Natural Selection?

February 18th, 2009

Brother: V, would you ever willingly give birth to a downs baby?

V: No way in Hell.

Brother: [to husband] What about you? Would you want her to have a downs baby?

Husband: Not a chance. No way, I couldn’t deal with that shit.

V: [to brother] Would YOU want your girlfriend to have a downs baby?

Brother: Fuck no!!!

V: What if your girlfriend was pregnant and when she found out, she really, really wanted to keep it? How could you even talk her out of it?

Brother: I’d push her down the stairs and kick her in the belly 10 times. Then, I would stand over her in the dark as she cried and whisper, “God would have wanted it this way….”

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What I Think About

February 12th, 2009

Awhile back ago, I signed up on for a lark. I figured most of the people who paid for other sites to review them expected positive reviews or, in the very least, constructive criticism. However, I thought it would be absolutely hysterical for someone to expect that from me only to publicly get ripped a new asshole instead. Just the thought of someone plunking down their hard earned cash for 200 words of pure vitriol courtesy of yours truly tickled me pink.

For the first time ever, I sorely underestimated the intelligence level of the average American blogger and I failed to entice a single person to foolishly pay me for an online tongue lashing…

until now.

Everyone, allow me to introduce you to EJ (as he likes to call himself) is literally the only moron on the Internet who was actually brain dead enough to pay me (ME!) for a review. When I was first was notified of his desire, I was hesitant. Surely, his site must be the best goddamn site on the Internet for him to have the nuts to step to me, right?


Turns out Ej really is just that dumb. Fat, orange, and dumb.

Don’t believe me? See for yourself.

Oh and Chris Brown here’s a big Giant EFFFFF UUUUU for all the guys that would love the chance to Hit Rhianna and by hit we sure don’t mean beating her ass on the side of the road by a Lamborghini.. EFFF UU!

If you don’t have the guts to type out the word FUCK, then you are pussy. If it’s a matter of not liking the word, then don’t use it. I’m fine with that. As far as I’m concerned, the word ‘fuck’ is an acquired taste anyway. But don’t you dare write some meandering, adolescent tripe like ‘eff uuu’ and expect me to take anything you have to say seriously.

Also: you. Your. You’re. Learn the difference. One mistake is a typo. Constant, never ending, misuse of these words makes you look like a ridiculous fucking moron. Jesus Christ, man. You have kids. How will they learn to read and comprehend if you can’t?

Lastly, don’t say things like ‘shit stain’ and then toss words like ‘dreadful’ in there just for fun. Pick a fucking voice or else you end up sounding like you have a bad case of split personality disorder.

That’s all I have for constructive criticism.

Other than that, there’s not much to say about EJ simply because he doesn’t have much to say. His website basically boils down to vague, monosyllabic, grunting about his likes and dislikes. “Me Like Tanning.” “Me no like hitting!” “Pot rules.” “Smoking drools.”

Those aren’t exact quotes, but that’s pretty much the extent of it. There is no depth. No passion. No thought. No reason to read whatsoever. The end result is utter and complete boredom. Reading EJ is akin to being fucked in the ass with a hot poker while a small Mexican boy pisses in your face. It’s so boring it’s painful.

The cherry on the shit pie is EJ tries to make this all OK by periodically posting pictures of coked out sluts who look like they’ve all been molested by the same Uncle. It’s not OK, man. It’s seriously not OK.

EJ very briefly won me over with pictures of his dog that is admittedly very cute and literally the only bright spot on a very dark and decaying blog.

If you’re slightly masochistic or into beat up looking whores with flabby asses, check out here.


How I Learned to Despise Christians

January 21st, 2009

The first thing I thought when I saw him was: I bet he’s a vegetarian.

He had all the telltale signs. Tall and lanky. Overgrown, curly gray hair. Knitted mittens. Plaid hat with ear flaps. Sallow, sallow eyes. And a general air about him that said, ‘I haven’t eaten flesh in years and I’m hungry, goddammit!’

For a brief moment, I considered getting in another line. But every other line had at least 8 people ahead of me and all I wanted was a bunch of bananas. I like bananas, but generally not enough to wait in line for a half an hour for them. So with great trepidation, I got behind the lanky potential vegetarian.

He hefted a large bag of dog food onto the conveyor belt and began a very animated conversation with no one in particular. The teenage cashier smiled and nodded politely as she held her hand out for payment. Instead of completing his transaction, Mr. Crazy Eyes ignored her completely to announce very loudly to everyone within earshot, “Well! I’ll tell ya! The rich just keep getting richer and the poor just keep getting poorer! Isn’t that right?”

The cashier smiled weakly, “I guess so.”

“You know what we should do?” he continued, “We should gather up all the world’s resources…all the oil…all the food…all the shelter…everything…and divide it up equally between everyone! We should! We should really do that!”

The cashier said nothing. She merely re-presented her hand for payment.

Still fired up and obviously needing an outlet, he turned and looked me (of all people) directly in the eyes. Most sane individuals would consider that a mistake.

“Don’t you think that’s what we should do? Divide it up all equally?”

“So you’re a communist.” I remarked dryly.

“I’ll tell you one thing! Jesus was a communist! He was! Jesus and God were both communists! I know you probably don’t believe this, but I read the Bible once—”

(What the fuck? Why wouldn’t I believe that?)

“—And it said that Jesus was a communist. I read it! I read it when I was 32 years old! Jesus wants us ALL to be CHEERFUL GIVERS!”

He was getting more and more worked up, almost shouting, and a line was forming behind us both. All I wanted was my bananas, so I desperately searched my mind for the perfect thing to say to shut him up for good.

“Well, being that I’m an Atheist, what Jesus says really doesn’t apply to me.”

Unfortunately, this ended up being the exact wrong thing to say.

With a shocked inhalation of breath, Mr. Crazy Eyes froze. His gnarled and bony hand covered his gaping mouth. Then, with eyes rolling in all directions at once, he screamed at me.

“DON’T SAY THAT! You can’t say that! You’ll go to HELL if you say that!”

I took a short, quick step backwards because for a second there, it looked like he was going to grab me by my shoulders and shake the shit out of me. Instead, he clenched his fists and screamed at the sky.


I am going to interrupt this story right now because I want to make something perfectly clear. All my life, I have defended Christians. Even though devout Christians are nothing more than America’s little retards, I have stood beside them against my fellow Atheists. I have repeatedly told my brethren, “Hey look, I know they’ve got drool on their chins and snot bubbles on their nostrils, but they’re people, dammit! And as people, they have the right to believe in whatever ridiculous goddamn thing they want free from condescending persecution from you!”

I defend Christians. And this is the thanks I get? THIS IS THE THANKS I GET?

“WORLD BE FREE!” Mr. Crazy Eyes suddenly shrieked, “World Be Free! You probably don’t remember him, but he was a famous basketball star! He was! His real name was World Be Free!”

Have you ever been mid-conversation when you’ve suddenly gotten the sneaking suspicion that you had just been bonked on the head and briefly rendered comatose? Mr. Crazy Eyes had gone from communism to Jesus to professional basketball in 3 minutes flat. Obviously, I had missed a fucking segue or two somewhere.

Mr. Crazy Eyes suddenly singled out the older gentleman standing in line behind me. “You remember, don’t you? You remember World Be Free!”

“Actually,” the gentleman replied, “His real name was Lloyd.” Then, under his breath, “Fucking commie.”

Clearly horrified, Mr. Crazy Eyes paused his tirade. Slowly, I glanced around the grocery store and noticed that everyone within screaming earshot of us had frozen mannequin-like to watch the scene unfold. The cashier was stiffly standing there, hand still upturned, with a perfect ‘O’ of surprised glued to her face.

“LLOYD?” Mr. Crazy Eyes shrieked a final time, “LLOYD!!!!”

Then, with one bony paw, he slapped an entire box of candy bars off of a shelf. Hershey’s bars went flying. Apparently satisfied, Mr. Crazy Eyes turned and stomped out of the store without paying for his dog food.

For a single, endless second, no one said a word.

Then, the older gentleman behind me muttered again, “Fucking Commie.”


Life Is No Fun Unless You’re Excluding Someone

January 12th, 2009

I was sitting on the couch, thumbing through a book. The children were gathered around the dining room table making signs to decorate the new fort they had built with pillows and blankets in the rec room. A voice called out to me.

“V!” it said, “Can you help us spell some words for our sign?”

“Sure, what do you need spelled?”


“C – H –I- L- D – R –E-N.”






It finally occurred to me what they were doing, so I set my book aside and went to go talk to them.

“Hey, you guys?” I asked, “Does your sign say, ‘No Children Under Five Allowed?'” I looked pointedly at the lone 4 year old at the table, who sat happily coloring with the group oblivious to the fact that she was about to be rejected.

“Is Chloe being mean or something?” I asked.

They shook their heads in the negative.

“Does Chloe ever refuse to share with you?”

Again: no.

“So why would you want to exclude her?”

They stared at the floor silently, suddenly embarrassed, and not sure how to answer my question. But it didn’t matter; I knew what they were thinking. After all, a fort isn’t any fun unless you’re keeping someone out.

I chewed my lip for a moment as I struggled to come up with the best way to handle the situation with minimal heartbreak or tears. Then I said:

“Listen guys, it’s your fort and I’m not going to tell you what to do with it. I’m not going to be mad at you or punish you if you want to keep Chloe out. But, before you make your final decision, can you just think about three things for me?”

The children nodded happily, perked up by my claims that I had not come to ruin their fun.

“OK, good,” I continued, “The first thing I want you to think about is how you would feel if you were the only one not allowed in the fort.”

The children crinkled their noses distastefully at the idea.

“After you’re done thinking about that, I want you to ask yourselves, ‘would a nice kid exclude another kid from the fort or would a mean kid do something like that?'”

The children started fidgeting uncomfortably.

“And the last thing I want you to think about is what kind of kid you want to be. A nice kid? Or a mean kid? Will you think about that stuff for me?”

“Ok V,” they muttered quietly.

“Thanks guys. I’m going to finish reading my book now. If you need anything else, let me know.”

I plopped back on the couch and immersed myself in the text. A couple of paragraphs later, I got another call from the dining room.

“V! How do you spell ‘zero’?”


“What about ‘allowed’?”

Curious, I set my book aside and made my way back into the dining room.

“We threw our old sign away,” the children enthusiastically proclaimed, “But we’re making a new one!”

“Can I see it?”


The oldest girl held up a sign written in red magic marker. It said, “No Children under zero.”

I suppose it was a bit hypocritical of me not to chide them for making their new sign. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I wouldn’t want any fucking babies in my fort, either.



Dead Wrong Turn

January 7th, 2009

Guest Writer: Jim McPartland

I was heading back from Avon, CT on my way to Milford Saturday from a writers networking meeting. I was on my way to its annual Oyster Festival, an event that draws 40,000. Foghat was the free headliner. Bob ‘Jake’ McManus loved Foghat as a kid. I liked them too and it’s been years since I’ve heard much of their stuff.

You knew Jake was cool (albeit slightly uneven like myself) when in 6th grade at the bus stop at 7 in the morning he’d be air guitaring and scream to Slow Ride. A few of the neighbors occasionally joined us, just not as the chorus. Mostly with the Police. And not Twonicus’ Police either. The real ones who told us to mute the tunes.

My 1st mistake in the comedy of errors was staying to the left at the junction of the Merritt Parkway (Rt. 15) and I-91. Both can bring you to Milford. I was talking on the phone and if I thought about it, I’d have veered right and gone 15. I’ve read stuff that says when faced with a choice of right or left when getting in queues, left is better as most people choose right. That theory never works for me anywhere, be it the grocery store, bank, beer line. I always end up waiting longer and watch a mutant cruise by me in the other line to finish their business while I’m basically standing there with my dick in my hand. Right hand at that. Two hours later, I’m out with my one bag of chips, $20 or a lukewarm Bud Light.

I was now on 91. On a Saturday, it’s normally not too bad. The intersection of 91 and I-95 in New Haven can be a bitch, regardless of the time of day. Toss in an accident = toast. I should have figured they’d all be going to Milford. They might have been going to Milford via 15, but I’ll never know. I probably should have gone to AM traffic or cough up enough money to have the GPS give reports but, alas, I’m too fucking stupid or cheap- probably both.

About 5 miles outside of the 91/95 merge I see my 1st true warning sign that I may miss Foghat- Traffic Delay Ahead- 14 mile delay flashes.

I’m like “Fuck! 14 miles could take 5 hours to get past!”

My head races. It’s bumper to bumper. Even Michael Penn on my CD player cannot soothe me enough to get me through this.

Think– options– get off and backtrack through New Haven to 15 towards Woodbridge? They do run concurrently. I know New Haven enough (I think); but that GPS that I left home- with or without traffic updates- would be useful. “Cheap, stupid fuck” my inner voice yells louder.

There are 4 lanes waiting for the merge. I decide to get off State St. I have to almost cut people off to make the exit. I take a right, heading up State towards Yale.

New Haven is like Bridgeport. There are certain streets that if you fit my profile you wouldn’t cruise down at night as the police know if you do it’s either drugs or BJs you’re in the market for. During the day, it’s usually not bad.

Saturday was not usual.

I go down about a ½ mile. About 50 feet from a green stoplight, I see this 20 year old kid come from my left, staggering out from some parked cars. I think, that’s kind of dangerous, buddy. I slow down so he can walk in front of my car to the other side. Problem is- he can’t walk. Dawn of the Dead swagger is a better description. He twists about 5 feet in front of me. I’m stopped.

Our eyes meet.

And I take a ‘Holy Shit’ breath.

He IS Dawn of the Dead.

Your browser may not support display of this image.That’s me on the ground.

Rabid foaming at the mouth. Pupils totally dilated. Blacken teeth exposed. Legs bowed, arms contorted in the air.

He starts screaming-

“What the fuck, motherfucker—I’m going to fuckin’ kill ya!!!”

Starts flipping me the bird with both of his arthritic looking ashen hands.

There’s a guy trimming bushes at a church to my right. I have the windows rolled up, so I can’t quite hear what he’s saying but, seeing he’s at church, I figure he’s an apostle. He’s yelling something at the Walking Dead. I’m happy because gas powered hedge clippers are handy tools when fighting zombies.

He turned out to be more like a Jew in the crowd before Pilate.

Dead Boy takes a couple swivel strides towards the curb. I inch up slowly. I was going to roll down the window and politely tell him he’s gonna get hit by a car, but as I do that he comes charging towards my passenger door, bangs with all his might on the window and continues his ‘I’m going to eat you’ diatribe.

Bush Man is now closer to the sidewalk, but he’s left the trimmers. Big help he’s going to be. He’s yelling at Dead Boy, but there’s so much racket, I’m not sure who’s saying what to whom.

I decide my best move is to slowly drive away. If Dead Boy latches on to the hood, I can always pull a Starsky and Hutch. He instead decides to kick my door. Now I’m getting pissed and even though I’m without artillery, I have to deal with this.

I pull up through the stop light- maybe 500 feet. I really just want to see if his decomposing foot made a mark or if it’s now attached to my car- in which case I’ll have to go to a car wash and pay the extra ‘scraping’ fee.

As soon as I get out and head to the other side of the car, Dead Head starts running full force at me, screaming all kinds of demented, intelligible zombie shit. Unfortunately now I know I’m dealing with the REMAKE of Dawn of the Dead where they could run.

Bush Guy is still yelling at him, but has made no attempt to catch him coming towards me. Hedge clippers or not, two of us are more likely to saw off his dead bobble-head than one.

Now he’s within 20 feet of me.

What to do?

Like a fastball out of Billy Wagner’s hand, I have about .02334 of a second to decide-

1. Either stand my ground and take him on, the upside of which is he’s dead so all I have to do is either trip and pounce or just land one clean shot somewhere near his head to blast out his fucked up brains. If he isn’t dead, though, and he has, say, a knife I have yet to see- this might get a little too dangerous and I can end up dead. Walking in traffic. At noon. Yeech, not pretty.

2. Run.

If I chose option 2, Michael J. Fox would laugh at me because he didn’t do that in the Back to the Future(s).

The next thing I know, I’m scurrying around a car at the stop light, like LaDainian Tomlinson. Fortunately, Zombie Kid is no Lawrence Taylor and he can’t catch me. Finally, Bush Man comes over and corrals him, dragging his quasi rigor mortised frame with him.

Your browser may not support display of this image. Get the Fuck off me, Dead guy!

Now I call the police. I have no idea how long that’ll take as we are in New Haven and they have bigger zombie herds to battle.

Bush Man has Morgue Kid over by a car back where he started, but he’s still twirling away like an off balance spinning top and I think he may come back for round two. Option 1 will be my only choice then- even with deadly bites or .99 steak knives at risk.

Dead Boy gets into a car that’s been sitting there watching this whole debacle. Maybe this was a joke that’s already put on YouTube by some demented Yalie wanna be film student. I doubt it.

After they’re gone- and instead of talking to me- Bush Man goes back to his grounds’ keeping responsibilities, as if Zombie Boy was a dream.

I’m waiting for police. A woman with a 2 year old pulls up. Poor kid is crying.

She says “I saw what happened- he did the same thing to me and scared my kid to tears.”

Now I wish I had gone option 1 and put this motherfucker in the hospital.

The police show, take my side of what happened.

Bush Man comes over when I tell police he saw this mess.

As he draws closer, the strong smell of vodka hits me like a bad yesterday’s hangover. Holy fuck, this guy’s drunk- trimming hedges at a church- and is taking on zombies too. He multi tasks better than I do!

Then he breaks the case wide open.

“That’s my son.”

I almost screamed in pain from my jaw hitting the pavement. I could hardly control myself with “You almost let me get in a fight with your Autopsy Table Child and did nothing?”

Then I smelled him again and knew how apples don’t fall far from trees.

The cop says Dead Boy will get a bunch of misdemeanors- if they catch him.

I said I just wanted women with children in cars to be safe at this intersection. Now that he’s moved on, who knows what Romero movie antics he’ll be up to.

I’m not sure of the moral of this story. I usually like to draw them together like they do in Davey and Goliath, but I’m not sure about this.

Inadvertent bad decisions? Standing your ground vs. being a smart wuss? I don’t know.

All is do know is I did not get bitten, am not dead, and am not in the New Haven Register Police Blotter for sending a druggie to the hospital.

I’m staying to the right for the next couple weeks to see if that changes anything.

About the author: Jim McPartland is a comedy and sports writer. He pays attention to the world and tries to give something back, sometimes in the form of IOU’s.

Jim spent 25 years in corporate America, where he was renowned for a great intra-company memo. He has learned that others in that corporate world do not play nice by cheating and lying under the guise of self-preservation. He no longer wants to be part of that world, as it causes brain fluid to leak from his ears by constantly banging it against the brick wall they build. He now knows that when it came to the ‘Game of Life’, he took the shorter road- business (was told to go into ‘Plastics’ too often) when he should have done arts. He is now calling for a ‘do over’.

He is an expert at what not to do in relationships, as evidenced in his 19 year marriage and his constantly having to apologize. The results being many of the candid observations in his musings about the differences between men and women. He is addicted to MSNBC, kisses a signed photo of Chris Matthews each day and sees the world for what is. Or what it should be. Or could be if he’d get off his arse and mow the lawn.

Jim has been featured on Air America Radio with his ‘Limbaugh Drop’ musical parody, a feature writer for ‘Slapshot’ hockey magazine, and has been heard on several radio stations as an expert MLB analyst.

A 4 sport referee/official, he enjoys mixing it up with many different people and looking at the glass as half full- albeit slightly discolored from minerals.

Let us know what you think about Jim – Should we invite him back? Email your thoughts to:

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