Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Beau's List of Rules for Promiscuous Relations

Originally, I had plans to write about how desperate for attention and self esteem you'd have to be to consider yourself a "juggalo", but more important matters are at hand this time around. Today's lesson in life and love is something those of you who know me personally would expect me of all people to compose, simply because I have time enough on my hands to do so. Besides, how will the eager and thriving young minds of today get through their schoolwork and thesis papers without proper education in things like casual encounters, sexually transmitted diseases, and the dreaded "I don't want to ruin our friendship". So, in the spirit of progress, let's get this underway, shall we?
I call this Beau's List of Rules for Promiscuous Relations:

Rule #1: Always the bridesmaids, never the bride.......unless she's gonna do it.

This basically means that everyone is fair play. Their business is not your own, so keep your pointy little nose out of it. Nothing sucks more than a "playa" with a conscience.

Rule #2: Utilize the buddy system.

Don't you hate it when you're running the triathlon and you get a cramp in your leg when no one's around?  When having promiscuous sex, you should always bring a helper along to assist you in case the unexpected occurs. Also make extra sure that your helper is aware of their obligations prior to arriving at your destination. It's better to get it all out there beforehand rather than having to use your hand.

Rule # 3: Be a jack of all trades.

Keep in mind, not every fish goes for the same bait, so you'll need to bone up (no pun intended) on using every resource at your disposal. Whether it be Ruffies, alcohol, extacy, rope, choke hold, blackmail, or just plain ol' lying through your teeth, bring the right tools for the right situation.

Rule #4: Extreme sex calls for extreme measures.

Using protection? Then stop already; condoms are for pussies! A strong, independent individual like you needs to live on the edge. Birth control? hardly. Abstinence? not in this life, bubba. Don't be afraid of diseases and pregnancy, you're invincible! In the event you follow this rule, check your GPS for the nearest clinic.

Rule #5: Explore all the possibilities.

The world is your playground; why not your partner(s) too? Whatever the case may be, put it everywhere! Mouth, genitals, anus, the doorknob hole in the hallway, the grill out back, maybe even if you own a pet.......they could watch too! Life is short; be the Lewis and Clark of sex.

Rule #6: Leave your friends in the dust.

Ever been told, "can't we just be friends?", I don't want to ruin our friendship", or "you're like a brother/sister to me"? This is what happens when you exercise a non-sexual relationship with someone else for too long. If you want to bump uglies with them, tell them during your initial meeting. Say something like, " I may want to sleep with you in the near future. We're not friends yet and there's nothing to ruin. If you see me like a brother/sister at this juncture, you're a nut ball and should be locked in a room with pillows for walls. Now that we have that out of the way, Hi, my name is ______."
No one ever loses friends with sex. They're just too stupid to think you're well aware of the fact that they are into sex, just not with you.

Rule#7: Test the waters for your fallback guy/girl.

Don't want to sleep with everyone? That's fine, everyone has their own tastes. That doesn't mean you shouldn't flirt around to figure out your options. Remember, not everyone wants to sleep with you either, but it's good to have a back-up plan in case your significant other catches you cheating again, so keep your toes in the water.

Rule #8: Get to know your partner(s).

The dumbest thing one can do is call someone by another person's name when they're getting laid. Memorize, write down, repeat until you're blue in the face, do what you have to do to remember who's guts you're smashing. If all else fails, figure out words that rhyme with everyone's name, so you can just play it off like you were going to start talking about something else. Which reminds me: Steer clear of women named Helga.

Rule #9: Kick your standards like a bad habit.

Ugly girls, pregnant, single moms, sociopaths, nurses, and even fat women with fibromyalgia and service monkeys need love too. Whether or not you do doesn't matter; either way you're still getting play. If you set your standards too high, you may just run out of options. Keep your playbook open and a paper bag handy.

Rule #10: When in doubt, deny, deny, deny.

This one is a classic and should never leave any list of rules for any kind of relations. Whether you're lying, cheating, stealing, impregnating, passing diseases, or in some cases paying for it, deny everything. Even if your wife catches you d*ck deep in a hooker, it wasn't you. In more extreme cases, such as a video of you and an assortment of various barn yard animals or small woodland creatures, it still wasn't you. Be brave... it will all be over soon.

In the event you find this list on another website, they're plagiarizing and you should notify/come have sex with me immediately. I hope you enjoyed this informative article featuring true events and important day to day issues. Please do not follow these rules, you are an idiot if you do.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Die More Harder - Ver. 2

 This post was one of my favorites. It was featured on a site called Scrivel.com A while back, but I made a deal with the site moderator that I wouldn't post the same things on there that I did here. Since the a$$hole edited my material just before I quit posting (and that's a no-no where I stand), I might as well let you read it from my home page. For the record, when someone wants to feature your writing on their site and they tell you they WILL NOT edit your work, they will re-neg on that promise 100% of the time. Oh, and to be a bigger a$$hole, I edited it myself for this post.

originally posted: October 2008

yes, I was at Wal-Mart and took this picture myself. The Die Hard DVD case was a copy of the Die Hard 2 DVD case, just reversed.

With the latest Die Hard movie, whatever the name was, you'd think that Mr. Willis would be gettin' tired of being bloody for 2 hours at a time. That would almost be enough to drive you crazy. Crazy like a Burger King employee performing on a mall Santa in the alley behind McDonald's. Now That's having it your way.

John McLain apparently went nuts somewhere between Die Hard parts 1 and 2, but it's part 17 I'm looking forward to. We're calling it:  "Die More Harder:  Dying is Almost Impossible When You're Alive" (it's a work in progress title).

It's the year 2134.

ImageDetective McLain is still alive somehow and more harder than ever! The internet (which is now known as Obama Land) has been taken over by Chuck Norris Jokes and his string of reality shows featured on VH1 entitled, "Roundhouse Kick of Love", seasons one through whenever the f$%# Chuck Norris says ...

McLain now has a reason to stop the future by traveling back in time via a magical Demi Moore blow-up doll (what are the odds, right?), gather everybody that copies-and-pastes those stupid Chuck Norris jokes to their Myspace page on an everyday basis, kick them in their teeth and urinate fire on them while they're down (that last part might be unnecessary, but what can you do, it's in the script. Besides, are you gonna stop Chuck Norris?).

After the internet wars of 2136, Johnny boy discovers that he's actually an action hero in a movie because a fat kid from Baby Steps tells him so. As long as the guy with the glass eye doesn't find the magic movie ticket, we still have half a plot for the next eighteen sequels.

McLain eventually learns about the 14 and 3/4 monkeys (from the directors of the Naked Gun Eleventeenth and 9/16's of an inch) and winds up in a black and white comic book adaptation where the Invisible Girl gets raped by a yellow troll and Frodo finally stops talking.  After another couple of hours he tosses the ol' pigskin around with Homie the Clown and rescues a prepubescent Jennifer Love Hewitt look-alike. She hides a gun in her teddy bear along with a live camera feed, with Ashton in the background getting ready to tell Bruce Willis he's been Punked. All in all, he gets so confused that one day he just snaps and tries to kill Matthew Perry twice.

He's got a new book coming out.

He's calling it:  "How to Smoke a Cigarette and Pretend it's Not a Tampon" (also a work in progress).

Friday, August 27, 2010

Friends, Romans, Countrymen, Make Sure your S*#t is Still Mine!

A question was raised on the radio the other day about the "American Dream". With the economy the way it is, they were curious to know, not only how many people could refrain from yelling "Boba Booey, Boba Booey, Howard Stern's penis!!", but whether or not owning a home is still considered a piece of the American dream. Apparently a lot of people that rent answered the call with their opinions about why it's better not to own a home with a long list of reasons. You don't have to mow the lawn, fix electrical or plumbing problems, or worry about whether or not you need to tell the neighbors you're cheating on your wife so at least someone will find out. There's no homeowner's association and there are no property taxes. Jehova's witnesses won't come to your door as much because they fear doors with a letter on it. All I had to do was turn the "t" upside down. Basically there were nothing but upsides to renting rather than buying. Stupid people will say, "but you're just throwing your money away.", which leads me to my point. Can you actually be a "home owner" or is that as much a contradictory statement as saying "Anne Coulter is insightful."?

No matter how much you pay on "real estate", it will never truly be yours. It's kind of like being in love with a stripper. There will always be property tax breathing down your neck. Now some people will say that property tax is good because it pays for local services like police, fire department, prostitution, and Wal-Mart greeters, but when you have to pay a tax on something that should be yours, it can be taken from you if you don't pay. Doing some research I found that not only did a guy rape an eight day old baby, but the word "real" in "real estate" actually came from the word "royal" Real estate translates to "the king's land". The difference between owning land and real estate is that real estate is contracted out. So what you're doing when you buy real estate is renting it out from the government, IRS, banks, Bill Gates, etc... You could get some old hick farmer to give you a piece of his land that he got when his ancestors walked out to it and said "mine!", build your own house out of materials you got from Tony that knows a guy down at Home Depot, and You will still have to pay tax on it to where if you don't, it will all be taken away from you. Just like an anorexic on a treadmill, you will lose everything.

I did find out there are ways to own your house outright, but it has to do with Alloidial titles and land patents. Without these things, nothing about your land is yours. They will charge you this tax all your life and when you decide one day that your balls finally dropped and you say, "You know what, this here is mine, I'm not paying you for what I already paid someone else for", they seize your property to make up for the loss in revenue you failed to fork out. So uh... how're you enjoying our government so far? I swear it's like an ex wife you can't get away from. You give them the good china, they want your copy of Fatal Frame II and I swear to God I'll never get that back, you f%$*ing whore!

So keep in mind what you really want in life, the ability to pick up and go whenever you want, or be stuck with something that's not even yours for 30 years or your credit gets turned to poo. I remain impartial.

In lighter news, apparently some guy raped an eight day old baby. What a sick world we live in.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Unemployment is Better than the Anus Pounder

In all of this madness concerning the economy, lay-offs aren't really a concern to people in certain fields. The medical field for one example is still thriving and probably producing more revenue than ever. Other good examples would be the porn industry, idiots with bad acting skills, giant tits, and alcoholism looking for 15 minutes of fame in their own reality show, strippers (which sometimes classify as the previous example), chain restaurants, and casinos. I had the raw end of the deal because instead of becoming a midget juggler at the circus like I went to college for, I had to pick land surveying, which is almost a dead industry now, unless you're in the private sector. Getting screwed out of even the simplest of jobs affects my private sector enough as it is. When you apply for a job nowadays, since they're so scarce, most places that pay a decent amount require experience right out of the gate. Since I've been doing the same thing for 10 years, it's about as hard as a Jew with a coupon to have already had experience in anything else. Now don't get me wrong, I'm fully capable of learning just about any job that doesn't require a license from some pencil pushing suit, but those jobs are held over for kids with nothing to pay for but their cell phone bills and Nickleback tickets (which I will address with a vengeance in a minute). The worst part about experience requirements is that you have to have experience to get the job and you have to get the job to get experience, and the knee bone is connected to the hip bone. Since jobs are few and far between, companies are cherry picking and it screws the American people like Bob Vila on an oak cabinet. I understand that people are too lazy to train business world noobs, but it beats having idiots for employees that have 20 years experience and can't even spell their name right.

I've sent I don't know how many copies of my resume, but apparently, it's not appropriate to put, "I punch babies good" under "things I do for money", so I completely changed it to say, "I punch babies well". Actually, if I squint my eyes just right, the part where I say that I've been abducted by aliens, therefore I am a spiritual person, almost looks like it says I rape bunny rabbits, but it's alright because I do. Just look at 'em, they're so f$#*ing cuddly!

The reason I'm so upset though is that there are way, way too many teenagers that don't have families to support working jobs that people like me need. Part of the problem in this economy I think is that the working age for most places is anywhere between 15 and 16 years old (I think that's right around the time most teenage girls have their third child, a.k.a. "grandma's" third "roommate"). These kids are cheaper labor, don't need much insurance, and 80% of them now wear women's jeans for some reason. Therefore, I propose each state increase the working age to 18. That way, instead of our money going straight towards those little neon lights that go underneath some chode's Honda Civic, they can go towards things that matter to middle aged men like me, like lap dances and booze... oh, and diapers and food for my children. Of course, whatever kid that has a job at the time would be grandfathered in until he or she quits or is fired because my Mcdonald's order is ALWAYS WRONG!!! Seriously, how hard is it to make a burger with no cheese, extra lettuce, one pickle on the side, no bun, no ketchup, add mayonnaise, add bologna, extra cheese, add olives, no meat, no mustard, no cheese, sesame seeds picked off in the northeast quadrant, and cut into fun animal shapes; with raw french fries and a drink, hold the cup, and a taco without sour cream? For God's sake, learn how to do your job instead of pounding my anus! Seriously, I didn't order that!

Friday, August 13, 2010

True Blood: Taste the Rainbow

Is it just me, or is the only good excuse for vampire media these days getting a little... gay? What is it with story telling on cable television that absolutely has to include physical "bromance" to the point you get that taste in your mouth like someone regurgitated warm carrots down your throat hole. Not boiled carrots either; those little frozen dinner carrot cubes that are never really fully cooked and they come mixed with those rubbery, cold bits-o'-goodness homeless people call corn. The matter at hand (warm carrot cube vomit or not) is the HBO phenomenon True Blood, which I personally enjoy and look forward to every Sunday night. I also look forward to expelling Saturday night's burritos for those of you keeping up with current events.

True Blood, unlike the pale twink fairy movie franchise Twilight, actually has story and character development that self-respecting people should care about and devote some down time to... if ever they find the time to get out of junior high and stop shelling out money to a bad acting, sparkly fag like Robert Pattinson. For the record, concerning people who get offended at everything, by fag, I don't mean he's gay. Don't get me wrong, he's most definitely a fag, he just so happens to be gay too. Anyway, enough about the oober cupcake fairy fag Bob Pattinson. We're here today to discuss one of the bigger annoyances in life, like why the hell are they f*$%ing with True Blood's sexual preference? Do we really need every single vampire story in the media today to either be obviously gay (Twilight) or in this case, demonstratively gay?
Let me tell you a little something about myself. I love lesbian porn just as much as the next guy, but we men have a double standard when it comes to inter-gender free-for-all. I'm sorry, I don't make the rules.

courtesy of some guy with hairy arms

Last week on True Blood, Lafayette and Jesus (<--- I know, right?) have their second make-out scene while Eric and Russel's spicy little Saturday night burrito boy toy have their own little kissy, kissy. Not too long ago, there was an episode where Sam had a dream where he was about to get naked with Bill Compton in the shower right after another close call make-out scene... Not that it's not oh so detrimental to the story, but this show is supposed to be about vampires, werewolves, shape shifters, telepaths, ancient demigods, and evil christians (<--- not like that's anything new). Why on Earth are all the dudes sharing tongue attacks when they should be ripping each others' faces off?
That's like somebody saying, "Hey guys, I've got this great idea for a movie. It's gonna be called "The Terminator" and it's about this soldier from a future where machines rule the world. He becomes the father of his best friend and protects Linda Hamilton from an Austrian in a leather jacket, but during all the shooting and explosions, we're gonna have some dudes makin' out and the android will say "I need your clothes, your boots, and some of that sweet ass."

and the executives reply:

".......................Who the hell is Linda Hamilton?"

I'm sure that's how it would have went down so long as there was a generation of pasty, emo scene kids generating revenue wherever gay can be found.

Well, at least with True Blood there's no need to discuss what team you're on. Apparently they're all on the blue team.

No, not that one.

Monday, May 24, 2010

LOST Just Gave Me a Penguin

With the final season of LOST coming to a close with the book-ended eye flutters of Dr. Jack Shephard, somehow I feel like most of the general populace as I watched a plane fly over the island, made it through the first commercial, and said... "what?". For those of you who don't like spoilers, I promise I won't give anything away... anything at all.

(But let's be honest, it could have looked more like this:)

Ok, so everybody dies and all dogs go to heaven, except for Michael because he's a jackass and his son is apparently eight feet tall. The ending was actually the end... and then another end after the ending, where Mr. Echo was no where to be found. I have no idea why the writers of LOST make it apparent that black people (except for Rose because she's a sweetie) don't get to go to church, but if you ask me, whenever I go to Golden Corral Sunday afternoon, that's obviously a lie. From about 7 in the evening, to 1:05 in the morning I hogged the television to watch a 2-hour review special, a 2 and a half hour finale, and a 1-hour Jimmy Kimmel LOST farewell show. Needless to say, I wasn't the only one scratching my head that night. They certainly did name the show appropriately. After I mulled over what happened, it made more sense to me what just happened, but only time will tell how long my brain will hold on to that. That, and I'm still pissed I never found out what happened to Shannon's inhaler.

A lot of questions, however, were answered during the final episode(s) last night. With the phrase, "You made a great number 2", we find out that all this time, Ben was a giant turd that came out of Hurley, most likely early into the first season, which would give him time to grow. Benjamin Linus himself was beaten more times than Pee Wee Herman's junk in a theater. I'm fairly certain it was symbolic of how hard it was to pop a squat in the jungle. Women can't have babies, and the men can't drop the kids off at the pool.

The "flash sideways" (which is how it was explained earlier on) wasn't actually an alternate time line showing what would happen if the plane hadn't crashed, but a flash WAY forward after all involved characters in the series had kicked the bucket ( insert Mr. Cluck Cluck joke here) and were experiencing a play-through of their lives up until they remembered they died so they could move on to the "real" afterlife in which Drive Shaft opens for Spinal Tap. Everyone that did the nasty on the island or wanted to do the nasty on the island is reunited in their own little after life and those crazy kids with the diamonds are still in the ground waiting for Miles to come back and snatch 'em up. All I want to know is, what happens to Mr. kung fu from the temple? Last but not least, why the hell didn't someone tell me Black Gandhi wasn't gonna be in the show.

Dude, why don't you ever say Hi to me?

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Tim Burton Defines "Recycled Crap"

I realize I haven't been completely active within my responsibilities of filling the internet with true stories about fast food prostitutes and anecdotes involving mating rituals between white rabbits and Burt Reynolds' seamstress, but sometime between my last post and now, I received another baby girl to train in the arts of ruling the universe via hemorrhages. My wife walked in, laid down, pushed her out, smacked a nurse and chased a bottle of vodka with a bottle of tequila in a matter of 4 minutes, 18 seconds. Of course I'm being generous with the term "smacked". It all seemed to go as planned, except for the monkey that stormed in wearing a bikini, but we all got a good laugh from that... Then it threw the rabbit against the wall... Yeah, that wasn't so funny.

I've been looking at a lot of books lately. Why? Well, I'm in the middle of writing a book myself and I'm oh so amused by the way people perceive how it should be written. You see, this book is good because it follows a formula. It follows this formula because other good books follow the same formula. If it does not follow the formula, or one similar, it is not good because it is not like all of these other books. There's my dilemma. I don't want to write anything that's like any other story, but the kicker is, apparently it's not good literature because it's not a carbon copy of other good literature... kind of like how my poop isn't healthy because its red, unlike everyone else's poop. I guess you can't win the game unless you follow the rules (who were made by idiots). Isn't that what TV's like now?  Everything is a remake of something else, it's the same recycled crap from ten years ago, or it's reality television which is bad enough. People hate it, but it keeps selling. It's not just the money either; There are lots and lots of yuppie college know-it-all hippies that think they know good writing because they read 10-20 stories from hundreds of years ago that all follow a single pattern and since theirs does as well, it must be good. This philosophy can be best described as the ol' "douche bag of tricks" (I think that was a before and after on Wheel of Fortune). Here's how a conversation between two douches might look like:

"Hey, did you see Iron Man 2 yet?"

"No, it's nothing like the new Alice in Wonderland."

"Oh, I love Tim Burton"

"Oh, me too."

"Let's go suck each other off and talk about Tim Burton!"

"Great idea, my douchy gay hippie lover!"

Okay, maybe it doesn't have to involve Iron Man 2, but that part's pretty interchangeable. As long as you follow the same pattern, all douches basically sound like this.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

The Super Bowl: America's Annual OJ Trial

Here it is, the game of the year; the most expensive airtime anyone can hope to purchase in the hopes that someone will buy some damn Doritos and Bud Light. I myself am not a football fan. I don't have the patience to sit for 6 hours and watch the same episode with different players over and over. The game never ends, really. One team has the ball, the other one doesn't. A coach somewhere is pissed off and some other guys are constantly telling you what's happening, even though you're watching. The best part of all is, no matter where you are, who you are, or where you're from, you're stupid for liking the team that you do.

This is an individual's way to somehow claim some kind of specialism over another by simply liking a certain team for whatever reason they wish; usually because that specific team plays in a stadium located in said individual's home town (not quite the smartest reason. Yeah, I'm talking to you, Panther fans). All I ever hear is "our team" this and "our team" that. What do you really have to do with this team you claim to be a part of? Do you even personally know and possibly give hand jobs to any professional athletes? I don't know anyone who's even an associate to a pro athlete, so I cringe at the whole "we won" philosophy. Let me just sum up this part of my thought by saying: If you think that's your team, show me a check made out to you from someone in the NFL or shut the hell up.

What I don't understand is how this possessive attitude can not only make a Pittsburgh fan bite your face off........like in that movie, but it disappoints people with no real affiliation. In this [The Super Bowl's] case, Colts fans (The Saints won tonight. In your face, Payton Manning). Either way, for some reason, you're required to pick a side. It's like a war, where prejudice is issued to you by your friends and family. You're not allowed to just enjoy a game and commend the team on their good plays. You're almost always obligated to hate it when the team that you don't favor makes a good play. If this was food, no one would ever eat Hardees again and everyone would be held at gunpoint to eat a Mega Mac.

It's just one of those things in this life I just don't get. Nothing people on a field throwing a ball around that I don't know could make me happy or sad. It makes almost as much sense as the way people appoint food and drinks a gender because it has certain colors or tastes. I'll be damned if I'm gonna lose my man card somehow because I like those little pink snowballs.

After everything is said and done, it reminds me of the OJ trial. All over America, you're going to have a big group of people that are happy with the results, while another big group of people are not only distraught, but probably lost a good chunk of money because the stats said, "go ahead, use your kids college fund, you'll be able to put more in after you win this bet.......oh, and kill your parents." After the game is over, people show up at work the next day to gloat or say, "shut up, dude".

If you ask me........I'd rather just have a snowball..........

Not that kind of snowball, pervert.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

"The Nothing Report" & "Braking Entertainment" Both Hate Oasis

I've finally finished my first video to be released on Youtube which happens to be a literal music video. If you're bored and get burnt out on chronically masturbating to cross-dressing pigmys that eat placentas and finger paint on each other with hamster poo, you can check it out here. In the course of my life on youtube, I'll be doing video blogs for The Nothing Report, maybe more literal videos, some other stuff in the style of Mystery Science Theater 3000, and if we ever get some money we'll begin our sit-com project "Braking News" The name for our database of thought is kind of a play on that name, Braking Entertainment. We don't have our own website yet; let's face it, I'm just not that technologically advanced. The best I can do is spend a day and a half figuring out how to fumble my way through windows movie maker without getting skid marks in my underoos.

I've always wondered why Batman spent his spare time daydreaming about small boys dressing like him.

 Why would I do video blogs when i can just write out my frustrations? There's a simple answer for that.....

I've got a cool hat.

Anyway, since writing is what I do best, That's pretty much what my endeavors will involve on my end. I don't have any cast members yet for our web show, so in my spare time I'll just be coming up with video blogs and  trying to find the thin line that borders rape with my wife....then I'll cross it only slightly.

It's too bad I'm into reverse rape.

............more on that later.