Black Friday: Products I’d Pay For Just to Destroy

The cold bitch slap of winter is in the air, night never ends, and the soil surges underfoot like vagina brimming with milkshake as you tread to your car through the early morning dew. It’s all worth it, though. The wait is over. It’s Black Friday, and you’re going to shop your supple little nads off.

Fuck, you might even kill a motherfucker today if it comes down to it. If it’s a matter of you or little Johnny and his dad getting the last 3D television in the store, then somebody is going to get dropped off at the orphanage after this. And by “orphanage” I mean the Second Mile charity and by “after” I mean after you strangulate his father and get the TV in the car.

But some Black Friday deals aren’t worth sending kids to Child Services over. Some are worthless, shitty, and categorically offensive as a product  deemed worth creating. The following are a few of the items I’ll be waiting in line for on Friday just to kick into pieces:

1.  Stainless Steel Crock Pot (Walmart, $39)

Like most men, when it comes to the culinary arts I’m really just eyeballing it. I tend to cook my food by covering its surface area in fire until it looks like something I want inside of me. That said, I do not own a crock pot. I don’t know what a fucking crock pot is. But based on the way the words “crock” and “pot” sound coming out of my mouth together I assume it’s the preferred cooking instrument of moms on the show “16 and Pregnant” for making meals that won’t make life taste any better after the television crew and father leaves.

2.  Eragon DVD (Best Buy $10)

“I got it! We’ll make the main character’s name Eragon!! Like, E-Ragon! It’s like dragon, but with the letter ‘e’ sitting on its face! Because it’s a movie   about dragons! Alright, meeting adjourned, let’s go to  an oxygen bar!”

 

 

 

3.  Honeywell QuietClean Air Purifier (Kmart $79)

People buying their first home “air purifying tower” realize soon after plugging it in that their money could’ve been better spent paying a stranger to fist a handful of dominoes up their ass. Home air purifiers work shittily at best, I don’t care how many “negative ions” you’ve sloughed off their “filters” into the garbage. You know what else collects dust? My fucking window ceils.

 

 

What I WILL be buying this Friday, however, is a pair of lace underwear from Rihanna’s new line of lingerie. As long I can find a pair that’s certified pre-owned and they add dynamic  flavor to my chicken soup I’ll consider it a sound investment.

Sandusky: Too Soon? Or About Ten Years Too Late?

I think it’s safe to say the acronym “FTK” took a horrifying turn this week.

After leafing through the grand jury report detailing Jerry Sandusky’s sexual assaults against minors at Penn State I have decided I will no longer hug children, for any reason whatsoever.

I have also decided I will never use a public shower again. The report on Sandusky provides strong evidence for my belief that nothing positive or uplifting has ever occurred in a communal shower. You know what happens in group showers? Chlamydia. Chlamydia and Sanduskying happens in group showers.

The content of the report is appalling, and I won’t hash it out again for you in detail because I can’t spend another afternoon dry-heaving and shaking my fist at the Lord. I will, however, provide you with the Cliff Notes:

• Sleepovers
• Locker room showers
• “Back cracking”
• Hand stuff
• Mouth hockey
• Child-rape feeder system posing as a philanthropy.
• HJ-OTP in motor vehicles
• Basements
• Free oil checks
• “Bear hugging”
• Wrong-holing
• < 8 boys
• Lots of Chef Boyardee (unconfirmed)

The list of abominations goes on, but the saddest part of this twisted tale is the deep concern for Joe Paterno’s “legacy” at Penn State.

That’s what we’re focusing on today? Alright guys, I’m gonna go run some errands while you hang out here and miss the fucking point.

The Plot of the Movie “Super 8” (As Heard From the Other Room)

I have never seen the movie “Super 8,” but I can hear the whole damn thing because my asshole roommates are watching it in our living room with the volume jacked up to “terrorist attack.”  So instead of studying as I had planned, I figured I’d make use of this wonderful situation and write a comprehensive breakdown of what the movie “Super 8″ sounds like it’s about:

The movie starts out with a group of tweens or whatever the fuck they’re called hanging out by the railroad tracks in Assburg, Anywhere, USA. There’s one preppy kid who’s wearing a letterman’s jacket and talking shit to the weird kid of the group in his Van’s. No one likes the weird kid and no one should, he’s a loner and only one ill-founded opinion away from setting up a tent and trying to occupy something right there.

Weird McLoner just stands there with his thumb up his ass as Hot Tits, the older chick with hot tits, brusquely avoids Jock Boy’s promptings for her to sit down and lay a pound of she-beef on his forehead.

They’re standing there smoking cigarettes and talking about how they can quit “whenever they want” and how they hate the new Facebook when a train comes along and WHAMMY- All fucking hell breaks.

The train hits one of their longboards and derails, pelting them all with metal shrapnel and railroad ties, and one of them who isn’t central to the plot dies. The next twenty minutes consist of the train crashing some more and kids screaming and evacuating their bowels onto the pavement until it finally stops and everything goes quiet. Before they can collect their thought there’s something scraping and banging and making porpoise noises within one of the freights, and the kids realize they’ve somehow upended a tanker containing a shipment of the government’s top secret weapons- alien cyborg whales.

Michael Bay drew this in one night. With his groin. Blacked out on Rumplemintz.

For the next hour the kids are on the lam, running from hiding place to hiding place as the cyborg-whales fly around emitting torrents of deafening uproar and using telekinesis to tear apart buildings and fist each other.

Every fifteen minutes or so they find a safe spot to camp, and the characters develop and become closer. The kids share life stories and reveal insecurities stemming from their rocky relationships with their fathers before—FWWAAHHH!!!  The top of the building/car/boat/whatever they’re hiding inside of is ripped off and a deluge of hot twisted metal and alien whale-rape rains down from the heavens.

A creepy piano interlude plays as the scene for the next show-down is set. The kids are growing more and more desperate before one of them finally has an epiphany that in order to defeat the monsters they must–CRAAAHHH!!! Everything metal around them explodes into gaseous black anti-matter as a prodigious alien whale penis levels the entire city block around them.

Then “My Sharona” by The Knack comes on as Jock Boy finally slips a fourth finger in Hot Tits and the credits roll.

Fin.

Hoopsters: Bro Meets Hipster Meets Fucking Tragedy

I scrolled through the social media on my phone as I sat a table inside Waffle House, waiting impatiently for the filthy feast of huevos rancheros I had ordered.

I had just finished defriending everyone on Facebook with a status about Trueblood and was about to initiate phase two of the social cleansing by unfollowing people on Twitter who hash-tag “leggoo” when my friend across the booth made a surprising remark-

“This whole wearing jerseys everywhere thing is getting fucking out of control…”

Sure enough, I look up and there’s a gaggle of bros in varying NBA throwback jerseys and snapback hats sauntering into the restaurant. And for the first time since that drifter outside the arcade asked me if I was interested in “greasing his hinges,” I was speechless.

I just kind of sat there. Soaked in my own WTF.

I had seen this whole “WWJamalMashburnDo?” look before- These groups of sleepy bros lumbering down the street in their throwback jerseys and snapbacks looking as if they woke up this morning and found themselves in a strange bed and submerged to the hilt in a member of the ’92 Dream Team.

But what do you call that?

“Yea, I don’t really know…” I answered lamely, trying to avoid picturing these guys doing stuff with Clyde Drexler that would end in a clothes exchange and a sad limp home.

After doing some research, I found that there is in fact a term for you people: The “Hoopster.”

As the name suggests, a hoopster is what happens when you take a bro and a hipster and just mash them together violently. The result is a hoopster, aka guys who wear obscure throwback jerseys to less-than-jersey-appropriate occasions like class or funerals because they’re hip and they don’t need your approval.

By wearing his jersey to Nana’s wake, the hoopster is saying “Hey, I don’t need your rules/sleeves. I’m a maverick, Nana. It’s embroidered right here under ‘Dallas’. Maybe you’d understand that if you weren’t so mainstream and dead right now…  Jesus didn’t wear sleeves.”

Which is true, you know, if you worship John Stockton in NBA Jams like they do. He was “their shit.”

If your first thought when a hoopster rolls into class wearing a throwback Moses Malone/Cincinatti Royals jersey and pajama pants is “laundry day,” you just made his day. Coincidentally, if your second and third thoughts are “Hold on, who the fuck is Moses Malone?” and “What in the creeping Jesus are the Cincinnati Royals?” you have also made his day.

If you haven’t gotten the picture yet, a throwback jersey is like a fine sleeveless wine to a hoopster, and they will them discuss them at length with all the discerning poetry a business-turned-telecomm major can muster while describing an $80 mesh shirt.

After schooling you in the life and times of one man and with a Dikembe Mutombo throwback and a dream, a hoopster will go on to tell you the harrowing tale about a vintage snapback he found in his parents’ linen closet. It says “Walk For the Cure ‘88” and he only wears it with his Magic Johnson jersey because that’s super funny and ironic and shit.

Newly classified as they are, we still have much to learn about hoopsters and how to defend ourselves against becoming one. So if you find yourself feeling the strange urge to do things like stopby Goodwill to forage for “like, cool old hats” or put on your Penny Hardaway from 6^th grade and go or a strut, I can only advise the following-

Turn around, find the nearest gym, and go play real basketball like a fucking adult.

Fuck This Hurricane.

If I see one more motherfucker update their social media of choice with another god damn hurricane update/joke/pun/casual-fucking-observation I’m going to shit out a family dinette set. Sideways.

This was written by the kind of person who buys houses "for their personality."

Hurricanes hit our country every year, without fail. So why is it that now suddenly everyone with a timeshare on the East Coast is getting so god damned worked up over this particular one? RHETORICAL QUESTION, ASSHOLE. The reason is this-

Location, location location.

A news report airs about a hurricane that’s going to hit a place no one gives a shit about (i.e. the South) and everyone just chuckles and refills their Brita bottle. But soon as the East Coast finds itself in the crosshairs you’d think the War of the Worlds was having sex with the Perfect Storm over the Caribbean.

I hope the East Coast gets fucked. I hope this hurricane runs that ass into the ground like a rental car (Thanks Leon). I hope this hurricane just keeps going. I hope it ends up making it all the way to  northern Canada and just hangs over Quebec for a week. That’s a two-for-one deal. Don’t be afraid to dream big you bright-eyed dreamers.

What’s the worst that could happen though? The East Coast needs some adversity. All the regions of the country besides the East Coast have their crosses, and they bear them well- The West Coast has earthquakes and mudslides, the Midwest has tornados and fat people, and the South has hurricanes and minorities.

9/11 was a decade ago, and it’s time for the East Coast to lose the purse and put its dick back on the table, where it belongs.

Discovery’s Shark Attack Videos: A Critical Review

In commemoration of another Shark Week in the books, I decided to write a few critical reviews rating my favorite Discovery Channel shark attack videos.

#1. “Nerd Rope: The Shark Tug of War”

Anchored some 2,000 miles off the coast of South Africa, the crew of the research vessel Discovery decided to take a day off and go waste some scientific grant money dicking around in the ocean.

It was all hi-fives and Weezer mash-ups until one of the researchers throws a wet piss-blanket of buzzkill on the fun by hand feeding one of her legs to a great white shark.

In her testimony of the event, researcher Heather Boswell recounts talking to her mother on the phone just before going swimming that day. Heather’s mother, a sane and rational person, asks her if that’s such a great idea considering the potential for a shark attack. Heather made sure to giggle, and presumably asked her mother to look into getting a Life Alert before hanging up and pulling a gainer off the side of the boat.

The video of the incident taken from the boat shows Heather about twenty minutes and a Miller Chill later, thrashing wildly in the water with a massive great white shark locked on her foot like a home-arrest anklet from Hell. Rest assured, everyone on the boat does their best to help out by screaming like they’re getting finger-blasted at a Jason Aldean concert.

First off, Heather’s number one mistake in this situation is readily apparent- She is wearing a one-piece bathing suit

Just cause for capital punishment.

Moving past the fact few people ever feel inclined to save chicks in one-piece bathing suits from anything in the first place, it’s scientifically significant to note that Heather is frumpy and pear-shaped. You pour that chick’s cottage cheese into a black one piece and you’ve got a dead-ringer for a seal. Yeah, it’s cold, it’s hard, but that is a fact. So wipe that judgment off your face because you learned something today.

Anyways, right about then the shark takes Heather and her saddlebags below deck to eat his meal in peace and Heather starts bullshitting about how “oddly beautiful” getting eaten underwater is. Right as she’s getting all Steel Magnolias—BOOM—Shark tug of war. That’s correct. Right as Heather is being pulled up into the boat the shark latches back onto her other leg.

The shark vs. nerd tug of war reenactment is spectacular, my only wishes would’ve been for five more minutes of it played over “You’re the Best Around” by Joe Esposito. But beggars can’t be choosers and the whole thing ends as quickly as it began when Heather suddenly comes free of the shark’s mouth and lands safely in the boat.

“There was a pop,” she says blankly, “and I look down and my leg is gone…”

“So…”

And that’s how you end that story- the best way.

Positives:

• Shark attacking chick.

Negatives:

• Chick is fat.

Best Moment:

"So..."

Rating:

B+

#2 “The Great White Three-Way”

Meet Shannon Ainsley- the only dude alive lucky enough to roll a double “dicks-in-your-ass” in the crapshoot of life and live to limp another day.

Looks like he rolled double dicks at Great Cuts too.

It was just another lazy afternoon in South Africa when Shannon and Brandon Ainsley decided to “hang ten” the post-apartheid way at Nahoon Reef. A popular beach for locals who enjoy moving water and standing on wood, the two brothers surfed the reef while a friend of theirs filmed from the beach, chronicling every last minute of their extreme standing and turning on water.

The video of the attack shows Shannon in the middle of executing his trademark “crouch/stand with back toward wave” maneuver, blissfully unaware that he will momentarily be pulling the first ever fully inverted hardflip-to-pants-shit ever attempted in the history of the sport (term used loosely). This feat will be made possible courtesy of not one, but TWO great white sharks, both of which plan to bring Tag Team back again with extreme prejudice.

Right as Shannon begins to combine his “crouch/stand” with a backside “slight turn,” the dorsal fins of two great white sharks explode out of the water around him and he is sent flying up into the air.

Several run-through’s in glorious slow motion show that the two sharks attacked Shannon from opposite angles in what we can assume was a botched attempt to “high-low” the surfer. These sharks didn’t just want to eat Shannon; they wanted to destroy him, as evidenced by their blatant attempt to utilize the hit-stick and Any Given Sunday this dude into red man-mist.

In a flash, Shannon’s ass disappears underwater and thus begins the Discovery Channel’s simulation of the event, brought to life by the same computer graphics used in the original Tron.

Once in the water, Shark A snaps down on Shannon’s arm and takes him on a walk to Shark B’s mouth, who has meanwhile whipped around and is coming at Shark A head on, realizing at this point he has to force a fumble or go for the strip. Shark B swoops in, jaws open, smashing into and around Shannon’s chest and shoulders, successfully tomahawking the surfer from the other shark’s mouth.

It's looks like Deep Blue Sea, if the graphic design was done with a toaster.

Luckily for Shannon, Shark B bungles his business and somehow loses the handle on Shannon’s face and the surfer manages to make it ashore, leaving both sharks looking like major assholes.

Positives:

• 2x the sharks > 4x the steak.
• “High-low a ho.”

Negatives:

• Minimal evisceration.

Best Moment:

• The part where he isn’t surfing anymore.

Rating:

B

#3 “Sweep the Leg, Johnny”

First off, I would like to take this opportunity to say that I stand firmly behind the notion of individuals pushing the limits of safety and common sense in the name of scientific research.I don’t care if you fly a hot air balloon around the North Pole to study the Aurora Borealis’ effects on narwhals fucking each other. I’m fine with that. Why? Because that’s science.

With that said, there exists a thin line between “research in the name of science” and “research in the name of getting someone dismembered on camera.” And the “professionals” responsible for the next video crossed that line with enough misguided velocity to break the sound barrier of retardation and travel backward into retarded past.

Chances are you have seen this video before, but for those less devout Shark Week followers who have yet to happen upon this most sacred footage allow to me lay out the scene for you-

Two dudes filming a documentary about bull sharks. Standing in waist deep water. Surrounded by forty circling sharks. With four or more cameras rolling. To sum this whole thing up accurately I will borrow a line from Dave Chappelle- This isn’t Trading Spaces.

The two men in the water with the school of sharks circling them are shark specialist Erich Ritter and researcher/host Nigel Marven.

“I’d certainly be very nervous doing this on my own,” stammers Marven, visibly on the cusp of becoming the first man to shit himself in hi-definition or while hosting a documentary. Ritter, responding in a tone that suggests he is almost if not equally shit-prone as Marven, states that they are both in fact safe and explains that the sharks aren’t interested in them as long as they stand completely still.

No sooner does Ritter advise us to treat bull sharks like we would a Tyrannosaurus does a four hundred pound one smash into him from behind and rip out his entire right calf muscle.

Leg= swept.

Ritter was immediately pulled out of the water by the crew and saved from what most certainly would’ve turned into an excellent blood orgy. He survived his brush with death, and provided us all with an important lesson in the dangers of applying knowledge gleaned from the movie Jurassic Park in our everyday lives.

Positives:

• Hi-definition pwnage.
• British accents.
• Complete disregard of any and all common sense in the name of ratings.

Negatives:

• He lived.
• No hot chicks.

Best Moment:

• “I can’t believe it happened.” –Marven

Rating:

A-

July: Good Riddance.

“I need a swift death, Lord, or a swifter beginning to this Shark Week,” I prayed.

Hands clasped tightly, I venture a peek up at my television, only to watch helplessly as another white guy catches a baseball to round out SportsCenter’s Top Ten Plays of the Week.

“Because this… This just isn’t working for me.”

I'll stop yawning when you stop barebacking each other with syringes and start barehanding line drives.

Shark Week, the only public programming that stimulates your mind and genitals, is back this Sunday and I am praying for it’s safe and swift return. It couldn’t come at a better time either, especially when you take into consideration the bull-fuck of a July we’ve all just endured.

Seriously, you could build a public school with the amount of dicks July has sucked this year. Sure, it would be slippery and smell like a mouth but the point is it could be done. And judging by the type of guys you’d have to hire to build a dick school you can pretty much guarantee each room will feature very tasteful decor and  “positive energy.” But back to this month-long shit-carnival we called July.

Short of Hitler being resurrected and breaking Air Bud’s neck on national television, I think it’s safe to say this month couldn’t have been much more depressing. Think about it- Two lockouts, Norway ravaged by the terrorist equivalent of Duke Nuke’em, as well as the deficit bearing down on our economy’s helpless doughy backside like a creepy uncle with wet hands who’s cornered us in the linen closet.

Not to mention SportsCenter, which has become the World Wide Leader In Following Around The Black Guy From the NFLPA Who Wears Fedoras.

And strongly resembles a snapping turtle.

I don’t care if it’s “America’s Pastime,” the average baseball highlight ranks higher on the US Standard Scale of Visual Boner Poison than the movie The Road. That’s right, I’d watch dude-on-dude cannibalism and crying children for two and half hours before I’d sit through another “amazing backhand-flip double play” at second base.

Hell, the best baseball catch I have seen all season was just a gritty hustle play made by a fan over some low railings. Yea, he might’ve expired shortly thereafter, but the important thing is he caught it. I like to think when the Emergency Response guys were asking him what happened his last words were- “Tell them… you got to lay out for that shit. Always.” And if you thought that joke was in poor taste, don’t blame me. Blame god damn July making all this shit happen.

Don’t forget the Casey Anthony trial, that smoldering mushroom stamp of injustice seared into the collective orbital sockets of the American people at the beginning of the month. The only way that trial could’ve ended shittier would’ve required rolling the production credits over an 80′s cinema freeze frame shot of Anthony and her lawyer kicking their heels up and hi-fiving in mid air.

God I can’t wait for Shark Week.

Stupid Fucking Phrases That Piss Me Off

Do I really need to elaborate with that kind of title?

1.     “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

Intended Meaning-

“I’m sorry for your ignorance, flawed simian, but I am above this petty exchange.”

Actual Meaning-

“I’m sorry I decided to watch Grey’s Anatomy instead of learning to argue like a fucking adult today.”

You’re most likely to hear this sentence from-

Jaimie, that self-righteous bitch who interns at the hospital and only drinks Miller Genuine Drafts because she’s “training for her first triathlon” or some stupid shit.

Further vindication was provided after a quick Google Images search yielded this.

2.      “Sorry I’m not sorry!”

Intended meaning-

“Sorry you’re not me, bitch!”

Actual Meaning-

“Dad loved Bushmills and tranny’s more than coming to my recitals and this is how I cope.”

You’re most likely to hear this sentence from-

People who un-tag themselves from pictures and then make sure to comment on “how bad they look haha…” Or, you know, just have no self-worth.

3.     “Haters(z) gonna hate.”

Intended Meaning-

“Your jealousy won’t get between me and my dreams.”

Actual Meaning-

“I find self-confidence in Nicki Minaj lyrics, and my dream is to fluff backup dancers between sets at her concerts-I-mean-opening-acts.”

You’re most likely to hear this sentence from-

That sketchy guy you met three years ago who sends you Facebook invites to every shit-ass party he DJ’s.

4.     “It is what it is.”

Intended meaning-

None.

Actual meaning-

“I provide a legitimate argument for the eugenics movement and deserve to be fed into the Large Hadron Collider.”

You’re most likely to hear this sentence from-

Bruno Mars fans/ the DMV/ people who go camping.

5.     “Going H.A.M.” (Hard As a Motherfucker).

Intended Meaning-

“Getting ready to veraciously attack this activity or food.”

Actual/ Literal Meaning-

“I don’t understand how abbreviations work.”/ “Getting an erection as rigid as my father’s.”

You’re most likely to hear this sentence from-

Athletes you follow on Twitter/ guys who have a poster of 50 Cent shirtless in their rooms.

6.     “I mean…”/ “I feel like…”

Intended meaning-

“Your opinion is wrong and mine is right because…”

Actual Meaning-

“I’m passive aggressive because disagreeing with you straight up is requires that spine I traded for a long term relationship.”

You’re most likely to hear this sentence from-

Yourself, because it’s a dirty fucking habit you should probably break it you coward.

7.     “Sorry for partying.”

Intended Meaning-

“Sorry you don’t understand that rules don’t apply to me.”

Actual Meaning-

“Sorry I don’t have values, or the discount card that we’ll need at CVS tomorrow morning.”

You’re most likely to hear this sentence from-

The girl who loses her phone at a friend’s house and then walks home barefoot from the bar.

The Wedding Sermon (Don’t Drink and Preach)

I was recently asked to give the sermon and say a few words at a mock wedding a friend of mine was putting on. It was a last minute deal, and finding myself pressed for time I decided the best thing I could do would be to pound a few beers and just go up there and see what happened. Why not? Just be honest about it all… Which turned out to be a terrible idea.

This guy knows what I'm talking about.

About ten seconds in I realized why there traditionally isn’t a lot of “winging it” during a wedding ceremony. It tends to rub people the wrong way, especially when you show up in a Pope costume and start hosing the bridal party with a squirt bottle of “holy water.” The result was a lot of blaspheming and lost friends.

The following is the transcript of the sermon, which I did in my very best nasally and formal John F. Kennedy impression. My only hope is that it can serve as a warning to all of the consequences of drinking and preaching- *Names have been changed to protect the innocent*

“Brothers and sisters, family and friends, we are here to celebrate the union of Jeffrey Caldwell and Alexis Dunbar in mock marriage. Although they are perfect strangers, from the very moment Jeffrey laid eyes upon Alexis’ profile picture, he knew, it was mean to be. From the very first time he crept upon her Spring Break ’08 Facebook album and masturbated with reckless abandon, he knew he had finally found the one.

Hacking and hocking Jeffrey spit forth a voluminous wad of saliva into his left hand, and engaged his crooked member in such passionate friction of which those of us living in the 21^st century may never see again.

Ladies and gentlemen, today we are witnessing a young couple’s decision to dedicate their lives to each other, and to monogamy. No longer shall Jeffrey attempt to fiddle faddle in freshman girls’ diddle daddles. No longer shall he swill banana daiquiris before spelunking into the vast caverns of the random female ass-cavity. And no longer shall he refer to himself in the 3^rd person as “DJ Scratch ‘n Sniff.”

As does his lovely wife-to-be make the same promises. No longer shall she play first chair skin-flute for the Indiana University special teams unit.  No longer shall her name be synonymous with the term “bukkake”. And no longer shall she carnivorously lust after young horse-penised Brazilian boys with shaved assholes.

Now before we proceed with the vows, I have a reading from the Bible. John 3:92 “And yea although I walk through the formal of ZBT, I shall fear no evil. For I am the I, and the F, and the C. And I shall most certainly fine thee. Rubba a dub dub, whose got a chub? Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeit.”

Now you may exchange vows and rings.

(Exchange)

Now, do you, Jeffrey Caldwell, promise to be love and to hold, in sickness and in health, to be faithful and give no other women a face-full? Aaaand COUNT IT! Forever and ever, til convenience do you part?

And do you Alexis Dunbar, promise to love Jeffrey Caldwell, at least in the mean-time, and carry his frail frame across the hearth of your home, because he’s a bitch, til death do you part?

And the Lord said “Let it precipitate upon the concubines!” *Pull out and shoot concealed confetti cannon*

You may now kiss the bride.”

Drunkstradamus #4: Military Thinking

In the midst of baseball preseason reporting, Drunkstradamus shares his opinion on responsible military spending-