The New Xmas

As I sit here by the fire, laptop topping my lap like a dollop of sour cream tops spaghetti, I can't help but look back and wonder to myself about everything I've done with the past year of my life. Reminiscing about all I've done to better the community puts a grin on my face like nothing else, except maybe sex.

So what have I done for my fellow man? In addition to my continuing work here on my blog, I also built a log cabin with my bare hands. This was around six o'clock last night or so. True, I only really built it for myself, and also it's less of a 'cabin' and more of a 'pile of tinder', but I think it counts as community service, especially since I was told in court I would no longer be allowed to live so close to the high school. Maybe now that I live under a heap of sticks on top of a mountain, those damn kids won't skateboard on my lawn.

As I stroke the beard I grew last night, and drink the cocoa I made out of owl pellets, I can't help but feel bad for everyone back in civilization, celebrating Christmas with their families. Sucks to be them, right? All warm, and loved, and getting presents. Presents my ass. What does Christmas truly represent, besides the birth date of our Lord and Saviour? Not much, except greed and mass consumerism. So instead of enjoying and/or playing with your toys this year kiddies, send them to me! I will do the honorable thing and burn them, and I will certainly not open them, or enjoy them, or decorate my cabin with them. No sir. That'd be gay.

In fact, lets abolish Christmas forever. I'm tired of waiting around for Jesus to show up and kill everyone. It's been two thousand years, people. Newsflash: he ain't coming. I do understand, however, that some of you were counting on him to come and smite your enemies. Have no fear; I will be more than happy to smite them in Jesus' stead.

Instead of celebrating Christmas, we will now celebrate a new holiday: New Christmas. I would have called it something cool, like MurderDay, or KillsMas, but it would be too expensive to reprint all those Hallmark cards. New Christmas will be exactly like Olde Christmasse, as we shall now refer to it, except with a few key differences.

1) NO SANTA. Sorry kids, but on New Christmas, there is no false idol worshipping, which Christianity seems to promote like there's no freakin' tomorrow. Rather, on New Christmas day, we get on our hands and knees and pray to an image of the one who died for our sins: Billy Mays. You see, Billy Mays truly was the son of God. Just look at that beard and tell me it ain't saintly. Anyhoo, Billy tried all he could to improve the lives of millions, by selling them tubes that cooked spaghetti really fast, and blankets with sleeves that make driving impossible. But he was killed in his prime, at the young age of 51. Some, like CNN News, say he died of a cocaine overdose. However, we at the church know he died for our sins. Cocaine just stopped his heart when it happened. Total coincidence.

2) NO PRESENTS. Rather than blowing all your money on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for that unappreciative prick cousin of yours, there will be no presents whatsoever. Rather, we will all gather underneath the enormous statue of Billy Mays and draw a single name from a jar containing everyone's names, and whomever has their name drawn is stoned to death on the spot. Some might say I stole this from Shirley Jackson's The Lottery. I assure you that I thought of this idea all on my own. I just happened to be reading The Lottery when I did is all. Total coincidence.

3) 24-HOUR IRON CHEF MARATHON. There's no explanation for this. Iron Chef is just awesome.

4)NO PASSION PLAYS. Rather than force our children into a mockery of the life and death of Jesus Christ, we will now force our children to work on New Christmas day. Hey, the stores are all closed on Christmas; do you know how much money we're losing? And by abolishing Olde Christmasse, we're losing even more money in Holiday sales! This is to make up for that. Every boy and girl under the age of twelve will be forced to pitch in and work at the salt mines, mining salt and other such things. That should balance out the dip in the economy. Everyone knows salt sells like hot cakes.

That about does her. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to find a pheasant for my New Christmas feast. I don't know exactly what a pheasant is, but I assume shooting a BB gun into the brush outside my cabin will yield one. Merry New Christmas to all, and to all a good afternoon.

quickie: eight years later, and you're all still retarded

Eight years after the World Trade Center was attacked by terrorists and it still hasn't sunk in; some people just don't like the truth I guess.

Allow me to clarify the word Truth for the uninitiated. Truth is something that can be backed up by science or logic. It has to be rooted in either one or both of those in order to be Truth. Without science or logic, what you have are Lies. That is exactly what you'll find at 9/11 Truth, as well as on the Loose Change video series.

I'll focus on science first, and I promise to stay brief. Steel loses half of its strength at 648 degrees celsius. Jet fuel burns at 825 degrees celsius. So, in summation, yes, jet fuel can melt steel, because 825 is a bigger number than 648. Do you see how that works, you hippie liberal twat? Can't believe everything you see on YouTube.

Next, logic. Why in fuck would President George W. Bush, an American citizen, attempt to kill hundreds of thousands of his own people? For the hell of it? I know what you're thinking: "BUT DARSH GEORG EBUSH WAS A STOOPID PREZDENT LULZ". Shut the fuck up you fat sack of excrement. I'm not going to start a brand new argument about the merits of President Bush, because this is a quickie, so I'm trying to adhere to that standard. Regardless of wether or not George Bush was a bad president, I doubt genocide of the American people was on his agenda. I know every pothead with a hacky-sack and a Ziggy Marley album is going to chase me down because 'Bush was a murderer, man'. Whatever. This isn't about the war in Iraq, you putz. The fact of the matter is there is simply no incentive for ex-President Bush to kill hundreds of thousands of his own people. Think with your brain, if you haven't smoked it away yet.

Finally, I'd like to address post-9/11 youth. Grow up. No one cares about your stupid petitions to end suffering in Darfur, or Ghana, or wherever. People suffer. Nations go to war. IT HAPPENS. I'm not saying I support genocide in Rwanda or whatever, but signing a piece of fucking paper won't do jack. You want to help? Go to Africa and fight the good fight, chief. Signing a petition that would have to go through months if not years of bureaucratic legislation in order to become a bill that no politician with half a brain would touch for fear of losing his job HELPS NO ONE. Why don't you try to get pot legalized while you're at it? And stop bragging about your stupid marches and protests on FaceBook. I'm sick of hearing about it. A few weeks ago, a friend of mine named 'Greek Chick' said she saw some guy shop lift some Tide from Walgreens or something, and some skinny jean'd prick named 'Kick Naroutsos' put up a whole goddamn paragraph saying how he 'supports people stealing from fascist monopolies that have ruined this nation'. Wow, thanks for finally legalizing theft, Detective Dipshit! We were all waiting on a high school dropout like yourself to support legal burglary, and now that you do, I'm sure President Obama will personally introduce a bill to congress that legalizes rape and murder as well! Congratulations, asswipe, you've brought shame to an entire generation.

My Fantasy Novel

Kids, I'm sorry to bring this up around Xmas, but I am piss poor. That hundred inch plasma screen TV I bought for my bathroom completely wiped me out, so I'm making some sacrifices around the home. For one, no more toilet paper. From now on, I'll just call one of you, my loyal followers, on the work number I forced you at gunpoint to give, and you'll drive to my house and wipe my ass with your shirt. Or pants, I'm not picky.

I do, however, have a plan to make some extra green, which I will hopefully spend on a hundred inch plasma screen for my walk-through humidor. I'm writing a book, cleverly titled My Fantasy Novel, to cash in on the wave of fantasy novels that have overtaken the youth of America. Y'see, white kids are a little stupid; they'll buy anything that has vampires, teenage girls, and iPods in it. That being clear, I'm going to join the race with my own fantasy novel! Here's the rundown.

The story is about an up-and-coming pornstar named Darsh, who is also a serial killer/highschool quarterback. One night, during a particularly hot blood-orgy, Darsh is bitten by a vampire named Count Fagula. Fagula, however, is not a cool vampire, like Blade. He's one of the gay ones, who doesn't shave ad has hair like a duck's ass. Fagula falls in love with Darsh, but Darsh, being so fucking awesome I'm at half-mast as I write this, doesn't like vampires. Darsh is a member of the Human Supremacist Movement, a group of humans who believe that vampires, werewolves, ghosts, zombies, robots, and any sort of halvesie out there can all suck a giant hard one. So Darsh and his sexy co-murderer, Chesty Laroux, set out to kill Fagula and every scenester vampire at school, as well as every scenester who isn't a vampire, and every vampire who isn't a scenester. After a particularly brutal gunfight, which actually caused me to vomit while writing due to incredible gore amounts, Fagula is murdered, and his corpse is fed to an army of horny sodomites. Watching Fagula's dead butthole being plowed by sodomite after sodomite, Darsh then bone-storms Chesty Laroux and every woman within a two mile radius, makes those really good Pizza Rolls you can get at Hannaford's, then passes out on his Mom's couch.

This book is a surefire win. It has everything; tits, murder... everything! Look for it in your local bookstore, in the aisle dedicated to books that are so great that not buying eight copies is a federal crime. Get yours today!

What I Want For Christmas

Kids, it's that time of year again; the time whence we celebrate commercialism, the American dollar, and the price of love. Once per year, we gather underneath trees stolen from Sweden and/or made by child laborers in plastic sweatshops along the coast of Vietnam, put shiny little balls on fish hooks under the branches, and sing songs of a superhero/zombie Jew born in Iraq. Of course, I'm talking about the magic of Christmas! Hope you've been saving up, because I want a shit-load of expensive gifts and services this year, so get ready to gift me and service me, in that order. Here's my Xmas list for the holiday of 2009.

1) A HANDSHAKE FROM BARACK OBAMA. This is a big one. If I am given this, I promise I will take the Vote Hezbollah sticker off the back of my Camry. Anyhoo, if President Obama agrees to shake my hand and maybe let me rub his stomach for good luck, then I can die happy. Of course, what Obama won't know is that I'll put a tracking device under his cuff links during his trademark terrorist fist-jab. That way, I and my cohorts, Glen Beck and some guy named Biden (he apparently has no first name, and quotes Nietzsche waaaaaaay too much), can keep tabs on the so-called Mr. President. Then, when he goes to the bathroom, we'll spring our trap, and throw a nylon net at him! Whilst Obama struggles with the mighty nylon, my friends and I rush in, pull his pants down, and take a picture of the President's notorious baby-penis! That'll teach him to be black and the President at the same time.

2)DINNER WITH A HOMELESS MAN. Last week I fell asleep watching an old re-run of Comic Relief, and if it taught me nothing else (it didn't), it's that homelessness is funny! I can't wait to hear all sorts f jokes my homeless compadre has to tell me. Like, why did the hobo cross the road? To take a shit in a coffee can! Ha... well, it will sound a lot funnier coming out of Whoopi Goldberg.

3)TED DANSON'S SKELETON. Okay, I know Ted Danson is still alive, but honestly, what is he doing with his life? I mean, after Cheers, what then? Becker? Suck my balls, Becker! No one likes Ted Danson. In fact, I'm pretty sure Ted Danson doesn't like ted Danson. If Ted Danson is willing to either A)kill himself, or B)be killed by my followers, I would like the skeleton. Why? I have a great idea for a sitcom called Ted Danson's Skeleton. In it, a poor fat black kid is adopted by rich white people. Also, the rich white people own Ted Danson's skeleton, which of course the consult for advice on their day-to-day problems. I've talked to Rupert Murdoch, and if I manage to get Ted Danson's skeleton, he'll put it on ABC Family.

4)A HANDSHAKE FROM SARAH PALIN. Same as Obama, but I'd steal her underwear instead. Hello, eBay.

5)JESUS. I want Jesus for Christmas. I mean, I don't want like the whole Rapture thing to happen just yet, but i would like to see a cosmic Hebrew deadite to come and tell people that the world won't end in 2012. Or that it will, either one would be pretty tits.

Well my children, that's the long and the short of it. Also, if you could ask Jesus to bring Eazy-E back from the dead when he comes. I'd really like to hear good rapping again before the world ends in 2012. Thanks guys. And like I tell you every Xmas, if I'm not appeased at least once a year, I'll kill all of you (just kidding, not the women-folk). Kisses.

Reasons To Drink

Once in a great while, man is posed with a question for the ages. 'Tis a question not to be answered lightly, as 'tis riddled with quantum mechanics and cromulent friddles. These are the questions that Martin Luther and Gandhi were asked in their day; why are we here, is there a god, etc. And it takes a man of great importance to answer these questions. My friends, when this question is asked, a man steps forth to prove his mettle. The question has been posed. The man has stepped forward. The question: why drink?

The man: ME.

Before I even begin answering, you are welcome. I'm sure everyone has asked themselves this at least once, and has in turn been left without an answer. The truth is, there are many answers, all of which are equally valid, unless an idiots says one. Then it is false. Like, for instance, if some idiot with a Messiah complex overheard the question being asked at like a party, then went home, drank a fifth of Triple D Smirnoff, then started typing a wild, rambling tangent on his blog about why man drinks alcohol, then that guy's a dumbass, and probably gay. You don't need to worry about that here, though, as I am neither dumb, nor an ass, and I am certainly not gay. After all, would a gay guy be able to read the entire Harry Potter series in only nine years? Didn't think so.

1) TO FORGET. Drinking to forget is as old as a really old thing. I'm sorry, I had a really great simile written down on a Snickers bar wrapper, but I got drunk and used it as a condom. Man drinks to forget, and birds go tweet. We know this! The better question is.... WHY?? Man drinks because he wants to forget, and he wants to forget because he doesn't want to remember; 'nuff said. For instance, that one Thanksgiving when I was fourteen and I was making out with my cousin and I accidentally called her Yvonne instead of Yvette, I drank quite a bit. I really wanted to forget the embarrassment of calling my former lover the wrong name. I love you still, Yvette, even though your vadge has been ripped apart from having so many inbred kids. If you're ever in town, call me...

2)FOR PEACE. And not Hippie peace, either. Jesus Peace. Like, if your wife throws you out, and you go to grab a few beers with the Lord, searching for inner peace. You just want to find some quiet, and those voices in your head, screaming out, "stop drinking or your wife will divorce you", just will not shut up. You need a stiff drink to find some peace, otherwise those voices might take over, and then you'll do something crazy. Like stop drinking. Madness!

3)TO CURE BOREDOM. Sometimes life needs some zest. Like when I'm having meaningless sex with a stranger; things can get pretty boring, with her just sort of laying there, underneath me and the two Polynesian midgets and the obese black woman wearing a Barney suit. That's when I call in the big guns. Beer and wine are dear and fine, but to spice up the action in the bedroom, I drink a very potent brew I found only recently at the Home Depot. It's called Turpentine (pronounced ter-pan-tee-nay), and smells a lot like nail polish remover. A few pints of that stuff and you'll be putting on the Barney suit yourself this time!

Well, that's it until the next time I update. See you all in 2014! Keep drinking, my loyal children. And if you see any of my disloyal children, please hit them. Seriously, I take a month off and you bitches won't stop e-mailing me. I've received two whole e-mails complaining about lack of updates. First of all, when you e-mail me, don't call me 'Esteban'. I have no idea who the hell you think you are, calling me Esteban and such. And then you go on typing in Spanish. It's like, whoa nelly, you wanna hate mail me because I haven't been on the blog in a while; that I can understand. But why you goin' and talking all Spanish like? Please take the time to hate-mail me in English, sir.

Oh, look. I just got another message from you idiots. This one's from some idiot in Puerto Rico. Guess I'll have to e-mail him a link to Rosetta Stone in order to understand what the hell he's saying. Ah, well. Life-life-life.

Windows 7: Great Systems Op, or Greatest Systems Op?

Life has become increasingly complex in the overwhelming sea of information. I stole that from a naked chick robot on Adult Swim. Though 'twas plagiarized from an overrated anime, I feel this sentiment rings true. Technology, in its attempts to simplify our existence, has made things much more complicated over the years. Once, I could just walk out the door with a CD player or maybe some tapes, and that would give me something to listen to during school, or work, or sex. Nowadays, if I leave the house with anything short of a talking iTouch that looks like a Furby, the Japanese kids call me Stinky and shave my head. Technology sucks. Why can't an ancient dinosaur of a software conglomerate create a program that will make my life easier?

Well, my children... they have. At long last, WINDOWS 7!!!!!

I'll allow you to go get a tissue to wipe the jizz out of the front of your pants.

Back? Okay then. Let me tell you why Windows 7 will replace your precious God as Number 1 on your 'List of Things I'd Sacrifice A Human For'.

Windows 7 is made to simplify things. How, you ask? Nevermind that, stupid, your computer is made easier! Remember when you had to look for the icon that said 'printer' under it every time you wanted to print something? I sure do; head aches and eye cancer come to mind. But with Windows 7, you don't have to read at all! Just look for the picture of a printer. That's right, Windows 7 has made illiteracy totally acceptable.

The biggest selling point Windows 7 makes is that with it, you can do two things at once. Well, actually, you can only do one thing at a time, but you can look at them both at the same time. Also, the windows are both reduced considerably in size. Anyhoo, I feel this is actually a great innovation in the world of computers, a tool with which we can-- oh, I'm sorry, I have just been told that this is called 'dragging and dropping', and has existed forever. But there are tons of other reasons to upgrade to Windows 7, like... well, I mean... okay, if you just... moving right along.

Okay, I know I'm not making a convincing argument, but just look at the price point. A fresh Windows 7 disc is yours for the low, low price of... holy shit, $199.95? Fuck that. Letter grade: G. That's a whole letter below F. Also, think of all the crappy words that start with G. Gay, glitter, gypped... and others. Fuck you, Windows 7!

Man Card REVOKED!!

There are many things that make a man. A penis, testicles... well, those are the only two that come (heh heh) to mind right now. But trust me, there's at least twelve. And for every one thing that makes a man, there are about seventy that can unmake a man. As such, manhood is fragile. Not as fragile as, like, glass or a hymen, but it's pretty up there. One wrong step and BOOM!! Man card revoked.

Rather than waste my precious time and your worthless time by explaining when(anytime) or where(anyplace) a man card can be revoked, I'll do the world a favor by giving a few basic guidelines to help you keep your hands on your manhood.

1)NO SKINNY JEANS. This is a big one. It seems to me that every time I go to the mall some fat little puke-nose who looks like Pugsley from The Addams Family is rocking the skinny jeans. Listen, my children; you can't squeeze a size forty ass into size twenty-eight pants. Not only do skinny jeans make you look like a tool, they also crush your genitals with their malevolent tightness. A once proud wang can be reduced to a shriveled pair of grapes and a dead worm with just one pair of skinny jeans. Normal size pants do not restrict the crotch in such a manner; do the math.

2)NO HARDCORE DANCING. You're at a metal show, letting the bass destroy your spine and just generally getting your brain-balls busted, when who should show up to ruin everything but the hardcore dancers. These are the half-retarded white kids who feel a crowded room is the perfect place to take one's shirt off and start throwing punches at the air for no apparent reason. A real man does one of two things at a metal show: either shred or drink. Make your choice and goddamn it stick with it.

3) IN FACT NO DANCING WHATSOEVER. Dancing is for women. Let them dance. A real man dances by standing still, drinking beer, and scowling. Ladies love it.

4)NO TECHNO. Techno, like skinny jeans, not only attacks the spiritual manhood, but the physical manhood as well. My penis, for example, will retreat into my scrotum at the sound of techno music. For the sake of your future children and your manly honor, listen to real music. Might I suggest metal, the manliest music of all?

5)NO CRYING. Stop being a little schoolgirl whore and dry your eyes. Anytime someone, man, woman, or otherwise makes you want to cry, headbutt them in the spleen like a shaolin monk. That's the only way man expresses his emotions. Even joy is an emotion best kept in check. I only smile when I hurt someone. That time I headbutted a guy in the spleen because he made me want to cry, I laughed my ass off!

Just think what a better place the world would be if the men in power completely outlawed techno and skinny jeans, ordered hardcore dancers to be shot on sight, and sorted their problems with a one-on-one death match. I see a future where rainbows fly high, and are shot with machine guns because they are so gay; a world where having a dog means owning a timber wolf for a pet, and owning a cat means owning a dog. This is the world I pray future generations will see. Pray with me, children... pray.

Fuck You, iTunes

Let me give you guys a scenario of what my life is like:

I'm on the phone with iTunes support because I purchased a defective gift card. I scratched the little silver strip off with a penny, and the ink from the numbers rubbed off on the penny, meaning I paid fifteen dollars for a piece of shitty plastic covered in water-based ink. Of course, without the numbers it is useless, so i decided to call iTunes Support to see if they would rectify the problem.

iTunes Bitch: iTunes Support, how may I help you?

Me: I bought a defective gift card and I wanted to know how I would be reimbursed.

iTunes Bitch: What is defective about the card?

Me: The ink from the numbers rubbed off on the coin I used to get the little silver thing off the card.

iTunes Bitch: Well, you must've scratched too hard. That's not our problem.

Me: Well, it is, because your company used a shitty ink that rubs off on a goddamn penny.

iTunes Bitch: The quality of the ink isn't our problem.

Me: Also, your company lacks the hindsight to allow users to just pay cash directly for gift cards online, which would save people the trouble of buying your stupid, poorly made gift cards.

iTunes Bitch: Excuse me?

Me: If I could have just paid for iTunes credit with my debit card online and have the money sent directly to my account don't you think I would have?

iTunes Bitch: Yes.

Me: So why don't you allow people to do that?

iTunes Bitch: I don't know.

Me: Probably because your company is run by Jews.

iTunes Bitch:.......

This is why I think all business should defer to me on all questions related to whether or not a product is back-asswards in design. I do not blame the corporations themselves, because Business Majors are all idiots; I do feel, however, that a lot of these problems could be solved with a little thing I call...

COMMON FUCKING SENSE

Hey, here's a great idea. Let's build factories in third-world countries that will stamp out our iTunes Gift cards. To save money, we'll use crappy components and we won't train our employees. That's such a great idea, I'm about to cum!

Fuck you, iTunes. It's time to pull Steve Jobs' bald, four-eyed head out of his pristine, golden rectum and make a product worth selling. Sometimes, it's not all about money. Sometimes.

Your Children Are Ugly

Dear FaceBook,

Thanks for helping me spread my message! Keep up the good work.

Love (not really, because feelings are gay), Darsh

P.S. Okay, we really need to talk about the idiots you allow on your otherwise fine social networking site. I've noticed these people share more than a few common traits, so a screening program should be easily designed. These traits are:

-vaginas

-problems

-ugly fucking kids

None of these three is appropriate for posting on FaceBook. I know, vaginas sounds actually pretty nice, but dude, have you seen Facebook whores? Looked 'em right in the whispering eye, I did. They make Madonna look like Laura Bush.

The worst of these offenses would be those horrible, horrible pictures of kids that get posted every freakin' half hour, usually from some dipshit's cell phone. Okay, we get it; you've ruined your life. Was letting the gigolo your sorority sister's bought you go without a condom really worth it? Congratulations, your son is black. Have fun explaining that to Grandma.

I mean, it's bad enough that you sluts keep shoving these obese blobs of drooling and shitting flesh into our faces, but could you at least blur out the ugly ones? God forbid I ever curse my future wife, The Chick From Juno, with the horrible junk-stretching burden of childbirth, but if my kids were as ugly as yours, I'd have the decency to put them to sleep. Get a dog instead; dogs are great, and won't turn your wife's crotch into a cross between Ground Zero and scrambled eggs.

P.P.S. Could I have the phone numbers of a few FaceBook whores? I need a prom date. Thanks :)

This Month's Internet Idiot

I know it's been a while since I last posted a new Internet idiot, but I think I may have found someone so stupid, so scream-inducingly, groin-grabbingly moronic that it more than makes up for the delay. Without much further ado, allow me to introduce Hannah Bond.

Hannah was just an average student in, I don't know, some backwoods town in that state full of rednecks. You know, the one with fat, corrupt cops? Yeah, that one. Anyhoo, Amanda was just an ordinary girl, going to high school, wearing glasses, embracing the world of miniature equestrian statuary; just generally doing chick crap. This went on for sixteen years or so, which I'm sure must have felt like ages, until finally she made an actual friend. Wow!

That's where things turn sour.

Turns out Hannah's friend was Emo. Now, I know what you're thinking, 'SHE'S A GIRL, DARSH, ITZ KEWL!!! LOLZ!!!!', to which I say stop thinking in caps. Also, can I finish one goddamn story? I would love to finish just one goddamn story.

Anyway, yes, Hannah's friend turned her into an Emo, and long story short, she hung herself. Yeah, that's pretty much it. Oh, no, wait, it keeps going.

So after Hannah hung herself, her parents discovered her dark and shameful secret obsession with skinny jeans and those stupid wool hats that look like douches. They were shocked! They had no idea that their daughter had an interest in such things! It must have been the Emo music's fault! Why else would their daughter romanticize hanging herself in the poetry she wrote and then posted online for everyone to read and/or report to the police? Emo must be stopped!

Okay, I can't hold in this hategasm anymore. Get two towels, 'cause this one's gonna be big...

Emo must be stopped? You're goddamn right, people. But really? Crappy music about going to the mall and wearing flannel shirts ironically can kill someone? I find that hard to swallow, and to answer your next question, yes, that's what she said.

Look you dolts; the bitch hung herself because she was an idiot. Need proof? Only an idiot would kill her/himself in such a played out and weak fashion. Hanging yourself? Who do you think you are, Emily Dickenson? When I kill myself, I'm going to do it like a man; with a gun. I'm going to steal a shotgun, dress up like Santa Claus, break into a preschool, and shoot myself in front of the first class I find. Man-Power, bitch!

Though it is true that Emo lowers IQs and causes spontaneous fits of crying and poetry, it can hardly be considered fatal, because only cool things can kill you. For instance, shotguns are cool, as are cobras and Chuck Norris. If I could have Chuck Norris shoot me in the face with a special shotgun that shot out cobras, then I would. But I can't. That's something I have to live with. Yeah it hurts, but I'm not going to hang myself over it.

Hannah's parents argue that their daughter was lured into a suicidal cult that worshipped My Chemical Romance (I shit you not, Wikipedia it) by her friend, who drew teddy bears hanging themselves in her art class. This is obvious BS. Who would join such a stupid cult? A cult that worshipped Megadeth, I could see. But My Chemical Romance? What's next, The First Church of Kanye?

Emo is pop music, people; nothing more. It's not harmful to anything except your pride. Am I sorry this girl died? Hell no. Hannah was probably a Nazi, or worse, a Pothead. Should her parents feel guilty? Well, maybe. I mean, you'd have to be blind or extremely neglectful to not notice your daughter joining a friggin' cult, but hey, what do I know about these people? For all I know, her parents were inbred. But just to set the record straight, I do not support Emo music or Emo kids. They overpopulate malls and spread like a cancerous tumors. If I could have them all hanged I would. But let's get real; Emo can't kill. That's what I'm here for. Kisses! :)

quickie: if you hate metal shut the fuck up

I hate Metal Archives. This is not news, as I know I have expressed my distaste for these pale-faced, lip-pierced mallcore dipshits numerous times in the past. The fact is Metal Archives is not metal, period. Take for example, TheHuman666's review of Megadeth's ball-blastingly shreddy new album, 'EndGame' (these are bullets, I'm not giving this cock-smooch the satisfaction of posting the whole thing).

-I can't believe Dave and Megadeth thought this was a good album!

-This album is just plain bad.

-The riffs are so formulaic. It's like, play a fast part, then a slow part, then a solo, then it ends.

-This album is terrible.

Note this guy repeats himself like a broken fucking record. It's bad, it's an embarrassment, it's bad. Buddy, you're the embarrassment. I get it; you hate metal. Why else would you criticize Megadeth for being fast? Yeah, god forbid thrash metal not adhere to your mid-nineties groove metal bullshit. Ill Nino broke up, you putz; get over it.

Here's a tip, dickless. Change your fucking sign-on. Really? TheHuman666? You call EndGame 'metal-by-numbers'. Way to buy into the latest anti-metal buzzword, for one, and for two, look who's talking. It's as if you sat down and asked, 'how can I keep real metalheads from kicking my ass with logic?', and decided that claiming you were '666' personified would suffice. 666 means nothing. It's a number, nothing more. A more fitting name would have been TheHumanVagina. You're welcome.

This is a call to arms. Fellow metalheads, hate mail this ass-hat! Let's bombard him with our rage until he hangs himself or gets the admins to make me apologize. C'mon, everyone, fag-drag! FAG-DRAG!

P.S. Here's the queef's homepage, where you can read his spelling error-ridden reviews of Motorhead (he hates them), Black Sabbath (he hates them), Slayer (he hates them), and Suicide Silence (he loves 'em!): http://thehuman666.blogspot.com/

No One Likes Your Shitty Poetry

My eyes are moist with tears,

As you remove me from your friends list,

But I will have my vengeance,

I'm writing a shitty poem about you! Boo-fucking-hoo!

Poetry is for fags. Let's face it, kids; poems rank up there with eating schlong and watching Glee on the list of gayest things ever. I'd rather rip my own dick off and fill my castration wound with fire-ants than ever read another shitty poem ever again. And unfortunately, it's all shitty. Why? because poems, like religions and white people, are all exactly alike.

But what makes poetry so infuriatingly homosexual? Let's break it down like the emotional stability of an emo kid with an inferiority complex.

1)POEMS ARE PRETENTIOUS. I have an idea, a thought; I have something I want to say. So how do I say it? I know what you're thinking, "WITH WORDZ, DARSH!!!!1!1!! LOLZ". Wrong, wrong, wrong. With a poem! Why? Because I'm gay (note: I'm not gay, retard). What better way to tell the world you're a fifteen-year-old with his head up his ass then by writing a poem to express yourself? But it can't be a poem with, y'know, a rhyme scheme, because being coherent is so late-nineties. It has to be aimless, bereft of creativity, and completely inane. Congratulations! You have destroyed art.

2)POETRY IS DEAD. There's a reason no one writes poems anymore. It's because what was once an art left to people who didn't need to use spellcheck or rhyming dictionaries has been stolen by every jobless wang with a FaceBook. We get it; you have nothing to live for. Just kill yourself, don't drag us into the hellish abyss with you by spreading your suicidal tendencies via crappy poetry. Why don't you do something useful with your vapid musings and engrave them on your tombstone?

3)NOTHING GOOD EVER CAME FROM A POEM. If you read the above listing, you might have mistaken me for someone who gives a rat's twat about poetry. The fact is that even before these webcam whores posing as artists overtook poetry like Nazis invading Poland, poetry was pretty gay. Back in the day, people kept their poetry books away from their children for fear that they would become depressed, alcoholics, suicidal, or worse, queers. Maybe it's time we put away poetry altogether. Suicidal, depressed, and booze-filled teens? Fine by me. Gay teens? STAY OUT OF MY MALL!!

I feel this issue has been beaten like a dead horse in a circle jerk. Internet poets, stay off the Internet. If you have certain intimate thoughts that can only be expressed by poetry, why don't you put them where they belong: right up your ass.

NewsFlash: All Religions Are Exactly The Same!

Dearest Readers, you know me. I am a simple man, a kind man, a miracle worker of sorts, hoping that each leap will be the leap home, much like my brother in arms, Steven Bakula. Quantum Leap references aside, I have noticed lately that a lot of you, my loyal worshippers are putting Gods before me. Uh, yeah, did you even read the contract I sent you all telepathically? C'mon guys, lets keep it clean.

So how do I know you've been cheating on me? The same way Satan knows you've been cheating on your wife: I check your FaceBooks. I was very excited when I noticed a religion filter on Friend Finder, but guess what? Not one of you listed me as your deity of choice. That wouldn't have been so bad if some of you had chosen a silly or humorously blasphemous religion, like Oprahism or Voodoo, but none of you even got that much right.

Anyone with half a brain or male genitals will be able to tell you that all religions are exactly the same except mine. That's how you can tell mine is the one true faith! I don't know how much more obvious I could make this, people. But maybe if I made fun of all of your religious values, then you'd see the light:

CHRISTIANITY/CATHOLICISM: Exactly the same. Jesus died, he came back, he asked you all via e-mail to buy Shroud of Turin bath towels, yadda yadda yadda, you're saved. The truth is, almost every religion has a story like this, except mine. I just ask you to buy the towels.

BUDDHISM: Hey everyone, lets just like, y'know, like lay under this tree, and like, all exist, bro... and gain weight. Sure thing, Pothead Jesus AKA Siddartha Guantanamo, or whoever the hell started this religion. Look blobbo, do whatever you want, just stay away from my worshippers. I don't want you fattening them up with your cannabis-fueled ideology. I hate fatties.... they eat all the bacon.

JUDAISM: They killed Jesus, so extra points for that. However, they refuse to trade Bill Nie. C'mon, man, that's like when the Yankees signed A-Rod to a twenty year contract. Bill Nie's a bird, man, he's got to be free! Until you trade him to my side, Jews, you are all on full notice. Also, I want one of those little hats. Come on! Gimme a free hat, Jews!

SATANISM: You'd think a church devoted to the subversion of Christ would be cool, but in actuality its all pretty...what's the word? Gay. Yeah that's it. Kids, its time to get real: Satan doesn't want to hang out with you. I mean, if there really was an almighty demon overlord, would he really want to hang out in some goth kid's basement playing D&D while listening to Cattle Decapitation? Wake the fuck up.

WICCAN/WITCHCRAFT: Okay, we get it, you're an overweight Emo chick who reads way too much Twilight and spends all of her Mom's money on crystals and tarot cards; you don't need an entire religion to explain how you fritter your insipid, asinine life away. This religion was meant for exactly two kinds of people: the above fat chicks, all dolled up in Naruto gear and some fairy-themed perfume to cover up the fact that they don't wear deodorant, and the equally fat loser guys who wish to bone them. C'mon, dudes, I've done my share of dirty work to get a lady in the sack, but I've never converted. Time to give up the charade, gents.

Fuck Off, Auto-Tune

Auto-Tune: yet another devious and malevolent creation from the Swedes. Everyone has heard its demonic cry, making even the most talented of singers and performers sound like tone-deaf preteen girls, and thus, everyone knows it must be destroyed. Except for one race of people...

Jews.

Let me start from the beginning. You see, Swedes pride themselves on making great music. Unfortunately, they do not do it very often. Last century, their sole memorable contribution was ABBA, and I'm not sure, but I think one or two of those guys might've been Norwegian.

So, a very evil mensch named Taargus Vun Queefenburg invented a way to make every singer sound exactly the same, because most Swedes are Neo-Nazis, and corporate-mandated homogenized music is just one step towards resurrecting Adolph Hitler; thus spake the wisemen.

At first, only shitty, talentless Swedes and T-Pain used it. Then every rapper tried to use it. Then every shitty singer tried to use it. And then everyone with a MacBook got a hold of it, and shit went crazy, nigga! The beast tasted corporate viability, and it tasted good! It's like when you cut yourself with a kitchen knife accidentally and have your dog lick the blood off. Soon, that dog is biting your crotch at night in an attempt to get more of your sweet, sweet plasma. This is especially true of Vampire dogs.

This corporate viability was especially sought after by the Hook-Nosed Ones. They, with their totalitarian control over every form of media including music and show business, thought the Auto-Tune was a great way to sell recording contracts to talentless white FaceBook whores. They get money, radio gets another annoyingly high-pitched Auto-Tune song, and MTV gets another clap-having jezebel that can look for love amongst forty men selected at random via CraigsList.

Now, one can barely make it through an adult movie without hearing some jackoff wailing away with the Auto-Tune on high. I hate you, Auto-Tune. It wasn't bad enough that you destroyed popular music, but now you take my porn? How am I supposed to concentrate on keeping my erection throughout a two-hour shoot, let alone pretend that the black midget beneath me is the chick from Juno, with you blaring your computerized notes in my ear via XM Satellite Radio? You suck!

I am posting this as a warning to you, Auto-Tune. I am declaring a fatwa on you if you don't back the fuck up and let our rappers rhyme about white women and zanax in peace! I've done this before you know; ever wonder what happened to good ol' Taargus Vun Queefenburg? I had him killed, bitch. My fans are crazy, dude, you don't even know! One word from my sacred lips and every boyfriend-less fat chick with emo hair and their fatter, balder, older brothers will descend upon you like crows on a cornfield! As Wayne Brady once said, brace yourself, fool!

Die Scenester Bitch

To answer your first question, no, I haven't started blogging in German, as I am not a Neo-Nazi, nor am I planning a school shooting (yet). The title of this entry is a plea to the Gods of The Inter-Webs to help me smite these ugly, pimple-face, four-eyed scenester kids, so that I may never be forced to punch my monitor in an attempt to remove them from the screen again.

Everyone knows a scenester kid. Most all dress like they're blind or high, and they all gel their hair into little shiny helmets. I suppose this would be to protect their ears from me screaming, 'DIE FAGGOT!' every time I see them at Wal-Mart. Either that or to protect them from the shopping carts I chuck at them.

All scenesters are exactly the same: vapid, mindless crackers who wander malls like it's Dawn of the Dead. They wear skinny jeans, because they think they're attractive, not realizing that they're just making their asses look huge and making their fat guts waterfall out from under their strangely tight shirts, emblazoned with bands that either a)suck, or b)they don't listen to. Hey, check me out, guys! I'm wearing an NWA shirt, even though I don't listen to them, because it's ironic. Who's ever heard of a rich white kid who likes rap? I'm so original! Bitch, Eazy-E would pop a cap in your chunky ass had he not died a painful, AIDS-related death fifteen years ago.

If you are uncertain about your friends or familial relations feelings towards the scenester menace, then look at their FaceBook page, which everyone has now, because everyone (self included) collapsed to peer pressure. On their page, do they post pictures they've clearly taken themselves while in the bathroom holding the camera sideways? Do these pictures involve them showing off their ginormo tits, buck teeth, and hairy arms? Do they post essays about how much they love State Radio, My Chemical Romance, or worse, Nirvana? Finally, do they still rant about how much they fucking hate George Bush, or as I once saw, Paris Hilton? If so, get your gun and bar the doors... you've got a scenester!

In closing, I'd like to ask the World Bank for money again. After reading this and heeding my advice, surely Bono or whoever the hell runs that Jewish circle-jerk will see that the scenesters must be eliminated, lest our malls be unsafe forever (or until MTV says it isn't cool). I will need $100 billion dollars to fund my one man war, which may seem like a lot, but trust me, you're saving on labor here. Only I need to strike out against the scenester menace, because scenester kids are pussies who don't fight back, and who, when challenged, skateboard away, and then complain on MySpace about how mean cops are and how they totally would've kicked the pig's ass if he didn't have a gun. Kisses!

P.S. Okay, about the Nirvana thing. I feel like I need to address this because for some strange reason everyone who connects to the Internet outside of Starbucks and reads blogs on their laptop listens to Nirvana, which they shouldn't, because they're just buying into what Nirvana stood against. Also, Kurt is dead, and their songs all sounded alike. That might not be so bad, if people would just stop making Mr. Cobain out to be a fucking messiah. He was a drug addict who shot himself out of fear for what might happen if he went on tour still addicted to heroin. Whoopeee. Another dead rockstar. Get the fuck over it.

Julie & Julia: Worse Than Beverly Hills Chihuahua

Amy Adams: "What if I cook my way through Julia Child's cookbook in one year and write a blog about it. Is that crazy?"
Boyfriend: "No, but it's incredibly boring."
Amy Adams:"......"

There's a reason this scene was cut from Julie & Julia, and that is because Hollywood hates the truth, and the truth is that this movie is an asinine, inane piece of derivative horseshit. Only one person in the world should be forced to watch this crap, and his name rhymes with 'Okama Bin Waden'.

The basic plot, and I stress basic, is that Amy Adams is, oh no!, a pretty woman with a problem. She can't fit in. Her boss is mean to her! Boo fucking hoo! Also, her boyfriend listens to her, and is very good looking. Some girls just can't catch a break, huh? But guess what? Our heroine Julia loves to cook! Wow, how original; a woman cooking. Anyhoo, Julia decides the only way to solve her 'problems' is to cook terribly fattening food and blog about it to her annoying, nasally-voiced bitch friends. So she does. The end.

Last I checked, in order for a movie to be entertaining, people need to do things. That's just common sense. But here we see some dumb cunt fritter away her life for an entire year and becoming involved in a delusional relationship with a dead woman who teaches her life lessons, like 'Don't Be Afraid To Try New Things'. Seriously, why does a thirty-something single woman need to learn that? If she did, wouldn't she have learned that years ago? Another 'helpful lesson' the dead broad drops on the idiot is, apparently, to drink cooking sherry. That one was shocking, even to me. Why in holy fuck would anyone drink cooking sherry? It's salty, vinegary, and loaded with pure alcohol. No one in their right mind would, but then again, Julie talks to a dead woman. Now that I think about it, drinking cooking sherry seems perfectly in character.

My last issue with this film is the horrible message it sends to women, namely that people care what they think. This bitch has it in her skull that if she starts a website whose sole purpose is to inform people of her day-to-day cooking habits is a good way to spend a year. If any woman, or man for that matter, thinks this is a good idea, they should be shot alongside their fellow Mongoloids.

Bottom line: this movie is about a desperately lonely rich bitch whose head is so far up her own ass with vanity that she thinks every little moment of her life, including the many times a day she talks to VHS tapes (in 2009?) of a dead French woman, is worth reading about. It is marketed to all people with vaginas and low IQs. It should not have been created, in part or in whole, and everyone involved should be Sodomized to death by polar bears with chainsaws for cocks.

Darsh gives it an 'F', as in Fuckin' terrible. Tune in next week when I review a movie that actually looks good, and I'm sure is going to sweep next year's Oscars: G-Force, the movie about talking guinea pigs who have been experimented on by the government! Cubs win!

More Dreams

Many of you, my loyal followers, will recall that last year around this time I put up an article about my dreams. Remember the one with me riding unicorns and then teabagging some slut? Yeah, that one. Well, I never thought I'd put up another piece about my dreams, but lately they've become...prophetic.

Yes, it's true. I am a clairvoyant. Or at least I've become one. For instance, last night I dreamt that I put my keys on my kitchen counter, and when I woke up, that's where they were. Madness!

Every day is a struggle with my powers. I can't get them to do what I want. I can't predict lotto numbers, or the weather, or when Obama will be assassinated. In fact, I can only predict things that involve me. This is a serious blow to my plans of assassinating President Obama, but I digress.

Sometimes my dreams repeat themselves inside my head. In fact, three dreams especially stand out in my mind. These are the events of the future, people. We must never do anything to upset the balance of time. So put one hand on your heart and repeat after me: "I WILL NOT CHANGE THE FUTURE UNLESS FOR MONETARY GAIN." Thank you. Anyhoo, here's the future.

1) I WILL HAVE A DAUGHTER. I dreamt last week that I was on the Maury Povich show, and my teenage daughter was holding her own infant child, both weeping underneath the hot stage lights. My daughter turned to the audience and said, "I just want her to have a childhood better than I did." At which point I stood up and said, "You're welcome. I mean, really, I'm sitting right here." Of course, this dream brings up one question: if it's the future, why isn't Maury Povich dead?

2)I WILL CLIMB EVEREST. In fact, I'll do it all the time. The first time I do it, I'll be drunk, and just sort of half-assing it. This will be my longest run. Later I'll acquire the tools I'll need to do it correctly, like rope and stuff. After my seventh or eighth climb, people will stop reporting it on the news, and after my twelfth, my Sherpas will tell me to just do it alone. I'll stop after twenty, when the Tibetans who live at the peak tell me to stop coming up to impregnate their daughters.

3)ANTI-GAY INJECTIONS WILL BE MANDATORY. These injections will be required for all citizens who fail a simple gay test: "Are penises nice?" If you say yes, you're either gay or a woman. After a state-mandated 'feel-copping' to determine the subject's gender, they will either be free to enjoy womanhood or subjected to painful experimentation. Somewhere down the line, vaccines will be created, which must be administered every twenty seconds. Those who do not comply will be shot out of a cannon aimed at the sun. Of course, they won't actually reach the sun, but the cannon will be pretty huge, so it will hurt a lot. Also, when you land, you'll be really far away, so you'll have to walk to your car in order to get home. I picked this one up, because for some reason, I have to get these shots. I keep telling them I'm not gay, but they just stick me with a needle and say, "Not for the next twenty seconds," and keep walking.

So, there you have it. My notes on the future. Now, unless I'm confusing my life with the plot of Back To The Future II, I need to get back to 2020 in order to keep my son from being tricked into breaking into a museum with my school bully's grandson. Ta-ta!

The Aristocrats

I am very funny. If you know me, and someone who doesn't know me asked you to describe me, that would probably be the first thing that would come up. My funniness is the stuff of legends. In fact, Legends of The Hidden Temple did an episode where the artifact was my book of funny things I've said. Of course, the kids never got it, because I had snuck onto the set with a billy club and attacked any of them who dared approach my book of funny things.

I'm also quite famous. Sometimes, when I walk down the boulevard (I never walk down streets; you could catch something), a hobo will ask me for a quarter and I'll say, "A guy walks into a bar," and then keep walking. That's one quarter of my famous 'Guy Walking Into Bar' joke.

So, put my funniness and my famousness together, and whaddya get? A powder keg of possibilities, bitch! And all it takes to light the fuse is for someone to ask me to tell a joke...

Here's a quickie: I once set a homeless man on fire. Zing!

But I have my limits. And those of you who worship me, all 180,977 of you, know that these limits are not to be crossed. And the limits start and end with two words. "The Aristocrats."

I will never do The Aristocrats for free. I'm sure you've all heard the joke. A guy walks into CBS Studios in New York City and says he has an idea for a show. Insert some whacky, looney sexual situations, and yadda-yadda-yadda... The Aristocrats. But the beauty of the Aristocrats is not in the joke. I mean, the Aristocrats itself is not very funny. Not because the premise isn't funny; au contrair, mon frair. A guy walks into CBS Studios? He just waltzes in? Hey, pal, you can't just do that! Who do you think you are? Comic genius!

The Aristocrats isn't funny because it's always being told by the fat guy who stumbles up onstage during open mic night at Pablo's Bar and Grill. You know who I'm talking about. He's the one frat boy left all alone in community college because all of his friends are in Iraq. So he stumbles onto the stage, grabs the mic and opens with the Aristocrats. Not funny. In fact, it's the opposite of funny. Not sad, that's more the opposite of happy. Hatred-inspiring. That's more like it.

If you want to hear me do the Aristocrats, it will cost you at least $500. If you want to hear me criticize your version of the Aristocrats, that'll be $100. Hey, that's a bargain. Do you know how much I paid Andy Dick to criticize my version? And later I found out that Andy Dick isn't even funny. Fucking liar.

But here's what I'll give my loyal followers. A few notes on my version, given free of charge (not really, I mean I charge people to look at my site; one human soul per view). This way, you can rip me off in front of your friends, and look funny and cool, until I appear, dressed as Abraham Lincoln, and sue your ass for stealing my material.

1) WE OPEN WITH DIARRHEA 'SHEET' SHOOTING. Basically, it's the same as skeet shooting, but instead the guy shoots at bags full of shit. Also, there needs to be a live audience, otherwise, who do we spill the shit on? Also, we need a Mexican, or at least a white guy pretending. So either a Mexican or Carlos Mencia. In any case, we need them to say shit like 'sheet', otherwise, how will shit rhyme with skeet?
2)TERRY SCHIAVO IS BROUGHT ONSTAGE AND HOT KARL'ED. This will be tricky, as Terry Schiavo is dead, and digging up dead people costs a fuck of a lot of money. Rather, I will spend that money on crystals, which will then be used to travel backwards through time, where I will pick up Terry Schiavo and bring her to the studio for her cameo. After she is beaten with tube socks full of shit and cum (to keep the shit warm), she will be transported back to 2005, where she can die as God wants her to: slowly and painfully.
3)WE END WITH A ROW OF INMATES FROM GUANTANAMO BEING CRUCIFIED. This will be cool because it will attract the Jesus freaks. This way, they can see a bearded, emaciated Arab get tortured within the comfort of their own home! Also, instead of just getting pinned to their respective crosses by big, pointy fucking stakes, each inmate will have jumper cables running from the engines of a row of '66 Corvettes up to their testicles. As the show ends, and 'Keep On Rockin' In The Free World' plays, and fireworks go off (also, let's stick some ostriches in there), the engines roar, shocking each inmate to death. We don't want them to suffer through the pain and humiliation of what happens when the Corvettes ride off the set.

That's pretty much it for my version of The Aristocrats. Also, don't end by saying the show is called The Aristocrats, either. Say it's called 'Darsh's Aristocrats', so everyone knows it was my idea and not yours. Otherwise, how will I be paid for the funny things I've said? Enjoy :)

Fuck You, Bump-Its

Dear Asswipe Who Invented The 'Bump-It',

First of all, go fuck yourself. It's your fault women look like idiots these days. Were it not for your needless shite hitting the shelves, women would look like normal humans. Rather, you've tricked the world's females into believing that they need to look like aliens in order to be socially acceptable.

Yours, Darsh..

Where do I begin shutting down your lies with a laser-targeted tongue-lashing? Mayhaps I'll start your licking at the butt of this problem, which ironically is also where I'll be nipping it... in the butt, that is.

1) THE BUMP-IT PROMOTES THAT STUPID 'I HAVE A BEE-STING ON MY HEAD' HAIRSTYLE, WHICH NO ONE LIKES. It's true, ladies. Now, to be fair, this hairstyle was coming into popularity long before the Bump-It was created. But don't worry, I called my friends at Hammas and put a jihad on the douche who invented it. That having been said, this redux beehive needs to die. Ever wonder why we laugh at pictures of women from the fifties that have beehives? It's probably because they have beehives. Everyone hates this hairstyle; it's time consuming, impractical, and just unattractive. What's worse, most of the women who wear them are those weepy, 'I don't know why everyone hates me' types. Really? You don't know? Well, maybe if you spent less time worrying about your fucking hair and spent more time worrying about what people will think of you after you screw everyone at the prom, then maybe your life would go a bit more smoothly.

2)THE BUMP-IT IS PART OF AN ENORMOUS PYRAMID SCHEME TO MAKE WOMEN LOOK LIKE ALIENS. My friend Dr. Ponzari and I have been carefully watching the Nielsens (that's what we call the TV in our apartment), and have noticed a peculiar trend in women's fashion: the 'I come in peace' look. It started waaaaay back in the days of 2005, when dinosaurs roamed the land, and sea-serpents with beards spoke to us of law and order. The gay, half-retarded Jewish masons who controlled the universe gave women enormous, bug-eyed sunglasses on a whim. But soon this practical joke took a sinister twist, like in that movie where the drunken friends kill somebody, then hide the body, but the next summer, they start getting death threats. You know, Sorority Row. Now that's a teen slasher flick that looks fresh. But back to the aliens. It starts with enormous sunglasses, then anorexia makes a comeback amongst twelve-year-olds and scenesters, the only two kinds people stupid enough to buy huge sunglasses, and now the Bump-It. Big eyes, skeletal bodies, engorged craniums... Invasion! What's next, satellites in the sky that beam television into our computers? God, no!

3)WOMEN WHO WEAR BUMP-ITS ARE FACEBOOK WHORES. Ever since I joined FaceBook, I've noticed a new brand of Internet whores.. FaceBook whores. They don't have webcams, and they don't videotape themselves flossing. FaceBook whores are women who, whilst wearing Bump-Its, create elaborate fantasy realms within the confines of their Info pages. These fantasies are often called 'lies'. In the example below, I'll take the 'lies' out of the 'fantasy' to create the 'truth'.

NAME: Ravencrow Neversmiles
OCCUPATION: Pagan Healer/Chalice Holder
HOBBIES: Worshipping the Dark Lord Faustus, Having Sex With My Fellow Chalice Holder/Husband Aleister Cullen III, Twilight, My Two Kids, Crystals, Evanescence
LOCATION: Hell

Here's the truth:

NAME: Claire Queeflinger
OCCUPATION: Day Manager at Starbucks
HOBBIES: My Two Kids
LOCATION: Sandusky, Ohio

I feel bad for these women. They obviously have no self-respect, and need to wear Bump-Its to feel better about themselves. C'mon, ladies, you're beautiful... on the inside. And you have really loud and interesting opinions about which Lacuna Coil song represents your life best. So, yeah... Also, your internet poetry is great! Everyone loves reading about which parts of Twilight you masturbate to. But maybe you keep that off the internet. If you want to write down your feelings about something like that, maybe you get one of these new things that are all the rage at Hot Topic: Journals! It's just like a blog, except no one can read it. Ever. Period.

Rage: Born on the Fourth of July

As I look out the window of my small, dark, and damp apartment, i see a fat man in biker shorts barbecuing some polish sausage for his two chubby wormlings, one chubby worm-baby, and his disgusting wife. It's a Rockefeller-esque portrait of Americana; the Polska, the 2.5 children, and the morbid obesity. It seems we as Americans have not, throughout the years, lost touch with what makes this country truly great: the endless ability to engorge oneself on ass-meat packed into intestinal casings by dirty, rusted machinery and/or Mexicans.

However, there is one group (the Irish) who cannot seem to figure out the true meaning of Independence Day. I read their posts on Facebook all the time, because when you're unemployable like me, and 3 AM rolls around, you need something to piss you off so that Glorksnak the Destroyer will stay in your closet where he belongs... Moving right along.

Everywhere you look it's the same. "Happy 4th of July... Troops, you're in my heart". Really? Why the troops? Oh, probably because they're in Iraq instead of being at home with their families celebrating, right? WRONG. Here's another gem, sent to me by some asshole in East Bumfuck, Nowhere: "hey fuckface, not troops=no independence day". Oh sure, because every three seconds we get invaded. I can see the logic in that, and... excuse me I'm getting a call.

Yes.... Oh? We haven't been invaded since 1780... And since that was the year the Constitution was ratified by the last State in the Union, technically speaking we've never been invaded? But Pearl Harbor, September Eleventh... Attacks don't count? Wow, embarrassing.

Okay, so thanks to an anonymous whistle blower named Glorksnak, your shit=ruined.

Listen, stupids. The Fourth of July is about Freedom and Independence, this is true. But I'm sick of everyone who knows a servicemen (Coast Guard does NOT count) getting wasted and fist-fighting Arabs at the Kwik-E-Mart and justifying it by screaming out their love of 'the troops'. I think they're trying to say 'soldiers', but maybe 'troops' is easier to say when one's belly is full of Heineken. Anyhoo my inebriated brethren, you are incorrect. The Fourth of July has absolutely nothing to do with troops, soldiers, or even wars. It is a celebration of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, which was actually signed on the Second of July. In fact, the damned thing wasn't even signed by everyone until the Seventh, meaning the Fourth of July is a Holiday of contradictions. Congratulations, Drunky MacGee, your drinking binge means nothing.

I know what you're thinking; "Darsh, you can't say that, dude. Don't you love the troops? They deserve a holiday, too, man." Hey dickface, ever hear of Memorial Day? Or Veterans Day? Or Armed Serviceperson's Week? Oh yeah, when it comes to holidays, 'the troops' really get screwed. Never mind the whole 'going to war and dying for their country' thing, what really sucks is that they only have two holidays and a friggin' week dedicated to their celebration.

I wouldn't even mind these lies about the Fourth being spread if they were being spread by people who have actually seen overseas combat. At least that way, I could say that, although they are wrong, they are fighting for something that truly affects them. Rather, the people who argue, complain, and just totally bitch me out for my CORRECT definition of the Fourth of July are frat boys who 'totally wanted to serve, brah', but were too fat, white, drunk, and stupid to get into THE FUCKING U.S. ARMY!!! That's like applying to a Retard Academy and failing the entrance exam. Have you seen the requirements for active duty? They're a fucking joke! Matter of fact, the only branches of the military which have tough entrance exams are the Marines and the SEALs.

Now you're gonna ask me, "if that's true, why don't you sign up for service". The answer: I'm not stupid. I'm not risking my life so you can make an embarrassment out of yourself on the Fourth. And as for your rantings about how 'troops are defending our liberties by fighting our enemies abroad', I say this...

WAKE THE FUCK UP!

'The Troops' haven't fought 'Our Enemies' since Saddam was captured. Right now, we're babysitting the Iraqis, and quite frankly, are doing poorly. If we were really 'fighting our enemies abroad', we'd be in Korea again, assassinating that crazy fuck Kim Jong Il. Anyone ever wonder why we're ignoring the sociopathic motherfucker with the nuclear weapons who has stated publicly that he's going to attack the U.S.? Yeah, me neither.

Why I Hate The Internet

Why I hate the Internet is the Bigfoot of Internet memes around the compound as of late. That's what I call my blog. The compound. Makes me feel like David Karesh.

I hate the Internet because it is a tool being abused in a most heinous fashion. To illustrate my point, I have made a very nice and above all very expensive graph. However, because I only have one legitimate follower (who will not stop FaceBooking me), I lack the fiduciary flexibility. To put it in terms you losers can understand, I need YOU to tell THEM that YOU love me. Then I will get ENERGY CRYSTALS, which will be used to make my site LOOK BETTER (I put the necessary parts in bold, you guys can skim the rest).

In place of the graph, I have what may as well be an Uncle Spinny-Dervish: a text document.

Here's a list of things the Internet was made for.
1)FREE EXCHANGE OF IDEAS. This is not what you think. Back in the late nineteen-eighties when dinosaurs walked the Earth and fire was as valuable as an iPod Touch, 'Free Exchange of Ideas' did not mean 'the right to dance like a whore in front of a webcam and put it on youtube'. Rather, the exchanging of ideas was meant to be between teachers and students, exchanging research notes and study guides. Imagine, a world full of people using the Internet to learn. What a waste of an existence.
2)CIVILIAN SURVEILLANCE. Ever wondered why early computers were so big? It's because they had spies living in them. Man spies. Even laptops had them (laptops had midgets).

Here's a list of things the Internet is being used for every day.
1)STEALING SONGS.
2)MYSPACE
3)FLAME WARS
4)YOUTUBE
5)STUPID WHITE PEOPLE GOOGLING THEMSELVES
6)POETRY

Dear God... the Internet, my Internet being hacked and raped to shreds... by poets? Fuck that shit in the ass and cover it in bloody diarrhea. I won't take this injustice lying down! It's time we take it back. it's time we ensure that future generations use the Internet as a tool of learning and discovery. And, past 11 P.M., as a tool for pornography. But only past 11. I mean, it seems restrictive, sure, but if you could watch porn at work, wouldn't you? And that's why we have rules.

So, in conclusion: STOP ABUSING THE INTERNET! I'm sick of people looking up their stocks on eTrade, jacking off to videos of dancing sluts that go to school with their daughters, and then Wikipedia-ing themselves to see if someone added them. Really, Mr. Denbrough, why would I add you? Do you think I just add people I know? Do you think I pull that kind of weight with the people at Wikipedia? That I can just waltz on down to Wikipedia's main offices and say, 'cheerio gents, care to add my neighbour to your broadsheets'? No sir. Life doesn't work that way.

quickie: facebook

Dearest worshippers,

A lot of you have been riding my ass since day one to open up a FaceBook, or MySpace, or Twitter, or whatever the hell the kids are doing between bouts of sex and cocaine these days. In any case, your dreams have been answered. Ladies and gentlemen... well, okay, just gentlemen, I now have a social networking site profile.

It took a long time for me to come to my decision about which site would host my profile. I mean, they're all pretty much the same, it's just a matter of which brand name I like the best. Some of you said MySpace, and I said no way, because MySpace is the hunting ground for child molesters and rapists. I don't want to be associated with those Arabs, so I'm definitely going elsewhere with profile. A lot of you also said VampireFreak... Really? You don't know me at all, do you?

In the end it came down to FaceBook and J-Date... and I would've gone with J-Date if the Jews weren't so terribly unattractive. No, from now on, I, Spence Fiffield will be trackable on FaceBook. You can see all sorts of pictures of me, and my friends, and all that... stuff. Yeah, I know, FaceBook is lame. But until 'da man' approves my social networking site, 'VadgeBook', it will have to suffice.
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1798822527&ref=name
Also, have you checked out http://yugiohcardmaker.net/? You can make pornographic children's playing cards! That appeals to the depraved molester in us all! hey, maybe I do belong on MySpace...

quickie: college

Good news, my loyal readers! I'm off to visit a foreign land; a land populated by big-breasted alcoholics and muscular Dave Matthews fans. This land is known as "the place where integrity goes to die", and "keg city, USA". It is a majestic land full of paddling, either woman on man, or much more likely, man on man. It is a land which many desire to one day see, and which many suffer and toil for, only to be told they aren't ethnic enough. Luckily for me, my father was an illegal, so, hey, free College!

Oh yeah, that's what i was talking about before. The land is College. Kind of a stretched out pun, and I'm sure you saw it coming, but I thought, what the fuck, I'm going to college.

I know what some of you are thinking; it's only June! Why are we worrying about you now, oh sacred leader? The answer is simple, fatty; September comes soon enough, and I've got a lot of work ahead of me before I can settle into my new home. To quote my father on my sixth birthday, I might not have enough time to love you anymore. Then he walked out the door, his sweaty hand cradled by the smooth, manicured fingers of the mail man. I'd never seen him smile so big before...

Anyhoo, that's the long and the short of it, and the reason why I haven't posted for real in a while. Hey, I gotta get weed connections, and because I don't believe in MySpace, I'm doin' it the ol' fashioned way. I'll pop in every now and again, and I'm sure during college I'll find some extra funny things to say about white women, but for now, we'll have to get used to seeing other people.

Kisses and toodles,
Spence Fiffield, AKA Darsh

P.S. I know I threw a sponsorship towards that white chick, http://www.fockenspock.blogspot.com, in my 'Blogs I'm Following' section (she's a friend, I guess), but lately she's been a huge wang. Everyone hate mail her! Her weaknesses are:
1)A really bad stutter (she's convinced it's 'cute', when it's about as cute as a root canal)
2)A huge schnoz (you ever see Groucho Marx?)
3)She's a Catholic (everyone mock her for her practice of religious freedom!)

PC or Mac? Who Gives A Fuck?

PC or Mac? Bitch, how about oral or anal? I'm sick of these fucking PC vs. Mac ads. They're ruining TV for me. I can barely get through an episode of The Office without that fat douchebag and that smaller, more hip douchebag ranting on and on about how much PC's suck and how much Macs rule. Well no longer! I'm settling this dispute once and for all! The winner is...

WHITE PEOPLE!

For once, the downtrodden white man comes away with a win. Y'see, no matter which side you choose, whitey gets his due. No matter what you buy, he gets your money, and no matter which side you choose, he laughs at your suffering from on high in the corporate squash room, swathed comfortably in his dress polyester, a margarita in one hand and an illegal immigrant in the other. He's living the good life, and you're rotting like a papaya! Trust me, papayas are real, and they rot quickly.

And why shouldn't he laugh at you? You people sound like idiots when you march around all young and hip/all old and uncool. You think you own the universe/don't own the universe! Let me break down why both sides of this war are complete tools.

SPECIMEN 1: The Mac. Whassup?! I'm that asshole you roomed with in college! I listen to Fall Out Boy, Bloc Party , and, when I'm feeling extra deep, Dave Matthews! Also, I gel my hair to make it look like I didn't wash it or style it at all, even though it's going to be covered nicely by my awesomely over-sized trucker cap that says "Jesus Is My Homeboy". You know what's cool? I mean, other than wearing sunglasses indoors and saying, "Yo" to black people. That's right! Macs! They're way cooler than PC's! Why, you ask? Oh, that's easy... It's 'cuz... uh... they have a neat, uh... well, if the kid from Dodgeball says it, it must be true. I mean, he boned Drew Barrymore, even though she's twelve years older than him! AWESOME! MYSPACE!! Whooo!

SPECIMEN 2: The PC. Hello. I'm the man who sits in the cubicle next to yours. I am a social outcast of unbelievable proportions, I wear a yellow shirt with brown pants, and I am slowly dying inside. Sorry, didn't mean to fly off the handle there. But I'm just so excited to tell you about my PC. It's heavy as hell, a fat white square, and provides mild thrills for a reasonable servicing fee. Just like my wife... if only that were a joke. I may not have an iPod or 'friends', as you call them, but I have a Zune, and my ten year high school reunion is coming up... that should give me a nice opportunity to make people remember me before I go on a shooting spree next month. Well, gotta go. I was feeling randy, so I downloaded some porn off of a site called JCPenny.com. See you all in hell; I'll be the one wearing a yellow shirt and brown pants.

Here's an idea: why don't you all realize that no matter who wins, you lose. Even if you are happy with your computer, you are still a loser. Why? Because you are not me! Oh, and just for the record, neither PC or Mac is the best. LINUX BITCHES!! 'Nuff said.

President Darsh

I was going through a few of my old magazines looking for a collector's issue I could pawn for crack when I found an interesting article on a fairly recent edition of the Hippo. The writer was probably some stoned beard-faced know-it-all like everyone else who writes for the Hippo, I knew, but I thought since the article was on a pretty interesting subject, I'd give it a shot.

The article was called... crap, I sold the issue for crack. Anyhoo, the article was about how the economy is affecting children, and how the funding a given district receives may have an influence on how broad of an education a child receives. The following is my retort.

DUH!

Are you fucking two? Of course a school's funding has an influence on the kids. They're the ones going to that school! A better article would've been about how the school's funding has an affect on however many antidepressants the art teacher takes. Of course, the article was largely pointless. I mean, kids are stupid little sons-o-fucks anyhow; what does it matter how much money we throw at them? This brings me to my latest announcement:

I, Darsh, am running for President of the School Board. I'll just sit here and read porn while that soaks in...

All set? Good. Let's get lubed. That's my catchphrase. Like, when you see my ad on TV, you'll see me talking to black people, or me rolling up my sleeves waaaay up my arms so that I can talk to construction workers, and then you hear my uplifting voice saying the catchphrase: "Let's get lubed."

My platform consists of a one-step plan called the "I-Take-Your-Money-And-Run" option. It's an option because it sounds a lot better on a ballot. Like, oh, I see, this guy just has ideas, that commie bastard, but Darsh has options. That's my game-winner.

My option is simple: I take all the money set aside for school funding and I run. Away from the schools, that is. Y'see, children suck. They don't deserve our money. So I'm taking your money and investing it in a market that cannot fail: hookers.

So how will our little shits learn, you ask? My solution is simple: the hard way (heh heh... hard). No more of those sissy afterschool clubs. Nothing pisses of Daddy like having to hear about every inane and minute detail of what happened to the person who ruined his wife's vagina, especially since he's been working for the past ten hours just so his fat little bastards and/or bitches can gain more weight. Afterschool should not be playtime. It should be 'make-Daddy-food' time, followed by 'get-screamed-at-and-hit' time, then 'get-shoved-down-a-flight-of-stairs' time, and finally 'pass-out-in-basement' time.

Afterschool clubs won't be lonely in Hell, though. Joining 'afterschool' is 'during school'. No more classes, no more books, and no more teachers. We've been hearing lots of horror stories about teachers molesting kids lately. Now that problem's solved. Find another job, you philosophy major!

Out with the old and in with the new. And the new school is called 'Life'. In this new school, you will learn how to live and how to die. Survival is the name of the game, because school takes place inside three Hellginas spread across the Earth like Maya Angelou's legs spread across a black president's face. At the age of six, children will be taught by their parents to read. This will take about two months (any longer and they get a shotgun to the face; we'll tell them we're taking 'em to Disneyland). After that, we test the shits on what they've learned. The reading test is a pamphlet. Kids will choose one of the three schools to attend; Jungle school, in the rainforests of South America; Frozen school, in the tundra of Russia; or Ass school, in the smelliest parts of Turkey. I know Turkey doesn't sound too bad, but have you seen Midnight Express? Better tell Billy not to drop the soap.

If and when the little shits return home, they'll be ready for any task to which the Giver assigns them. Oh yeah, I forgot; we need Givers. But I'll get to that later.

My new plan is sure to pick up steam like a good ol' fashioned steam-picker-upper. But there's just one problem: I NEED FUNDING! So, here's the deal: send me your money, and your kid gets sent to the special fourth school. Called "Dirt" school and taking place in my basement, this select academy is for kids who want to learn the magic of cleaning my stuff, and also staying out of my boxes. So please, won't you give your child the future they deserve? And by that I mean no future?

quickie: Niger1

Lower your guns, loyal readers; the war between Nigers and the Darshans has come to a peaceful resolution.

I know you're all disappointed that a horrific and bloody battle did not ensue at my behest, however, I think I speak for myself and the deposed Prince of Niger (who refuses to answer my e-mails) when I say that in the end, we all wanted a win. A win for me, that is. And we all got that in the end.

I was about to give my top officer, some Korean guy named 'Wang' (I know, can you believe it?), the order to fire on the imposing Nigers when I got an urgent e-mail for niger1@yahoo.com. I present it in its entirety.

Dear Darsh,

I surrender. Please, call back your fatwas on my family, and I will pledge my allegiance to you. I have sent those vials of blood you asked for as well.
One Love, Niger1

First of all, I'd like to say that it takes a big man to apologize. However, it takes a bigger man to gloat about his superiority on his own blog. I retain the crown, bitches! Oh, and to my so-called BFF the deposed Prince of Niger: what the hell, dog? We were supposed to hit up Dave & Buster's last week. You ditched me like some punk-ass trick! You've changed, man.

Making An Example Out of a Doucher

Dearest Readers, I feel that I am not a man of braggadocio; that is to say, I do not make bold, untrue claims. My claims may be bold, but untrue? Another matter entirely. If I post it, it's the goddamn truth. After all, you can't lie on the inter-webs. That would be illegal, or something.

As many of you know, now that my blog is picking up steam like a runaway locomotive being driven by the Incredible Hulk, I have been attracting hate mail like a wet piece of dog shit attracts flies. However, this week marks a first: I got my first inter-webs challenge.

The challenger: niger1website@yahoo.com. This bastard has some beef to queef, I guess. Apparently, when he read that the deposed Prince of Nigeria claimed that I was the hottest blogger in the world, this young blood took it as an insult. Niger, please. His e-mail does all the talking.

Hello so according to a Nigerien or Nigerian ( Niger or Nigerian ) you are the hottest blogger on Earth
i manage http://www.niger1.com

Okay, so you manage a website about Nigerians... what are you, a slave trader? Or, more likely, is it a challenge you seek? Methinks I shall take your challenge head-on!

Now, I am a gentleman (not really; I am never gentle about anything), and as such I am required to allow the challenged to choose in which way I shall destroy and humiliate him over the inter-webs. Oh, I'm sorry, I meant over my inter-webs!

Now, I know what you're all thinking: "Darsh, what if it's all a mistake?" Yeah, well, what if I smack you upside the head with a baby, asshole?! This is between me and this SOB.

So, Niger1, if you've got the stones, e-mail me back with either a proper, mano a mano challenge, or an apology. Either one is fine by me. Oh, and if you're going to apologize, I will need a swearing of allegiance to my cause. Also, you will need to send me some of your blood, which I will use to sign your name in the book of Mephistopheles, and--oh, never mind, it's not important.

In any case, I think it would be a nicety of you to respond within one week. You sir... ARE ON NOTICE! Deal, motherfucker.

So! Let's recap, kids:
Niger1 challenged me, I think. He has only a handful of options-
1)Challenge me properly, which is to say, via e-mail. I do NOT respond to IMs.
2)Rescind the challenge, if indeed that is what your grammatically incorrect message was.
3)Stay off of my website for eternity, or at least until I forget who you are.
See you in one week with the answer!

quickie: Darsh Studios, Limited

Remember way back in 2008 when I talked about putting my own movie on the inter-webs? Well, let the faithful rejoice and the doubters suck a fat one: Darsh Studios, Limited just got launched on YouTube by myself and a few of my trusted colleagues*

Go hit up YouTube and check out 'Time-Cod' for a glimpse of my first ever self-produced work. It's as beautiful as one thousand naked fem-bots slaughtering a demonic horde of zombie-Jews.

Just a head's up. Soon, maybe... just maybe, I'll go global. Then everyone will respect me and not just the dogs who I feed at the park.

*This is a lie. I don't trust anyone, and I certainly don't have any colleagues (DMC and Bill Nie the Science Guy notwithstanding). However, I do have some people who are willing to pay me to sleep with them.

quickie: format change

A head's up to the hardcore:

First of all, you shouldn't be calling yourselves hardcore. You kids know I hate anything that ends with -core; c'mon, you're better than that. Anyhoo, I wanted everyone to know that there will be some changes in this blog's general vicinity. I've been in talks with some kid with a bad haircut about getting a more formal domain of my own to host the blog. Of course, that may pose a legal snafu, as my content is 'technically' owned by Blogspot, not me. Now, I'm no Barack Obama, but, hey, shouldn't 'freedom' factor into who owns the content that my brain-balls produce? You'd think so, wouldn't you? Anyway, go back and replace 'technically', with 'legally', and you've got a firm grip on the situation.

I don't want to cocktease anyone by posting something that isn't going to happen. Trust me when I say I'm definitely getting my own site. Whether or not it will feature 'classic' Darsh remains a mystery. The only thing standing in my way is that kid with the bad haircut. His name is Justin something or other (he's a Polack), and he keeps bugging me about 'content'. Apparently, I need to put, I don't know, like pictures or some shit up on my new site. I said, 'bitch please', when he brought this up the other day, and promptly persuaded (read: forced) him to kiss the rings as it were. Maybe soon he'll pull his head out of his ass and just follow me around with a digital camera and put up what comes out of my pie-hole.

Sermon over; soon, all my children will have a new home. Keep on obeying!

My Evil Council

May is officially here, kids! And you know what that means, right? My Evil Council is holding it's annual job fair! Yaaaaaay!!

If you want a job that involves saying 'yes' to everyone you meet for fear of death by crushing, a job that involves robbing people at ATMs with an AirSoft gun, or a job running people over with motorboats, then come on down to the Evil Council job fair! You don't need any experience; all training is on the job. The only requirements are the ability to swing a sack of doorknobs, an open mind concerning the ethics of torture, and positive proof that you are 18 years or older (even if you're not, you should check it out... I've hired some fifteen year olds in my time).

Those lucky enough to be hired by my Evil Council will enter into a world full of adventure, colorful life experience, and painful lessons in learning to respect pimps. Some of the things you'll occupy your nine-to-five shifts with include:
-extortion
-random beatings (of others)
-scheduled beatings (of you, but the schedule is quite flexible!)
-torture seminars
-corporate barbecues
-various shindigs
Please note, however, that an impromptu hanging qualifies as a 'shindig'.

As a henchman under the employ of my Evil Council, you'll not only find rewarding, life fulfilling experiences ahead of you, but also the chance to learn skills that will aid you well into the future, no matter what career you pursue. Many of my former henchmen have gone on to be catholic priests, for instance.

You may be wondering what benefits this job offers.

Moving right along, let's talk about the respect you'll gain in your community when you join my Evil Council. Imagine the swelling of pride you'll feel in your crotch as you walk into a playground full of children, who run away screaming when they see you. Or, imagine how good it will feel to now you've got an ace in the hole when you interview for a corporate job. Nothing will land you a position at Apple, Inc. quite like a recommendation from Dr. Ponzari!*

So come on down to my Evil Council job fair, where all of your nightmares will come true at minimum wage!

*Please note that Dr. Ponzari is not a medical doctor. He is, however, head torturer and my CEO in charge of Laser Development.

White Trash and iPods

Dear Steve Jobs,

Thanks for everything you've done for stupid poor white kids. Because of your tireless efforts, I have plenty of them to laugh at whenever I go to the mall. In fact, here's a funny story about what happened the other day when I did just that...

The other day I had to go to Best Buy to return my iPod and get a new one because mine refused to sync with my iTunes, even though I had the latest version, was running it on a Mac, and had just bought the goddamn iPod three fuckin' weeks before. Silly me, I forgot that everything Steve Jobs touches is a gold-plated diarrhea taco. I'm sorry, I meant to type Mister Steve Jobs.

Anyhoo, I was waiting for the woman to come back with my new iPod, when I saw a bunch of scenesters stompin' about and whatnot, complaining about how hard it is to get by in President Snoop's America. I was intrigued by their argument. Also, one of them was wearing a Paramore t-shirt, so I knew the conversation would be articulated very well and not riddled with nonsensical colloquialisms like 'yah', 'duh', or 'like'. Like, Paramore fans totally am speaking English well.

I went up and asked what the hubbub was. They all started complaining that because of what President Dre was doing with the economy their foodstamps could only afford an iPod touch 2G, and they would therefore have to wait a week, skate back all the way over to the mall, and buy it then.

I vomited with rage all over each of them.

This is how fucked up America is, and for once, it's probably not a black guy's fault. Probably. We have a fucked up economy because poor inbred white trash keep buying stupid petty shit with their food stamps instead of, uh, what is it? Oh yeah. FOOD. Then these dolts stand around drooling and scratching their heads in bewilderment as to why the price of something goes up whenever demand exceeds supply. 'Well, that ain't fair, President Flav', they say, furrowing their brows in a vain attempt to grasp what is simply ungraspable. Idiots.

Here's a simple proposal for all dumb white people: grow a fucking brain. You sit around on your beer bellies complaining about how President T's blackness is ruining America and how Jesus wants you to assassinate him. But what you don't realize is the wonders you'd be doing for the economy if you spent less money on beer and spent more money on providing for your family. And that brings me to my next point.

White girls: if you can't afford a kid, close your legs. I'm sick of young w0men standing in Kwik-E-Mart parking lots in flip-flops and sweats smoking Newports and complaining that President Blackie McBlackenstein refuses to provide for the white girls. Maybe if you spent less time getting pregnant and more time getting a job and paying for college, then maybe you wouldn't have to rely on a complete stranger. Sounds crazy, I know, but trust me. Having a job helps pay the bills, people. Working, unlike children, actually makes you money. Kids only start making money after you sink at least a hundred grand into them. At least.

Finally, here's a tip I think we can all agree on: stop dealing drugs. All the time, I hear skinny white crackheads out in the parking lot of my grocery store talking about how President Balack YoMama is the next Hitler because he's buying up the world's supply of crack rocks to re-distribute throughout urban America in an attempt to destroy his own race(?). You know what will stop this plan? Stop buying drugs. That way, we won't have a drug problem. You'll no doubt ask me now, 'cuz yer, like, so friggin' 'tarded, 'Hey Darsh, what about all teh drug aDdix awreddy on teh streets, LULZ?'. Well, they're drug addicts. No one cares if they live or die. I'm emphasizing the 'die' part, in case you couldn't tell. We'll sound out a few street crews and shoot any dealers on sight. There, the war on drugs is over. Winner: America! Shock 'n Awe, bitches!!

Oh yeah, I forgot, this is supposed to be a letter to Steve Jobs. I really lost myself in that rant, so I forgot how I was going to wrap this up in a comedic way.

...

This is embarrassing.