awareness that different sizes are available. There is anxiety talking about the issue. And normally one feels shy to go to a chemist’s shop and ask for a smaller size condom.”

…

Might I suggest that India outsource all of their sexual activity to America? Cheaper, efficient, more bang for your buck…. just something to think about.

Woman from the “Maury Povitch” show is deathly afraid of pickles.

…pickles.

You’ve gotta wonder if she was like… molested. You know… by a gherkin.