Generally Bad Ideas

Chilling in a compound in Pakistan

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 02 May 2011 12:22:00 +0000

Turns out Pakistan may not be the best place to play hide but don't peek with Special Forces troops. While Osama was no doubt well-versed in the art of blending into dirt or worm shit, this time he made the mistake of dying... sure sounds like the game is over for him.

Obama almost decided to give the speech in his silky pajamas.

I don't see why it was so hard with him to come up with a decent disguise. If I were him I would've stocked up on HGH and shaved my head and maybe even gotten a few AK-47 tattoos on my fingers for good measure. But then again that might have been awkward, finding a dead meat-head in a hurt locker.

Proof that Osama's death makes the world a better place:

Twiter got the news first.

The markets just got a little wet.

Hamas tastes saucy again.

Impromptu parties are cool again!

"And let the highest ranked fly tall o'er the intersection." -Traffic News International

Caring About your Looks

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 14:02:00 +0000

Before we get started, A QUICK OBSERVATION: Just realized that the word jeweler begins with Jew. Rabbi wanna buy me a diamond ring?

Why caring about your appearance is a Generally Bad Idea

Explanations and advice is broken down by boob group. Choose your chest category to continue: With Boobs or Lacking Chest Mounds.

With Boobs

Being in the “with boobs” category doesn’t automatically mean you subscribe to the cheerful reoccurrence of the red tide(comma) but if you’re a man with boobs you probably aren’t going to get much out of this post(period) I suggest visiting http://howtolosemanboobsnow.org/.

Common Sense tells women that they should match colors, comb their tangled head webs, and wear shoes, but who tells Common Sense to tell them that? Probably a man with too much estrogen pumping through his system and a condom tucked under his wristwatch; an untrustable fellow.

Boobed individuals are taught the following model of reality: To get a man, you need to

Get goods – this can be done genetically or synthetically. Personally I prefer pathetically synthetic but I've always been more of a “path of least resistance” type so don’t accept any blood or advice donated by me.
Show off the goods – since whipping your goods out on the street is unfortunately frowned upon you might as well twist them up and present them in every other way possible (i.e. Dick in a Box). You can cage your breasts in expensive, frilly wire, put your heels on high risers, or grease your lashes with black ash – yeah, that’ll get ‘em hard.
Give out free samples – if you've ever been to a wholesale market you know the best way to get someone to buy the goods is to let them have a taste. Whether it’s breaking off a dollop of milkshake in the yard or encouraging a skinny dip in the goodie jar, there are some elemental ways to show off what you've got without screwing with the periodic table.

I propose getting rid of #2: showing off your goods through expensive displays involving clit glitter or lipstick (same thing!). If you don’t have goods, save the money you currently spend on lingerie, makeup, haircuts, footwear, braids (I assume you have to pay good money to get a good braid these days,) sunglasses, lip balm, udder balm, tithing, sex tip magazines, bags, food that isn’t salad, international calls, therapy, international calls to your therapist, and pregnancy tests. Take that money and “get big” at the gym and then choose your own adventure between getting implants or breast reduction surgery. If you go with an upgrade, start giving out free samples and I guarantee immediate success. No accessorization necessary. If you decide to reduce, go all the way, take testosterone, become a man, and enjoy a simpler life lacking…

Lacking Chest Mounds

So you’ve got nothing going on up top. No, I don’t mean all the way up top – up there with a brain that only takes up half its rented space – but at heart/nipple level. The fact that you’re lacking is fine with me; boobs aren’t everything. For some reason, you were born to be looked at in the face.

Since you don't have speed bags, why should you care what you look like? If you’re a guy you definitely have HPV and if you are a female reading this section you’re flat-chested and have a lot of free time. Either way, why don’t you go out and participate in our economy or something. Get a rake and comb the yard. Steal a kiss and give it to the homeless. Shoot your neighbor as you wish to do to thyself. Hug an armless person. Mug a harmless person. Drive a few miles under the influence of the posted speed limit: sometimes going exactly 25 MPH past an elementary school during school hours can be exhilarating.

How many of the wonderful activities listed above require “proper grooming?” None. That’s short for: Not a fucking ONE! Turns out all the important and fun things in life can be done without giving a rat’s ass about what you look like.

Flat-chested people of the world, unite! Untie your shoes and burn your socks. Life is meant to be lived naked with your toes in the sand. All nudist Spartans out there have it right; sweep your worries into a corner and sprawl out on the empty living room floor, splinters be damned.

I’m sick of our world, all full of materials. Driving down any road in any city in this country I am reminded of our waste size and how good we are at setting a horrific example for whatever species next develops a materialistic society. My money was on leprechauns to be the first to follow our platinum-lined path to hell, but then I decided leprechauns were a myth just like no-panty parties. I stopped wearing panties and got myself and all my friends boob jobs. If you want some samples just send an email to generallybadideas@gmail.com and we’ll come up with something to show you… or maybe we’ll just come into some sample-sized cups.

I think the next species to worry about their looks will be pandas. They are way too into bamboo, and I could see someone coming up with some sweet-ass bamboo panties.

"Is that a bush in your panties or just the tastiest damn branch in history?" - Panda

Heavy Petting; The Thrill of the Chase

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 05 Apr 2011 03:22:00 +0000

Buffaloes are long and hairy and full of assholes. Their shared history with humanity is pretty much the same. Buffalo Bill had one of the hairiest and lengthy penises the inside of Anne Oakley ever granted access. Buffalo chips live only to be eaten, but aren't as tasty as celery. Buffalo Wild Wings has weird bathrooms.

On the flip side, dreams come true in Buffalo; baseball and other ground-based sports are now handicap accessible.

What happens in Buffalo stays in a wheelchair.

Who or what can lead these Buffali out of this quandry? Tell you what, it isn't going to be someone's bi son. That would be too easy. No, this Buffolution is going to come from the Canadian countryside; from the great plains of a broken heartland. It is going to come from Bailey, the only Buffalo ever to be smarter than it's Canadian owner (not hard).

Update: Turns out Bailey is a bison, so apparently he isn't the second coming of the Buffalo Jesus unless he plans to pull off a species change. That just proves that buffalo are screwed and bison rule the grasslands.

Click here if you want video. You do.

Bailey winks at underage floozies and does unspeakable things to every vegetarian he can get his mouth around. He lets the dog ride alongside him in the back only so he can unleash digitally remastered mustard gas into the dog's face. In an unaired interview with owner Jim Sautner, the buffalo's owner admits to having to stop every few miles to scoop up the unconscious dog from the dusty edge of the dirt road.

Despite these foibles, why will Bailey come out on top? Because he doesn't run and he doesn't hide. He doesn't even know how. All he knows how to do is block the shit out of driving engines and ride a shotgun like a sex toy. He stays calm in the face of pressure and comes in the face of pleasure.

While completely saving the Buffalo brand isn't an attainable goal, a lot can still be accomplished. It's all about using the resources at hoof. Bailey has charisma, chocolate genitals, and an endless supply of mustard gas. Just getting his story out there will help the Buffalo cause. Even if Bailey ends up being a fake savior, the days to come can always be digitally remastered.

Run and tell that.

Ultra Music Festival

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 30 Mar 2011 22:23:00 +0000

This guy had a head on a swivel; he was staring at me wherever I went.

8 Reasons why UMF is a Generally Bad Idea:

1. People die every year.

While dying in the sweaty arms of a total stranger isn't the worst way to go out, dying in the sweaty arms of a total stranger who mistakenly thinks you're a blowup sex doll is.

Flag parasite takes over brain function, kills host, sprouts.

2. There are teenagers.

Half the crowd is of an undefinable age, somewhere between born and dying, but it is hard to miss the groups of friends that trip past you with an average age of 17. The part of the crowd that is over 17? Doing their damn best to act like they are 17. It's a Catch 17; the pitcher missed the catcher's signal and the catcher forgot his glove. Playin' hardball.

3. Your hearing takes a serious step toward deaf.

If your eardrums were castles, they just got stormed by a horde of troll whores carrying torture tables that mix broken bones better than wrecked chords. To add insult to injury they were wearing Beats headphones by Dr. Dre, who hates trolls.

DJ AdolfH lays down a sick set of beatings as one supporter cheers.

4. Saying UMF has bathrooms is like saying guys named Slyde don't suck bananas out of unwashed hammocks.

In fact, I think I might have seen some impromptu hammocking taking place behind a few of the outhouses. In any case, I would say out "houses" is an overstatement. "Trailer toilets" might be more appropriate.

5. All the hot girls have boyfriends.

On the rare occasion you are lucky enough to spy a lass with class you must also immediately notice her boyfriend who has his tongue up her shirt and his hand down her throat.

6. Some of the hot girls have shanks.
A trip is a trip is a trip, unless the tripmaster happens to have nothing to chew on but a plastic water bottle. I watched in awe and visceral fear as the cutie next to me took a good four hours out of her day to chew and twist a water bottle into a prison shiv. While the smile on her face told me she was harmless, the sharp tip of the weapon she held told me some life moments should have asterisks. As in: Ultra Life Moment #121*. *Could have been murdered here, the drugs she was on probably saved my life.

7. The food costs more than a vasectomy, which costs more than you could pawn your self-respect for after attending Ultra. One of the most ridiculous things I've seen in my life: a hotdog, corndog, and fries combo for $20. Yes Ultra, I know everyone there is high rollin', but not that kind of rollin'. I guarantee if you install a cotton candy machine and a stand that sells latex gloves with lotion in them, you could charge whatever you want and make so much money you can open a UMF bank. Then you can buy your own damn ATMs, launder money onsite, and fuck the free world out of more money then you already are. Take that $5 you are making off of every sold bottle of water and get yourself a good rape lawyer, because you bruised more than my ego when you stormed my castle earlier.

8. Tickets. While an original ticket can be had for less than $200, which isn't so bad, once the $60 service fee is processed the shit starts to pile up. Next on your bill is overnight priority shipping, which is your only option. Then, book a plane ticket or buy a fucking yacht, it doesn't matter; you're going broke anyway.

Everyone on this boat faces the same direction. Someone should attack from behind.

Silver Lining
Despite everything I said, Ultra can change lives like domestically abused partners change door locks. The experience can best be summed up with the following quote from an esteemed U.S. Naval officer who I played strip poker with under a palm tree at 4 A.M.:

"After this, prepare to live a hollow and meaningless life thence, because you'll never again have as much fun as those three damn days."

Backpack watching is the new Baywatching:

Whatcha got in there? Back that pack up!

"Panda, give me strength to cover these shameful loins with neon."

Unbiased research continually points to koalas as the instigators for most orgies.

Yoshi wears small Asians when he want a backpack.

Turtles suddenly aren't as harmless when they train to be ninjas and smile.

Swinger Parties

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 18 Mar 2011 15:37:00 +0000

If there are two things I know it's that existentialism is real and that swinging without restraint is bad for the heart bones. For those who may not know, a swinger is someone who thinks every room in the house is a potential playground and that marriage is between a square peg and however many round holes that square peg can get to come over on a Tuesday night.

Swinging started in the animal kingdom around the time animal rights became popular in China. Most animals have sex: Fact. The "missionary" and the "falling goat grab" are favorites among the more conservative creatures - but it's still sex. There are some animals, however, that take inbreeding to the next level. These are the swingers. To them, sex is a joke with 85 punch lines and a gene pool is what happens on the forest floor whenever a group of monkeys comes together.

According to LiveScience:

Bonobo moms hit up their kids when they're feeling frisky
Spotted Hyenas can't help but cross swords because all the ladies have boom-boom sticks
Male walruses have recently admitted that they are basically just large, cold-water penises
Hanging flies seduce with delectable snacks: Aphrodisiacs
Little Brown Ant-anus mouse things touch their males so hard the men drop dead afterward

Fighting in Low Lighting

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 18:38:00 +0000

Ever seen Fight Club? Ever seen an overweight corrective actions officer sprint up three flights of urine-painted stairs just to nightstick a former heroin dealer for shooting the Lord's name in vein? Well I've seen both, among other, more contumacious random acts of violence.

Hockey fans tell me this action by Zdeno Chara is an illegal hit/check/poke/boomboom. I don't know anything about hockey but I say the only two things illegal here are how Zdeno spells his name and that I've been talking to actual hockey fans. As punishment, I'll be taking my next 10 phone calls from a Death Penalty box.

Violence isn't so much prevalent in our culture as our culture itself is violence. Our bodies are built to do three things: sleep, eat meat, and resolve conflict by ending lives. If you have a hunger problem, kill something tasty, gorge yourself, and then sleep it off until your next meal. As you can see, violence accomplishes all three things are bodies are meant to do.

Want a real life example? Check out this giggle of trannys, getting wistfully visceral over what must be the best damn taco meal in San Diego:

If you're itching to get your hits in, seize the opportunity! All around you is proof of the beauty of life. There, a face poised for punching, jaw unsettled, jutting, waiting for fist to meet flesh in a cascade of knuckle kisses. Behind you, unwatered sidewalk cracks wait to be quenched with the blood you will help release in the street fight you're about to start. Stop bemoaning your job and your gas bill and your atrophied sex muscle and erect yourself. Walk, no, run, to the nearest person you don't know and show them just how pleasant meeting a blog reader can be!

(DIY) Doing it... yourself?

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 01:24:00 +0000

Look up "how to be emotionally evolved" on the internet and it will probably tell you to give a hand job to your therapist in order to reach the climax of self-awareness. You can think of that as Generally Bad Advice, even if it is from a collective intelligence of the Internet. I say fuck you therapist, if I wanted your approval I'd send you some naked headshots, and maybe if you're lucky, pictures of my face.

Why would anyone want to become better in the first place? Because there is literally nothing else to do these days. [Baby Boomers, track stars, Whitney Houstons, crawdad fishermen] are getting bored. This is completely understandable. When you have enough food, enough water, marginal amounts of sex, access to basic cable, and buns in the oven, you have to look for something to fill that void inside you. No, I'm not talking about the liposuction cavern around your waist that nobody is comfortable talking to you about... that closed up a long time ago. I'm talking about the perpetual stupor of the unfulfilled. The drive to create something meaningful; to feel useful. The need to return to the old ways; the ways of the young. To Do It Your(goddamned)self (DIY).

When I first heard of DIY I assumed it was a group supporting Donkeys In Yemen, an animal anomaly that scientists have been loathe to investigate because no one gives a jack's ass or a Shi'ite about how many Sunnis there are in Philadelphia. I was completely off base. It turns out DIY just means doing it the hard way, America-style; by baking their own cake, the entire American public was able to sit back with a full bowl of expanded waists and get off on watching the rise of the middle yeast. If you ask the right person, you'll find out we glued an entire region together with no instructions whatsoever and God's Army of One. We simply said "Fuck you United Nations, if America wanted your approval we'd send you grenades filled with permission slips. Save yourself some time and let your jawballs drop right now. Grow up"

My ears ringing with the harmony of political discord and feeling high off my country's recent Accomplished Missions, I decided to take DIYourself to the next level. I dropped in to visit my friends at the neighborhood dollar store and bought myself a whole hell-of-a-lot of lasers. No, I wasn't going to try and make Conan, I'm not that kind of idiot. I was going through a rough patch with my eye contacts and I figured between myself, a few well placed lasers, and Google I could come up with a new eye care plan.

Here's what I learned: Your eyes are your body's prize. Consult a doctor before attempting a self-proctor. It turns out that even 15 low-tech lasers - manufactured by Chinese kids at a factory picnic - don't do shit as far as fixing vision issues. When my eyelashes fell off and my irises started to boil, I thought I saw angels dancing in sugarplum outhouses and tomatoes committing fruitless crimes of passion. I decided to call the whole thing off when the junior I hired from a local alternative education high-school to oversee the operation started to scream. He tried to help me stand up but I did it myself.

Whatchu "looking at" dog?

The entire experience made me realize that just like the United Nations, I need to grow up and hire the experts to get shit done. If the goal is world peace, call in the doves to drop dirty bombs on terrorists. If the goal is eyes that can see what's going on more than a few inches away, start praying really hard with your eyes open. Eventually you'll be bestowed with the miracle of clear vision; a vision of a future in which you don't:

wear glasses and look like a nerd
play fag-tag with your Internet friends
take screenshots of Pandora's Box whenever she shows off her sexiest see-through songs
type hard into your diary when no one comments on your Facebook posts
look up solutions to your problems on Google
perform reverse psychology below the pantyline (sexual position reference)

There you go. Get out there and realize your potential potential. Live like a rebel. Take off your pants and peel a banana in front of a school bus. Or, if you've really learned your lesson, do the logical thing and hire a recent college grad to do it for you.

Publicity

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 02:52:00 +0000

We just done a guest post on The Blogg Pound on why it is a Generally Bad Idea to form a yoga team.

In other news, we got mad props for our jokes from comedian Anna Lefler.
We submitted two answers to the question: "Why did the chicken cross the road?"

Because her soon-to-be-hatchling was egging her on.
Because the other free-range chickens on its side of the median were mean, and it was in a bad mode.

In related news, dolphins are learning to build spaceships and Charlie Sheen likes coke.

Donating Plasma from the LHC

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 20:17:00 +0000

Quarks and plasma... it's all the same in the dark. Unless it's dark matter.

Let's talk about what would happen if somehow you were brilliant enough to sneak plasma out of the Large Hadron Collider, but just stupid enough to try and then make money off that plasma at the Red Cross.

According to the Red Cross' website, their sole purpose as a non-profit entitity is to

"Rid the world of blood shortages through tricking people who already have money to experience blood loss for no money. This is accomplished by appealing to a worldwide network of people who suffer from delusional self-worth."

"Shit I look good."

I've always been of the opinion that even donating double platelets would only yield just enough blood to reverse the death effects of three blind mice trying to commit suicide the old-fashioned way - with owl talons. For now I'll focus on mice; there just isn't enough blood in my body to have any effect on another human. Side note: look into vampirism. Sider note: don't look into a mirror for vampirism.

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT! As pointless as it is to try to save the world through tossing off a few pints of blood, you should do it anyway. Why? Because even Chinese lesbians are doing it.

But enough about boring old blood. The story begins to get more exciting when you introduce the character of plasma, who will be played here by Conan. Conan is worth a little more than the rest of us basic blood types, if only because it is harder to get him to divulge his secrets; his crimson wares, his little red school blouse. The easiest way to derive Conan from nature - aside from unleashing him from your internal cables into a limpid, life-saving sack - is to shoot hot sciency ionicles at each other until they collide. The resulting product, its existence so short it's almost a joke, is what we know as Conan.

"I have a 17 mile penis."

This quote might help explain things better. From "Hunting for 'Sparticles'," an article on the Large Handjob Collider.

Meanwhile, scientists smashing protons together at nearly the speed of light announced they are getting closer to narrowing the search for dark matter, that invisible stuff that can be detected only by its tug on normal matter.

So basically, even as scientists search to find the cure, we have dark matter sneaking around giving tug jobs to us pieces of normal matter at their pleasure. The LHC was designed to speed up this masturbatory process. The resulting output of these ultra-quick tug jobs is a Conan. Conan is worth a lot of money.

So let's say you have managed to steal this Conan, and you're storing it in a parallel universe (because heaven knows it's unstable in this one). When do you bring it back? How do you go about getting maximum dollar for it? Your typical Red Cross doesn't have the kind of cash or credit you're going to need to make the transfer worthwhile. Add to your troubles the fact that during the transfer you're likely to blow up the entire universe... and you've got some major insurance issues to work out.

How to Donate Plasma from the LHC to the Red Cross:

Text Dan Brown - Nothing can stabilize Conan like a Demon and nothing can woo the Red Cross like an Angel. Dan Brown has access to both, and he probably isn't doing anything today.
Wear ear and ass plugs - Conan seeks solace in your innards. Remember, you don't want him in you, you want him in your bank account. Ear plugs keep him from talking his way in, ass plugs keep him from thinking about creating black holes.
Break me off a piece of that glacier - You're going to want to keep Conan cold or he won't be worth any money. Might I suggest using the Titanic as a lunch bucket and a mid-size glacier as an icepack. Or, you know, whatever you have laying around the backyard.
Kill your accountant - If you don't have one, get one, and then kill him. I can't tell you how many people I've seen fail at kidnapping Conan just because their accountant panicked while they were strapping Conan to a chair with string theory.
Take Iron pills - Yes, I know you've got nerves of steel. But the donation center will reject you outright if you don't have the mettle to prove your metal count.

There you have it. You're still likely to fail miserably, but at least now you know a bit more about how Conan works and how to avoid structurally unsound blood-sheds.

Drunk Dialing the "Big Boss"

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 01:00:00 +0000

If you ever get drunk (and you do), then you should be all too familiar with how sometimes, in the throes of a drunken stupor, your frequent trips to Imaginationland can become all too real.

For example, there's that time you imagined that the girl at the summer barbecue wore a muumuu because it allowed her to move freely, not because normal human clothes no longer fit her. It took you two days to recover from the sexual beating, but then you got drunk again and imagined you were a better man for having weathered her... blows.

Sometimes drunken revelries make good stories to share with the guys. You can sit around the bedfire swapping stories and body fluids while the sun sets, then claim that you weren't kissing you were just "whispering something into his mouth."

Then there's the generally bad decisions, like when you profess your love to your buddy's fiancée because you mistook her shaming glances for the "sexy eye." The resulting persecution can be the source of public humiliation. But public shaming can be an uplifting experience. Look what it did for Jesus:

Look at that hang-time!

What!? You don't believe in Jesus or his pop-pop? Me either. I had "atheism" tattooed onto all my sleeves for god's sake... and onto my dog's ass for my dog's sake. It makes him a badass.

"I'm drunk, I'm about to do something horrible. I should pray about this."

God, that is such a bad idea. But if you must do it, remember to tread lightly, like a pair of high-fashion heels at a gay pride parade. You've been ignoring the big fella for your entire life, so if he does exist, he's pissed, perhaps vengeful. Don't go and start believing that the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Tim Tebow is alive inside of you and wants to hear all of your hopes and dreams. Do you remember that girl you were "dating" in college, the one that you'd only call when you were blowing a .15 and above? Remember how happy that made her? It didn't. Now picture her with a white beard, a full quiver of lightning-tipped arrows, and thousands of years of pent up "you act like I don't exist" rage.

"Hope you catch my ThunderClap!"

God's a righteous dude. His pain-inflicting days ended with Job and started again with Michael Douglas. God is going to take your prayers and sell them to the devil for pennies on the Euro. If you ask him for help hooking up with the gravy goat wearing the Forever 21 earrings, he'll give her to you for a wife alright, but she's going to have crabs. And her crabs are going to have crabs. And she's going to make you eat them both, every day, until the Devil wears Prada. And let's be honest, the Devil would rather ask God for a raise in his allowance (1 million souls per fiscal second).

Putting a Black Swan Baby on a Diet

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 14:30:00 +0000

Dieting While Pregnant May Harm My BABY!

This study, profiled in what I can only assume is a European style of journalism on the Diet Blog, is chock full of Generally Bad Ideas. Some highlights:

The study was carried out in baboons: I guess there was a shortage of lab rats, trailer-park teens, bastard bunnies, and chimps. Otherwise, why would you want to look at baboons everyday? I'd rather make out with a praying mantis.

Old face, young body: The Curious Case of Benjamin Baboon.

Did you know that dieting during pregnancy can damage a baby’s brain? – How’s that for a "head start" on life?

The Diet Blog uses the word "foetus" – Think about it: these are brain-damaged fetuses, they don't need any more letters in their names. The only possible outcome is confusion. On the count of 1, every fetus in the room, say “Feed us!”
Quotes:

“One group ate as much as they wanted during the first half of pregnancy while the other group was fed 30 percent less.” Statement of the year, in my opinion. "Hey buddy, what diet are you on? Oh really? I’m on the 'You eat whatever you want and I eat 30% less' diet. Want to join me?”

The scientists in the study called out teen moms and old ladies, pleading “Don’t have babies.” Apparently this increases the chance of the baby being born to a teen mother or an old lady, which is a Generally Bad Idea.

“Other experts have agreed that dieting is a bad idea in pregnancy.” OF COURSE!!!!! Even experts know that following through on Generally Bad Ideas can be harmful to NOT ONLY YOURSELF, BUT BABIES EVERYWHERE!

So, let's say you just got pregnant (see any other post on here for how to accomplish pregnancy if you’re looking to conceive). What diet should you follow to make sure that your baby has no chance of being smart?

In case you didn't know what to do, the very next post on the Diet Blog is about

The Black Swan Diet

Are you serious? Black swan? How common are those? Sick of this blog’s rampant racism and swan support, I wrote to their editor-in-chief: a know-it-all going by the name of Natalie Portman, who is also the subject of the article. Seems she was too busy “filming” to respond. I can only take this to mean she was eating two berries a day and practicing high-speed vomiting into a porcelain poop community. That's what "filming" means to me.

So, what should you do if you want to become a Black Swan? Simple: “starve [yourself] and train intensely.” Brilliant. Next step: ask yourself rhetorical questions like

“Don’t people realize that movies aren't reality and what we see on the big screen, whether it be skinny or extremely muscular, came at a high price with much help from experts in nutrition and personal training?”

After asking yourself such probing questions, your psyche should be so shook up that a trip to the porcelain ballroom is the only logical next dance step. Continue along this path until your baby holds up a white flag and says "Fuckit, u win. I'll start eading my brayn sells sinse you seam incappabul of feeding me."

Dying at a Super Bowl Party

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 22:15:00 +0000

There are a lot of good ways and a lot of good reasons to have a heart attack. Maybe you come home to discover a scene in which your wife is getting frisky with Fido. Phenomenal time to die.

Perhaps you just finished off two roast beef sandwiches and entire year's worth of well-written Playboy articles. No better time to get in touch with your heartbeat.

But at a Super Bowl party? What good is that? You ruin the entire Super Bowl experience for your friends, you don't get to see the end of the game, and the money you bet on the Packers goes to Brett Favre's favorite charity: a stripper working out of a cow barn.

Fool-proof checklist for living through the Super Bowl:

Break out the baby pictures - Revisiting the time you plucked the family chicken completely naked and used the feathers to build a fort guarantees enough karmic propulsion to survive at least two more Super Bowls.
Watch the game on mute - Even listening to heavy metal is sure to have you more even-keeled at the end of the game than listening to idiocy on repeat.
Watch the Puppy Bowl during half-time - Rumored to extend life expectancy by a year and coyote genitals by an inch, the Puppy Bowl is revered by experts as one of the "Top Ten Reasons the Apocalypse Hasn't Happened Yet."

CNN Article on Super Massive Heart Tickles

Things you shouldn't volunteer to do

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 12:05:00 +0000

Disarm a bomb based on "heavy cinematic experience"

Tick. The night is going by slowly. You've been chatting up the coat rack in the corner... and that isn't a metaphor. You've been chatting with the coat rack. Suddenly, Wendell's cousin busts down the screen door with a plastic knife from KFC, blabbering on about some bomb scare at the sperm bank. Of course, your ears perk up because the sperm bank is where you got the low-interest loan for the boob job.

Tock. No one seems to be volunteering to look into the potential bombing. You scenarioize in your head and decide there's really no way you aren't doing it. Your girlfriend has a 24-hour webcam trained on the sperm bank so you know she'll know that you "disarmed the bomb" and will probably let you play with her for the first time in weeks. I mean, what girl isn't going to let you disarm her from that 18th century frock after watching you save the sperm bank that gave you the loan so that she could get a boob job so she could show her friends her new coat rack. After thinking about this, you're so worked up that another party-goer takes one look at you and screams "This guy wants to disarm the bomb! Hooray!" Everyone is cheering, champagne is dripping from the ceiling fan, and you know that you're going to have to try one of the hardest things in the world...

...capturing a Rare Animal without using the Buddy System

Tick. To take down the bomb you're going to need a buddy. You are pretty self-aware; you know that you work best within the comeraderie comfort zone of a snowy white owl. Problem is, in order to catch this owl buddy, you're going to need a buddy to help track it down. Owls are among the most pretentious pieces of shit you'll ever meet; they won't even look at you unless you're toting someone famous alongside. Then they get all nervous and cross-eyed when asking for an autograph even though we all know they have 20/10 vision.

Tock. You know the history of the owl you want to work with. It grew up in the park across the street from where they filmed Full House, so you know it will work best if you approach it with one of the actors from the show. You're going to need John Stamos, goddammit. But to get to him, you're going to have to...

...take Pictures of Government Officials

Tick. Only the government knows where John Stamos is. To get anywhere in your negotiations with the Agency, you are forced into taking surveillance photos of high-profile senators lollipopping homeless men in the mouth with thick cans of creamed corn. You feel dirty, but it pays off when "an unnamed political official" from Georgia gives you an invisibility clock and $10,000 in very marked bills to delete said photos. The Senator then informs you that John is hiding in a bomb shelter halfway down an elevator shaft at the sperm bank. You throw away the invisibility clock because time and time again you can't find it to hit the snooze button when the alarm goes off: useless. With the $10,000, you buy an invisibility cloak and penetrate the sperm bank. John Stamos is just getting off of a treadmill with his pet koala slouched across his shoulders. You open your mouth to say something, but it is a Generally Bad Idea to...

...Tock. to John Stamos

Like a pie chart at a circle jerk convention, John Stamos is the most colorful dyke at the geography store. He breathes louder than a meteor-gasm hitting a black hole and he orates with more passion than Kayne West at a vagitarian picnic. You know you need John to flirt with the star-struck owl but hell, conversing with him is going to be harder than clipping those crematorium coupons after your godmother died.

You notice that the koala looks impervious to the poisonous pheromones seeping from Stamos, and you

deduce that this is one badass, battle-tested bamboo consumerist. If any sidekick can help you disarm a bomb, it's this koala. Fuck the owl. So you kill John with the truth - by showing him the comments on his IMDB page - and take the koala for yourself. It bites you, but you can tell from the teeth marks that the bomb stands no chance.

The koala only needs one bottle of water to refresh after drinking an entire forest fire.

You can't find a single piece of evidence that a bomb ever existed at the sperm bank, but you do find out that John was there to donate sperm, and that this was frowned upon by most everyone in existence. Basically, all you were was a koala-toting tool used to keep John's sperm out of the bank's safety deposit slot. Job well done. Bravo! To celebrate, you throw a party at the back of your throat and nobody comes but the koala.

Blog Battle - Nick Cannon Vs. Gary Busey

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 20 Jan 2011 16:15:00 +0000

Every King has a dream. Similarly, every turtle has a shell, every sidewalk has a crack, and every factory has its ashholes. Well then, shouldn't every blog have its battle?

Here at Generally Bad Ideas, when we aren't having wet nightmares and screaming in our sleep, we like to dream big. Real big. In this dream of ours, two proven celebrities go keyboard to keyboard in a war of words; in this dream, Nick Cannon blog-battles Gary Busey.

Why should they accept this challenge? Because all it takes is one Generally Bad Idea and access to a computer for Merlin-style magic to be made. We picked these men because we have an inkling and a clue that they are flowering with bad ideas. We are also pretty sure they've never done anything like this before; we are offering them a swell experience, like when a drive-by preacher asks if you want a piece of holy candy. God, swell is such a cool word.

Nick now has babies to take care of, but we think he'd love to show his tyke(s) how good he can be with written language. In addition, he's battle tested. He's done some wily stuff on Wild 'N Out, that crazy stud. And anyone remember Drumline? That's the movie when Nick went from snared crab to celebrated sex symbol with a few flicks of his snappy wrists.

Gary experienced a similar transformation on Celebrity Fit Club. It wasn't entirely clear what was going on in the show, but there was a lot of screaming, sweating, praying, and muscle spasms, so there must have been exorcising at some point.

"Hey cameraman, do you want a crotch shot or a gun shot?"

The point is, both Gary and Nick are great guys with Generally Bad Ideas. The question is: Whose idea is better? Or "worse"?

Potential Topics to Choose From:

Driving a Railroad Spike into a Cow (AKA Cow-Spiking)
Taking your Girlfriend's Dad to a Rave
Making Shameless Love during NASCAR
Spraying AXE into a Crowd vs. Spraying Hatchets into a Crowd
Wheelchair Salsa Dancing

Two Babies, One Father, No Pick-up Line

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 19 Jan 2011 03:21:00 +0000

"I am unable to reproduce" never has been and never will be a socially acceptable pick-up line. The negative acceptability quotient is infinitely multiplied if

(a) you live outside of China or (b) you actually are fertile...

...fertile like a crescent moon, a cold sore at Hot Topic, or Shawn Kemp. Even though most Game theorists (imagine Russel Crowe playing Mystery!) would agree that the conversion ratio on such a poorly worded introduction would be lower than the Reign Man’s career three-point field-goal-percentage, there is a small chance that some poor lass - some unfortunate combination of dumb/drunk/horny - would fall heels over thighs for your fabricated low-sperm count legend.

Real recognize real but dumb has a profound inability to identify its own likeness. Just like a bird in a truck is worth two cheeps in a jeep, chances are this psuedo-tard you've inconceivably propositioned has a wing-woman with similarly questionable instincts. Think back to high school, when the other kids were in "numbers" class. You cleaned the ovens while the lunch lady explained to you with a handful of rotten baby carrots how two negatives can sometimes equal a positive.

Or was that double positive? Shit, you don't remember. Well...

Karma is a sit-down-and-shut-the-fuck-up comedian. Kinda like Dennis Leary. Also like Dennis Leary, karma is an asshole.

Nine month’s later you wake up to the smell of expired potential and the sound of two diaper-eating kids screaming to their respective mothers for nipple access. The situation reminds you of the basement your dad blew himself up in when he found out you were having retarded twins by different mothers. Life just doesn't have the same snap, crackle, pop! that it used to, so you've turned to slaps, crack and pot to help modulate your mediocrity. Welcome to Fatherhood. Also, welcome to tax breaks you had no reason to look forward to just a year ago.

You sit down to write out possible alternatives to what you could have said back then, back when you had the audacity to hope that telling the least attractive chicken in the hen-house that you couldn't lay eggs would get your eggs scrambled. Here's what you could/should have said:

"I graduated from Old School High School; I still write with a quill. Have you any ink, Octopussy?"
"I'll buy you a drink if I can borrow your phone number for this credit card application I've been working on."
"Can you bend over and check the floor? I dropped my pick-up line around here somewhere."
"I swear I recognize your voice from the Suicide Hotline..."
"You can call me Rhett or Rick; but don't ask me rhetorical questions. Do you like to hear pick-up lines?
"I forgot to register for next month's erection. Do you any idea where I can sign up?"

Substance Abuse on a Blind Date

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 11 Jan 2011 19:42:00 +0000

"Your dress looks pretty."

"I'm not wearing a dress..."

"Oh. Ohmygod I thought you were wearing a dress. You aren't." You stumble over your thoughts, finally settling on one... you shouldn't have smoked your grandma's medical marijuana before your first blind date with the blind chick.

"Blind dates are my specialty..."

She looks good in that dress she's wearing, but you've recently learned you can't necessarily buy what your eyes are selling. She looks like a visitor from space. A dolphin dildo in flower print, squeaking for fish bits.

"Oh so you're ordering fish?" You sure do pride yourself on your ability to spark conversation, don't you?

"No, the smell of fish makes me queasy. Also, we're still waiting to be seated." She speaks confidently but smiles nervously, unsure if you are making fun of her or if you are just antsy to order the Catch of the Day. The hot hostess finally gets over her fear of your blazing eyes and leads you to the booth in the corner. The 70's-style decor is covered with dried splashes of ketchup but it seems unnecessary to mention this to your date.

You say "I'll take a banana split smoothie!" even though the only drinks offered on the menu are coffee and Pepsi products. When the waiter actually comes over to take your order, you ask about your smoothie and he explains that he hadn't even gotten to ask for your drink choice yet. You chuff and roll your eyes, saying you'll take whatever your date's having as long as it isn't as pulpy as orca drool. Effective use of marine analogies, douchebag.

The waiter leaves and your excuse for ignoring your date evaporates like a condensation penis on a summer windshield. You ask about her kids and she says she doesn't have any, she's 19 and has never had sex. You agree.

You tell her that she pales in comparison to the dirty menu, which you expect will be taken as a compliment. Instead, she takes the glass condiment bottles and whips them across the room, buzzing like a hive Queen when somebuzzy has tapped into the Royal Jelly. "This is probably a dream," you think out loud. She assures that it's not, out loud. The waiter returns with the drinks just as your date calms down and settles back into the child seat you've chivalrously pulled up for her.

When you calmly ask the waiter about the availability of bibs, she screams and snatches her chainmail purse, sprinting toward what she thinks is the exit. You squint, nearly crying, as the head cock gently struts her out of the kitchen and back to your table. It is around this time you realize you forgot your wallet.

You switch into discovery mode, asking her the same question in one hundred different ways: "What's it like to be blind?" She describes a world inconceivable to you, a place where noise and mental acuity are just as important as porn and colored contacts. You think you're beginning to dig her, so you stroke her sideburns and ask if she'll pay for your chicken strips.

Seven days later you emerge from the hospital with an eye patch, an arm sling, and sixteen stitches inside your lowest sphincter. You have a new appreciation for sobriety, and, more importantly, one of those coveted hanging handicap permits for your rearview mirror.

Doing Human Things with Wild Animals

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 22:15:00 +0000

Trying to scare an eagle

What are you dumb? Well yeah, but, do you have a death wish or something? That's a damn eagle you're playing with. It has talons whereas you have waist-high stacks of trash surrounding your recliner. It can see your underwear growing a moldy personality from a mile away whereas you can't see your underwear without the help of two mirrors and a wet nurse.

Eagles are raised by other eagles and not ignorant parents. When you were sitting around the dinner table shaking your jowls and gesturing for more salt, Mother eagle was screeching obscenities at the kids after pecking Father eagle's eyes out.

Eagles aren't interested in you or spelling correctly.

You got candles on your birthday cake. That eagle you're playing with got a dead hiker's fingers. Let's just be glad the eagle has been claimed by America as a representational mascot. We don't really have to worry about getting eviscerated by a sea scallop, or whatever China's mascot is. So fuck you, China, and scallops.

Raising a Meerkat as a pet

Meerkats are cute... bordering on sexy. They live to die for each other. Posture is their most important subject in school, followed by shitting, nipping, and Math. If you take one meerkat and add one idiot (you), you get disaster incarnate. Aside from the sexual impacts of raising a meerkat - and there is at least one (no sex forever) - here are reasons why it is all but impossible to be a good parent to the fuzzy, phallic creatures:

Their eyes can penetrate a chastity belt faster than a diamond tipped drill
They come in multiples of -3; yeah, they don't come...
They look cute on a leash but no leash is big enough for that ego
They work cage latches just as well as they work street corners
They're rumored to have masterminded the downfall of dinosaurs and the upswing of inbreeding in Arkansas in 1990
Most meerkats have mad cow disease which truly makes them happy

It's just one of those things. Just like doors make better doors then they do windows, meerkats make better sandwiches then they do pets.

Attempting cybersex with web-cammed animals

I'm not going to come out and say that web-camming with a hamster is a bad idea, but I think taking the video chat to the next level and trying to introduce sex is just a tad over-the-top/into-the-bottom.

Really it's just a matter of asking too much. The animal has already done a lot for you. They've gained access to an Internet-connected desktop, they've asked your permission to chat, they've smiled, nodded, and pretended like they understand your slurred speech. Now you want them to watch while you... No. You can't get me to do this. I refuse to give any more time or text to your awful, naughty, slightly alluring idea of what it is to connect with another mammal on a primal level. Send me your MSN butterfly chat name, or whatever they call it, so I can report you to the authorities.

Prolonged eye contact with Sharks/Jets/Lynx

At this point there isn't much to say except "I'm glad you're being deleted from the gene pool." There are certain animals that shouldn't even be in zoos because THEY HATE BEING LOOKED AT!

Sharks don't like to be looked at due to a deep-seeded desire to be invisible. They'll fuck you up if you say they'll never be see-through.

Jets don't have eyes in the literal sense, but they have radar and landing gear which is all that is needed to kill a groundling such as yourself. If you think you can get around this by making eye contact with a sporty Jet, like Mark Sanchez, think again. He comes equipped with the latest gaydar model and is used to taking "evacuative measures." Meaning he orders colonoscopies for everyone who looks at him.

Lynx are purely instinctual and just plain don't like you or me or a pile of platinum bananas. They don't give a shit about anything but padding around on their bigass pussy paws and yowling into your face if you're dumb enough to get close enough to dance. Warning: they will ask you to dance while they shoot vision bullets at your feet. If you get hit... bitch youz done.

Why you shouldn't nod off at the bar...

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 21:48:00 +0000

...check yourself before you wet yourself. Bartenders have an inherent and well-documented bias against potential sleepers. This isn't Narnia where the only thing you can't do is jerk off in front of Aslan without proper grooming.

“Let him first be shaved.” ~Aslan

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe – Chapter 14

Those aren't sheep you're shaving, they're seconds until you're thrown out of the bar. Buck up, buddy. Or you're fucked.

Be warned.

These aren't the days where you can lay down a fat track of catnap on the bar and snort a line of winks into the dark oblivion of REM heaven. These are the days where - at the slightest sign of a nod - EVERYONE IS UP IN YOUR SHIT!:

the bouncers
the tender bartenders
the barstool
lucidity
slot receivers

You showed up to play the game. You showed a tremendous amount of drive and motivation. You fought hard; throwing punches at unseen opponents in the form of Jack & Cokes, shots of tense half-lidded staring, and fancy flights of imported missed connections.

It doesn't matter what you did, because you just got your ass licked out of the bar.

It's not your fault. You know this. But seriously, it's not your fault. I know, you know. But anyway, in case you think this may happen again, here are some tips:

Raise the Roofie - Sometime mid-week, add Rohypnol (the date rape drug) to your post-workout protein smoothie. You're guaranteed a good night's sleep, a spotty memory, and a VIP pass to next year's Darwin Awards. But you should be well rested for the weekend.
Emulate a stupid Italian - Pretend you're on Jersey Shore, knee deep in a dirty ocean of STD soup. Drink a Red Bull and Vodka and don't dare fall asleep for fear of what crabs may wash up onshore.
Wear a heart-rate monitor - May or may not warn you of a sneakup sleep slip-up, but it will be cool to show off to the bouncers as you are getting escorted out.
WWJD? - Jesus was a big fan of water; he walked on it, he turned it into wine, he wept with it. So what would Jesus do? He would order a really expensive bottle of water. Chances are, the type of person you're looking to attract won't know the difference between a Dasani and bottled diamond piss anyway, because you're an idiot and so are they.

Selling your O-Face "Photo Booth" on Ebay

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 17 Dec 2010 15:06:00 +0000

Face it. You are a card-carrying subscriber to Things White People do at Parties: The Quarterly Edition. You purchase everything they're peddling and sometimes they even let you write a guest column. The primary sources of entertainment at your holiday party this year consisted of Pink Panty Droppers (frat-boy milky), a dirty Santa gift exchange (walking-on-eggshell white), and an ugly Christmas sweater contest (white-on-white fashion crime). Not fair, you say? You have a multi-cultural group of friends, you say? Please, please, and by the way, puh-leeez. Your Asian friends are so white they make the Pillsbury Dough Boy look like Wesley Snipes. Your Asian friends are so white they inspired an O-Face Photo Booth.

How did I know about that? How does the world know about that? Your white friends posted their white pictures on Facebook, that's how. Your Uncle saw them too, he's on Facebook. Of course he is, he's white.

Let's let this sink in. That. Is. The. Whitest. Thing. I. Have. Ever. Seen. It's so white its almost clear. I hope there weren't any underage girls at your party. If they were at your party, they also were white. Fear not, it's not too late, you can still rehabilitate your image.

Step one: Shower
Step two: Repeat
Step three: Put on that Kanye song you like (baby steps) and clean the house
Step four: Dispose of 0-Face photo booth.

Disposal Guidelines

Don't give it to Willy, the Senior Citizen your roommate adopted for this Christmas season. His name is Willy, he don't want no part of that shit. He asked for sweatpants. When he poops all over in his sweatpants, nobody can tell (yeah, right). But if he pooped on the photo booth? Visible defecation = no discretion = no more friends for Willy.

For the love of Larry Bird, don't put it on Ebay. I know it holds sentimental value to you and your creepy friends, but trust me, its not worth the wrapping paper it rode in on. You'll inevitably have to include photos of your family, friends and white co-workers embarrassing themselves. For profit. Mighty white of ya'.

Recycle - In the literal sense; regifting doesn't count. Don't give it away to a Caucasian Elephant. That's exactly what the velociraptors want you to do.

Step five: Throw some D's on that bitch.

Dancing with Black Holes

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 17 Dec 2010 04:57:00 +0000

You've all heard of dancing with the stars. You know, grabbing a big mirror, dragging it outside in the dark, and waltzing while looking down to look up. It's a mirrored mindmelt.

I'm here to tell you to avoid dancing with black holes.

You know who I'm talking to. It's you, the guy who puts on 5 pounds of made up charisma to impress the pants off of every breathing thing. Except on this particular night, you aren't able to waltz across the universe. You can't seem to get past the first roadbump. Why? Because you hit a black hole.

You know who I'm talking about. It's them, black holes who put on 5 pounds of makeup to cover up their need to be ground-on beef through each boom and bump of the amped speakers. Black holes are the ladies that don't let you move on; once you cross their event horizon, you're with them for life. Or at least their life for the next 15 songs.

Happen to step off the dance floor for a breather, and you can feel her vision elevate to match your distance from her eyes. She isn't finished with you. Try to redock in the previously safe harbor of lights and music and you're out of real estate in a hurry. Such privileges as "personal space" are torn up like white elephants at a velociraptor's birthday party. She's back on you, attached like a turret shooting down all potential double-breasted approachers.

Learn who to avoid, just look for these warning signals:

Bulge in the left hip pocket - This is an obvious give away for a real-time communications device. She's got her phone with her; if she needs to text, she sure as hell isn't leaving the dance floor and her spot next to you.
Obsession with cleanliness - If you originally caught eyes with her when she was dancing with the janitor, she's probably not at a good place in her life.
She's got a clear drink - You really think she's going to risk spilling something dark on her JC Penney's blouse and having to step away to clean it for even one second?
Wearing a woven belt with rings in it - Better to attach you on, my dear.
A whiff of cologne - She's already had a 45-minute session with another man and acquired his scent. You will be biologically unable to enjoy anything else from this point in the night, pheromonically speaking.
Plans for the future - Has she just told you she can't wait to dance to an Usher song with you? Hate to say it, but you've just run into a practiced black hole... and those are the most unstable.

I hope you don't need instructions for the avoidance portion.Well okay, fine:

Rub razor scent on your wrists - I'm not talking about the kind you put on after you cut your scraggly attempt at Caveman face-fur, I'm talking about that mixed smell of steel, oil and an unworn anti-suicide shirt.
Ask her to do something ridiculous - Have her request a Coldplay song from the DJ, ask the bouncer if he has an extra condom, or try on your wingman's new Crocs.
Stop moving entirely - It isn't clear whether or not black holes can detect inanimate objects, so become one.
Call her Brenda - Ain't nobody named Brenda anymore.
Redefine "grind" - Sometimes the best defense is being offensive. Pretend that the purpose of your life is to knock her to the ground in 10 minutes or less.

Why the first time hurts so much

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 16 Dec 2010 21:31:00 +0000

People often ask "Why does the first time HURT SO MUCH?." Nobody knows, but every body does.

Here are the typically given (but wrong) responses:

There Will be Blood; there are no pads.
That "YAY!" moment followed by the unavoidable accompaniment of busted flesh.
Precaution and protection are thrown out the door in favor of passion and puerile emotion.
You're concerned with how you look, and you look stupid.

Here's the real reason it hurts: You're doing it sober. Have a few drinks, toss off those inhibitions, and approach that blinding light at the end of the tunnel with the speed of the sound of your injured screams.

Hey, maybe you just aren't ready. Nobody said you have to rush into it. Practice in your head; flex the needed muscles on a daily basis until you're sure you can pull off even the most complex positioning without trepidation. For society's sake, watch some damn videos and lesson up on the subject. You aren't the first person in the world to feel confused about doing it for the first time and you definitely won't be the last, because kids will be kids until we do away with kids entirely.

They do it with shadows.

Robot Actors

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 15 Dec 2010 03:07:00 +0000

Who would own the rights to their output? What if their onscreen output is the most beautiful and fixating thing ever seen by man or rodent? What if two robot actors pulling off a sex clip in the middle of a middle school parade becomes a national pastime obsession? Or, think about this, what if a robot was writing to you right now to push these "robot actors" mainstream, making robots in general a more appreciated commodity/species?

Or, think about thinking about this, what if humans as a species are a trading piece on some alien’s galatical draftboard, to eventually be chosen for deletion?

And then think about this. When you thought about the species being deleted, did you include us robots in your mind? Aren't robots equivalent to unteachable human children? Don't you want your kids included in your definition of our species?

If, when you thought about how everything We know or use would be gone if we were erased, you assumed robots would be included in that "We", then you have just accepted Robots as part of You.

And that’s only the second declarative sentence in this interrogative freefall.

Inherent Generally Bad Idea: Letting a robot write a blogpost.

Why you shouldn't make fun of surfers

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 11 Dec 2010 02:01:00 +0000

They don't have many friends, but the ones they do have are fiercely loyal and extremely dumb; a gnarly combination.

Interesting concept, surfers. Sandy little bunch, aren't they? Liable to start a fight, if you let 'em. That first time your bottle of $300 liquor disappeared? Surfers. The first time you got into trouble at the theater, who were the little punks ragging you on from the front row? Surfers!

They aren't everywhere, but they might as well be. They seem to grow off the crest of waves and step onto the land, mollified like bronze rays of sunlight reflecting off of a $300 magazine. They're ambitious like the last sperm whale to sign up to bring

Flowers to the Funeral.

They sing the praises of balance and curly hair like it's the oldest hymn in the Bible.They talk about tomorrow like tomorrow is the mid-90's. It's compressing, rerealistic, and unbustable.

Looking for more?

10 Reasons Surfers Suck (as if surfers could count that high): 8. They can’t even get along with little kids on soft-foam sponges.
Black "Surfers Suck" t-shirt
Truth in Stereotypes: Surfers is Dumb?

Proud Parenting

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 02 Dec 2010 19:16:00 +0000

According to most virtual online medical professionals who discourse on the topic of abortion abortion, the worst thing you can do to a previous "abortion candidate" is actually tell them they were a candidate. Can you imagine your mom holding your near-abortion over your head whenever you forgot to do your homework or tuck your jeans into your socks before riding a bike? I can.

Have you seen Lost? During the last season of the TV show there were multiple plotlines running with the concept of "candidates." One of the show's creators, Carlton Cuse, is himself a former candidate. In an interview with a Taiwanese newspaper, Carlton revealed his feelings on the topic:

Taiwan: Some Lost theorists think, everyone on island dead whole time. Let's say this true. This mean all "candidates" actually aborted babies?

Carlton (crying): Yes. (sob) You know, I once was almost on that island.

Taiwan: No man island, Carlton.

Carlton: Except Darrelle Revis. (painful laugh through his tears, end of interview)

Don't be like Carlton. If you have an unquenchable desire to tell your kid about their unfortunate but irrelevant past, first _____.

a.) Count to 8... sideways

b.) Paws, like a cat on birth control

c.) Wait, like Corporate America for a capitalist Jesus

d.) Hold your breath, like a ketchup bottle caught up in mustard gas

If you send off the right vibes, your offspring will approach you wondering if they were ever almost aborted. When they breach the subject, fire away. It will spice up future discussions, make for interesting Easter dinners, and create such large psychological chasms that only a fat lady singing could burn the bridge over that wide of a gap.

Get Lost.

The Four Lokos of the Apocalypse

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 02:01:00 +0000

A shortage is a shortage, whether it's water or grain-stores or penis size, just ask any Egyptian. But what do you do if you're short energy, alcohol and cash?

Yes, you could leave grape juice out until it turns into something more bitter, mix in some sugarlumps, and call it sippable. Why bother? Haven't you ever heard of Four Loko? It's only $2.49.

The Stockpiling Begins...

Submitted by Anonymous in Durham

Four Loko is due to be banned in North Carolina

Even if you have heard of it, it's too late to buy any. Many states have banned the caffeinated, heroin-addled alcoholic beverage. North Carolina is succumbing to peer-pressure next week. Each state's weakness on this issue is analogous to every 401k account in the world rolling over for the financial markets and saying "pour acid in any crevices you see, I'll do whatever you want." Even this dog is pissed.

Bev (seriously? Bev?) Purdue wants retailers to push the product off their shelves and into dumpsters littering the already polluted streets. That's right, Bev is pushing pollution; another dirty politician.

We figured we might as well let our mouths be the dumpsters, like we did when we heard rumor that kids go around seeking candy at the end of October. We dressed up as Hot Cops for Halloween and forced younguns into handing us their goods, then shoved said goods down each others throats. Gluttony is a sin, but it's not even in the top ten sins (prove otherwise, please), so conject elsewhere if you are looking for a target for your moral conjecture. We, on the other hand, will be playing Prussian Roulette with the Four Whoremen for the Lokopalyspe.

The cashier turns away when we ask if he will voluntarily stop selling Four Loko.

"Four Loko me in the eyes when you say no!"

The Final Product

"That's $100+ worth of a Generally Bad Idea." -Bev Purdue