New Posts every Tuesday and Friday

New Posts every Tuesday and Friday. All others are posting in a troll thread.

Friday, December 23, 2011

It's Beginning To Sound A Lot Like Goddamn #ucking Dubstep

Everywhere yo-yo-you-you-youUUUUUUUURRRREEEEEEEE go-go-go-ga-ga-goooah-ga-ga-gooah-screeeeeAAAAAH-ga-go-SCREEEEEEEE...go.

I hadn't planned on delving into dubstep in this post.  I had a totally different idea that had to do with a made up story about how I was roped into Christmas caroling by overzealous members of the local homeowners association.  This was going to lead to spirit of Christmas/War On Christmas hi-jinks and such and such.  Except when I was doing my research about Christmas (Ed.note: white-washing Facebook Timeline) I ran across Sinterklaas which is the basis for Santa Claus.  He looks like this:

Dubstep?  I've not heard of dubstep.
He looks like a mix of the Pope, Vulcanus Rex from the St.Paul Winter Carnival and the stranger in a costume at the mall that we force our kids to sit on till they cry each year.  He's tradition or heritage or something from the Low (bass!) Countries where he rode a horse and with mischievous helpers in black face (whoops) and brought money (and later candy) to the poor.  It also was and excuse to get excessively drunk in public. Profit!  Kristmaas with the Dutch is Kristmaas done right.  Sure it's a little racist.  Or super racist.  But the Dutch came up with a fix for that too:  It's actually coal on our faces....from sneaking into people's chimneys...when we're giving them the moneys...yeah, that's the ticket.  Besides, isn't everything from the Low Countries a little racist?  I actually have nothing to back that last statement up.  But it feels right.

Back to Sinterklaas.  Now if that doesn't sound like the most boss name for a yule-themed dubstep DJ then I don't know what is.  It's already got the word sin in it.  It sort of sounds like sinister which is bad ass.  The double letter thing lends it some street cred.  It's all foreign and shit.  It's why Rammstein sounds even a little bit tough.  Not that I'm into Rammstein.  Du hast mich!  Du hast mich!  I think the first ten seconds of "Du Hast" are where they got the sample for Rihanna's "We Found Love".  Notice I didn't do that thing that people do where they say, "that one song by Rihanna" because they don't want anybody to know they know the names of Rihanna songs.  Well, not me.  I know Rihanna songs.  I even know it features Calvin Harris.  So put that in your butthole and smuggle it across the border.

Wow, that was some serious gymnastics to work Rammstein into a post that is ostensibly about Christmas.

All right, all right, I'm sure I can find one picture of them:

Lead singer Rammstein Jones made a strategic mistake in wardrobe when he went with a ball gag.
And seriously, before we go any further what the fuck is this?
Pictured: Self-hast
Do you just go fuck it, we're German.  Everybody already thinks we're into poop-porn so we might as well use latex to make ourselves into anatomically correct women and what's up with the guy on the far right pointing at the 2-hole?  We get it.  You're German. 

Jesus Christ, that was a long sidebar for Rammstein.  You see what you do, you Krauts?  You make me hast myself.

So Sinterklaas seems like THE PERFECT DUBSTEP name if you primarily do Christmas related dubstep, right?  I know what you're thinking: Hey Himboklaas, how much Christmas related dubstep could there be?  I mean, the two things have literally nothing to do with each other.  There probably isn't even 10 Christmas dubstep jams on Teh Internetz. Oh, you'd be wrong.  Big fucking time.  One search on YouTube for Christmas Dubstep?  6540 results.  Now granted, not all of those are dubstep versions of Christmas songs.  Correct.  Some of those are remixes of dubstep versions of Christmas songs.  Yeah, the dubstep version of "O Come All Ye Faithful"? That I was drinking eggnog in slow motion to?  I think the part where the bass dropped and womp, womp started?  It's a little off.

re-re-re-re-MMIXXXX-MIX-MIX-SCREE-AHHH-re-re-mix-mix-SCREEEAAAAH that shit.

And let's face it, that's all we're waiting for with dubstep.  The part where the bass drops and they make the screechy and the warble and the low rumble stuff.  It's the M.Night Shyamalan of music.  The beginnings sort of normal and ominous and then you get bored and you're just waiting for the drop just see what happens.  Just show me the twist so I can commence with the shit talking.  And really isn't that what Christmas is all about?  Yes, yes it is.

Have a dubstep free Christmas. 

 Or if you just can't get enough of dubstep in places where it doesn't belong go watch some funny as shit videos about dubstep over at 5 second films.  



Tuesday, December 20, 2011

The War On Vertical Toasting

Christmas is almost upon us and as we all know Christmas is for one thing:  Freaking out about stuff.  As you know, dear reader, SA misses no opportunity for self-righteous indignation.  So with the help of an 8-ball and 22 straight hours of Fox News I felt like I was in a position to make some incisive points that would really cut through the BS.  So I went roving for an issue I could sink my teeth into.  I didn't have to rove far.  Not far at all.

That's it!  I have had it!  I can no longer sit idle and pretend that the United States, nay, civilization as we know it is not about to decay in an explosion that will make the testing of Tsar Bomba look like that crappy firework that is supposed to be a snake but really looks like a burnt Cheeto (is that the singular of Cheetos?)  You know the one?  The black snake?  That piece of shit?  It's the candy corn of fireworks.  Anyway, back to my indignation.  And more exclamation points!!!

 I'm usually pretty mild mannered and I keep to myself.  I say, "Hey budrow, you have your opinion and I have mine."  It's a free God fearing, freedom loving country.  If I don't approve of what you are doing I just keep it to myself and then go home and tell long-winded stories to my friends and teh internetz that paint me as the supreme arbiter of all things right and good and acceptable and totally not fucking noob.  But, like I said, I keep it to myself.  Well, I just can't abide by what The Spacebook told me today.  I cannot abide!

This is how it always begins with the horizontal toaster mafia.
You see what they are doing right?  You see the seamy and seducting agenda the horizontal toasting movement at work here?  Its how they operate.  Makes me want to spit.  We used to have just vertical toast.  Nobody complained.  Bread was heated, nay, refreshed, to a temperature which allowed anybody to spread jam or jelly or butter or whatever on however they liked.  You want to toast bread?  No problem budrick!  I just pop it in my vertical toaster and away we go.  In fact you didn't even call it a vertical toaster.  It was just a toaster.

And then some hippie-commie-socialist-whiner-freeloader came along in the 60's and said, "We don't we have toaster ovens?" And everybody went, "I had a cousin once who wore gray trench coats and he toasted horizontally.  He was the shame of his family.  And I don't think he wore pants under that trench coat now that I think of it.  And I think he smoked drugs."   Next thing you know, he's not the pervert with the trench coat, he's a horizontal toaster.  He uses a toaster oven.  Well la-ti-da.  Can you heat up a Pizza Pocket in that toaster oven, pal?  That's what I thought.  Doesn't cook all the way through, does it? You get cold pepperoni in the middle that's like a spiced meat slap in the face.

Enjoy your pepperoni ice cube, socialist.
Look, I'm not saying we shouldn't have horizontal toasting or toaster ovens.  You can get a toaster oven if you want.  No law against it.  You want to toast horizontally?  Hey go for it!  Have at it! Go ahead and jam your bread in there all day for all I care.  Like I said, I love freedom.  But what I don't love?  The horizontal toaster mafia jamming their beliefs about bread refreshment in mine and my kid's face.

And they are.  They can't wait to parade their horizontal toasting in front of everybody.  Take my neighbor Terrance.  He's out on his porch with his toaster oven just making toast like it's no big deal. Right out in the open!  Like he's proud of it!  Like he's not blatantly infringing on a copyright amongst other moral failures. Kids are walking home from school.  Kids!  It was like watching civilization and values and freedom and rights being burned right in the middle of the neighborhood.

So I decided I needed to have a little talk with Mr. Terrance about neighborhood values.  After two quick lines I went over to confront him.  I was barely even up to his steps when he gives me this look like I'm doing something wrong.  Face all sourpuss and shit.

Terrance: Help you with something Himbo?

Me: Actually Terrance, you can.  I noticed that you're toasting bread out here on your porch and well, I couldn't help noticing that their were children walking by and I think we can agree that this is not the type of example we want to be setting for young people so if you wouldn't mind just taking your toaster oven and-"

Terrance: Get off my property Himbo before I call the police.

Can you believe that?  He's horizontally toasting in public and he's going to call the police on me?

Me: How DARE you sir!

Terrance: You been doing cocaine all day again?  Get lost snowflake or I'm going to tell the cops you tried to sell me cocaine.

Me: Se-, hmph, what, grrrpbb, hebbit! Ibid? [various indignation]

Terrance: Jesus, you're foaming at the mouth.  You know coke is bad for you, right?

Me: You have no right to question me about what I do in the privacy of my own home!  Now where was I?  Oh, yes your blatant horizontal toasting-"

Terrance: You don't look so good.  I think you have a detached retina or something.  It's bulging.  You should call 911.

It was at this point that I realized it was impossible to reason with somebody like this.  They are hell bent on ruining society and there's nothing you can do to stop them.  You just have to protect your own family at all costs.  Which is why I'm going to cut the power lines to his house later tonight.  Try toasting then Terrance! Now where's the rest of that 8 ball?  Just a little bump to cool me out...


Friday, December 16, 2011

Dogs and Cats Living Together!

I've been assigned a job over the weekend.  My parents and my brother are in Las Vegas till Tuesday for my brother's 21st birthday.  Yes, my parents took my brother and his two best friends to Vegas for his 21st.  Quick review of my 21st birthday: Puked on a bathroom stall door after being forced to take multiple shots of tequila as per previous post.  And that bathroom was not in Las Vegas.  So while my brother is in Vegas trying to win money and not get Chlamydia or ketchup in his ear (just kidding, they would never go to Circus Circus*) I've been charged with watching the dog and my brother's cat.  Together.  In the same house.  I know what you're thinking:

  You see what I'm saying here?  Mass hysteria!  All we have to do is take a look at the stats sheet:

The Tail (CWIDT?) Of The Tape:
And in the dog corner we have:
Name: Beauregard
Known Alias(es): Beau, Beau-retard, Flea Bag, Puppy Dowg, Houn' Dog
Brand: Basset Hound/Beagle Mix
Age: 11 years
Weight: 40-ish pounds
Height: Awfully short
Prime Directive: Consume liquid, preferably water but any liquid will do.

And in the cat corner we have:
Name: Boots
Known Alias(es): Cat, Bootsy, Underfoot
Brand: Tabby
Age: 7 months
Weight: I don't know, what's a baby go for?  7 pounds? Probably less than a baby.
Height: Shorter than Beau
Prime Directive: Bat Christmas decorations off tree.

And then there's me.  I don't need to give you a rundown of myself because if you've learned nothing else from this blog (and you haven't, I've made sure of that) you've learned about me. 

Okay fine, maybe just a little bit more about me:  Devastatingly charming with a brain that just, like barely, fits in my skull.  95% likely that I was a knight/wizard in one of my previous life's and also maybe a haberdasher.  Probably used to own Arizona as well.  My energies are very highly attuned to the Earth's core (iron-nickel alloys to be specific) so I tend to become more powerful and my aural spectrum turns red the closer I am to the Equator.  Anyway, enough about me.  Back to the pets.

Since Beau's prime directive is to drink liquids at all costs and because he has very suspect bladder control, we can't put bowls of water out for him like normal dogs.  And he has to wear a diaper inside.  It's goddamn pathetic.  But he's ruined a number of rugs and carpets in the house.  You have to do a circuit of the house to make sure all the toilet seats are down because he will drink the toilet dry and then vomit all over.  He actually goes into the bathrooms and will lick the moisture out of the shower if you don't pull the curtains or shut the door to it.  When we have guests over, he'll follow them to the bathroom because he knows they aren't quite as vigilant about putting down the seat covers.

The only time of day he gets to drink water is during his morning and evening walks.  He has a water dish outside.  Even then he can't be trusted.  Like this morning.  My parents usually give him a count and then pull him away from the dish.  I just let the fucker have at it.  And he had at it.  We barely got across the street before he was hitching and making awful noises.  Then he blasted some foul pink vomit in the corner of the neighbor's yard.  And even then, on the way back to the house, he wanted more water from his bowl.

And what's protocol if your dog boots in a neighbor's yard?  I know you're supposed to pickup poop but what am I going to do with puke?  First, that was some of the foulest smelling stuff I've ever seen.  I gagged from 10 feet away.  I would have puked myself if I'd tried to clean it up.  And it's not like the grass was going to be saved.  Hopefully it won't come up.  Course the neighbor is going to have two round pink spots where the grass is dead.

Thankfully, other than taking a walk and trying to find water, Beau pretty much sleeps all day. He's good for about 30 minutes of activity a day.  The rest of the time is spent moving to different parts of the house to nap.

The cat is a little more active.  He moves around for about 2 hours a day.  Most of which time is spent chewing on or batting at ornaments on either of the two trees my Mom has put up.  And he's a sneaky fuck too.  Silence and then a plastic hitting the floor followed usually by a thump.  The cat will not be winning any grace or agility awards either.  Cats are supposed to land on their feet from pretty high heights.  Boots is only about 50/50 on landing when he hops out of my arms.  A lot of the time, he crumples to the ground and just lays there looking at me as if to say, "What the hell was that?"

And he has a preternatural gift for walking beneath your feet.  If I give up the ghost this weekend and go down for the dirtnap, here's what happened:  Had a bottle or two of wine and was walking down the stairs late at night to get a glass of water and the cat decided to walk directly under my foot.  Tumble down the stairs.  Broken neck.  Nobody finds me till Tuesday.  End of story.  In fact you should probably call the house a couple of times over the next few days.  Just to check on me.  Or maybe I'll only get drunk on the main floor.  I don't know.  I'll have to plan this out more.  If I'd have only known what a potentially deadly job this was going to be I would have boarded both these little fuckwads and put a Facebook posting on the University of Alabama advertising a Beer Pong Tournament at my parents house.  If I'm going to die this weekend, it might as well be from skulling Four Loko's and lurking on college skeezers.
*You probably don't remember what this asterisk was but it was about Circus Circus and getting an earful of ketchup.  In case you haven't been to Circus Circus, every surface there has ketchup on it or has just recently had ketchup wiped off of it.  The place is disgusting.

Have a pet-free weekend!  Or a pet-full weekend!  Either way remember to call on Sunday and make sure I'm not dead at the bottom of my stairs.


Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Report: 2011 Men's Soccer College Championship

I went to the men's college soccer championship with my parents on Sunday afternoon.  My plan was to take my camera, get some pics of college age skanks watching soccer and make fun of the large number of starter beards at the game.  Unfortunately, I forgot my camera.  So I have to rely on soccer pics that I randomly selected off Google Images.  Of course I picked the pics that most amused me.  Which meant I had to go in and adjust my storyline to fit the pictures.  Here goes:
Wildly Violent Men's College Soccer Cup Won By UNC; Anal Sex/Grievous Facial Injuries Rampant

Hoover, AL-  It should have been clear to the 9,000+ gathered at Region's Park Sunday afternoon that the championship game pitting national #1 University of North Carolina against unseeded Cinderella story University of North Carolina-Charlotte was going to be a bloodbath.  What the crowd of soccer enthusiasts (including an extremely vocal UNC-Charlotte contingent) were not expecting was the sheer level of sodomy without warning.  Unexpected anal intercourse or "surprise buttsecks" as UNC-Charlotte junior Henry Duffenmacher repeatedly yelled while patiently waiting in line for a large popcorn should have come as no great shock to the assembled fans who arrived early enough to witness warmups.
Pictured: Warmups; Buggery
We took our seats (as far from Mr. Duffenmacher as humanly possible) as the organizers announced that fans would be arrested if they attempted to get on the field of play.  Judging by the general level of savagery and the large number of awful starter beards on the pitch, one would have found it hard to believe spectators had brought children much less that they would attempt to join the out and out barbarism happening on the field.  The game kicked off at 3:05pm and immediately devolved into heinous displays of inhumanity:
Pictured: Tackle; testicle removal
The first half was mainly controlled by Charlotte through physical punishment that is rarely allowed to go on outside of The Octagon and usually amongst combatants with many more tattoos.  Charlotte was outclassed talent-wise but managed to make up for it with a brutal disregard for the rules of soccer and human decency.  A favorite move was to run full speed at a UNC player and then deliver a foot full of cleat to the opposing player's face:

Like so.
This was effective in keeping UNC off balance but resulted in dozens of facial puncture wounds and gashes. This also caused the game to move slowly as time had to be called while players were stitched up.  This allowed time for fans to whisk there children to the snack counters and attempt to quiet their weeping with hot chocolates and $1 giant pickles.  Eventually it became clear that the sadism masking itself as a sporting event was just going to be too violent for those under the age of 18.  The match was paused at 22:30 and parents were exhorted to remove their children from the stadium and for a commercial break.  Unfortunately, this only served to fuel the fury of the teams and they immediately began violating each other with a glee that can only be described as murderous:

A soccerist screams his battle cry.
 At half-time the score was tied nil-nil.  There had been a distinct lack of shots on goal as each team seemed more inclined to brutalize the opponents than to make any semblance of a coordinated attack on goal.  In fact the only coordinated attacks appeared to be on the opposing players faces and buttocks and even this thin veil of civility would fall by the wayside in the opening moments of the second half as players began to target any perceived weaknesses in their opponents.
A player probes the opponent for weaknesses
At this point a gurgling and groaning began to circulate amongst the crowd.  Initially confused as a team song or chant it became clear that it was the sound of thousands upon thousands of fans vomiting and then running for the exits as the atrocities overwhelmed their sensibilities.  The referees, having long since lost control of the proceedings attempted at this point to act as field medics for the growing number of severe facial injuries:
One of countless facials on this dark day in sports history.
Finally, and seemingly in direct defiance of both teams prime directive of inflicting the most pain possible on each other regardless of sportsmanship or the Geneva Conventions, UNC scored a goal a little over midway through the second half.  By this time each side sported only a couple of souls able to still stand upright and run without noticeably limping.  The UNC-Charlotte squad, sensing defeat at hand devolved into unrepentant vileness and brutality, the likes of which I can not explain without causing serious psychic damage to my still tender brain.  By the time this exercise in debasement was mercifully whistled over, the majority of the spectators had abandoned the stadium for the safety of their cars.  Many had gouged their eyes out in vain attempt to unsee what had been seen.

As your humble reporter I must say, it was a sight whose gruesomeness and baseness I hope you, nor your children, nor your children's children live to see.  Oh and congratulations to the UNC men's team on their 1-0 victory.

Friday, December 9, 2011

A Birthday Gift For You

Today is my birthday.  I always hear "my birthday" in the high pitched whiny British voice of Kelly Osbourne circa The Osbourne Show.  There was a whole show where she just marched around and announced, "It's my birthday!" when met with any resistance to doing whatever she wanted to do.  When I woke up this morning and the little voice in the back of my head told me it's Friday and time for a blog post another little British voice said, "It's my birthday!"  And then I came over and surfed the web for 45 minutes looking for one goddamn sound clip of Kelly Osbourne saying, "It's my birthday' that wasn't part of a ten minute The Osbournes clip that nobody would watch all the way through for one 3 second clip that has, as of, been built up too much.

Side bar:  Watching that episode, I forgot my favorite part of that show was when they dragged Ozzy out to do mundane everyday stuff like change the garbage bag or put dollar coins in a slot machine and Ozzy doddered along taking 13 times longer to accomplish the task than any normal human. The producers always played some clownish Henry Mancini Baby Elephant Walk shit in the background to really drive home the fact that this man minus his wife would not be able to exist in society.  He'd be the guy begging for your Cheesecake Factory leftovers as you leave the mall parking lot.  Of course he'd be the homeless dude that sang fucking War Pigs and snorted a line of ants with Nikki Sixx.  But I digress.  And honestly, like the Prince of Darkness is going to want a half eaten piece of Adam's Peanut Butter Cup Fudge Ripple.  I highly doubt it.  I doubt it because that shit sounds fucking disgusting (ed.note: the author of this blog is no dessert/candy fan in case he hasn't made that quite clear ad infinitum).

Anyway this is about birthdays.  And I have two presents for you.  I know, you're supposed to get me stuff.  Well don't worry, I'll be asking for something at the end of this post but for now I have two gifts for you on my birthday.  I know, you can barely wait:
The first gift is freedom.  I know that's a little esoteric.  A little blow-hardy.  But let me explain myself.  When people go out they, they have a little voice in their head that tells them, "Keep it together.  You don't want to get too drunk.  You might get arrested."  At least I've heard that people have this voice in their head.  Well, I am going to list off stuff that I have done on my birthday that will prove to you that it is virtually* impossible for you to be arrested on your birthday:

*Notice I said "virtually".  You could still do some crazy shit and get arrested.  If you decide to kick the party up a notch and take meth and then go over to your neighbor's house and try to strip the copper wiring from his insulation you're going to be apprehended.  Fair warning.

-Vomited tequila all over a public bathroom door.  Never even saw the police.  In fact nobody ever said shit about it.

-Went to Tijuana dressed in a stolen hotel bathrobe and had a beer poured over my head. In fact, my equally drunk friend had the valet bring around our car so that we could drunkenly drive it to Mexico.  Which the valet did.  No questions asked.  Arrests: 0

Bob Esponja, ¿dónde están tus pantalones?
-Purposely, and while sober, dressed up like a profound douche bag completely with guy-liner and then went out in public on purpose. If I was going to be arrested for something, it should have been for wearing guy-liner.  I would have plead no contest.  Which to me always sounds worse than guilty.  It's like pleading extra guilty.

Judge: And how does the defendant plead, counselor?

Counselor: Your honor, the defendant pleads no contest.  It wasn't even close your honor.  The defendant not only stole the victim's car he went up to the front door and notified her that he was taking it without her permission, left his home address and cell phone number and then had a picture taken with himself, the victim and the day's newspaper.  The defendant also ejaculated into the victims mailbox for reason unknown.  I've never had a client quite as guilty as this unrepentant deviant, sir.

-Been cut off in a bar that I used to manage by a bartender I hired (who's also a very good friend) and told to leave after crawling around on the bar top for reasons unknown. In this case security was actually called but again, not arrested.

-Ate part of a blanket.  Actually, I take the guy-liner stuff back.  If I was going to be put away for anything it would be this.

-Tackled a Christmas tree off a stage.  So technically this happened the day after my birthday but it also happened at a fancy Christmas party where I knew few people and they would have been well within their rights to give me the heave-ho but they did not.

Now the point of this post isn't to one up people or tell the greatest drunk bro story ever (Bro!  That ain't shit! This one time I got so drunk I put an M-80 in my butt and prolapsed my own anus!  Technically, I don't consider it partying unless at least 30% of an internal organ falls outta yo butt).  The point is freedom.  The next time you're worried maybe you've had one too many Midori Sours, I want you to think back on this post and go, well, I remember when Himbo was wildin' the fuck out and nothing bad really happened to him so I'll be fine.  That's freedom.  It's freedom from self-consciousness.  It's the freedom of not having to worry that when you get home you'll mistake your comforter for a Pizza Pocket.  So go out and get loose.  You've got nothing to worry about.  Except for the hangover that is.  That is going to suck.

And that brings me to my second gift:  A pep talk for the day after when you're out to breakfast with your hungover friends and lamenting how drunk you got and you are convinced that everybody knows.  I'm here to tell you, don't sweat it.  I have a little speech I like to call:  Nobody Cares.  It goes like this:

Nobody Cares
First, pay no mind to these fucks.  I know you're convinced they can tell what a mess you are. They can't. They can't tell you slept on a couch or the floor last night.  They can't tell those are clothes from yesterday. They can't tell that you were screaming Shots! Shots! Shots!  as recently as 5 hours ago. They can't smell the booze coming out of your pores.  They haven't noticed that you've had three Bloody mary's but only two pieces of toast from your (now cold) breakfast.  You are hungover as shit but that doesn't mean anyone is paying attention. They have bigger fish to fry. They are trying to get through the day with least amount of hassle they possibly can.  Critical to this is not giving a hoot about what you did last night or what you are doing this morning.  So knock off the self-consciousness.  Nobody cares.  And if they do?  Fuck'em.

You're feeling pretty good now, huh?  That's what I thought.  And now I'm going to ask you for a present.  You didn't think you were getting away that easy did you?  Don't worry, it's simple.  Below is a crude version of what I would like to be my Logo when this blog moves over to Wordpress sometime this month:

I feel like that picture sums up this blog pretty well.  But I need your help with the font of the title and sub-title.  I'd like something that looks stentorian and respectable to off-set the buttsecks stuff.  So send me links of cool fonts.  That's it.  It's so easy!  Also if you know of any cool Wordpress themes, send them my way too.

And now a number that always makes me want to party particularly hard:

Have a wildin' out weekend.