Yeah, this looks like a REAL safe place to flee to in an unknown, hostile town.
I've been watching a lot of "small town" horror films lately, mainly because John Ashcroft has scared the pants off me with his "Level Lemony Yellow" Terror Alerts he announces every other hour. I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to be doing during this current terror alert, but I know I'm not supposed to talk to strangers, eat candy I find on the ground, get near vehicles which look "suspicious" (ie, they are being driven, they have four wheels, etc.), or fail to report any individual who looks like he is currently occupying a location that he should not be occupying. I don't have enough cellphone minutes to go outside and start calling the Department of Homeland Security and Lovely Cookware every ten seconds I see something which may or may not be affiliated with a person who may or may not be affiliated with a guy who once talked to a person who saw a movie about terrorists. That's probably for the best, as I think John Ashcroft is tired of me calling him at 3:30 AM shouting, "JOHNNY BOY, I SAW A TRUCK OUTSIDE! J-MAN, I THINK I SAW SOME DUDE WITH A TURBAN! MC ASHCROFT, I SMELLED A STRANGE GAS COMING FROM THE PANTS OF A MAN ON THE BUS WITH ME!" So once again, everything is working out for the best, just as long as I never forget 9-11.
All national security jokes aside, the television networks and movie stores seem to be promoting some kind of "National Dangerous Redneck Town" month celebration, as every film I watch consists of people traveling from point A to point B and getting stuck in point X, some horrible white trash town full of deadly inbred yokels who have the collective intelligence of many famous doorstops. Now I don't know about you, but when I plan a road trip, I tend to stay on the major highways. For example, here's a handy little guide I made for you to reference before embarking on any tedious cross-country road trip:
GOOD ROADS TO DRIVE ON:
BAD ROADS TO DRIVE ON:
| Crawdaddy's Korner Overpass|
Interstate THIS IS A TOLL ROAD, PAY ED $30 TO DRIVE THRU
Dead Nigger Boulevard
As we all know, people in movies are completely oblivious to logic like this, and will invariably choose to travel through a town named "Hell's Blowjob, Arkansas" than even consider taking an alternate highway which adds a whopping extra three miles to their total journey time. This could also be explained by the "Universal Movie Law of Cities," which dictates that a person's IQ is inversely proportional to the amount of people inhabiting their city. Them folk all the way from fancy-pants New York City may have a purdy car and expensive suit, but if they were so damn smart then why would they keep falling prey to a bunch of toothless greasehogs in a town whose main industry consists of "standing around the gas station and picking your teeth with a wood splinter"? Obviously, the white trash hickmachines in Slopsville know a lot more about survival techniques than the two prissy clowns from Big City USA could ever hope to learn.
"AH WANT CHEW TA MEET MAH STINKY STICK!"
These cliched horror movies have taught me a lot about the groupthink mentality powering many violent redneck cities. For example, if my car ever breaks down near Bloody Pig, Texas, I know to never call the Police, as the town sheriff will simply write down my location and talk to me in a very condescending fashion while he adjusts his utility belt and tries to grapple with the enormous folds of fleshy lard attempting to burst through his uniform. I know that if I ever see a diner, more appropriate a diner named "DINER," I should expect to find a pay phone there, but it will either be out of service or mysteriously cut off when I'm 20 seconds into the call and about to issue critical information to my city-folk friend on the other end. I am aware that every auto mechanic in every small town is evil in its purest sense, more than willing to steal my money, knock me unconscious, and do unspeakably horrible things to my anus which have only been seen on certain Internet sites. I can assure you that the bitter, twisted old man who lives in a shack in the middle of the woods with his six drooling sons and barren wife has some mysterious, inexplicable influence over the entire town and all its citizens, commanding them to terrorize and eventually haul in the "city folk" so he can finish up their well-deserved torture. I am also confident that each one of his brandead carcass sons will be wearing grease-stained overalls and wifebeater shirts when they attempt to hunt me down through the woods at midnight, randomly discharging their shotguns in between shouts of "wooweeee" and "wes cumin' fer ya, city boy!" These are simply facts, and there's no way you can dispute them unless you want to be branded a liar and thrown into the gulag for a few months.
However, this murderous small town mentality can also be used for a tool of good, not evil. Well, what I mean by that is it can be used as a tool of good for me. It's pretty much a given that when I say something is good for me, it will pretty much fuck over everybody else in the known world, but that's your problem, not mine. I propose to purchase a large amount of dense forest in the middle of some worthless, unused portion of land such as Alabama, and then quickly begin plowing down sections of woodlands to erect a shantyville full of poorly constructed box buildings, stores, and homes. I will petition the state government to grant me a "178A-09.28B License to Declare a Tiny Redneck Town," and immediately label my area of land "Dork Neck, Alabama." If I really want a lot of city folk to end up trapped in my hellhole town, I will petition to name it something that could be a popular typo in Mapquest, such as "Atlantea, Georgia" or "Littel Rock, Arkansas." However, I'm partial to Dork Neck, so let's stick with that. Naturally, I will take the position of the bitter, shriveled up little man who sits at home all day cleaning his guns and engaging in animated conversations with the television set or a crude mannequin dressed up as my wife. Since I don't really know much about being a redneck but I do know a little bit about computers, I'm going to try to make the town of Dork Neck be the most hardwired cesspit of inbred idiocy this side of Cookesville, Tennessee. Here are the positions I'm looking to fill in my town:
This is the Sheriff's office. No more than $23 should be spent constructing it. The rest of the money should go towards making an IV drip tube that continually releases a stream of Twinkie juice into the sheriff's bloodstream.
Corrupt Sheriff / Deputy - This position requires an obese, unkempt man, so any of you Linux systems administrators would be perfect for the job. You will be in charge of lying down spike strips across every major (and minor) road that enters our beautiful hellhole. Once the city folk call you up and ask for assistance, you should drive over and say to them in a soothing and comforting voice, "whatschootalkinboutyercarblewatireyersparelahksjesfine" while the scrawny deputy stands in the background with his arms crossed, looking smug and very pleased that he's hiding behind the massive girth of the sheriff. Naturally, you will not be there to help the foreigners; your only function will be to scope out their car, see how hot the guy's wife is, and let us know any crucial information regarding them, such as how photogenic they would be if we were to force them to engage in oral intercourse with a mule while uploading and selling the pictures through our town's website, "dorkneckhotcumporn.com". You should also stall them by asking worthless questions such as "what're city folk like ya'll doin' so far outside yer city?", "shouldn't yeh city folk be back near a city?", or "city folk bad, fire good, me eat rocks and burnt twigs." During this stalling period, I will be gathering my braindead, idiot sons to head over to the location and begin tormenting the couple once you and Deputy Slackjaw depart.
My Braindead, Idiot "Sons" - You don't really have to be my sons, as my sperm is far too stupid to ever successfully find a female's egg, thereby making it impossible for me to impregnate any living creature - and I do emphasize ANY CREATURE. However, you must live in my filthy basement with all my other idiot "sons" and be willing to assemble and tramp out into the woods whenever the "City Folk" alarm sounds off. When this occurs, you must quickly put on a "CHICKS DIG MY TARBALLS" shirt, mount your camouflage-colored Segeways, and head out to wherever the intruders from a popular city are located. Once you find these trespassers, you should start giving them a hard time by calling them names such as "lamers" and "HPBs." This will introduce them to the ways of our town and our feelings towards outsiders, which isn't particularly optimistic.
The Nine-Toothed Auto Mechanic Who Either Never Works or Works Approximately Sixteen Minutes a Day Per Year - After being mercilessly teased and harassed by my braindead, idiot sons, the city folk will undoubtedly flee to you, praying that you'll fix their Audi. You should respond by claiming you'll need some rare parts that are only manufactured in the Bermuda Triangle, and it could take up to three decades for such magical parts to arrive. While the city folk are waiting in your "customer service" area, a 12x12 foot room that has copies of Wee Wisdom magazine from 1978 chained to the wall, you should go through their car and locate all valuables. If you find a Palm Pilot or some sort of handheld device, you must sabotage it by installing OS2 / Warp on it. If they have a digital camera, waste all the memory by taking read-only images of your psychotic droolhound Maggus attempting to chew through a metal barrel. You must also find a way to "accidentally" break their cellphone by running over it 20 times or so with your pickup truck.An image of the ideal crazy woman. Some FreeBSD knowledge would be required. NOTE: This may or may not actually be a woman.
The Crazy Woman Who the Stupid City Folk Think Might Help Them, But Turns Out to be Evil Like Everybody Else - This will be a difficult job to fill, mainly because there are only two females who read this website and one of them is my mother. I'd nominate her for the job but she'd beat me silly if she read that I was referring to her as "old." She's fine with "crazy" though, I would assume. If my next update is from the state hospital, let's suppose my assumption was invalid. At first, The Crazy Woman should befriend the city couple, offering them to come into her run-down antique house, offering them a cup of whiskey tea or motor oil or Gatorade or whatever the fuck people out in the sticks drink. She'll nurse the female city folk's wounds by applying a moist towelette to any bleeding holes in her face while brushing back her hair, thereby providing us with a nice lesbian sexual undertone. After softening up the couple, The Crazy Woman should go into the other room to "turn on the computer so you nice kids can email for help," but they will soon learn a horrible surprise - SHE'S USING LITESTEP AND HAS SOME HORRIBLY UNINTUITIVE ANIME LAYOUT WHICH NOBODY CAN UNDERSTAND! Additionally, her email client is a Taiwanese piece of freeware junk that she grabbed from Download.com, based solely on the fact that it was released in 1996, has 13 total downloads, and hasn't been updated since its release. Once the city folk realize that there's no way in hell they'll be able to contact anybody for help through her computer, she should begin laughing maniacally and shouting, "YER JES LIKE ALL THA OTHERS! COME GET EM, BOYS!" and my braindead, idiot sons will burst through the door wearing t-shirts with Monty Python catchphrases printed across them.
The Hideously Deformed Killer - Despite all the menacing job opportunities mentioned above, there is only one true killer in each small town. Ideally, you should be some hairy, disfigured, socially inept halfwit, so any of you Windows NT systems administrators would be perfect for the job. You will be chained to a concrete post inside of a tool shed for a good portion of your life, but you will get one of those nice Titanium laptops which cost $19,000 because Apple Computers makes all of their systems from the Lord Jesus Christ's holy pubic hairs. Once you are let go, you will be given a GPS tracking unit to hunt down the fleeing city folk so you may engage the whole murdering thing I briefly touched upon above. Don't worry if you have never murdered somebody before; we'll periodically send you SMS messages over your cellphone giving you step-by-step instructions.
Now I'm aware that there's a good chance these insipid city folk may escape Dork Neck, Alabama and flee to safety, as I am not a rich man and cannot afford that much land for my fabulous town. According to my bank statements, I am eligible to only purchase approximately 200 square feet of land, and I'm not sure if many people who read this site could even fit one of their ankles into this area. However, this is where the genius comes in: I'm asking my dad to buy land in the surrounding areas, so once the idiot city folk escape Dork Neck, they'll find themselves right in the middle of Yablonskiton Falls (emphasis on the "falls" part) or Whoops This Is the Town Where We Shoot You With the Guns City. If I get the bank approval I'm aiming for, soon we'll have a whole franchise of evil small towns lined up and ready to sabotage the vacation plans of any moron from a "big city" with their classy plays, expensive automobiles, and luscious boob jobs. Hell, the male city members of Dork Neck, Alabama will have bigger tits than any California model trying to pass through, AND we'll also have easy access to the 1,000 nude photos of them floating around newsgroups. Er, nude photos of the model, not the Linux administrators. Shudder...
Time For The 'Mine
It's Tuesday and you know what that means! SEMEN IN YOUR CEREAL DAY! No wait, that's not it. Oh yeah, today is the day when we break out the brand-spankin' New Comedy Goldmine! Today's feature challenges the SA Forum Goons to come up with conclusive proof that Iraq is in fact engaged in various nefarious, underhanded, evil things. And boy howdy, did they do that in spades!
Make with the clicking right here or else a level 12 Elf will bite your rotten greasy nose off!
Sometimes I dream that I'm sitting in the back of the defunct Weinermobile as it careens driverless down the highway. At first I thought this was symbolic of the powerlessness I feel in life, but then I realized it's actually the Weinermobile's dream of being able to drive again.
Three years ago, when we were burying my uncle, Cleaver and some gross lady dog (Solstice???) showed up at the cemetery and starting going at it really loudly. It ruined everything and we had to have a "re-do" the next day and it cost a fortune. I've hated him ever since for that.
Ignore the hype. Find out how these games will likely go right or wrong.
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