file under: livin' on a "prayer"

I saw this on an IMDB message board for the movie Biker Boyz:

"Rufio?" I thought. "The pop punk band? Well, Slipknot was in Rollerball. Maybe this movie has a scene set in a club or something."

Then, I saw this in another thread:


graphic by jon wilcox
Click for larger image.

Stoopid Robot: it's probably rufio from hook
wrestlepaloozer: oh.

Stupid overweight Lost Boy…

file under: the wheel world

I was watching Wheel of Fortune and a "before and after" puzzle read:


The yellow team (because…it takes two people to pick letters?) spins the wheel and would like to solve the puzzle.

"Born to be wild ride!" they say.

"Eh…no," says Pat.

Then, the blue team, with knowledge that the clue is "before and after" and that D is not the missing letter, spins the wheel and asks for a P.

[smacks head]

file under: cool hand luke

The following is the running monologue from Oz 52: "A Failure to Communicate." I thought it was interesting.

Augustus Hill: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. So from the starting gun, it's all about the Word, all about communication. Couple million millenia go by, along comes man. God wants somebody to chat with. Turns out, man wants more than that. Man wants the gossip page and phone sex, reruns of Seinfeld and auctions in cyberspace. Man has got his own plan as far as communication goes and the inventions to see it through. And poor God…

Antonio Nappa: …he's still got no one to talk to.

The printing press changed the world forever, and for the better. Bibles got printed in vernacular, rather than Latin, bringing God out of the Dark Ages, out of dark corners, to ordinary folks like you and me. But imagine old Gutenberg at a newsstand today. Think he'd be proud of paving the way for Juggs, High Times, and Soldier of Fortune?

One day in 1876, Alexander Graham Bell uttered through a wire: "Watson, come here, I want you." 130 years later, we're talking through satellites. Strange, huh?, that before hanging up, we say, "keep in touch," when there's never any touch involved — no contact! — just cables and frequencies. Still, to get an "I love you" call in the middle of a shitty day — that makes a cell phone seem miraculous.

Midway through the 20th century, man wants communication without communication. He wants to sit in his living room and watch people in a box fall in love, work, sing, golf, cry, fuck and fuck off. Television: a one-way conversation between you and the world, where the world does the talking. Like God, man can finally create man in his own image, and then kick back and watch all sorts of shit hit the fan.

Back in the 60s, the Department of Defense created the internet. Little did they know they were mixing concrete to build the global village. There's nothing concrete about it though. People get digital mail from electronic boxes, they congregate in chat rooms that have no walls and no doors. Millions around the world have instant access to each other and stores and food and entertainment. But, if it's such a revolution in communications, why do studies show the more time one spends online, the more isolation one suffers? [yes, why do they, JON?]

So what's next? Microchips in the brain? The ability to read each other's minds? Too late! A primitive tribe in the other Oz (Australia) already beat us too it. They talk by not talking. Yeah, they're way, way ahead of us in the realm of communications, and they didn't have to invent squat to get there. They stayed connected in the original sense, in the aboriginal sense.

When man goes collectively mad from downloading all the mental messages in the air, when there's no trees left 'cause we needed all that paper for the printing press and therefore are left with no oxygen to breathe, then satellites will fry from overuse and drop from the sky. Then we'll make desperate cell phone calls to our loved ones, while watching Mother Earth's last days on reality TV. Communications will be once again what it was in the beginning —

Hill: the Word, moving over the face of God, who now, instead of wanting to talk, is tired of listening.

file under: super bowl, movies

Black Guy: I was pulled over for DWB.
White Guy: DWB?
Black Guy: Driving…while black.
Audience: ROFL!!!!!1

The 30-second Hulk teaser leaked online. Unless Universal shut it down, you can watch it here. The teaser will officially debut Sunday during the first half of the Super Bowl.

Completely computer-generated!

Slouching monster, swinging tank!

Hi Im A Fascist: would he really be wearing purple pants… i mean, its the 21st century
Rory Hornblower: well
Rory Hornblower: it's also set in san francisco

A full-length Hulk trailer debuts Valentine's Day in front of the Daredevil movie.

Also set to debut Sunday during the first half of the Super Bowl is a new one-minute trailer for The Matrix Reloaded and The Matrix Revolutions featuring never-before-seen footage that will allegedly blow away anything in the recent Japanese trailer and the existing American one.

Other sequels hitting theatres this summer include:
Pokemon 5
2 Fast 2 Furious
The Rugrats Meet the Wild Thornberries
Freddy vs. Jason
Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle
Legally Blonde: Red, White & Blonde
Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines
Bad Boys II
When Harry Met Lloyd: Dumb and Dumberer
The Exorcist: The Beginning
Lara Croft: Tomb Raider 2
Spy Kids 3
American Wedding (American Pie 3)
Jeepers Creepers 2


in 2003

Uma Thurman



file under: guest post, the marked fool

Yeah, so I've been busy. With what, you ask?

That exact book, too. Thank you, BobCam.


As H.R. "Bob" Haldeman anticipated, the publication of the diaries he kept as Chief of Staff to Richard Nixon has provided an invaluable resource for both the historian and the cyclist. Chronicled in exquisite detail is the full tragedy that was Nixon, from his first-term accomplishments and landslide re-election through April of 1973, when the author was forced to resign in Nixon's desperation to avoid impeachment. And we see it from the insider's perspective, for Haldeman worked more closely with Nixon than perhaps any Chief of Staff in American history. Haldeman had Nixon's complete respect and trust, and was the only man from whom the President would tolerate the nickname "Peaches" (shortened to "The P" in the diaries).

The published version of the diaries, as Haldeman explains in his foreward, is edited down by approximately 60 percent from the full text. Whatever his motivation (to boost sales of the full text? One last cover-up?), Haldeman has omitted some of the best stuff. Here we see Nixon at his worst, beheading a schoolchild for talking during his famous "Recess Address," and at his best, reaching out across party lines to locate and destroy his enemies. We are proud to disillusion one and all with this small sampling of the missing entries.

Wednesday, February 19, 1969
The P called E, K and I in for another organizational meeting, but it never got off the ground. The P lit his pipe, then became concerned that though he had succeeded in setting fire to the pipe's contents, he had perhaps not lit the pipe in a way that could really move people, win over new voters without alienating our base, really turn the tide our way in several key swing states. He called in E and Colson and initiated a long discussion of the subject.

The three lit and relit their pipes in various attitudes, looking for the best, while I raised the point that, this being largely a cultural problem, different states might require different approaches. Eventually the clouds of smoke set off the fire alarms, at which point I fled the scene, but the P couldn't move, being too full of smoke, I think. E and Colson dutifully sat by his side, and the three were thoroughly doused by the Oval Office sprinkler system. Pretty funny, but the P was concerned that the whole thing was wrong, that they had not been doused in a way that spoke to the average American. Chuck and E winced as I ordered the sprinklers back on, but this time there was even less water than the first time and P became very upset. We finally arranged to dump a 55-gallon barrel of ice water on him, and that settled him down a bit, but not before a series of phone calls to the Secret Service (re: the sprinklers) and the BATF (re: manly methods of pipe-lighting).

Friday, April 11, 1969
All day in the Garden again. We went over the lettuce and cukes and everything seems to be in place. Got to the carrots and discovered not only were they not planted, the seeds had not even arrived yet. P took it surprisingly well, calmly said, "Well, I'll get to work on the radishes then." I called Mitchell and got him over here with a back hoe so we could at least get the tomatoes going. P very concerened that his corn be knee-high by the Fourth, thinks it's critical to his re-election. Wanted me to check with Connally whether we plant squash now, or wait until after the midterm elections. Lots of follow-up on the weevils, and a plan to bug the Democratic Pea Patch, discover the secret of their spinach.

Monday, June 17, 1969
P again with no schedule, had me in all afternoon on his plans to convert the bowling alley (in the White House basement) into a dry cleaners. Thinks we could do all dry cleaning for staff and foreign dignitaries and turn a tidy profit by taking in outside work on a contract basis, maybe rid Washington of some tough ground-in stains and help balance the budget at the same time. Then said no, scratch the whole thing, let's make it a pizza parlor, one that does weddings, and get right on it. So I spoke to Loggins and Messina, and had that worked out.

Friday, July 11, 1969
P on again about need for better PR, more positive news coverage. He liked my idea of using other media, perhaps producing lavish Broadway musicals or delightful film comedies on Administration policy, as a way to end run around all the goddamn Jews who control the media. We took a break for some diplomatic credentialing and afterward the P called and said he never wanted to be interrupted again to receive some dirty foreigner from some backass little nation on the other side of the moon. So I'm to work that out.

Then back to the bowling alley, which we had started converting to a pizzeria, but now he wants to make it a Cyclotron particle accelerator, knows it may be rough, hasn't been invented yet, but says got to go ahead and do it, got to take the lead on this one.

Wednesday, December 3, 1969
A busy morning. P had another satisfying bowel movement, then called me and Ziegler in to ask why hadn't we gotten out the story of Nixon the Man, that rarest of world leaders who has excellent bowel movements, is more regular than de Gaulle or FDR. Points out that he is doing this every day, but never gets any credit for it. JFK never had a good shit in two years in office, but the point is people think he did. People don't know the extraordinary number of healthy dumps he takes.

Monday, March 16, 1970
Spent the morning working out some bugs with respect to Operation Breakfast, then met with the P regarding Operation Cambodia. [Operation Breakfast, the plan for the bombing of Cambodia, turned out to be relatively simple in comparison to Operation Cambodia, a double tippy-top-secret initiative to land the P some really good grub, first thing in the morning. Except for one slightly overcooked sausage, it was one of the first term's great successes. — ed.] He had a long list of items — be sure the chef uses American-made eggs, wanted to know what E was ordering, etc. While I was in with him, K called and elaborated his belief that Rogers planned to order before him, and order his (K's ) favorite. This would force him to either go with his favorite, and give the impression he was imitating Rogers, or order something else, and eat an inferior breakfast. Tough one, especially since the P also favors a poached egg, which Henry does not know.

Monday, June 15, 1970
Day started out pretty bad. Huge flap between Jorgen and Carlos, two of the office boys, over some desk supplies which came up missing from Carlos's desk, and were apparently found in Jorgen's. Then the P called, his PBJ was MIA, pulled K out of NSC and had E call the FBI, wanted the PBJ at the EOB on the q.t. I was too busy primping, called Mitchell to handle it, but he fumbled in his own end zone, gave up the safety and got hurt on the play. Then the Jorgen-Carlos thing flared up, as Carlos went directly to the P, demanding that Jorgen be fired, that he wouldn't work under these conditions, and really got the P on his side. P finally stepped in to settle it, which he did masterfully, then complained on and on how he always has to castigate the officeboys, so from now on I'll take on more of that.

Rogers and Laird, meanwhile, have been substituting creamery butter for shortening in all of State's baked goods, and this is driving Henry up a wall. Said it may extend the war another year, wanted me to call the P which I did, and the P just muttered, "Let's get those bastards, really screw 'em, the ones who tried to screw us," and then we went over several small things, three or four midsized things, and one just really big thing, one of the biggest things I've ever been over with him. [Portions deleted to titillate conspiracy freaks. — ed.]

Friday, August 21, 1970
Then made the point that this should show all those weak little bastards that anyone who fucks with Nixon gets fucked, and anyone who doesn't vote for us will get nothing from us. That goes for everyone: all the goddamn peaceniks who couldn't understand that Nixon is the true Man of Peace; Muskie, Meany, McGovern and Maud Adams, wouldn't know what hit them. Anyone who votes against us gets a ten-foot steel pole rammed [portions deleted for national security reasons] … and that this was the reason ducks have bills, while other birds have beaks. Then off to Camp David for the weekend.

Sunday, July 22, 1971
A day off today and I used it to get away from the grind. Jake and Butch brought over a 12 and we threw darts for a bit. Then jumped in J's truck and headed for the reservoir, stopping on the way for a couple cases and some tequila. Then parked, cracked beers and cranked up the tunes. Spent the afternoon diving off the old tower, laying in the sun, shooting cans with a .22. B twisted up a huge fatty, which was nice. Then P called, which I had dreaded, but turned out to be OK. He was on a bit of a bender himself, went on and on about some damn football game. Then asked what that loud rock music was in the background (it was The Who), said how much he loved it, thought we might turn that driving beat to our advantage somehow, use it against the Democrats in the Senate. Don't know what he's been into, but it sure loosened the old fart up.

Friday, April 16, 1971
P had no schedule today, as usual filled up the day with trivia. Had me in for three hours about how he really hates those bastards, how he's really gonna cream the guys who're sticking it to him right now. In the second term he'll be able to go ahead with his plans to round up all his enemies, cut off their hands and feet and exile them all to one state (probably one of the Dakotas). Then called E and K in for homemade fudge and Patton again, then off to Key Biscayne.

Wednesday, December 8, 1971
P ran in screaming C'mon, let's do something, something of great historical import, then let's hurry up and get the line out on it, emphasizing all our points and trouncing theirs, a really vicious attack, really cream the sons-a-bitches, then let's get some follow-up and three polls, I wanna see them numbers jump through the roof! The P then circled the room, gesturing furiously and screaming in broken Swahili, the general thrust again being the need to stay up all night crushing out enemies, to see them driven before us, etc. He then strapped on his "wings" (two Disney kites adapted for the purpose) and leapt out the window, flapping furiously but with no effect.

I felt the P was way off on all this, he's obviously off his rocker, and I told him so. He was stunned, then his face lit up and he came over the desk and stuck his tongue in my mouth, which is the first time he's ever done that. Said Bob, you're the only one I can trust, come away with me to the South Pacific with Bebe and Sinatra, run the show for me.

Saturday, March 10, 1973
P back on the bowling alley again today, wants to add an eleventh pin to all the lanes to jack up his scores, then get the line out on his terrific improvement. Also wants a new staff member assigned specifically to apply anti fungal powder to his feet. Guess there's a bit of fungus there.

Then back on Watergate. Suggested rounding up the Ervin committee and having them shot. Then softened, decided to pelt them with water balloons at the next hearing, come at the little peckersniffs with all sorts of streamers, sirens and silly whistles, to divert attention from the investigation as much as possible. It's crazy, but it just might work. Problem is how to pull it off without giving the appearance of a cover-up, or insanity.


file under: holidays, black people

"Malcolm X:
'I Also Have a Dream'
'I have a Dream That One Day Little Black Children Will Beat the Living Crap out of Little White Children'"

– from Our Dumb Century by The Onion

The Martin Luther King, Jr. Holiday celebrates the life and legacy of a man who brought hope and healing to America. On this holiday, we commemorate the universal, unconditional love, forgiveness and nonviolence that empowered his revolutionary spirit. We commemorate as well the timeless values he taught us through his example — the values of courage, truth, justice, compassion, dignity, humility and service that so radiantly defined Dr. King's character and empowered his leadership.

Most importantly though, we commemorate eight inches of fresh powder and the opportunity to sleep in on a weekday just two weeks after winter break ended. May we pledge to serve humanity and carry forward his legacy into the 22nd century.

file under: assholes, music

It's time once again for…

Who needs to get their ass beat?

Today: Craig Nicholls, lead singer of The Vines

I mean, look at him. If you saw this guy walking down the street, wouldn't you want to smack him around too?

"My name is Craig Nicholls. I'm druynk right now how arey ou? I'm godo thanks for anskinng. I've decinded not to correct my sepelling cause it will be funnier for uyou. I have absolutely no self-control, but it's okay, because I'm super talented! (At least, that's what the media tells me.) I'm the greatest thing to happen to rock music since Kurt Cobain! Fuck not trashing all your band's equipment after every show so you can reuse it and save money! I do what I want! ROCK AND ROLLLLLL!!!"

We may not be able to execute the retarded, but we can sure as hell beat the shit out of them.

file under: school, all-nighters

I'd already pulled an "all-nighter" or two last semester, but this was going to be different. I sat down and made a list of everything that had to get done by Tuesday afternoon, and figured I could just finish it all in time.

Provided I didn't sleep. I mean really — not a wink.

The first day, the hard realities are just theory — the deadline is still abstract and you're not in a rush. You laugh, you're at ease, you work slowly — as if extra time can be delivered on demand at some point, like a pizza. You stay calm.

And later you will regret it, deeply.

But for now, one day turns into the next, and you don't notice too much out of the ordinary. You've got a job to do, and the weight of the requirements begins to tug accordingly.

At forty-eight hours, it's the hardest — the clock has decided who's the rodent in the wheel and you're not running fast enough. You fret, you're going to collapse, and…you don't quit. It's weird. You keep thinking, "I really have to shut down, any minute," and you're going to, just as soon as you have the second page up and running. Though after that, oh shit, ink the press up for the third, before stopping, and then it's…

The third day. You're under the rainbow and the spotlight of the Divine Tragic Absurd shines its black light everywhere and helps you grow like a mushroom. You sharpen a pencil and it's just the saddest thing since the Creation. You verge on weeping — in silent isolation — for five minutes. Then the point snaps against your work top and it puts you into fits of hysteria. Wipe your eyes and proceed. You foolishly take a break and emerge to street level, and you're seeing it for the first time because you realize everyone acts as if they have no idea you've been awake for over seventy-two hours, but they've known all along and can barely contain their horror and admiration. You are fortified and ashamed.

So alone.

After ninety-six hours, it's not a pencil anymore, it's a yellow pointypointy that makes marks for you when you give it brain signals and frankly it's bored and wants a life of its own. Can you blame it? Of course you can. Someone made it. How did they get the hard blackyblack in there? Was it Space Beings? The pointypointy drops yellow to the floor. The floor is fifty feet down. You'll drown if you go after it. No more pointypointy. A pen, yes, get a pen. Yes. It would feel clean and good in your hand, if your fingers weren't numb. No blackyblack in it. Bluesygoo.

How'd bluesygoo get in there?

Then your mother bursts through the door in a giant silver wig and a see-thru muumuu, carrying the biggest beach ball you've ever seen. It's decorated to look like the world and she just keeps bouncing it and bouncing it, singing, "Una paloma blanca…"

"Stop that," you say, and she vanishes.

Must have dozed. Back to work…

The most cruelly ironic thing about all of it is that your faculties deplete inversely to the rate you need them most. One small slip spells doom. As your project nears completion, it is becoming more coherent and realized while you are deteriorating.

Eyes barely open. Awake. For a week — the feeling gone from your hands. You are working. Have to get it done.

Too tired to sleep, to care, to fear. Let the professors do their worst. Beat me to death and save me the trouble.

I'd just say I've failed. I've only, ever, failed.


file under: aim, all-nighters

Colin: I once applied for a job working with the Crime desk with the Oregonian.
Colin: I got an interview even. And I think I fucked it up when I gave some criticism re: an ongoing story the dept. had covered.
Colin: there was this headline I thought was completely inappropriate.
Colin: "Shotgun blast shatters teenage girl's face, puts ambitions on hold"

Marissa: is it utterly terrible to send my ex boyfriend a baby jesus butt plug for what would have been our year long anniversary?
Rory: a butt plug?
Rory: like
Rory: "butt" butt?
Marissa: yes
Rory: uh
Rory: no
Rory: if he likes that sort of thing
Rory: you're still friends right?
Marissa: yeah
Marissa: see
Marissa: he studies the sociology of religion
Marissa: and his dad's a minister
Rory: so you want him to
Rory: stick it up his ass
Rory: i get it
Rory: ok
Rory: i thought maybe you two were just overly kinky
Marissa: errr
Marissa: no
Marissa: i have no desire to penetrate lars' butt
Marissa: i just think it's funny
Rory: oh ok
Rory: symbolism
Rory: right
Rory: because when you asked me i was like
Rory: i know marissa's…but…
Marissa: errr
Marissa: i wouldn't want to take my boyfriend up the butt
Rory: haha ok
Rory: heh
Marissa: i'm not sure if it's too sacreligious
Marissa: these are hardcore
Rory: flashlight vaginas?
Marissa: hehehehe
Marissa: better than a vacuum
Marissa: well
Marissa: it's the butt plug or a black vinyl dildo
Rory: ok
Marissa: i'm not sure which is stranger
Rory: the jesus butt plug
Marissa: i can't find it on ebay
Rory: i thought you said you could get it
Marissa: i can
Marissa: just not discounted on ebay
Marissa: which i find heartening
Marissa: anwyay
Marissa: thirty bucks
Marissa: for sacriliege
Marissa: i'll sleep on it
Marissa: night
Marissa signed off at 5:37:35 AM.

Zach: it was good
Zach: really really good
Zach: honestly
Rory: what was good?
Rory: the sex?
Zach: yes
Zach: no
Zach: 25th hour
Zach: really
Zach: really really
Rory: i still have no desire to watch it
Rory: i hate spike lee movies
Rory: and i was indifferent to the pianist
Rory: we obviously have different tastes in movies
Zach: i guess so
Zach: dude
Zach: why dont you like spike lee
Zach: there are like 3 black people in it
Zach: no need to hate this one
Zach: racist
Zach: fag
Zach: adrien brody
Rory: he was okay
Rory: not the strongest lead character
Zach: you're a fuckin retard
Zach: what do you know about molvies
Zach: i hate you
Zach: you dont know shit
Rory: dude
Rory: am i supposed to like every jew film that's made?
Rory: you liked the pianist
Rory: i have my own favorite movie of the year
Zach: you liked the nazi one
Zach: you are antisemetic
Zach: i know this
Zach: so what is your fav. movie
Rory: of the year?
Zach: YES
Zach: fuckin retard
Zach: what is it
Zach: signs?
Zach: tel me
Zach: tel
Rory: …the nazi one
Rory: it has nothing to do with you!
Rory: the believer was just a really good movie
Rory: the characters were compelling
Rory: the dialogue was well written
Rory: it was well shot
Zach: what? all the jews in their homes?
Zach: you sick fuck
Zach: cough
Zach: fag
Zach: cough
Zach: chink\
Zach: ===|""======>~~~~~
Zach: i frogt the ballsz
Zach: ballz
Zach: 8=====|""=====>~~~~~
Zach: okay what did you think was good about the pianist
Zach: and why the fuck would you not think that ripping up torahs is
Zach: when we burn ur rice fields,,,, do you not cry?
Zach: azn pride till i die mofo
Zach: i do what i want
Zach: whatevea
Zach: i have 30 percent azn pride biotch
Rory: what was good about the pianist?
Zach: yes about the pianist
Zach: your azn
Zach: azns like pinaos
Rory: i liked
Rory: when the nazis threw the old man in the wheelchair off the balcony
Rory: i thought that was cool
Zach: fag
Zach: fuck you to hell
Rory: and i liked how they drove over the dead bodies lying in the street
Zach: i liked how in apocolypse now…all those fucking vietnemes starved to fucking death and got mowed down by helicopters
Zach: you dont know shit about movies
Zach: what the rfuck do yu base things on
Zach: did you take some fuckingt movies for dumbass azn ignoramouses over night
Zach: unless youve taken film studies
Zach: you dont know shit
Zach: youre jkust biased and try to make it seem like you know a lot
Zach: you fucking idiot
Zach: stop being ignorant
Zach: and fucking try to know something
Zach: u fucking jap chink gook mother fucker
Zach: \illl steal ur calculator so you cant finish ur math homework
Rory: i'm talking to a fucking water polo player
Rory: your arguments
Rory: wouldn't hold up in court
Zach: wow i think they would
Zach: because if i b5rought up
Zach: that you have no fuckiing experience at all at how a movie is good
Zach: and its all based on YOUR opinions
Zach: than how would you defend that in a court
Zach: would you just make a computer with chopsticks out of no where and yell MR SPARKLE as loudly as you could
Zach: and say here some flied lice for you mista judge
Zach: u would lose and go to jail
Zach: for being a fucking idiot
Rory: no
Zach: they should lock up people like you who try to make their biased opinioins act as facts when they are fucking bullshit
Zach: thats ur only argument so far
Zach: your just attacking me
Zach: and saying no
Rory: no…
Zach: i mean john
Zach: ur a cool guy
Zach: but you just dont know shit about movies
Zach: i could fucking have sex with the hottest woman in the worls (ur mom) before youi would ever know what a good movie was
Rory: this from a guy who wanted
Rory: and paid
Rory: to see bad company
Zach: hey i fcant help it if i like to see low quality movies to LAUGH AT THEIR PATHETIC QUALITY you fuckikng retard
Zach: im not prancing aroundf in my kamoto
Zach: saying it deserves an oscar
Zach: fuckikng
Zach: why dont you go play the cello like yo yo ma
Rory: why don't you be my manager?
Rory: take care of my money
Rory: c'mon
Rory: do it for mommy!
Zach: sooo had any good rice lately
Zach: orrr bombed any harbors
Zach: or how about that tiennenman square
Zach: hey happy chinese new year
Zach: you get ur dollar in the red envelope
Zach: EAT MY AZN COCK!!!!!
Zach: hahah oh yea u dont watch south park so you dont know what chinpokomon is
Zach: can yoiu dig it
Zach: suckah
Zach: do you smell what the rock is cooking
Zach: eh
Zach: ?
Zach: what you gonna do brother…when hulkamania comes running wild on you
Zach: BROTHER!!!!
Zach: ????
Zach: herro
Rory: oh never mind
Zach: how do you rike your lice?
Zach: flied?
Zach: or
Zach: law
Zach: ?
Zach: hey youre like every product made in the world
Zach: ur made in taiwan
Zach: azn pride
Zach: haha
Zach: ap
Zach: ap
Zach: apapapapap
Zach: ap
Zach: ap
Zach: okay i need to go to bed seroiusly
Zach: ill ttyl jonny boy
Zach: fag

file under: laws, california, michigan

On January 1, California enacted the toughest child safety helmet law in the nation. Helmets are now required headgear for anyone under age 18 while riding skateboards, in-line skates, scooters, or anything else with wheels.

anything else with wheels.

Any child caught violating the law will be fined $25. If the child doesn't have the money, the parent or legal guardian must pay. The bulk of the collected fees (72 percent) will go to fund safety education campaigns and purchase safety helmets for low-income children.

I'm 20, so this particular law doesn't apply to me, but why must my little brother fork over money for potentially injuring himself? That's what health insurance is for.

Common sense says that if you slide down a handrail standing on a piece of wood without wearing protection, you might get hurt. But you should still have the right to do so. You know what you're getting into, and if you get hurt, you have no one to blame but yourself.

Many Americans seem to think otherwise though.

If Americans really loved freedom, then we would start taking responsibility for our own actions. Tobacco companies don't give us cancer, we do. Fast food chains don't make us fat, we do. By not accepting the consequences of our actions, we, in turn, limit our freedom, forcing the government to pass silly preventative measures out of fear of being blamed for someone else's lack of common sense.

Michigan's House of Representatives recently voted 98 to 2 in favor of a bill that fines retailers for selling mature- or adult-only-rated games to minors. According to the bill, sale or rental of an M- or AO-rated game to anyone under 17 years of age can result in a misdemeanor punishable by a 90-day prison sentence, a $1,000 fine, or both. The bill will move into the Michigan Senate for a vote sometime this year.

Mind you, video game ratings are voluntarily suggested by the entertainment industry to cover its ass, as are movie ratings and the "parental advisory" sticker on music albums. These ratings are merely guides — they are not legitimate — but as long as a few continue to accuse art (with warnings!) of not raising their kids properly, marketers will have no choice but to accept them at face value, thus spoiling the fun for the whole.

And don't tell me that this is all "for the kids." Let me tell you something. KIDS ARE ASSHOLES. Get Jesus to suffer for their fuck-ups.