Tuesday's update regarding horribly annoying current trends generated a lot of fascinating feedback from fellow frustrated folk tired of repeated news updates concerning the bug-eyed Olson creatures' waistlines. It seems many Americans have a deep-seated, seething rage inflamed by our very own media and culture, something which is quite worrisome considering 90% of our population owns very powerful handguns and takes very powerful anti-depressants. In order to help America heal itself and spread the anger in a more productive fashion, today's update will touch upon some of this email I received. Keep in mind that I couldn't print all the messages sent in, so I will instead post most of the ones where I wasn't directly called a fat, ugly, stupid loser by somebody with Angelfire webpage and at least seven numbers in their name.
The goal of every ricer: to have a car that looks like Bumblebee.
I think you need something on those ricers out there. I hate ricers. Ricers should die. They spend 5 million dollars on their $15,000 cars to make them look cool. Don't they know that adding their faggoty drop kits is just more weight to slow their fucking imports down. Oh, but wait, they rip out all their seats to lighten the load, thereby making them think they can be a racecar driver. That shit needs to stop. It's a waste of money. They can be feeding the homeless, but instead they buy a new jewel encrusted gas cap. Everyone knows a muscle car will 0wn an import.
An awful large amount of people wrote in to voice their concern about ricers, a sentiment I share as well. Street modification really hit the big time after the release of "The Fast and Furious," a touching cinematic masterpiece which involved Vin Diesel wearing sunglasses and walking from one location to another while he contemplated what he would eat for dinner (steak). Sure there were plenty of people who spent thousands of dollars stapling plastic shark fins to the top of their Hondas before this movie came out, but the release of popular films always stirs up a fresh new batch of idiots to scatter from out of the woodwork and start emulating the "cool" actors they saw in the movie with mommy and daddy, just like how the premiere of "Underworld" caused the number of teenagers killed in platform shoe-related accidents to double. Now the streets are clogged with these tiny plastic Japanese toys whose stereos are the only thing louder than their car engines, the vibration from both threatening to shake the chrome "Type R" emblem from the back of their plastic bumper where it would bounce off the tree trunk-sized muffler and fall to the ground, basking in the harsh blue neon undercarriage glow.
I used to really loathe these ricers and street racers until I realized something: these people are wasting entire paychecks on this cheap plastic crap. These greased up, scrawny dirtbags blow their entire Denny's paycheck on chrome license plates, neon lights, and 18-inch speakers so the subtle emotional undertones and nuances of "Booty Shakin' Bass Volume 48" can travel through the downtown streets with crystal clarity. I'm perfectly fine with a fool spending their money any way they please, especially when they're using it to weld more picnic table parts to their car in an attempt to make me laugh even harder when they pass by, parts falling off like a cheap Christmas tree. As for your comment about how ricers could be feeding the homeless, well, I'm not exactly sure money's functionality is solely limited to either buying rubber steering wheel grips or dumping out plates of stew for people who have no job. Besides, the homeless can eat each other if they're really hungry. Oh yeah, and you're a faggot for typing "0wn." Get off my Internet.
Next up is a short but succinct email from Jesse:
I think a new trend for your list of sucky trends should be reality television. Come on, you know its pure crap!
Bring out the fatties and embarrassments! America loves a good failure!
Reality television is pretty hit or miss; on one hand, you get to see boring average idiots perform boring average things in between commercials for the latest low-carb mustard, but on the other hand you get to see boring average idiots CRY ON NATIONAL TELEVISION. This is probably the only redeeming aspect of reality television, the ability to watch real people humiliate themselves and weep while you sit back in your underpants and laugh at them. Nobody in their right mind watches reality shows to see the profiled people end up happy and successfully accomplish whatever menial shit they're trying to do; us viewers want to see total failure and humiliation on a grand scale. We don't want to see a beautiful makeover, we want to see a horrible oil slick spill of rainbow puke across that fat bitch's doughy face. We don't care about the experts turning that two-bedroom shanty into a beautiful mansion, we want to see that arrogant caulker shoot a roofing nail into his foot and fall into a tree mulching machine. Reality television should serve one purpose and one purpose only: the destruction of personal dignity on every possible level.
I'd like to take the concept behind reality television one step further and start up a new channel, the Abject Humiliation Station (AHS). ASH would pioneer such groundbreaking shows as "So You Didn't Get Into Grad School," "Dad Has Rejected You Coming Out of the Closet," and "Bankruptcy Court." Every program would showcase a new and exciting failure failing in a new and exciting way for 30 minutes, at which point the star of that episode would be given a few coupons for McDonalds and a biodegradable sticker that says "BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME!" in a large cheery Impact font. If permitted, I would additionally love to put cameras inside maternity wards and film live births, hoping that some unfortunate woman would have a miscarriage. As she and her husband begin weeping and the doctors futilely try to console their broken hearts, our camera crew and producers would run into the operating room cheering and throwing confetti while screaming "BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME!" We could also take photographs of the dead baby and put them up in the AHS Hall of Fame or something nice like that, because I feel that would add a touch of class to the show. The name of the show could be "Miscarriage of Justice" or something equally witty.
El Cupanibre sends this message:
I would love to see Goth's on your list.
Okay buddy, you got it:
Here's an email from Phil, complaining about something which I really should've included on Tuesday:
What's up with celebrities playing cards on TV? Granted, this trend started with "Texas Hold Them" being played by ex-members of stellar shows such as "The Steve Harvey Show" and "Lou Diamond Philips Late Night." Of course, the pinnacle of this was watching braindead rocker Dave Navarro go "All-In" on a "2,3 of Lucky Charms." But now, i have to watch washed-up celebs like Andy Dick and the guy who starred in "The Jerk, Too" fumble through the complexities of "Black Jack". It's about as exciting as watching a "Magic: The Gathering Tournament" on ESPN2. Not that I ever have.
Now THIS is a sport! Hold those cards you crazy Asian sensation, you!
I agree 100% Phil. I cannot understand why on Earth every time my girlfriend and I go out to eat, we're forced to watch constant footage of a bunch of fat, bald truckers wearing dark sunglasses and throwing cards at each other on ESPN2. Poker is not a sport; it's something you do when you're drunk, like pass out or vomit into a flower pot. Unfortunately America is currently caught in the middle of Hurricane Bozo, as Poker is absolutely everywhere and you can't run or dig a hole in your own shit deep enough to hide from such a pervasive phenomenon. No matter where you go or what time it is, Professional Poker will be on ESPN2. Professional Poker is always on ESPN2, and ESPN2 is on every television everywhere. The only time Professional Poker is not running on ESPN2 is when they are showing their Professional Poker recaps or running infomercials trying to sell the "Bluff Your Way Into Poker" DVD set, which includes chapters such as "Is the 10 of Clubs Really Better Than the 5 of Spades?" and the controversial "Learn to Differentiate Between a King and Queen Without Looking at Their Bulging Genitalia."
Finally here's an awe-inspiring email from Deborah, who obviously took a break from using eggplant-sized sponges to sop up the quickly spreading red discharge from between her legs, since this broad is bitchy as hell:
Wow, what a nice site. We like to consider what you do, that is, speaking ill of others' work, as something to make the pathetic esteem on someone's own achievements seem a little higher. Of course I could just do what you do, but that would make me the same as you, huh? So I'll just say something about you, not what you do. You're a perfect example of the ignorance and cretinism that is your country, leaded by the perfect demagog you deserve.
Oh cry me a river you crusty uptight foreign twat. Did the Internet hurt your precious feelings? Have you been offended by some words on a website you voluntarily chose to visit and read? Did the mean ol' free entertainment upset your sensitive tummy? I'm truly sorry Deborah, and I will voluntarily buy you a one-way plane ticket to your home country of Happyville so you can travel back to your fantasy world where nobody ever says mean things or voices their opinions because nobody wants to say anything rude or hurt anybody's feelings in the magical joy land of gummy bears and sunshine and rainbow enemas! You'll just have to relax your sphincter muscles a bit so I can cram the boarding passes up there.
This picture is awesome.
Now I'm sure you had this terribly impressive and incredible plan thought out where you would send me your awesome college email and I'd read it, break down into tears, and decide to shut down this webpage because Deborah from THEINTERNET said mean things about me, but I think it's going to take a little more than a few big words like "cretinism" and "demagog" sent from an anonymous free email client to make me suddenly decide, "oh hey, you know what? It's wrong to say anything negative about anybody! I'm going to cut off my balls and become a monk!" Since I'm sure you could never find any man strong or adventurous enough to haul aside your countless cavernous folds of flesh long enough to find your sloppy, rancid, humid garbage dump of a vagina, perhaps you should get one of those automatic fucking machines to hydraulically lift yourself onto, because you are in crucial need of some stress relief. If you ever find yourself writing somebody an angry email because something you read on their webpage offended you, it's way past time you hang up your mouse and embarked upon something more constructive, such as reinforcing the steel beams needed to hang your own noose from. Who gives a shit what some 28-year old faggot like myself thinks about anything on the Internet? I certainly don't, so I really can't understand why anybody else could, except somebody without anything in their lives except Professional Poker reruns.
Well that's all the letters I could fit into today's update without getting email complaints from people bitching that the front page has too many words and not enough Super Saiyan gifs. I know there are plenty more horribly obnoxious trends out there, and there will be even more horrible obnoxious trends to come, but I have decided to stop picking apart culture and will instead write about my favorite colors of Life Savers so Deborah will regain some of her lost faith in me and we can be friends once again. Here's a preview of next week's update: "White." Stay tuned!
Let's Dance the Clothes Away!
Zack "Geist Editor" Parsons here with a sexy new Horrors of Porn review for all of you fine folks in Internet. This time around it's the Japanese erotic ballet "Zenra Ballet 2", and boy is it fun!
As is the usual for Japanese porn the actress makes absolutely no effort towards masking her complete disgust with the proceedings and the actor, amazingly, lies almost motionless throughout the entire scene. Maybe there is something I missed going on during all that dialogue that didn't happen earlier, because he looks to me like he's suffering from injury-related paralysis. One rip-roaring good humping later and the ballerina's head-hole once again descends to catch a burst of flavor and then cough it up into her hand for later use in DNA matching.
Go and read it! I command you!
Do you remember the crazy clothes and hair of the 1990s? Do you remember Crystal Pepsi and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? Do you remember where you hid the box your mother gave you?
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
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