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A Tasteless Tuesday With Fecal George.

Prelude: During my freshman year at Purdue, some idiot living on my floor of our residence hall foolishly stated that he would allow his head to be shaved for $100 right down to the scalp. A few of the guys on the floor organized a collection process and quickly raised the money. The event became what we termed "a floor function" and guests were invited to attend. The whole thing took place one evening around 7 o'clock or so with about 30 guests in attendance. It was a real popular floor function and no real harm was done to anyones image or pride. But that's not the story. Here's the story...

About a year later, I was a sophomore living on that same floor and we starting talking about tasteless things we'd do if the money was right. Some guy mentions that the previous year we had a great floor function wherein a floor member shaved his head (allowed it to be shaved, actually) for $100. Other guys stated that there's no way in hell they'd shave their head for a scant $100; it would take hundreds or thousands of dollars for them to do it. Then some guy (me!) says, "What would it take for you to eat a spoonful of shit?" Huge sums of money were now being discussed for this tasteless feat. A million dollars was a real common figure. So my friend, George, decides to open his big, stupid mouth (opps! foreshadowing). George says something along the lines of, "I'd never let somebody shave my head but I'd probably eat a spoonful of shit for $50." Really, George? $50?? Are you serious?

Yep, George was serious. And before George had a chance to change his mind, the fund raising gears were set in motion. Word went out that another floor function was being planned for next week sometime. A "lottery" or sorts was held. The Feces Lottery was my idea. We were faced with two problems: we didn't have $50 for George and we didn't have any shit for him to eat. I solved both problems in one brilliant moment. For the low, low price of just $1, you could buy one chance at winning the Feces Lottery. (For $5, you got 6 chances.) After we had the $50 in hand, we placed the names of the contributors in a hat (actually it was a trash can). We drew out 2 names. One of the "winners" declined his prize and we drew another name. We now had our two lottery winners and, you guessed it, those two winners got to be the Feces Donors. George made us agree that the feces in question had to be of a somewhat "normal" variety. Nothing green and runny, no diarrhea, nothing with high corn-content, ... standard requests for this sort of thing, I guess. That's why we had two lottery winners; we decided to give George his choice. We told the lottery winners they couldn't do things like eat a bunch of prunes, have Taco Bell for five days straight, etc. This was, after all, a floor function and we would to keep things friendly. The day before the floor function was to take place, the two lottery winners were escorted from their rooms (one at a time) by part of the fund raising committee. Each was sent into a bathroom that had been certified "feces free" with only a medium-sized cup (we had to be sure that no illegal feces made it to the big event. After each of the winners completed his assigned task and departed the bathroom, the cup was sealed and placed into the refrigerator of the most honest guy living on the floor for overnight safe-keeping. BTW, one of the winners had a little trouble on his first trip to the bathroom and ended up having to give it a second try a couple of ours later. He came through like a real trooper the second time around.

Although attendance was strictly by invitation only, we had a huge crowd well over 100. George was escorted into the elevator lobby -- where all of our floor functions took place -- as if he was a king. The crowd shouted and cheered upon his entrance. George was placed center stage complete with homemade bib and a big glass of water. He was sober, upon insistence of the fund raising committee. After giving George about 5 minutes to sweat in front of the crowd, The Feces Fetcher made his way into the lobby - with one cup in each hand held proudly over his head. The crowd went wild. The chants of, "GEORGE!! GEORGE!! GEORGE!! GEORGE!!" reached a deafening level. The spoon (a soup spoon!) was brought forward by another member of the fund raising committee. In accordance with the rules, the two cups of feces were presented to George for his perusal and, ultimately, his decision. This is where I became somewhat concerned about George about his physical well being, not his mental well being. Mentally, I knew he was already scarred for life and nothing could change that now. I thought if he could live until morning we could get him home to his parents at the end of the semester and they could deal with the long-term mental damage.

After a hesitation of about 10 seconds [I thought he was going to pass out], George, pale-faced and covered with sweat, selected the cup on his left. The crowd roared again: GEORGE!! GEORGE!! GEORGE!! GEORGE!! Still in accordance with the rules, The Feces Fetcher spooned up a nice helping for George. The rules stated that this helping would be a "healthy spoonful" but not a "heaping spoonful." The spoon was then handed to George, who was still wearing his bib and still had his big glass of water in his other hand. The rules stated that George had to do the following in order to get his $50 reward: insert spoon w/ feces into mouth, remove spoon from mouth clean of feces, show the crowd the clean spoon, swallow feces so as to remove it from mouth, display empty mouth to crowd by sticking out tongue and saying, "awwww," like you do at the doctor's office. After that he could then eat or drink as he wished. He also had to keep it down for at least 10 minutes we figured after 10 minutes if he wanted to send it back through his mouth the other way, that was fine with us, but he didn't get any extra money for it.)

George then raised the spoon w/feces up to eye level at arms length from his body. He made a couple of wide sweeping arcs in front of his body with the spoon so that everyone in the crowd could get a good look at the winning feces. It was at this point that I could tell George *really* didn't want to go through with this thing. He was wondering about the consistency. "Will it be like pudding or more like ... what? Will I notice the smell? How much of it will get stuck between by teeth? Will I have bad breath the rest of the night. Am I going to double over and throw up saliva covered human feces in front of all these people who don't really even know me? How did I get myself into this mess? Can I possibly get out of this?" Well, George took a long, hard look at the crowd and knew that there was simply no way to back down. I almost felt sorry for the guy. Just thinking of what he was about to do actually made my stomach queasy and my knees a little bit weak and I used to deliver roadkill to my "friends" back when I was in high school.

After everyone had a good look at the feces covered spoon, George held it straight in front of his face, about a foot from the tip of his nose. He took a deep breath and brought the spoon toward his opened mouth and stopped. The spoon went back to being a foot from the tip of his nose and his eyes sort of rolled up toward the top of his head. [I thought he was gone for sure...] He then steadied himself, took another deep breath, forced the spoon into his mouth, (flash! flash! flash! from all the cameras in the lobby) closed his mouth and his eyes, and then withdrew a nice, clean soup spoon from his mouth. We all held our breath and just watched. He inhaled more air through his nose and swallowed hard. [I'm sure I imagined it, but I thought I heard the lump go down just like in the cartoons.] Then in one instant, his eyes opened, his mouth opened, his tongue stuck out of his mouth and he rolled his head back so we could see inside his mouth. It was empty. George then took another deep breath and gulped down the entire glass of water. Two people in the crowd got sick and had to go outside. George made his way down to the bathroom where he had toothbrush and toothpaste waiting.

My friends and I made our way back to our end of the floor. We couldn't really believe that he had done it and only for $50, we said. What an idiot, we said. We were then discussing whether or not he would get sick before morning. Or would he kill himself tonight while we slept? Would he ever do anything that stupid again? Would he ever eat shit again for $50? Certainly not, we decided. We could tell it had been a traumatic experience for him. And we knew he'd never be the same. Then as four or five of us are standing around talking outside our rooms, George comes out of the bathroom and starts walking toward us (his room was at the other end of the floor). He comes down and leans up against the wall next to us. Everyone is speechless. Silence. Then I finally say, "George, I can't believe ..."

But I'm cutoff in mid-sentence as George belches (BUURRP!) and says, "Oh, excuse me."

That was all I could take. I had to go in my room and sit down for a few minutes. I'm just glad I couldn't smell it. -- David H.

For lunch today I might forgo my usual Five Guys Burgers and Fries, and give the Heart Attack Grill a try. Wish me luck!

david letterman's top ten features of the rejected $700 billion bailout plan.

another guys batch of chernobyl pictures. nothing we haven't seen before, but still neat.

More Mindless Forwarding.

So the dominant story on the news today is the $70 billion dollar Wall Street bailout. And just so we're clear on this, that's $700,000,000,000 dollars -- as in eleven zeros. This of course comes one week after the $85,000,000,000 bailout for AIG -- a company I will forever remember as having former First lady, Mrs. Bartlett as their spokesperson. A quick look at the 2007 census reveals that are about 196,553,096 Americans over the age of 19, presumably all of which are making a significant contribution to the nation's $1,163,472,000,000.00 personal income tax revenue in 2007. Thus this bailout equates to about $3,500 per taxpayer. Needless to say, this provokes a strong reaction from people and I don't think anyone I've talked to is neutral on the idea. Fuck I was in Sears this past weekend getting a quote on new struts for my car, and even that guy chatted me up about it.

Basically what it comes down to is this: if you've got lots of money tied up in the stock market -- say in a 401k perhaps -- then the $3,500 price tag you're paying doesn't seem too bad. Not that you don't already have better things you could be spending three and a half large on, but when the alternative is your retirement plan in ruins leaving you to cruise around to bowling alleys in search of free chicken wings, it doesn't seem so bad. Conversely, if you're a poor fuck who has been forced to cannibalize their nest egg just to get by, or even worse can't even afford to fund the fucking thing to begin with, then this bailout is an especially swift kick in the nuts. Why the hell should you be forced to pick up the slack when someone else drops the ball?

But regardless of how you feel on the subject, as I said there are strong feelings on both sides, and this of course leads to more fucking chain letters. Yes, Steve and Larry, I'm talking about you. Because it was these Masters of the Universe -- first Steve and then less than twenty four hours later Larry -- that forwarded on this genius plan...

Steve's copy gave original credit to a person who would like to be known as, "T. J . Birkenmeier, A Creative Guy & Citizen of the Republic." That's nice. Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. But perhaps TJ might better be known as, "The Guy Who's Too Fucking Stupid To Perform Basic Math And Made Both Himself And His Second Grade Teacher Look Like Fucking Idiots On The Internet." Because that one's got a much better ring to it. At first glance, his idea sounds awesome -- fuck who wouldn't want to find a check for $297k in the mailbox? But without knowing a single thing about economics, or tax laws, or even the help of a fucking 1980's wristwatch calculator, let's see if his idea pans out. As a young Ernie, I was taught that a lot of very scary and very intimidating can be conquered by a very easy process called simplification. Simplification can be boiled to simply chopping off the zeros; thus 5,000,000,000 divided by 150,000 becomes 500,000 divided by 15 which becomes 100,000 divided by 3 which is going to be just over 33,000. No magic, no extra chromosomes, no slide rules, just basic second grade math skills you can do in your head. So let's apply the, "Are You Smarter Than A Second Grader," challenge to TJ's diabolical plan...

Chopping off the 0's from (85,000,000,000 / 200,000,000) becomes (850 / 2) which is a math problem I'd like to think we can all do in our heads. So yes, TJ's shot of economic penicillin wouldn't put a mortgage paying $425,000 in our pocket, but a whopping $425. That's. Fucking. Awesome. The cure to all our woes? Four hundred and twenty five smackers. And what fucking kills me is this. If TJ had taken a fraction of the time to double check his math as he spent this numerical abortion up, or of the fucking chuckleheads who forwarded it on had done so instead of gleefully clapping their hands like a retard with a new red balloon, then I wouldn't have just wasted the last five minutes of your life. Too late, that five minutes is gone. But don't blame me, blame the self proclaimed Creative Guy & Citizen of the Republic.

Speaking personally, I have completely lost all faith in our leaders in Washington. All faith. Gone. History. Which is why I have to admit, I'm looking forward to the movie W. when it comes out. But just so visit to EHOWA wasn't a complete waste of time, in case you ever find yourself flying on a commercial flight somewhere, and both pilots choose the fish instead of the chicken, here's how to land a Boeing 747. Looks like you picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue.

jfc. tina fey. sarah palin. part two. here. but it is funny, though.

the 22 most sensational midgets ever - who knew joe c wrote kid rock's devil without a cause?

more insane car detailing. a vxr astra, so no lambo goodness to see

Insert Your Favorite Weekend Joke Here.

well, no man can eat fifty eggs anymore. so long cool hand luke, we hardly knew ye.

fifteen of the hottest women on television -- and all on one page no next-next-next crap.

the super ghetto wedding to end all ghetto weddings. book your planner now.

agoodtrashywedding - britneyseemswell - ironmancostume - thoughtsonthebailout

current game challenge is sniper duty - current leader i smatt (with higher score)

Don't Worry, I'm Sober This Morning. Feedback Friday.

If you haven't seen this, This is a video of what cops do to a person that shoots an officer in Alabama. Supposedly the shooter grew up here but moved away to Texas and came back to visit his mom and stepdad. The parents got into an argument, he snapped and got a rifle. Next thing you know the cops are called (of course), and he shoots the officer. The bullet went under his vest and put him in critical condition, but alive. If you listen to the retaliation of the cops, it seems a little excesive, but maybe not when someone shoots a cop and has a gun. You be the judge. The man survived and seems to be in better shape then the cop he shot. What a suprise.......... Randy

Ernie: I’m not a racist ok? Do I think it’s funny? Yes. You tend to stay away from political and racist stuff, so I understand if you don’t post it. I just thought it was funny as hell. Jim

Hey Ernie, Long time reader, first submission. I came across this beauty the other day and thought it would be perfect for a new Tasteless Tuesday. However, the more I though about it and the more I try to erase the images that have been burned into my mind from this story, the more I think this might even be too much. There aren’t any words to describe the horror I felt while reading this story. Enjoy, Derek

For just having given birth four months ago, Jessica Alba sure does look as hot as hell in a bikini. My wife gave birth eight months ago and still looks pregnant. - Wally.

A man got hit by lightning Monday morning on a golf course in Madison, WI. The following are pics of what was left of his bag. Please pass this along to your golfing buddies. Read the what the policeman says, then take a look at the pictures. Shumpy.

Zombie Survival! Its like those old "Choose Your Own Adventure" books except it's movie style. Benny

iloveguitarhero - palinmaccainamericangothic - shekilledcookiemonster - unsportsmanlikeconduct - alabamasmokedetector

reason number two why i won't buy a sportbike... motorcycle on motorcycle crime. stop the hate.

attention pedophiles: if you really want to wipe your hard drives clean, might i suggest thermite.

...and don't forget - the presidential debate is tonight...

Its 10am and i'm drunk.

OKay so this past week I've been send two videos that i somehow found related. both of them are work related - one good and one bad. the first one reminded me of my last employee review at that shit hole i used to work aty. Although my response wasn't quite as spirited, I did manage to call my (former0 boss an asshole before exiting stage right. He's the guy who got laid off a few months lataer, hahahahaha, I hope his kids are dead. Anyway, this of course lead me to consider this video of Adam Savege from the mythbusters, who in an effort to find quick ways to sober up, was able to pound five scotches in 45 minutes. So as i'm putting togather this morning update, this of course got me to thinking, wow wouldn't it be awesome to have ajob where you could drink scotch on the job? and then it occured to me -- I do have a job where i can drink scotch on the job. And thus, I have been drinking scotch on the job for one and half hours. well, okay, not really scotch but bourbon - Makers mark. I am however, not going to get on a treadmill. Good morning.

Top sniper guy is chris and matt.

the twenty-five harshest reactions to the wall street bailout

this my friends, is precisely why i didn't buy a sportbike. you keep pushing it until...

More Physics Fun. And No LHC Jokes, Please.

We all know I love trains, and by association, train crashes. I guess I get all caught up in the enormous levels of violence that get generated when one of these steel levithons departs the normal routine and takes on a mind of its own. So I guess I have been following California's Union Pacific/Metrolink train collision with a sense of morbid curiosity. Not that I take pleasure in anyone getting killed, I just can't take my eyes away when good machine go bad. Which is why I was delighted this morning, when Tyson send in some crash scene photos, along with a preliminary report of what went wrong and how.

I'd like to share those with you now, then we'll discuss some numbers that I'd like you to consider. As you'll see, the Metrolink train received the very short end of the stick, which is something I alluded to last week. But how short was that stick? Let's take a look:

And from this I ask you to consider the following: Freight trains here in the United States weigh anywhere between 3,000 to 13,000 tons. We will presume the southbound Union Pacific train -- lead by an EMD model SD70ACe and numbered UP8485 -- weighed somewhere in the middle so we'll call it 7,500 tons. Since we'll be doing some calculations, we need to convert that to 6,803,880 kilograms. Headed northwards and trying to block the goal line was Metrolink's F59PH numbered SCAX855 and ironically enough also of EMD heritage, would weigh considerbaly less considering only one locomotive and three passenger cars. Both trains are believed to have been travelling at 40 miles an hour, or 17.88 meters per second.

KE = ½mass x velocity²
KE = (6,803,880 kg / 2) x (17.88 m/s x 17.88 m/s)
KE = 1,087,775,821.24 joules of energy

Again, since joules don't mean shit to me, just what the fuck does that mean? Over a billion joules of energy - tough to put into perspective, isn't it? You betcha. So let's approach this from another angle. What else would generate the same amount of energy? Dropping something. Who would hold something heavier than a freight train? Why Superman, of course. And dead as he may be, Christopher Reeves is always going to be Superman to me. At his peak Reeves was 6'4" tall, but since people shrink a little bit as they get older and he was 52 years old when he cashed out, we'll say he was 6'3" tall when he died. [Insert Obligatory Wheelchair Joke Here] Adding two additional feet for Superman reaching up to hold something high over his head, we get 8'3" so for the purpose of calculations, we'll be dropping our mystery object from a height of 2.51 meters. Since gravity is a constant 9.81 m/s², we can use the following equation to determine how heavy the dropped item must weigh:

PE = mgh (mass x gravity x height)
1,087,775,821.24 = mass x (9.81 m/s²) x (2.51)
1,087,775,821.24 = mass x 24.62
1,087,775,821.24 / 24.62 = mass
44,177,046.00 kg = mass

But we're in America and don't use any pussy kilograms, except for cool Apache calculations, so how many pounds are in 44,177,046 kilograms? I'll tell you -- 97,366,209 pounds or, 48,683 tons. Hmm, that sure sounds heavy, but what weighs 48,000 tons? Oh I dunno, how about one of Russia's Typhoon Class ballistic missile submarines? So yeah, imagine you're a dockworker taking a leisurely stroll under under this gigantic motherfucker behing held up by the Man of Steel when suddenly he sneezes and -- oh ya know -- drops the entire fucking thing on your head. That my friends, is the same amount of force that UP8485 unleashed upon the Metrolink train. Needless to say the Metrolink engineer died at the scene. Creepy? Sure, but not as creepy as this topless scene between the 34 year old Penelope Cruz and 65 year old Ben Kingsley. Because that's fucking creepy.

But on the lighter side of physics, yesterday's Flash Physics game had a finite ending, so the winner was whomever completed it first. In this case it was Matt, who was kind enough to remember to include EHOWA in his scraen name when he posted to the leaderboard. Chris also completed all the levels, but alas, was second. What's next in our hat? More killing. In this challenge, we'll see how many Kraut soldiers you can shoot. And remember, headshots count extra!

i couldn't possibly come up with a thumbnail image for this word game. good luck with it..

there are eighty-six rules of drinking - i expect you to know them all by tomorrow.

Oh Yes, it's Tasteless - Tasteless Tuesday.

Tonight I had one of the most truly tasteless adventures of my career. I was the resident on call for the ICU at a large teaching hospital. During an otherwise quiet night I was frittering away my time reading a.t. as usual. On my last pass thru the unit before bed, the nurse mentioned that one of our male patients had a problem with his, you know, foreskin.

As it turned out, whoever put in his foley catheter retracted his foreskin and had not replaced it. As a result, with a little swelling of the 'ole glans, the foreskin tightened, venous return was impaired, and the loose tissue beyond his retracted foreskin had blown up like a balloon. This is commonly referred to as paraphimosis, and if left untreated can lead to necrosis of the glans penis (i.e. your dick can rot and drop off). Simple, I thought, give urology a call. I did. He said to reduce it by squeezing the sucker until the swelling goes down a little and pull the foreskin back down.

Now I like playing with another guy's doodles just as much as much as the next guy, but this was fucking ridiculous!! I squeezed and pulled and yanked and lubed and twisted so much It reminded me of my days as an altar boy. The poor bastard at the other end of the thing wasn't enjoying it too much either, even when I reminded him that some men paid big cash for this sort of action. We both watched a good part of the hockey game on TV, him puffing and writhing away underneath his oxygen mask, and me yanking fruitlessly on his member. Having succeeded only in producing a mangled, bloody, swollen, slippery piece of pecker (again reminiscent of my catholic days), I ran away bravely - and called in the expert.

The urology resident is a giant of a man, standing at least six foot five. His approach to the problem was equal to that I've witnessed only by those in the surgical profession (usually orthopedics). I've never seen anything like it. Donning his huge rubber gloves, he grabbed either side of the man's foreskin, placed his foot firmly on the patient's chest, and gave a gargantuan pull, a la Paul Bunyan, while pushing the pud's pointer in the opposite direction with his mighty thumbs. There was an almost palpable rip/POP, and the ill-fated foreskin was noted to be once again "back in the saddle." The poor bastard with the penis almost died from pain, mind you. I was awed. Urology IS cool.

So remember kids - your foreskin is your friend. If you pull it back, push it forward again. And I guess if you pull it back and push it forward a whole bunch of times really fast for about an hour, remember to leave it in the, "foredeck." - Anonymous

Oh, and I highly suggest you break out some dry erase markers to make little tick marks on your computer screen, as your timing has to be perfect when you drop the little yellow balls of Flash Physics -- you don't have to complete the levels in order, and more advanced levsla re worth more points. I've been playing for about twenty minutes and have managed to amass 28,000 points. But I'm still playing, so stay tuned...

video of foley catheter insertion into a woman's hoo-hoo-dilly. -- oh c'mon guys, don't be shy!

the best forty celebrity rumors ever. no mention of who's been catheterized.

ever wonder what those 'runaway truck ramps' are for? well wonder no more.

ever wonder what an emergency landing in an ultra-light looks like? well wonder no more.

Ode To Yankee Stadium.

Yes, this is the first and only time I'm going to refer to the New York Yankees without it being preceded by, "I hate those fucking," or followed by, "fucking suck!" Why? Because yesterday was the end of an era and I think even the die-hardest of die-hard Sox fans have to tip their hat to this one. Dare I even admit, that I was pulling for the Yankee to win their final game in their old stadium.

I lived in Boston through 2005 when there were mumblings of tearing down Fenway and building the Sox to a new, more spacious stadium. And while at the time I hadn't been there long enough to earn the right to call myself a fully vested Sox fan, I still grimaced at the thought. Fenway Park, like Yankee Stadium and Wrigley Field, is one of the last surviving cornerstones of baseball history. I know it's old, I know the facilities are dated, I know parking sucks, I know more seats would mean cheaper ticket prices. I don't care. I'd gladly give all of that up to keep my beloved Fenway Park. So I was fucking delighted when additional seats were added above the Green Monster in 2003, which pretty much secured Fenway's survival for a few more years. I hope they never tear the old place down, no matter how uncomfortable the seats can be, no matter how long I have to wait to use the pisser, and no matter how expensive parking is. Let it live forever.

Because it is in this arena that the Sox did battle with their arch enemies -- those fucking New York Yankees. Bringing their pinstripes and trying to hit my ball, in my town, in my house. Bah! And it was Yankee Stadium where the Sox turned the tables and took the fight right to heart of the Bronx, casting Beantown's shadow over the legends of Mantle and Gehrig. But that's the pleasure. That's the rivalry. That's what home field advantage is all about. Defending your turf from the other guy. The Yankees-Sox rivalry is-what-it-is because of these two stadiums and their history -- shit, the Yankee's first victory in Yankee Stadium was against the Sox in 1923. And it's been tooth and nail ever since. That's heritage; that's tradition. As trivial as it sounds, for years, sons have pissed in the same urinals as their fathers have, and their have grandfathers before them. A father could take his son to his first baseball game, and sit in the very same seat that he experienced his first game thirty years before. There's a history and pride with these old stadiums that can't be replaced by new LED scoreboards and more parking. As you walk up those familiar concrete stairs to the same seat you always sit in, your shoes scuffing down corners rounded off by endless coats of grey paint, something anchors you to the days of years gone by and makes you understand why they call it America's past time.

And to cast all of that way so you can sell more seats, or don't have to wait so long for a hot dog, or can take an elevator to your parking level instead of the stairs? I think it cheapens it. It cheapens the game, it cheapens the Yankees, and it certainly cheapens the Yankees-Sox rivalry. Personally, I won't fear the Yankees anymore. I won't get a knot in the pit of my stomach when I look up the Sox schedule and read, "@NYY." My hands won't sweat anymore when I happen to walk by a television at the mall and see the big Yankee logo behind home plate. Because you never just played the Yankees, you played the Yankees and their history. So now the Yanks won't ever really have home field advantage anymore. Each time they go up to bat, they're not defending the honor of Yankee Stadium, they're just playing in some ball field. It's not their house anymore. Their house is gone. And to be honest, I'm a little sadder because of it. I guess despite how much I hate you, I'm still going to miss you.

So long Yankee Stadium, we hardly knew ye.

For those of you with vaginas, Steve was referring to. And as far as Orange Runner goes, you had to cross 700,000 to even make the board, which is something Brett managed to do, making me think he might win back to back competitions. That is until Chris came along and nudged him out by 1,749 points, if you can believe it. The onyl other person to cross the 700k mark was Ryan who would of course be in third place. New challenge tomorrow!

hurricane ike - before and after photos. ike did some ass whoopin.

how can anyone live like this? keep this in mind the next time you rent your place out.

so how much juice do your electronic devices use while they're in standby mode?

Insert Your Favorite Weekend Joke Here.

Ernie, Not sure if you'll want to post these or not. The husband of a lady I work with was cleaning up after Gustav slammed Baton Rouge. He stepped off his ladder and onto a tree root. These pics show the result of this unfortunate 'misstep'. Luckily the doctors were able to save his foot and after a couple more surgeries, he'll be good as new. Great site, btw. Allen - Baton Rouge, LA

i never knew one of my favorite family guy scenes - was a spoof of a william shatner performance.

where youp oresidential candidate stands on twenty-two political issues.

canyouspellcamaro - mrandmrsvader - needbacksurgery - takemypicture - thingstodobeforeyoudie

So That's How My Morning Started.

My nephew asked me why are fire trucks always red. I explained that everyone knows that fire engines have 4 wheels and 8 men. 4 and 8 make 12. There are twelve inches in a foot. A foot is a ruler. Queen Elizabeth, a ruler, is the name of one of the largest ships on the seas. Seas have fish and fish have fins. The Finns fought the Russians and Russians are red . . . and fire trucks are always rushin' therefore, fire trucks are red. Duh.

I asked around to find some more information on human cloning, and was shocked to find a do-it-yourself kit. I opened the box and there was one page of instructions. Actually, just one instruction: "Go fuck yourself."

A kid at the grocery store asked me why don't they make white M&M's? Explained that they'd enslave the dark brown M&M's, steal all the red M&Ms' land, hunt the blue M&M's to extinction, accuse the yellow M&M's of obstructing trade, start a panic that the little green M&M's were invading the Earth, and complain that the damn light brown M&M's were taking all their jobs.

A girl at the bar asked me what I wanted most in a woman. So I showed her. I just got bailed out twenty minutes ago.

DON'T FORGET: Friday September 19th 2008 is Talk Like a Pirate Day!

and if you hated grease as much as i did, then you'l love ghetto grease - thanks bryan.

cougar hunting 101: the ultimate guide to dating older women (and have a blast doing so).

playboy playmates of the year - then and now. WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO ERIKA ELENIAK? (nsfw)

What The Fuck Is Hadron, And Why The Fuck Do I Care If It Collides?

Okay, I'm kidding, I know what hadron is. And after watching this awesome fucking video, I have a good understanding of that the Large Hadron Collider is and how it functions. At full power, trillions of protons will race around the LHC accelerator ring 11,245 times a second. It’s capable of achieving 600 million collisions every second. The machine is also the world’s "largest refrigerator" -- all the over 1,200 magnets will be cooled using 10,080 tons of liquid nitrogen and nearly 60 tons of liquid helium to bring the temperature to -271.3°C which is colder than space. The LHC also happens to the emptiest place in the solar system. The beams of particles travel in an ultra-high vacuum - the internal pressure of the LHC is 10-13 atmospheres, ten times less than the pressure on the moon. The goals range from from understanding the microcosm of the sub-nuclear world, to understanding what the universe was like a few moments after the Big Bang. Data from collisions of the beams are expected to change what physicists know about everything from the Big Bang, to black holes, to the most fundamental building blocks of matter. There's also something about the "Higgs boson", but to be honest, my eyes kind of glazed over when I tried to wrap my tiny head around that.

So. I guess here's my question. Scientists might get a look into the Big Bang, blah-blah-blah. Uh. Uh. Not to sound dumb or anything, but so what? And I'm not asking this question because I claim to understand all facets of the LHC and don't see a use for it, I'm asking because I clearly don't grasp the entire concept and what it can do for us. We get to see protons smash into each other! Okay. And that's the origin of the universe! Okay. Soooooooo, now what? Taking me back to the hotel room in Niagra Falls where my parents fucked sure would give me a glimpse into my origins, but what does it actually do for me? So watching proton collions give us what? I can read the Purpose section of the LHC's entry and can understand the meaning of the individual words, "Is the Higgs mechanism for generating elementary particle masses in the Standard Model indeed realised in nature? If so, how many Higgs bosons are there, and what are their masses," but obviously I don't understand the practical use of such knowledge. Just what the fuck do proton collisions get us? Flying cars? Teleported pizza delivery? The cure for cancer? What?

See, now there's some physics I can understand. As Metrolink kindly showed us last week, when a man with a 15,000,000 pound freight train meets a man with a 3,000,000 pound commuter train, the man in the 3,000,000 pound commuter train dies. It's a simple result of KE = ½mass x velocity². So it doesn't press one's imagination that freight train vs semi-truck would be an even more pronounced mistamch. That is of course, unless the semi-truck is assisted by the explosive power of its 8,000 gallons of propane, then it's clearly the match becomes a draw. I spent a good amount of time looking over the barbequed locomotive and as best I can tell it is (was?) a General Electric Dash 8 series, numbered 9406, which means this locomotive is dead right along with its crew.

Oh, and Scott is currently in the lead in Orange Runner, with a score of 573,733 points. Close on his back door is Chuck with 550,442. Heh, heh -- Chuck like Scott's back door. Heh heh. I now pronounce you Chuck and Scotty. Heh.

screencaps of sarah palin's hacked email account? true? false? i dunno.

how to land a plane in an emergency - just "get it on the ground" - yeah, that's it. just do it.

Oh Yeah, Hold That Pose, You Foxy Little Bitch.

Today I'm going to do something that I rarely do, and that's set an asscheek up on the celebrity bandwagon and dedicate an entire post to one person. That person is Megan Fox. I'm not really sure why I chose now to talk about her, although perhaps her recent confession that she had a crush on a female stripper named Nikita certainly might have something to do with it. or perhaps it was the dream I had with her in it last night -- no not like that, she was actually cozying up to another woman. But either way, here we are, so let's begin.

The All-Knowing-All-Seeing IMDB lists her birth name as Megan Denise Fox and right out of the gate, I have to call Bullshit. Why? Because No chick this blazingly hot has a last name of Fox. She can't. Time would stop and the world would simultaneously explode and implode all at the same time. If her last name is really Fox, then I'd like to introduce you to my neighbors new wife, Pussy Galore. It just doesn't fucking happen. It can't happen. The world would end.

Most people know Megan Fox from her breakthrough role in Transformers, where she played the insanely hot chick (duh!) who can recognize a high-rise double-pump carburetor. And as much as we'd all love that to be true -- Christ the money I could save on repair bills alone -- we have to face the reality that it's not. She's not really a gearhead. She's not really Berta's 17 year old niece, and as much as you don't get away from your computer much as you should, you cannot compare Megan Fox to Firefox.

She was however, voted #1 sexiest woman by FHM readers for 2008, and that means that neither you or I have a shot with her. Which is unfortunate really, because despite that flawless body and those hypnotizing blue eyes, she still grits her teeth when she takes a shit, just like we do.

arealpiechart - notsohidden - nowthatsracohist - sharpiegalore - sickmonkeys - texastruckforsale

where is your surname most prevalent? stewart is scottish. unfortunately.

after action pictures of the two jacksonville port, florida cranes that collapsed

cornerstone websites of the internet: how they looked in 1998 vs 2008.

I Hope Nobody Plans On Retiring Anytime Soon. Oh, And It's Tasteless Tuesday.

"I once chopped pieces of foreskin off my penis with a pair of cuticle scissors."

Now that I've got your attention, I'll go back and tell the whole story. Apologies if it gets a little lengthy, but this yarn deserves to be spun well.

First, some background. After I was circumcised as an infant, the wound was not taken care of with sufficient diligence, and it healed incorrectly. Portions of the raw edge of the remaining foreskin bonded to the glans, a little bit above the lower edge of the glans. This left a series of "skin bridges", basically sections of foreskin which can't be retracted, because they are fused to the glans at one end and the shaft at the other. These varied in width from about 1/16" to 1/4", and were attached off and on over about 2/3 of the circumference. This was never a major problem. It was a long time before I even realized it was abnormal. Everything functioned properly, but there were a few minor problems with it which made me wish I could fix it. Mainly, it was a cosmetic defect -- it didn't look good. Second, it was tough to keep clean under the bridges -- I had to swab it with a Q-tip now and then to knock down smegma buildup. And lastly, some of the most sensitive parts of the glans were hidden under relatively insensitive chunks of foreskin, robbing me of the proper stimulation which was mine and every man's birthright.

Over the past few years, I'd been thinking of getting it corrected, but there were problems. Doctors cost money, and I didn't have it, and student insurance sure wasn't gonna cover it. Plus, the thought of some strange doctor chopping at my peepeehead gives me chills. Now, all a doctor would do it sterilize it, numb it, cut it and bandage it. "Hell, maybe I can do that!", I thought. The problem was how to kill the pain. I experimented with cutting myself (with an x-acto knife), but seeing as it always hurt like hell before I even cut anything, I never went through with it. Recently, I came back and studied the situation. Again, the problem with the self-surgery approach was dealing with pain. There had to be some way of numbing the area, but how? One winter day, it hit me. If cold can make fingers go numb, then cold can also make a ManTool[tm] go numb. With this in mind, I pioneered a the "home penile self- surgery procedure".

My Surgical Kit: Cuticle scissors (1 pair). Rubbing alcohol (1 bottle). Antibiotic ointment (1 tube). Anti-bacterial soap (1 bottle). Gauze pads (lots, various sizes). Ice cubes (iodine added to water for sterility). Clean Washcloth (freshly laundered with lots'o'bleach). Well-lit work area (the kitchen table)

The Procedure: Wipe down work area with alcohol. Clean penis with soap and water, then with alcohol. Wash hands thoroughly. Soak scissors in alcohol. Holding the ice cube with the washcloth (to prevent your fingers from going numb), apply the ice cube to the target area. Hold for 5 to 10 minutes, until area is numb. Using the cuticle scissors, sever the skin bridge as closely as possible to its connection with the glans. Then sever the foreskin end of the bridge in such a location as to leave an even edge on the foreskin. Use gauze pads and direct pressure to stop the bleeding, then apply antibiotic ointment and bandage.

The Operations: Though the operations are not painful if done correctly, the healing process is a real pain in the ass. It also takes a certain state of mind to be able to cut your own flesh. I would kind of put myself into robo-man zombie mode for the operations, in that I never dwelled on what I was doing, I just mechanically plodded through all the steps without thinking about how totally gross it was. Since the ice cube could only numb a small portion of the penis, and since I could only tolerate so much trauma to my dick in one session, it took 6 separate operations, spread out over a two week period, to cut/remove all of the skin bridges.

Operation #1 (Day 1) -- The test cut. I chose a small thin skin bridge, about 1/16" across. I held the ice cube on for 5 minutes. The ice caused a peculiar kind of "cold ache", but it wasn't that bad. I gingerly made the cuts, and sliced through with no pain at all. There was some minor bleeding, but because of the speed at which I worked, I had finished and had the gauze on it before the wound had any chance to bleed significantly. After about 10 minutes the bleeding was stopped and I bandaged it up, no problem at all. Only a tiny little speck of flesh had been removed, rather unimpressive looking.

Operation #2 (Day 3) -- Operation #1 turned out so well, I decided to go for big game this time. The target was the mother of all skin bridges, about 1/4" across and very thick and meaty. Again, I made the preparations and applied ice for 5 minutes. I made the first cut along the glans, and was surprised at how much I had to bear down on the scissors. This skin was surprisingly tough. I finished that cut, and then turned my attention to the cut on the foreskin side. Wanting to get it done quickly, I decided that two large, powerful snips should do the job. I bore down and made the first cut, and realized with a shock that IT HURT LIKE HELL. Well, it turns out that due to the thickness of the skin bridge on that end, the cold hadn't penetrated deeply enough, and it hadn't gone numb. So, I was left with a problem. I had a half severed bit of foreskin hanging off me, and no anesthetic. My only recourse was to finish the cut. I thought, "Shit. This will hurt." So I lined up the scissors, closed my eyes, and as quickly and powerfully as I could, I made the snip. My prediction was correct; it did hurt (don't you hate when you're right about things like that?) I managed to avoid shouting out, instead opting for a few simple gasps and whimpers. I resolved to hold the ice on for much longer in future operations. Being that this was a bigger cut than the first, it bled much more profusely. It took about 20 minutes of direct pressure and a lot of gauze until I could staunch the main flow. Even then it kept oozing blood for a few hours. I spent the rest of the evening with nothing on below the waist, sitting in front of the TV with a few brews (this became standard procedure for all forthcoming operations). Any motion tended to make it break open and bleed again, so I moved around very little. I was functioning (that is, walking) almost normally again by the next day, but it took about 5 days before this one completely stopped oozing blood. As I gingerly hobbled back into the kitchen for another brew, I spotted IT, the severed hunk-o-foreskin that I had left on the table. It was of fairly good size, about 1/2" by 1/4" and maybe as thick as a piece of bacon. Suddenly, strange thoughts entered my skull, and a raging mental battle between good and evil ensued...

So, I ate it. Turns out it was very tough and chewy, kind of like biting a little piece of rubber. I chewed for about 5 minutes, but didn't make any progress on breaking it down, so I swallowed it. It had a little bit of blood flavor at first, but after that it had no flavor at all; rather disappointing in that respect. Maybe I should have cooked it.

Operation #3 (Day 10) -- A medium sized cut. I held the ice cube on much longer (10 minutes instead of 5), so there was no problem with pain. Not nearly as much bleeding, but still a respectable amount. A word about erections: they werea bad thing. Any hard-on would tear the wounds open and start them bleeding again. This would be a problem for about 3 or 4 days until the wounds had healed sufficiently. Basically, I had to spend a long, long time without even thinking a nasty thought. Of course, when I was asleep I had no control over the process, which would always result in me waking up with a dick that hurt and bloody bandages. I was really lovin' life at moments like these.

Operation #4 (Day 12) -- Another medium sized cut, but with the added bonus of having a small vein (about 1 mm in diameter) running through the skin bridge. Now, the blood supply for the penis mainly runs through blood vessels buried deep inside. When you get down the the small vessels, the circulatory system becomes more of a spiderweb, with redundant paths going to every point. So I knew it wasn't actually dangerous to cut it, but it was still a kind of psychological obstacle. I expected this one to be a heavy bleeder, and I wasn't disappointed. It took about a full hour of direct pressure to get the severed ends of the vein to close up. Otherwise, not too much of a problem.

Operation #5 (Day 14) -- I was planning on more time to let the others heal, but due to changes in the way skin tension was being applied to the remaining bridges (because I'd cut some others away), one small bridge was getting a lot of stress and starting to hurt. So I chopped it quick and easy, no real problems.

Operation #6 (Day 15) -- The problem with operation #5 was that it just transferred the stress to the next bridge down the line. So even though I had about 3/4" of flesh left to cut, I resolved to do it all at once in one last cutting frenzy. Due to the size of the operation, it took a while to complete (maybe 1 minute total), which gave the blood a chance to flow. I had to stop a few times and wipe away blood so I could see what I was doing. Strangely, this didn't bother me at all. It seemed perfectly normal that I should be wiping up copious amounts of blood flowing from my bleeding pecker which I had sliced open myself. Actually, it seemed kind of cool at the time, which led me to speculate at the time that I had gone insane, which I also thought was pretty cool. Anyway, except for the excess blood which had dripped on to the chair, it went quite well. The only thing that really grossed me out was when I noticed I had blood all over my hands. If any psychoanalysts want to analyze that tidbit for me, feel free, though I really don't care. The wounds are now completely healed, and the results are good. Mainly:

1. There are no scars to speak of, just a few bumps on the glans. This is because I didn't trim the flesh quite close enough in a few spots. They kind of resembling little warts. I thought about going back and trimming them off, but I kind of like 'em now. After all, it's not everyone who has the privilege of appearing to have warts, without actually being diseased?

2. Without the skin tension holding things back, total dick length has increased by 1/4". (Of course I've measured the length of my dick. Like you haven't?)

3. It's a great topic for dinnertime conversation. Women generally seem to find it quite interesting. Men generally turn kind of pale.

With my newfound surgical skills, I've been contemplating a few more self-surgical procedures. You know, mole removal, wart removal, nose jobs, the whole vista of cosmetic surgery. I'll need some help for that mole on my back, which means training an assistant. Ah, the future looks interesting indeed ... Anonymous.

Well, since Brett obviously rules Double Wires, we're moving on to something else. In this game, you are orange, and you must run. You are the Orange Runner. Pick up the batteries. Dodge the sawblades. Run like the wind and see if you can beat 371,118 -- and note I made it all the way up to 223 miles an hour!

if there really is a god and reincarnation, then i want to come back as eliza dushku's bicycle seat.

union pacific 6483 - the little engine that could... cream a metrolink commuter train.

let's all raise our beer glass to andre the giant - the greatest drunk on earth

how to insult, swear, cuss, and curse in over 182 languages.

John's Egg Business.

John was in the fertilized egg business. He had several hundred young hens, called pullets, and ten roosters to fertilize the eggs. He kept records, and any rooster not performing went into the soup pot and was replaced.

This took a lot of time, so he bought some tiny bells and attached them to his roosters. Each bell had a different tone, so he could tell from a distance, which rooster was performing. Now, he could sit on the porch And fill out an efficiency report by just listening to the bells.

John's favorite rooster, old Butch, was a very fine specimen, but this morning he noticed old Butch's bell hadn't rung at all! When he went to investigate, he saw the other roosters were busy chasing pullets, bells-a-ringing, but the pullets, hearing the roosters coming, could run for cover. To John's amazement, old Butch had his bell in his beak, so it couldn't ring. He'd sneak up on a pullet, do his job and walk on to the next one.

John was so proud of old Butch, he entered him in the Renfrew County Fair and he became an overnight sensation among the judges. The result was the judges not only awarded old Butch the No Bell Piece Prize but they also awarded him the Pulletsurprise as well.

Clearly old Butch was a politician in the making. Who else but a politician could figure out how to win two of the most highly coveted awards on our planet by being the best at sneaking up on the populace and screwing them when they weren't paying attention.

Vote carefully this year, the bells are not always audible.

Wow. You know how I know Hollywood is really getting behind this "Stand Up To Cancer" program? Homer Simpson's colonoscopy will be televised on September 5. Ouch. And unless someone beats Brett's 556 yards by tomorrow, I'm going to declare him the winner and we'll push on to something else.

the top ten trailer remixes - hey "the school of rock" doesn't suck anymore.

celebrity interviews mixed into porn scenes - definitely NSFW unless you work for hustler.

suckling at the teats of life - to hell with batman, i'm superman - soaking up some rays, or soaking up all the rays

Insert Your Favorite Weekend Joke Here.

look at these pictures decide if the image was digitally altered or untouched.

25 best places for affordable homes - but who the fuck wants to live in iowa?

as hard hit as texas is, we all be be thankful for cuba - america's hurricane speedbump!

Deh-Neh Ler Ner-Ner.

I think two of the better shows on television right now are Two and a Half Men and House M.D. The first because -- let's be honest -- who doesn't want to be Charlie Harper. He lives the perfect bachelor life: great house, great car, lots of money, and he's constantly banging hot chicks. Watching the show, it amazes me how much Charlie Sheen looks like his father. But I think one of the undiscovered jewels in that show, a diamond in the rough if you will, is Charlie's stalker Rose who lives one floor below him. My Spidey senses tell me that the cleavage she's a sportin' leads down to one hell of a pair of tits. (Duh!)

House on the other hand, kicks ass for two reasons. First, nobody ever gets over on House. Everyone tries, most think they succeed, but in the end it's always House coming out on top. And secondly, the show offers a level of care to the patients that we can only dream about. The next time you're in the hospital for something serious, wouldn't it be comforting to know that you don't have a doctor but a whole team of really smart doctors all sitting in a room, huddled around a whiteboard, discussing you and only you? Wouldn't that be awesome? Instead the reality is command maybe twenty minutes of their attention per day.

Anyway, I raise these two shows for a particular reason. Both have what I consider to be, underrated hotties; Rose from Two and a Half Men who has some amazing cleavage and Cut Throat Bitch from House with her amazingly long legs. Each left me wondering what their tits looked like. So I decided to try and find out and low and behold -- a two'fer!

Fact: New Orleans, a "chocolate city," is 67% black. Fact: Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. Fact: Many New Orleans residents were then transplanted to Houston. Fact: Hurricane Ike is now bearing down on Houston. Conclusion: God hates black people. But continuing on the topic of hurricanes, at least we have some good news. Forecasters have an exact fix on where the next storm is headed. Nice job, guys. Way to put those supercomputers to work.

lindsay lohan looks a little down lately. and by down, i mean saggy.

gina gershon spoofs sarah palin. and WOW does gina gershon have a rockin hard body.

than vs then. their vs there vs they're. its vs it's. test your old school grammar skillz.

ah, just another day in paradise. c'mon in, the water is fine.

Horror Revisited Seven Times Over.

I actually took this Tuesday morning off work, so that I could take my car in to get it's 5000 mile service. Traffic was a exceptionally bad, so I was flipping through the radio stations trying to find something to listen to. It seemed every station was talking and talking and talking about mundane crap as many morning radio stations often do. I finally settled on one and began to settle into the fact that I'd be creeping through traffic for the next hour. Then the morning show host mentioned how a co worker was running into the station... it seemd a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center.

Ha, I thought. Another bonehead tourist plane probably. The old building can take it, I thought. I remember reading that back in 19'some'odd when an Army Air Corp bomber crashed into the Empire State building in dense fog. Darwinism, I thought.

They finally got around to playing a few songs, which was a welcome break from the talking I had previous mentioned. Then the host breaks into music, right in the middle of a song, and states that a second plane, a big commercial motherfucker, had crashed into the World Trade Center also. At this point, I got angry. How dare they publicize such a stupid prank? How dare they? This isn't funny. This is horrible. I was actually contemplating picking up my cell phone and calling in to bitch someone out. And the thought occured to me... check another station. So I did. And they were talking about it too. And so was another. And another. This was for real.

I arrived at the dealership and there, in the customer lounge, were salesman, customers, managers, mechanics and receptionists all gathered around the television. There was an image of the peak of the World Trade Center Towers. There was a lot of smoke. People in the room were talking about terror and tragedy. After a few seconds later, the news media replayed footage of the second plane impact. I remember thinking that since he impacted the corner of the second tower, it looks like the guy missed his mark. I was somehow almost grateful. Imagine the loss of life if the whole fucking tower had come down in the impact.

We, a group of stunned and horrified people with only our American blood as a common thread, watched for a while longer. The coffee machine remained untouched. People were glued to the TV. Footage of victims and the rescue qorkers assisting them began to make their way around to the news media. Then the news broadcaster said they the windows in the building he was in shook. He heard a bang. He looked out of his window and saw people running away from the Pentagon. Hmmm. A car bombing maybe? Christ there's going to be a few hundred people killed in this attack, I thought.

Then the unthinkable happened. Right in the middle of Peter Jenning's sentence, right before my very eyes, the burning hulk that was once one of the two World Trade Center Towers, collapsed. Right before my very fucking eyes. There was dust, a mushroom cloud of it and the top of the tower just disappeared into it. It almost looked like it had been imploded, like you see on the Learning Channel late at night sometimes. It was gone, just like that. I can't imagine how many people died, right before my very fucking eyes. I turned to the gentleman sitting next to me, "is this really happening?" I asked. We were all stunned to find that one of the pilots of the hijacked planes lives in Dracut, Massachusetts. That's two towns over from where I live.

Surely the other one can't fall too. The media said that plane was much smaller, and it hit so much higher up. It can take the hit I thought. It'll be okay.

But I was wrong. Before too long, that tower collapsed too, killing with it not only the few thousand unfortunate souls still trapped inside but probably hundreds of rescue workers trying to aid the victims of the first crash. It's radio attenna on top dipped a bit, wavered left, and then too cascaded in a monster cloud of dust. And the news confirmed another plane had crashed into the Pentagon. I guess it wasn't a carbomb after all. Now all the airports are closed. And the railways. And they say another plane just crashed near Pittsburg. There is speculation that it didn't crash at all, but was rather shot down by Air Force fighters after the plane refused to respond to communication attempts and was headed directly towards Camp David. It's circulating now that perhaps that was just a rumor. God bless their souls either way. I fear the final body count in this whole ordeal, which in my uneducated estimates will climb into the tens of thousands.

Speculation is abound as to who is the root of all evil. The usual suspects turn up, as one might imagine. The news media is going through extraordinary steps of political correctness to not suggest any one of them is more or less likely to be the mastermind behind it, so as not to offend anyone.

Fuck that. We all know who is behind it. That tall, skinny, limping fuckhead Osama bin Laden. I know it, you know it, we all know it so let's cut to the fucking chase.

Some people say this is a time for restraint. I again r