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And This Tasteless Tuesday Is From Mike.

First of all your site rocks. I can say this because my wife fucking hates you. As do all of my friends' wives. This tells me your sight is right up my alley. Anyway I thought I would tell you a story about my Navy Days on the USS Key West SSN 722 out of Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. Typically these stories are a dime a dozen if you have ever served but this one is mine and I like it. Here goes. Everyone at one time or another has one of those friends that either wants to have that "Alternative" lifestyle or does and it just doesn't always come out till you least expect it. Any way my buddy Tim, we called him Superman was always into some weird shit. Many a night we would here him banging the shit out of some girl in his room. Vocalizing as he started to come. Then the next day learn he was breaking in a new blow up doll or something twisted like that. He once made out with another member of our crew in a Marine bar on a bet, tongue and all to see if he could start a fight. Those Jarheads took it well, they bought him and his "girlfriend" a round and then kicked us all out.

To get to my real story, I found myself in Guam on liberty one night. Anyone who has had the luck or misfortune to have served in the Pacific Fleet will smile when they think of all the wonderful days spent in fucking ass of the South Pacific, sweating buckets performing PMs and upkeep chores while the fucking officers play golf and suck each other off in their staterooms. There is a pretty good titty joint in town called the G-Spot, and naturally we ended up there every fucking night we had off. The girls were accommodating, giving us some extra nasty lap dances in the back room. The occasional hummer wasn't un common. Loaded and bored we heard of a beach party going on at one of the resort hotels in town and decided to finish up with the cock grinding and see about some real honest to goodness Japanese tourist poon tang, "Rick my pussy, sairor boy."

We headed over to the joint and founds a rager going on. Those girls hadn't been fucking with us. Probably a hundred or so round eyes like us and the rest all locals or Asians. We spent the rest of the night trying to get loaded and laid. It was a pretty good time. I suppose you are wondering where my bud, Superman comes into all this? Well he had been partying it up with this sexy little local chick. Grinding all over her. Making out on the impromptu dance floor out on the deck. What makes this great is that my buddy kept on glancing over at him with a quizzical look. Every now and again blanching, his eyes widening. Then he would just shake his head and sip his beer. I asked the guy what was up. "I think that girl Tim is with is a ma'hoo." he replied.

(For those that don't get the term, Ma'hoo is a local Hawaiian word for transvestite. They are like cockroaches in Honolulu, and Guam is no different.)

"No way," I said " She's way too hot." But sure enough, I scoped her out a little closer. The Adams apple, larger than average feet, wrists, and ankles. By the time I convinced myself Tim was grabbing the tight little ass of one fine looking gay man, a couple other of my mates came to the same conclusion. We all got the giggles and debated on what to do. I was for breaking it up right then and there, but the sadism of submariners took hold and we decided to watch and see how it all panned out. A little while later, Ol' Superman takes his little "thing" in tow and wanders off down onto the beach. This being as far as I can let the little joke go, I grabbed a couple friends and a beer to set off after them and put a stop to what could only end badly.

About a hundred yards away we found the young couple laying on some leftover beach mats. We were hushed, peeking around a palm tree only to see this girl/dude going down on Tim's tool like she was a cross between a jackhammer and a Hoover vacuum. I mean Chasey Lane had nothing on what was being displayed before me. My stomach got a little queasy from too much booze, the thought that I had let my friend unknowingly get with a man, and from trying to suppress the giggles that the whole scene created. So another friend of mine decides he's gonna save the day. "PSST!" he hissed "Tim!" Nothing. A soft wet slurping sound was all we could occasionally hear. "PSST!" "What?" we heard Tim kind of moan. "Dude, go away."

At his point I couldn't fight it any more and started busting a gut, my laughter was loud enough to get Tim's "date" to stop it's activity for a second. Looking towards us hidden in the shadows. "Dude, like we got to talk to you." My friend kind of giggled back, trying to sound serious. "Come here."

"Fuck off. You guys suck." He was getting a little ticked which is understandable. He's getting a blowjob on the beach. Why are we fucking it up for him? My buddy see's this will get no where and decides to ay down the trump card. "There's a fight and Shore Patrol showed up. We gotta get going."

"I'll catch up to you then."

"Fuck." my buddy whispered "He's never gonna leave. What do we do?" We talked about it and I was voted the guy that was gonna try next. "PSST, hey Tim, "It's Jimmy. Come here for a sec. It's important."

"Goddamn it! Fuck off." He was getting even more ticked. And impressively the thing playing the yummy down game on his pecker is back at it and doesn't stop for nothing. I'm tired by now. So I say fuck it and play it out. "Tim," I said really serious like, "That's a guy." There was a really long pause. We all sat there waiting for Tim to freak out and totally lose his shit.

Nothing.

"Tim?" I whisper again. Trying to sound serious and sympathetic at the same time. He was after all being blown by a guy. "Did you hear me?" There is still nothing. The little cock tease cross dresser is still at it. Unfazed.

"Go away. I'll be back in a bit."

"Tim," I say incredulously " you don't get it. That's a fucking Ma'hoo" And, here is where Tim "Superman" [last name deleted] won my heart and made me look at him differently for the rest of my days.

From the beach came his whispered reply, "I know."

The first Serbia chick is hot but the second one has a disfigured head. Personally, I'd go for flexible Almudena Cid (Spain), muscular Yelena Isinbayeva (Russia), or in a pinch, Victoria Pendleton (Great Britain)... but like a horse, I'd have to check her teeth first.

one man's harrowing tale of what it's like to lose... on jeopardy! pretty interesting read, actually.

old and busted: heron vs bunny. heron vs pike. the new hotness: heron vs rattlesnake

Wow, Ever Actually Take A Closer Look?

If I had to name the single biggest perk about being self employed -- other than my boss letting me drink beer at work, of course -- it would be the zero commuting costs. So for the past year or so I've sat back and watched gas prices climb higher and higher, and at the same time felt comfortably insulated from the problem. I remember being completely bullshit when gas just crossed the $2 mark, and how all of us used to bitch about it in the office. Fuel prices actually played a part in my decision to quit and with diesel hovering just under $5 bucks a pop, I really feel bad for truck drivers. Fuck if this happened when I was a kid, we'd have grown up eating Legos. I can't fathom how the everyday worker is getting by now, but I did get a little taste of it in my recent roadtrip to Orlando when I sold Earl.

As my copilot doesn't know how to drive a standard, that meant we had to take my trusty old Dodge Ram as the chase vehicle. That would be my trust old 13 miles per gallon at 70 miles an hour with 206,000 miles on it, Dodge Ram, by the way. But as mentioned before, Earl isn't exactly a highway cruising machine, thus we limited ourselves to the backroads where travelling along at 55-60 mph meant you were moving at a pretty good clip. And because the first half of the trip was done before it got too warm out, the air conditioning was turned off, and I'll be damned if the truck didn't squeak out damn near 18 miles to a single gallon of gasoline. I was shocked, because I had no idea how much of an impact speed had on fuel economy. Turning the air conditioning on dropped the frugal 18mpg down to 17 -- an impact sure, but much less significant than speed, probably because my truck is as aerodynamic as a loaf of bread. So it got me thinking. If I could boost the truck's highway mileage from 13 to 18 (nearly a 38% boost), what could I do with my TT given that usually holds at 32mpg@70mph?

And thus, the experimenting began...

You can see that much as I experienced in the truck, speed definitely played a much larger role in mileage, as opposed to my use or non-use of air conditioning. In fact, as I crossed the 65mph threshold, air conditioning's impact quickly dimished in favor the increased aerodynamic drag. I was able to slip behind a dump truck at 60mph for a short bit, and had an immediate burst of mileage up to 54.5 miles to a gallon, but since those fuel savings won't even cover the insurance deductable when I would inevitably rear end this guy, I quickly faded back.

So what the fuck prompted all this crap? Well, I was cruising around the web this morning and of course the Exxon profits are all over the news, and then stumbled across this article which made me throw up in my mouth a little bit. Marvel if you want, but you and I not only bought him that car, but paid for the flight, too. And now we're all supposed to get excited about a $0.20 drop in gas? Woo fucking hoo.

You see, here's my take on all this oil/gasoline crap. Like any fossil fuel, oil is a finite resource. And whether you believe there's enough undiscovered oil in the Earth to power us for the next thousand years, or if you believe we're just about running the taps dry now; it still doesn't change the fact that nobody is making any more of it. So what remains is going to continue to be more and more valuable. There's nothing wrong with that; it's not sinister, it's simple 6th grade economics. And while I'm sure as fuck not going to drive at 50 miles an hour with no air conditioning, it only behooves us to excersise some sort of restraint in regards to using it up. Because I'll tell you what I'm sick of. I'm sick of every time the nutjob in the Middle East starts his nuclear reactor speech, my already bruised and battered 401(k) takes yet another kick to the balls. I'm sick of every time a bunch of assholes carrying coolers and ziplock bags attack a gasoline pipeline somewhere in Nigeria, it costs me an extra $20 to fill my gas tank. Now tack on Hugo Chavez, hurricanes, terrorism, and any shitload of other reasons, and I get a little skittish at all those people trying to force me to do more while earning less.

Try this. The next time you're at a stop light, take a look at the vehicles around you. I did that the other day and over half of the vehicles were big ass trucks -- nothing wrong with that in itself -- but they're all carrying one fucking person and no cargo. That is a problem. Listen, if you drive a Hummer or a Suburban and have 57 kids, hey all the power to you. But does it really need to be your everyday commuter? Does that really make sense? Does that really seem to be the best solution right now? There's got to be a better way than this. Something has gotta change.

man when one of these airbus a-380s goes down, it's going to make a hell of a mess.

what makes this the best fight scene ever? the martial arts? no. the black guy with no legs? no. it's the german dubbing

Five Guys Burgers And Fries.

You know, it's not too often that I get excited about a cheeseburger. I mean we've all had so many of them over the years, the individual flavors kind of all blend into each other after a while. McDonalds. Burger King. Chilis. The bowling alley. The back yard. What seperates one from another? For me, nothing did up until recently. And then a new burger joint opened up here in Cape Coral, named Five Guys Burgers and Fries. Kids, let me tell you it's as if the Lord Jesus came and jerked off into your mouth. Yes, it's that good. They are seriously the best motherfucking burgers I have ever eaten in my entire life. And no, they're not paying me to say this and yes, I'm really that fucking excited. If I wasn't worried about my arteries turning into solid tubes of fat, I'd eat there every morning, noon and night. Five Guys Burgers and Fries for breakfast. Five Guys Burgers and Fries for lunch. Five Guys Burgers and Fries for dinner. And who the fuck am I kidding, Five Guys Burgers and Fries just before I go to bed. They're that fucking good. You want to know what else they make? Nothing. No fucking grilled chicken, no salads, no chicken fingers. Like Charles Emerson Winchester, they do one thing, they do it very well, and then they move on. They make burgers. Awesome fucking burgers. So if you want to know what the most delightful taste in the world is, make your way to a Five Guys Burgers and Fries near you and get your eat on. And that guy in line ahead of you? Yeah, that's me and I'm getting extra cajun fries..

Also some people have commented that they have trouble viewing the Vidmax movies. A little trick I learned is if the intro ad hangs, just press F5 to refresh. Otherwise you'll be missing out on such goodies as this black dude flipping out on a judge. (Sorry it's a guy Todd.)

most women think kelly brook has the perfect body. sure enough, most men agree.

looks like the last laugh is on me - carlin's final material abandons the angry rhetotic and returns to his goofy roots

This Tasteless Tuesday Courtesy Of Mike.

Like most stories you read hereon Tueday , it all began while I was taking a dump.

Now, I'm a 32 year old guy, and I've taken my fair share of dumps in my life so it wasn't very difficult to tell something was wrong right away. Dropped trou, sat down, followed the urge to purge and was rewarded with a very unique shooting pain from down under. It wasn't so bad that I fell off the john, but it was bad enough that I took immediate notice. I gingerly finished my duties and reached for an extra large handful of tissue, not really knowing what to expect. Everyone, from time to time, experiences a nasty or messy bowel movement. The kind of dump where you feel like calling in the Hazmat team to handle the clean up. I was expecting something along these lines, maybe even some blood. I was prepared. I can handle gross, bloody messes. After all, with enough TP and some clean water everything ends up back to normal.

So down I reach with a huge wad of white, fluffy Charmin anticipating the chore ahead, but as soon as I touched my ass I was practically knocked unconscious by the pain. Sharp, immediate all-consuming pain. After taking a moment to recover, I began gingerly cleaning up and discovered that my problem wasn't coming from the asshole, but just above it, and to the left. Sort of like a pimple, but unbelievably sensitive. "Ah shit, (no pun intended) I've got a zit on my left cheek," I thought. "Well, I'd better pop the little fucker." So I brace for the pain, grab either side and give a big squeeze expecting it to let go like a geyser. No such luck. All I got for my trouble was enough pain to make me see stars. Since I was clean and had been in the office bathroom for way too long at this point, I decided to just deal with it later and go back to work.

The rest of the day passed without too much trouble, but I was constantly shifting around and uncomfortable. I figured after all the manipulation that morning that the little fucker plaguing my ass would come to a nice head and I could dispose of it when I got home. No such luck. What followed was three days of self-inflicted torture. The thing just kept getting bigger and bigger, and more and more painful. Several times I thought I had it beat. I could have sworn that I felt it pop a bit, but the surface remained unbroken and it would always fill back up. Eventually, after four days of pain, I had had enough. While taking a nice hot shower I got the bugger nice and big and, instead of trying to pop it, I grabbed the surface skin between my fingernails and RIPPED the sucker open! I was rewarded with an immediate and satisfying gush of nasty pus. It felt immediately better. I thought I'd beaten it. Man, was I wrong. For the next week, the damn thing just kept filling up. Sometimes heroically so.

It was amazing, no matter how much I emptied it, it just kept filling back up. About this time I noticed something else very strange. I was at a party, and had eaten a big bowl of chili for lunch. The result was a massive case of gas that I didn't really want to release in a crowded group, but every time I'd feel it coming and bear down to keep it in, I'd feel a little tickle of gas escaping. This happened several times that night, and into the next day. I was beginning to think maybe something was seriously wrong. I really began to think so when after taking a fairly soft crap, I was amazed to find that shit was coming out of my pimple head!! But the only way that could be was if... OH MY GOD! THE FUCKER GOES ALL THE WAY THROUGH!! I felt sick. This was just too weird. I was defective.

Genetically aberrant. I'd have to go through life shitting out of two holes. I called my doctor.

Why is it that every time you've got something nasty wrong with you, your doctor's nurse has to be the cutest, youngest possible nurse in the state?

Anyway, I tell little Miss Washington State my story and she, after giving me a look that says how nasty I am, puts me in a room to wait. In comes the doctor and asks for the story again. I ask him, so why the hell did I just tell it to the cute nurse? Something about procedure, he said. Anyway, I tell him the story and he starts smiling and chuckling to himself. Catching the look I gave him, he sobered up and told me that he was just amused by the description, and complimented me on its accuracy. "I think you have a fistula, but I want to make sure so drop'em and grab some desk." A fist-a-who, I thought. He then played with my ass for a bit and said, "yup, you've got a fistula."

He then told me what the hell it was. It seems everyone is blessed by nature with several anal glands. These glands are internal versions of the pores on our skin, but go deeper. Usually, they don't cause anyone any problems and we go about our lives blissfully unaware of there existence. For an unfortunate few, like myself, they become infected. When this happens, they back up but instead of just resolving themselves internally, the sadistic little fuckers make for the surface and come burrowing out of your ass creating a tube connecting the outside world to your inside ass.

This tube is a fistula. More good news, the only way to fix it is with surgery. More, more good news, it's not the kind of surgery where they simply give you a shot and stitch the hole closed. Oh no, that would be far too simple, for you see the entire length of the tube needs to be opened up and scraped raw so that it can heal closed from the inside out. Imagine starting a small tube about 5 inches inside your rectum. Run that tube perpendicularly away from your rectum for a couple of inches into your body, then begin to veer it out. Eventually it'll reach the surface, but might be several inches away from where your rectum becomes your asshole. Fun, huh? This entire tract that the tube takes needs to be sliced open.

Basically, this amounts to having the doctors butterfly your ass open. Then they don't even have the decency to close you back up! You've got to heal closed on your own so as to not risk infection. I spent over a month with raw, oozing, butterflied ass tissue dripping nasty yellowish fluid, bleeding from time to time all over my shorts. I stuffed myself with gauss, panty liners and tape, but it would still seep through. I couldn't sit for over a week. When I could, I would trigger a new round of bleeding every time I sat down. I'm not even going to go into what it was like to take a shit under these conditions. Pure, condensed nasty.

Eventually I just started going directly from the toilet to the shower. It saved at least 20 rolls of toilet paper. I'm fine now, but if it ever happens again I think I'll just take a Ferrari for a test drive and help myself to a nice, painless High Speed Flaming Death. ~ Matthew

Oh and shit, I almost forgot. The current leader in Count and Recount is Cary with a completed score of 5,807.

fuckyouplowing - nuclearboobs - pleasenopirates - welcometoiraq - youdeservehell

ten things you should know about the internet

So Long Earl. I Think I Knew You Well Enough.

The last time I went out on the road with Earl (my Nova) was in March of 2006, when he damned near killed me with a brake failure. So last week I had Mike the Mechanic give him a thorough checkup before getting on down the road again. And so Saturday morning I fired up Earl, for what would amount to be out last road trip together. The Florida sun hung fairly low on the horizon as I nudged the front wheels out of my driveway and headed towards Punta Gorda on my way to I-75. Being a V-8 mated to the original two-speed powerglide transmision -- which shifts from low to high at 22mph -- Earl's not much for highways so we spent most of our time buzzing up the slower Route 17. It really was a beautiful morning to have the top down. Not too hot (yet), not too cool. Not a cloud in the sky.

Sensing this would be our last rodeo together, Earl wanted to give me a goodbye present. About thirty miles north of Arcadia, I could see three turkey vultures feating on some roadkill about a mile ahead. For those of you who don't remember, last year my neigborhood was overrun with these ugly fucking birds when all the fish died in the pond behind my house. Turkey vultures are big heavy fuckers, and a lot of them left holes in my lanai when they landed on top and dug in with their talons. Anyway, as Earl steadily bore down on these three abominations, two of them saw me coming and quickly flew off. The third wasn't so observant and was late with his getaway attempt. An attempt that brought him directly into my lane, coming in from left to right and then the dumb fucker turned left so that he was headed in the same direction as me. The catch is I was doing 60mph, he was doing about 10mph. Try as I might, a 1963 Chevroley Nova does not fit inside the asshole of a turkey vulture. I had briefly considered yanking the wheel and just as quickly dismissed the thought. Better to hit a bird at 60 than a tree at 40. And what I expected to be a dull thud followed by some tinkling glass turned out to be nothing more than an fluffy 'poomph!' -- very anticlimactic, actually. Granted, I'm sure the turkey vulture didn't think it was too fluffy, but Earl barely even grunted. With no sense in stopping in the middle of East Bumfuck, I continued on into the next town and inspected the car for damage when I stopped for gas. In the battle of 45 year old steel vs (presumably) two year old avian bones, steel fairs very well. Eh, not a scratch or dent to be seen. Thanks Earl.

I continued on into Orlando where I was due to pick up Tim when his flight arrived from North Carolina at 12:50pm. I got to the airport at 12:30. I found a fucking parking space around 1:05, and no, I'm not fucking kidding. Orlando airport eats cock. I drove around the first level of parking looking for one of two things: a vacant parking space or a ramp that led to level two. I found neither. You know why? Because the motherfucking ramp to the second level of motherfucking parking is cleverly hidden down the section that reads "EXIT ONLY". Yeah that's fucking right. Not "TO SECOND LEVEL AND EXIT" but "EXIT ONLY". So because I didn't want to exit the motherfucking parking garage, I ended up driving around the first fucking level for over a half a fucking hour until I found a motherfucking parking space. And I was plenty fucking pissed off when I finally did so, because I'm a mushroom cloud layin motherfucker, motherfucker.

[goosefraba... goosefraba... ... goosefraba... ...]

Okay, inside I met up with Tim and his road buddy Terry (of 2008 Challenger fame) where after a celebratory beer, we ventured outside and back into the motherfucking parking garage. [goosefraba...] Everyone piled in and I drove Earl around towards the exit and stopped in an area that was getting some good sunshine so Tim could get a better look at the car. And while he looked at Earl, I looked at the fucking sign that read, "TO SECOND LEVEL." Motherfucker. Anyway I gave Tim the nickel tour; the highs, the lows, and the quirky. I even ran my finger through some yellow stuff on the front right corner that turned out to be turkey vulture. Awesome. Tim loved the car, I loved the money Tim gave me for the car, and Earl was officially handed over to his new owner. We parted ways shortly thereafter; me to a nearby hotel to meet Andy and Dori for a ride on the slingshot, and Tim and Terry to I-4 towards Florida route A1A to follow the coastline towards points northwards. I'm pleased to say that Earl did not try to kill Tim, and all three of them arrived back in North Carolina safe and sound. Me? I spent Saturday night throwing up from bad crab legs.

What's next for me? What's going to replace Earl if anything? I don't know really. if I had $60k I'd probably get a Lotus Exige S, but seeing as I don't, I won't. I've got th emoney for a Segway, but think I'll pass on that. On the flip side, there was exciting news waiting for me when I got back yesterday. You have no fucking idea how stoked I am about this. No. Fucking. Idea.

mcg talks terminator salvation details and debunks pg-13 rating rumors

as you reach 65, mick, how many of these 65 conquests do you remember?

Why Timmy Ringo! You Look Like Someone Just Walked Over Your Grave.

Heading up to Orlando to deliver the Nova to its new owner. Keep an eye on the phonecam.

Want To Learn How To Spot A Closet Racist?

The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines racism as, "a belief that race is the primary determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race." And remember the stereotype doesn't have to be negative. Declaring, "All Asians are good at math," is just as racist a statement as, "All Mexicans are lazy." Surely not every single Asian in the world is a whiz at calculus, just like every single Mexican in the world can't possibly have a poor work ethic. The one exception to this rule is of course Jews and money, but that's not the focus of today's post.

No, in today's post we're going to delve into the differences between black girls and white girls. Yes, I know the old saying, "Black or white doesn't matter, they're all pink on the inside." What prompted this topic? Why it would be this email:

Now two things immediately caught my attention. The first thing that caught my attention was, "...I get the urge for some booty, Ernie. Some back. Some thickness. Some chocolate thunder..." Hmmm. Not black girls dressed up as cheerleaders, or wearing glasses and posing in a library, no. But all black girls are thick and have big asses. I believe we call that a stereotype, yes? But perhaps the most striking thing about this email was, "...we'll see a reluctant 'Fat Nigger Ass Wednesday'." I found this to be very similar in nature to when Duane Chapman got busted on tape talking about his son's new black girlfriend in Nov of '07...

Now a simpleton might think that because Todd has a hankerin for some dark chocolate on occasion, he's not a racist. By the same extension. I am because as Todd pointed out, there aren't many black girls featured here on EHOWA. So let's delve into that, shall we? Let's take a close look at all the chicks that I've confessed my undying love for: Jessica Biel; some pick on the fact that she has broad shoulders and I couldn't give a shit. She can smack me around all damned day, and I'd be totally cool with that. Bridget Moynahan; who I think is one of the most classically beautiful women out there. And the fact that Tom Brady hit that just tears my heart asunder. Anne Hathaway; again, another example of classic unadulterated beauty. She can narc me out to the FBI for whatever she wants, just so long as she visits me in prison. And most recently, Emily Deschanel; no 'Bones' jokes, please. So anyway, what do all these women have in common? They're all brunettes with fair complexion. That's me, that's what I like. And that's not to say that I don't appreciate blondes or a nice tan, because I do. I certainly wouldn't pass on a night with Corinna (NSFW), just like I'd happily give Hayden Panettiere a roll in the hay, but shit, if we're going to play pin-the-tail-on-the-imaginary-piece-of-Hollywood-ass, I'm aiming for Eliza Dushku before I aim for Panettiere -- I've had hot pants for her stretching way back to her Buffy days.

With that in mind, it's more appealing for me to look at a naked Asian chick (NSFW) than it is for a black chick. Because I don't know too many black chicks with a fair complexion. Aside from appreciating a body, I just don't find black chicks all that attractive. They just don't do it for me. And take note: how many super tanned white girls (NSFW) do you see linked? Not many. And that's not to say that I can't admire a terrific black body (NSFW), or a stellar pair of black tits (NSFW), but given the chance to look at a hot black chick (NSFW) or this white girl (NSFW), it's a no-brainer for me. There's no racial stereotypes about black women -- hell some white women have ghetto asses too -- just me preferring my coffee with a little more cream than some mights like. I don't believe that makes me a racist.

But. Let's say that I were to join the Dark Side. Who would I choose? Well, there are four examples that come immediately to mind, but notably absent from the typical white-guy list are Halle Berry and Rosario Dawson. Because when I say black chick, I mean BLACK chick. Berry is mixed, and Dawson is Puerto Rican, Cuban, African American, Irish, and Native American. I'm talking black like Blacky McBlackerton. The first one I can't show your a picture of unfortunately, because she was a dancer at the Copocabana in Tel Aviv. She was black-black. Nigerian black, seriously. So black she would leave fingerprints on charcoal. And she had one of the most fucking amazing bodies I had ever seen. Her name was Neila. I did my best to help her pay for medical school, don't you worry. But since not all of you have visited strip clubs in the Middle East, here's some more poignant examples, and oddly enough two of them are from NYPD Blue. The first is Gabrielle Union; I've always found her tremendously classy and graceful. The second is Garcelle Beauvais -- technically she's Haitian and not African, but I think she qualifies as black-black. And the third is Tanya Wright; I guess she's okay if, you know... beautiful eyes, big tits and a tiny waist are your thing. Baldwin gets all the hot ass.

so long professor randy pausch, we hardly knew ye.

forty honest gadget ads that won't be convincing many people to buy anything.

be sure to check out this link when you're starving and still have an hour to go before lunch.

Well, I Guess It Worked.

Do you like Danica Patrick? Do you like Milka Duno? Then you'll surely love the catfight they had this week because Milka drives too slow.

Would you shave your head into male pattern baldness for $100? This guy did, although I have to imagine he's in the minority. I can't imagine anyone else doing it for less than $500 for obvious reasons.

And don't say you haven't learned anything this week -- here's how to make moonshine.

Far be it from me to defend a celeb's actions, but Britney Spears is catching a lot of shit over these photos where she's smoking in front of her kids. Who the fuck cares, it's outside! "The little kid picks up the box of cigarattes." -- So fucking what, she takes it right away from him, so what's the big deal. Christ, after dinner my father used to send me into the other room to get his cigarattes. I honestly don't see what the big fucking deal is.

And remember, tomorrow is Hug-A-Retard-day. So don't freak out like you did last year. Nobody is trying to hurt you.

what's better than twenty laker girls? why five hundred prospective laker girls, of course.

top ten dog breeds by popularity, allergies, cost, and gas. pffffft.

Now I Don't Want To Play Into Any Racial Stereotypes Here But...

My friends back in Boston sent me this photo, which I think reinforces negative stereotypes against African Americans. I just don't think it's the right message to be sending to our youth.

I had the toughest night of my life, last night. First, I got angina pectoris and then arteriosclerosis. Just as I was recovering from these, I got tuberculosis, double pneumonia and phthisis. Then they gave me hypodermics. Appendicitis was followed by tonsillectomy. These gave way to aphasia and hypertrophic cirrhosis. I completely lost my memory for a while. I know I had diabetes and acute ingestion, besides gastritis, rheumatism, lumbago and neuritis. I don't know how I pulled through it. It was the hardest spelling test I've ever had.

But as I rose to that occasion, so too have you risen to the Capsuls challenge. And all it took was me mention how no one was able to make it past level 8 and viola... eighty-two entries! Yep, you guys sure peeled my banana back and mashed my potatoes. I had about two dozen people send in entries in the 54/55 level range, but in the end I watched Mike work his way past all the barriers and around all the curves, marching past level 100, all the way to level 245. And thus a new challenge is born -- Count and Recount. The premise is painfully simple: click on the little white balls numbered 1 through 10, in sequential order. Sounds easy enough, right? Sure it is. Note: Because you can lose points during play, you must submit the silver screen that appears in between levels. Mid level screen score will NOT be accepted.

Broken Steel - 4130 steel will crack under pressure and aluminum just snaps without warning, just like bone. And yes, the results are butt ugly. Why do people insist on doing that with their motorcycles (and their backs?!)?

And please, if there really is a God... please please, please, let Nick Hogan get buttfucked on Sunday night.

fifty things being blamed on rising oil prices - reason #11, squid fisherman are angry

eight nuclear weapons the united states has... misplaced. whoopsie daisy!

This Tasteless Tuesday Courtesy Of... The Carrot.

So there I am, standing out in the backyard wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. It's 1989, it's a Saturday in August, it's around 6 pm, it's 90 degrees plus outside, the sweat is literally dripping down my nose and back, and I'm on some god-forsaken little farm in upper New Hampshire where my fuckbuddy Rachel lives.

e've been drinking, fucking and smoking pot all goddamn day, from about 8 am until now. You all know the routine: have a drink, smoke some pot, fuck each other, have another drink, take a nap with the window fan blowing lukewarm air over us, wake back up and do it all over again. I've cum six times today and my balls ache. The booze and the marijuana are starting to unhinge me; I should mention that the booze is tequila, and we're on the second bottle. I feel edgy, crazed by the heat and the chemical imbalance, and there's a little voice inside of me telling me that I'm starting to tread dangerously close to a crash. Neither of us have showered since this morning and we both smell heavily of sweat, dried sex juice and alcohol. I can't think of a better way to spend a weekend, can you?

We haven't eaten a thing all day, all of our calories have come from the tequila and limes. It's finally come down to this: I'm hungry, it's dinner time, and I'm standing half-naked in the backyard, carrying an axe. "Do you have any food around here?" I'd asked her ten minutes ago. We'd just finished fucking, again, this time doggy style on the floor of her bedroom. Rachel's an illegal immigrant from Canada who works under the table for cash whenever she can, which, this being the late 80's under the Bush presidency, ain't often. The farmhouse she lives in is owned by a relative who lets her stay there for free provided she takes care of the place. She stood there in front of me, wearing nothing but a pair of panties. Her tits are big, almost too big, and they're already starting to migrate towards her navel. Rachel's 21 years old and likes it when I put her ankles up by her ears and fuck her really fast. I can see a wet spot on the crotch of her panties where my cum is leaking out of her. I'm not sure why both of us bother putting our pants on; we've sniffed, licked and sucked pretty much every square inch of flesh on each other; each others' genitals are not exactly terra incognita, yet we seem to feel more comfortable with partial nudity.

"No", was the reply. It was the reply I expected. Driving is not an option today. I looked out the back window. "Fuck it, I'll get us some dinner," I said. I grabbed a kitchen knife and went outside. I found the axe in the woodshed out back; it's rusty and old, and the base of the handle is starting to split. I guess a hatchet is a better implement, but I couldn't find one.

This being a farm, there's food everywhere. There's a bag of feed in the shed, and I grab a handful. I go over to the coop and sprinkle some feed onto the ground in front of my feet. The chickens are always running around the backyard near the coop. My prey, a good sized hen, starts to peck at the feed and I reach down and grab her with both hands. The chicken doesn't really fight, just kind of kicks and then settles down. Stupid bird. I'm feeling very much like a homo erectus must've felt, my heartbeating faster at the thought of the violence to come. Even though I feel sexually spent, my dick is hardening like no tomorrow as I carry the chicken over to the old stump near the back of the house. I put the chicken on the stump and can't figure out how to chop its head off. The fucking bird is starting to struggle a bit and I grab it by the neck, which just makes it struggle more, so I move my left hand down and grab it near the wings and press it down as hard as I can agains the stump and I can feel the wings beating against my forearm so I press harder and the bird lets out a fucking high-pitched *squeek!" and I can feel something like a bone break under my hand and the chicken squirms even more so I raise the axe with my right hand and bring the blade down on where the neck should be with a THWACK!!!

The axe hits the chicken in the back of the head but the blade is too dull to cut the head off and it starts squirming even more so I raise it again and bring it down again and finally the head comes off and lays there on the stump. The beak works up and down once and then stops. The hen's body is still struggling against my hand and then I noticed that I've got blood on my legs and the bird keeps struggling and a little chill starts to creep up my spine. Then the bird stops moving. I've got chicken blood on my legs, my shorts and my stomach. My right hand is all bloody, too, but I don't give a shit. I've got dinner. I'm only sorry that I didn't let the headless chicken walk around, that'd be something to see. I use my hand to find the breastbone and then take the kitchen knife and stick it in chicken's belly right below the breastbone. I cut downwards towards its avian asshole and then use my hands to pull the incision apart. I try to shake the guts out and sure enough some of them come out and go *PLOP* onto the grass but the rest are stuck in there, so I reach in and pull them out with my hands, covering myself with chicken shit, blood, and internal organs. I pretty much just toss the guts onto the grass. The feathers are covered with blood now, too and I finally cut the abdominal flesh off and make a great big cavity. I'm feeling just like Frank Purdue.

Once I've got the guts out, I start plucking the feathers off and I put my hand inside the chicken, holding it like a puppet while I pull the feathers out of its skin. Blood is still leaking from it onto the ground but I don't give a shit. Rachel comes out of the house and starts staring at me with a look of horror. She's got a t-shirt covering her huge boobs, even though there's no neighbors around, and I want to fuck her again. "Start the grill," I tell her, and she goes and pours some charcoal into the ancient grill and lights it like a good little fucktoy should. While the coals are warming up I take the chicken corpse around the side of the house and use the garden hose to wash the blood and slime off of it and myself. The flies, those ones with the translucent green bodies, are gathering around the guts that I've managed to strew over a wide area and one of the cats is starting to nibble at them. This is the first good meal the cat's had in a week.

I take the knife, cut the wings and legs off (again, just like Frank Fuckin' Purdue) and Rachel finds some BBQ sauce in the refrigerator. I slather the sauce on the dismembered chicken and then I cook the shit out of it for a while until I think it's done. I bite into a leg and it's still rather raw, so I cook it some more. The smell of burning chicken makes my stomach rumble with hunger. Then we eat it. It tastes really good, really really good, and when the chicken's gone Rachel finds a bag of marshmellows in the kitchen. We cook them over the coals and sit outside, eating marshmellows and drinking lot's of water, until the mosquitoes come out and we go inside.

We take separate showers, then sit in the living room listening to Rachel's John Lennon albums. We share one more joint and a couple of beers, then we go to bed and amazingly enough the seventh fuck of the day is the highest energy fuck of all. It starts to cool down and right before I fall asleep Rachel cuddles up and says "Thanks for dinner." - The Carrot

remember the 747 that split into three pieces in a crash landing? same plane used in the movie air force one.

we've all seen the dodge ram atm crash video by now, so here are some pics of the aftermath

Yeah But Your Mom Would Be Proud.

Computers let you make more mistakes faster than any other invention in human history, with the possible exceptions of handguns and tequila.

In 2006, during a ground run at LAX, GE CF6 in the number one position let go on an American Airlines 767. Two taxiways were closed while bits of disc were retrieved. Attached are some photos, one of which shows half a disc sticking out of an engine. In fact, the disc belongs to the other engine - it's passed through the centre wing box and embedded itself. Undoubtedly, this would have brought down the aircraft had this happened in service. The rear fuselage and port inboard flaps were toasted as combustor exit gases escaped and hit the airframe, which has been written off.

You know, that seems to be a reoccuring theme here. Of all the submissions I've had so far, none of them has made it past level 8. Is there a trick to it, or what? If nobody makes it past level 8 by tomorrow, I'll cancel this challenge and post something else.

Young Andy moved to Montana and bought a horse from a farmer for $100. The farmer agreed to deliver the horse the next day. The next day he drove up and said, "Sorry, son, but I have some bad news. The horse died." Andy replied, "Well, then, just give me my money back." The farmer said, "Can't do that. I went and spent it already." Andy said, "Ok, then, just bring me the dead horse." The farmer asked, "What ya gonna do with him?" Andy said, "I'm going to raffle him off." The farmer said, "You can't raffle off a dead horse!" Andy said, "Sure I can. Watch me. I just won't tell anybody he's dead." A month later, the farmer met up with Andy and asked, "What happened with that dead horse?" Andy said, "I raffled him off. I sold five hundred tickets at two dollars a piece and made a net profit of $998." The farmer said, "Didn't anyone complain?" Andy said, "Just the guy who won. So I gave him his two dollars back." Andy grew up and works for the government.

complete list of features removed from windows vista

may 2007, the second trip to the zone of the chernobyl atomic power stations.

Insert Your Favorite Weekend Joke Here.

old and busted: google's employee workplaces. the new notness: pixar's studio in emoryville, california

this absolutely breaks my heart, but in all honesty, did anyone not see this coming?

thirteen pictures of chicks in bikinis mudwrestling. and yeah, it's more or less safe for work

Ah, Time Flies When You're Having Fun.

Ernie, Hey, it's very awesome that I am leading (for once!) on a game... but please correct the spelling of my name. I'm not Swedish but my name is, J O R A N. There is no D in my name and it has plagued me all my life, what with people misspelling and mispronouncing it. I would be honored if you could change it on the blog. Thank you for understanding. I absolutely love your site, I've been a fan since 2000 and have never been on the top of any of the challenges, at least for long enough to get credited. Peace, Joran

Huh. My bad. I hate two things: Cats and getting someone's name wrong, as people often do it to me (Eric, Erin, Erine, Bernie) and I always find it no laughing matter. To make up for it, I shall use no D's in the remainder of this post.

So before I get too far into toays post, let me first close off the latest game challenge, Wor Frenzy. Coming out of yesteray, Joran was in the lea an looke he was going to walk away with the title after posting an 11k score. But alas, sneaking in uner the bell, the fast fingers of Tom clinche the win. Sorry Joran. Anyway, the next game challenge is a great one. I was going to test link it first to see if you guys like it, but since I just spent the last half an hour playing it nonstop, figure it' o okay. Your mission, shoul you choose to accept it, is to guie your yello wball aroun an collect all the blue capsules. Green walls an balls stan in your way. Re walls are ba. There are 347 levels to complete, so I'm pretty confient noboy is going to complete them all. My high score after thirty minutes of play is almost 3,000 points on level 8. High points rule, an of course if you get your name on the leaerboar, remember to put EHOWA in your screen name.

I've seen the story omn the magical pixie ust before, but this is the first time that I've hear it being explore by the military for our veterans. I think by now everyone knows my stance on stemcell research... I'm all fucking for it. I think both ault an embryonic shoul be explore, an GWB's holier-than-thou policies is the biggest obstacle to meical avancement in this country since people thought AIS was some gay plague. Hell if it were up to me I' walk up to pregnant women, punch them in the stomach an hol a Shop-Vac to their crotch. o that now an you'll have the cops all over you because unfortunately, I'm not in charge yet as there are a lot of people fighting to keep me out of office. But rest assure that once I'm in, it'll be new limbs an organs for everyone.

the pain thats occur mainly in spain is not for gain but sure does entertain.

the wondrous world of the imperiled coral reefs.

chuck liddell's bar-fighting tips -- 1. don't do it (but ...)

Why Don't You Have A Seat Right Over There.

Some used to think the Su-27/Su-31's "Cobra maneuver" was the epitome of 3rd to 4th generation fighter maneuverability. That snap maneuver doesn't hold a candle to what this two-dimensional vectored-thrust fighter with fat independent horizontal stabs can do at low speed. There must be far more tricks up its sleeve in the high subsonic dogfight speed range. Note also, that the Raptor does a complete 360 degree turn in less than 20 seconds. ACC recently approved the Raptor's new demo profile. This was the first show. Five minute video but the last 30-40 seconds are priceless.

This is Dennis Albaugh's Chevy collection, located in Ankeny, Iowa. He has 90, all convertibles, one or more of every year from 1912 to 1975 plus several Corvettes. He has lots of toys including his own 18 hole golf course, which is somewhat copied after Augusta. This guy started from scratch and is now just a little behind Oprah, but I'm sure he will overtake her net worth in the next couple years. Speaking of which, next week my Nova will be heading up the coast to live in North Carolina. This way, it'll be a stone's throw from more American muscle, too.

No way, I'd never post the Dave Motari video. That's just not cool. So the video I posted a couple of days ago was of a soldier feeding his 'chili-cac' MRE to a starving (and obviously quite feral) puppy. But for those dogs, being protective of their food is just a part of surviving. And for anyone wondering if it's cruel to pick up a puppy by the scruff of its neck; it isn't. That's how mommy dogs carry their young both to get the poooch from point-a to point-b, but also to exhibit dominance as well. This guy done good. Not quite as good as Andy has done, and nowhere near as good as Jordan has done, but good none the less. Also, nothing that while no game challenge is quite as popular as boobies, I haven't received all that many entries for Word Frenzy so I'll be ending this one tomorrow. Keep yoru fingers crossed, Jordan.

how to build your own darn time machine - delorean time machine external components

how does ehowa rate on the blog cuss'o'meter? a respectable 37%, thank you very much.

Ahhh, Mother Nature. Did You Know...

Female mosquitos locate their victims primarily through scent. They are extremely sensitive to the carbon dioxide in exhaled breath, as well as several substances found in sweat. Some people seem to attract mosquitoes more than others. Empirical studies of mosquito bites suggest that the risk of being bitten follows an approximately negative binomial distribution. Being male, being overweight, and having type 'O' blood may increase the risk of being bitten. Mosquitoes can detect heat, so they can find warm-blooded mammals and birds very easily once they get close enough.

Diatomaceous earth is used as an insecticide due to its abrasive properties. The fine powder abrades the cuticle, the waxy outer layer of insects' exoskeleton, causing them to dehydrate. In addition to insects, this also works against gastropods and is commonly employed in gardening to defeat slugs. Medical grade diatomaceous earth is sometimes used to de-worm both animals and humans. [Ernie says; I also use DE in my pool filter!]

When a honey bee returns to the hive after finding a good source of nectar, it will perform a unique dance for its hive mates, detailing the distance, quality and quantity of the new food supply.

Tomatoes, potatos, peppers, corn, tobacco, peanuts, chocolate, vanilla, squash, pumpkin, zucchini, and sunflowers are all native to the Americas, and did not exist in the rest of the world before Columbus.

The praying mantis has no ears on its head. It has one single ear in the middle of the thorax on the underside. This single ear, which is a deep slit inside the thorax, allows it to hear ultrasonic sounds. Since praying mantises feed during the day, they do a considerable amount of flying by night. The night, however, is when bats feed, using ultrasonic sound waves to pinpoint their prey. The frequency of these sound waves indicates the location and distance of the bat’s prey. Praying mantises are able to hear these ultrasonic sounds and when the frequency begins to increase rapidly, indicating an approaching bat, mantises will stop flying horizontally and begin a direct, high speed nose dive towards the safety of the ground.

Certain millipedes give off cyanide gas as a defensive mechanism.

When you slice an onion, you break open a number of onion cells. Certain enzymes from the cells then decompose the amino acid sulfoxide, which forms sulfenic acid, which then quickly changes into a volatile gas. When this gas combines with the water in your eyes it produces a mild sulfuric acid. The acid irritates the eyes making them tear.

hey puddy this is for you: pics of the b-2 crash. you'll love the reader comments at the bottom.

blurred out: 51 things you aren't allowed to see on google maps.

the first six minutes of dark knight, and no, it isn't bootleg.

Tasteless Tuesday - This Horselover Is By RA.

They say that every image tells its own story. But sometimes, you see something that only leaves you filled with questions.

In one of the countless porn shops in one of the countless side streets in the Red Light District, I came across this film last weekend. The title alone stopped me in my tracks. "Transsexual Horse Lover 3." My mind wrestled, and I began to accept some difficult facts: 1) Somebody got a he-she to fuck a horse. 2) They got it on tape. 3) They'd done this twice previously. The cover supported some of these conclusions, inasmuch as it depicted a person with a penis and breasts holding onto a horse's cock.

I noted the information and moved on, reaching my favorite little smut-hole (Amsterdam residents will probably know it; the one with the orange handmade sign proclaiming cheap DVD's inside, within sight of Casa Rossa. I don't think it has a name.) They usually have a discount bin, so I went rummaging. I guess it was my lucky day: my SECOND encounter with Transsexual Horse Lover 3 in the same night. Surely, the gods' hands were guiding my actions. After all, the other store wanted something like 150 guilders for it, and here it was only... well, let's not talk about what I actually paid for it. It raises more embarassing questions and nobody really wants to hear me complain.

So. Transsexual Horse Lover 3. The opening shot is an homage, I suppose, to Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music, only instead of a beautiful, precocious music teacher dancing down a lush Austrian hillside it's a guy with tits wearing a bikini running through a muddy field with his dick in his hand. I don't know where this takes place - there are no landmarks to spot and no closing credits. The dialogue consists entirely of unintentionally recorded directions in Porguguese (purely a guess - it sounds kind of like Spanish and Brazil seems a likely place to make a film like this).

The characters: A big horse, a medium horse, a pony, and our hero, whom I will call Lucio (I met a Brazilian faggot once by that name). Don't let the tits and bikini fool you - Lucio looks like he works out, even though he's got a bit of a gut. He doesn't look like the obvious junkie that appears so often in this industry (raising yet another question). After fingering himself at length while lying in the field, he and his equine companions navigate a sordid love quadrangle. A blow-by-blow (heh) account of the film would be utterly boring, but there are some notable highlights.

- The largest horse makes several attempts to kick the shit out of Lucio, who is not exactly gentle with the horse's cock.

- This horse has a very tempermental erection. The warrior crawls out, ready for action, and tends to retreat the moment Lucio's hand gets anywhere near. Completely understandable.

- The horse's trainer can be heard off camera (and, despite his best efforts, seen in several shots) giving irritated instructions. One begins to get a vague mental image of how this whole thing went down: "Well, the boss is gonna be gone until Thursday, so OK, I guess you can do the movie here, I get 500 dineros remember, but if anybody hurts one of the animals I'm gonna blow his fuckin' head off. And yours, and the cameraman's, and anybody else you bring with you. And I'm gonna shove that camera up your ass, and I'm gonna bury your dead fuckin' bodies in the furthest corner of the field and piss on your corpses." And then Chick with Dick shows up, and he says "Jesus H. Mary and Joseph, what the fuck is that? Hey, gonna do the horsie, pretty boy? Huh? You want a big cock, I got one here for ya..."

- Lucio makes several vain attempts to do something really interesting with the horse's dick, like stick it in his ass where it belongs. It's just not long enough from where he's standing. At about 45 minutes into the film, the World's Smartest Man finally hits upon the idea of getting UNDER the horse, though even this isn't entirely successful. Likewise, the attempts at oral sex are half-assed: the tip of the horse's dick never approaches the mouth, and Lucio tries to get away with gnawing at the side.

I really can't say any more about Transsexual Horse Lover 3. As Roger Ebert once said, this film has to be seen to be believed, though that may be too high a price to pay. I tried to take some screen photos but they didn't really turn out, so you'll have to either use your imagination or find the video. Though I did manage to scan the front and back cover, which I will email to anybody who is interested. -- RA

Nope, you can be the bunny or the monster, the predator or the prey. Just so long as you get the high score, the sky is the limit.

grab the stripes image to the right and slowly drag it over the other stripes layer below it...

the ten most fuel-efficient vehicles in the u.s. - strangly absent is my fucking scooter.

Even If There Is Nothing To Laugh About, Laugh On Credit..

A bar is located across the street from a school for the hearing impaired. Every evening after classes, members of the faculty come into the bar and have a drink. They use sign language to talk and sometimes their conversations become quite intense. One afternoon a group of the teachers are sitting at a table and are being overly rambunctious in their sign language: their hands are held high, and they are swaying back and forth. The bartender becomes quite agitated and says to one of his customers sitting at the bar, "Now they'll never go home." "What do you mean?" asks the customer. "You can't get them the hell out of here once they start singing!"

The prostitute had an appointment with her psychiatrist. When she entered at his office he asked her to lie on the couch. "If you don't mind," she said, "I've been working all day. Do you mind if I stand?" One intimate question led to another and the prostitute and her psychiatrist ended up on his couch in a very sexy session. When it was over they lay silent for a moment and then both said simultaneously, "That will be two hundred dollars, please."

Henry rents a room in a boardinghouse and makes a deal with the landlady to pay a substantially higher rate if she will make lunch for him to take to work. The first day she takes great pains to make a hearty lunch with a roast-beef sandwich loaded with meat as the main course. When Henry comes home from work, she asks how he liked the lunch. He replied, "Not bad ... what there was of it." The next day she makes two sandwiches. When he gets home, he has the same response to her question: "Not bad ... what there was of it." The next