Setting the Mood With Mood Setters

Many a fortnights ago, a high school classmate of mine, let’s call him Dike Menegri (this name scramble didn’t work out so well – sorry Dike, nothing personal), was telling me about his ‘mood setters playlist’. To elaborate, he had made a playlist which consisted of songs he felt would put his potential fornicatresses (yes that is a real word and you’re welcome) in the mood to, well, fornicate with him. Or maybe not necessarily fornicate with HIM per se, but just in the general mood to fornicate. I think what I’m getting at is that these songs, if played at the right time and setting, would supposedly make a girl moist in her cooter. This concept totally blew my mind because until that day I’d always thought the only thing that could do that for a girl was this picture.

Jokes aside, when I heard this I thought it was a pretty absurd idea and laughed about it for the next four years. It seemed as ridiculous as making a trail of rose pedals leading to a bedroom decorated with scented candles in order to get laid. I found out later on that even this wasn’t uncommon, but our friend who pulled it off will remain anonymous because some say he is solely responsible for making sure the economy is running smoothly. Here's a random picture:

Fast forward some odd years. Anyone that has lived with me or knows me well enough knows that I have a strange collection of music. I’m by no means musically inclined or knowledgeable about music in any way, and my library is far short of extensive. But as I was thinking about Dike Menegri and his mood setters today it donned on me that I could actually come up with a pretty decent list of mood setters myself. So here’s my 2011 Mood Setters Playlist That I Would Never Make Under Normal Circumstances But I Am Here For Your Listening (possibly fornicating) Pleasures:

1. The Seed 2.0 by The Roots. The only reason this makes the list is because it’s about knocking girls up and girls love it. It’s just amusing for me to think that girls listen to it while thinking about how badly they would like to get impregnated.

2. Pussy Galore by The Roots. We are now in more comfortable mood setter territory. Pussy Galore has everything a mood setter should have, a female back up vocalist with an attractive voice and a story about a medical student that pays her tuition by being a stripper. It also doubles as a metaphor for the unfairly high college tuition hikes every year in America, but not really.

3. You Are My Angel by Horace Andy. Every time Horace Andy is played, an angel gets its wings, Dick Cheney has a heart attack, and someone from Indiana dies in a horrific car accident. Good things happen. The man’s voice is mind-bogglingly smooth. I will go short of guaranteeing you v-jay play with this song because I only listen to it exclusively when I sob to myself in public stalls.

4. Self Hate Bad Dub by Atmosphere. There’s something about the sample used in the instrumental of this song that makes it an aphrodisiac. One time this song came on in my car while I was driving and my friend spontaneously started giving me an old-fashioned. Which was cool because it would have been weird if I got a blow-job from a guy.

5. I’ve Been Thinking by Handsome Boy Modeling School. Cat Powers and I actually wrote this song together one summer night on the banks of the Seine River in Montparnasse, so there’s some history there. Feelings aside, the song glides beautifully for the better part of five minutes. It also goes well with a rainy day and of course, scolding hot tea, but save your monocles.

6. Maggot Brain by Parliament. Not much to say about this jingle, just ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . .

7. Dreamworld by Robin Thicke. Robin Thicke is a successful black R&B artist trapped inside the body of a white trust-fund baby. His lyrics drip from your respective music player onto your fingertips and settle in the remote crevices of your lover’s sex apparatus.

That short list should be enough to preside over your filthy sin sessions for the next eight years. Here are some other songs that I like but didn’t make the cut for one reason or the other. The Honorable Mentions:

1. Woman Tonight by Felt
2. Shahdaroba by Roy Orbison
3. Sea of Love by Tom Waits
4. Obnoxious by Immortal Technique
5. Pat Tobin by Jack Likes Zazz
6. Zoo Zoo by Bisquit
7. Somebody to Love by Jim Carrey

I'd like to take this space to thank Liam Setzkelly, my copy editor, for his contributions to this entry. Without him this one would not have been possible, so if you enjoyed it make sure you tell him you appreciate his hard work.

My Thoughts on the USA Credit Downgrading

My blog is a lot like a slinky – very captivating at first, but becomes very dull and repetitive once the initial novelty of it wears off. To jazz things up, I tried bringing in a guest writer and even changed up the entire theme of the site. After I had a breakthrough spiritual epiphany this last weekend, I came to realize that cheap gimmicks like these won’t improve the quality of my writings, and consequently, of my readers’ interest in my work. Namely, I was hanging out with a group of friends and trying to think of a particularly embarrassing insult to say to one of the guys. The conversation was bouncing all around so I had time to think this one over. Should I call him a pea brain? Naa, that’s played out. A joke about suicide? Possibly. Then it hit me. I don’t need to say anything about this pea-brain, because I’m already better than him. The only thing he is worthy of is my silent pity. Hence the revitalization I will be pursuing regarding the future of this blog. I’ll no longer have to degrade others in order to elevate my own status. I’m already so high above everyone in an unreachable stratosphere of artistic wordsmith mastery that disrespecting others will no longer be necessary.

Just kidding. I’m bitter as ever, and to think for a second that I could continue to live and breathe as Bekir Yilabilir without intermittently poking fun at people on a website I specifically designed for that purpose is like thinking that the USA still has a AAA credit rating just because Obama said so – it’s slightly unrealistic. First up at bat, Liam Setzkelly.

I used to wear a monocle and watch BBC News as I sipped on scolding hot tea. There was a segment called No Comment in which they would show a clip with no added commentary – the understanding being that the clip was so ridiculous/unique/upsetting that no commentary could do it justice. I wanted to practice a similar approach regarding this striking photo of Liam, but decided against it because I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight if I don’t write at least two demeaning things about it.

1) If I were put in charge of the publication of the MAAA Magazine (Mothers Against Alcohol Abuse), I would use this picture on the front cover. I’m confident that any adolescent to lay eyes on this atrocity would swear off alcohol indefinitely. Liam successfully took everything cool about binge drinking and turned into this . . . this thing which could suck the tits out of any party. He looks gray, defeated, and most importantly, unattractively pale.

2) Are those leopard print swimming trunks? Giraffe print? I’m not even trying to be an ass here I’m just really curious. Let me know what the fuck those are when you read this.

I’m going to end this one abruptly before this turns into a fashion critique. On the real though, that’s all I got.

NOTE: That’s not really a picture of me wearing a monocle. I drew the monocle in using Microsoft Paint, for those of you who were left baffled at first.

Like a Phoenix, the Penske Files Rise From the Ashes

Yes people, it’s the end of an era. Some say SommadisSommadat was the most read work since the Bible. Who am I to judge?? Regardless of the eeeenormous (Trump style) success of my previous venture, I am still excited to kick off a new project with The Penske Files. The whole soft drink thing was so sophomoric, so senseless and inane. Before I can really get going though everyone knows there’s some unfinished business to be taken care of.

It was the middle of the summer. I was entertaining the masses with entry after succulent blog entry. Sure I toot my own french horn here and there but don’t you think it’s worth it since I write the best shit in the history of the internet? So I’m trying out the whole satire thing and here comes Jewballs Elias Schulkin spewing a grotesque piece the size of a darn novel in response to my entry that was supposed to be taken in good fun. And then he has the nerve to force me to post it on my very own blog by holding me at gunpoint. When I say Jewballs by the way, I don’t mean it in an insulting or offensive way. As Adolph Hitler once so elegantly put it, “We should round up all those Jews, put them in a concentration camp, and brutally murder them in large numbers.” That was a pretty harsh thing to say, Adolph 1. I will redeem myself, and I refuse to resort to Elias’s lowly mudslinging tactics.

Having said that, is Elias Schulkin illiterate? Yes he is. You’re wondering, he just wrote a twenty page critique of you how in the world could he be illiterate? Well, let’s take a look at that little number he wrote: “he has the rugged good looks of a Kurdish goat farmer”. Stop right there. The only human ever to use the words Kurdish and goat in the same sentence in an attempt to poke fun at me is one Glenn Schulkin, father of aforementioned Elias Schulkin. This is a clear sign of blatant plagiarism; Glenn wrote the diss for Elias. And frankly, to me it doesn’t come as a surprise because Elias happens to have a long history of having Glenn do his dirty chores for him. Glenn took Elias’s place in the 5th Grade Spelling Bee, took Elias’s road test to get him his driver’s license, spit game at young girls so Elias could swoop in and fornicate with them later, and most recently even signed off on a house so Elias could vacation for a week. It’s actually pretty safe to say that Elias doesn’t do anything for himself.

You’ve undoubtedly come to terms with Elias’s laziness at this point but may still have reservations about him being illiterate. Besides, Elias is an ardent reader of fantasy novels. Or is he? Elias is a self-professed expert on The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the Harry Potter series, the True Blood series, and the Twilight series. Don’t you think it’s a little peculiar that everything that Elias claims to have read also happens to have a correlating movie? Of course, when you ask him what he thought of the movies, he’ll say, “Dude, the book was so much better”. The Schulkins come from a lineage of remarkable salesmen, but in this instance he comes short of selling me on his bullshit. That’s exactly what someone who is illiterate would want people to think he thought of the movies. Nice try, Jewballs.

I’m not going to bore my readers with paragraphs of fluff and little content. Here at The Penske Files we like to keep it short and sweet. Your shit has been sonned Elias Schulkin, and now I’m moving on because you’re no longer worth my precious time. After you have Glenn read this to you, please have him give me a call. I found a fresh supply of Kurdish goats in the Amazon River basin using GoogleEarth, and we can definitely make a killing on it because you know those Egyptians can always use a Kurdish goat or two.

1. Everyone loves a good old fashioned Jew joke involving furnaces and ovens. I give people one little history lesson, and everyone is up in arms all of a sudden. Shutuuuuuupp.

Bekir Yilmaz: All Star Blogger or Internet Terrorist?

Karl Marx once said, “Bekir is a total douchebag.” Is this quote accurate? Does Bekir have genital warts? I don’t know the answers to these philosophical quandaries. However, I do know that Bekir uses his elevated status as a critically acclaimed blogger to demean and defame those closest to him.
Let us take a look back at his blog of a few weeks ago, which viciously attacked the credentials of one Eric J. Csontos, and also included the perfunctory soft drink review that Bekir seems to have strayed from throughout the span of his brief yet surprisingly potent writing career. Mr. Csontos did not provoke Bekir (whom is now called the Turkish Terror by many of his victims), yet he was the target of a lengthy verbal assault, including a barrage of insults comparing him to his obviously overrated brother, Matthew. After devouring Eric’s lifeless corpse, Bekir realized he had bigger fish to fry. Namely, Elias H. Schulkin III, esquire and regional footwear manager for Modell’s Sporting Goods. After some of my associates referred me to Bekir’s hate filled blog, I followed the facebook link to the entry Bekir posted with the sole intent of destroying my reputation (probably impossible at this point). He used some immature words that will not be repeated to present to his readers an image of myself that many would probably echo.

Let us address Mr. Yilmaz’s prime accusation: “I think I’m better than everyone”. Interesting that Bekir would decide to travel this particular route. I believe our faithful readers deserve to know the full story of why Bekir feels this way, and how we arrived at this junction. To make a long story short, Bekir asked for my hand in lawful partnership, and I was emotionally unavailable. To say that I did not believe Bekir was a potential mate is not necessarily true; he has the rugged good looks of a Kurdish goat farmer mixed with the body of a young Rainn Wilson. However, I need some level of stimulating conversation in a relationship, a department in which Bekir is severely lacking. It is understandable that he would attack me the only way he knew how: by using his vicious words to cut me down to size. However, Bekir’s arrogance has lost him more than a friend; I believe he may have lost his soul. It is often said that when the weak minded come into power, they lose themselves in their quest for more. Bekir is no longer a mere blogger, he is undoubtedly the next great villain of our generation. I digress.

I would now like to discuss some of the other individuals whom have been wronged by Mr. Yilmaz in the past, with the hopes that he takes it upon himself to apologize to them, and then go back to fucking Honduras or whatever. Some people take a vacation to hit the beach, enjoy some relaxing time off, and fraternize with good friends and family. Bekir ruined the vacations of eleven of his closest friends by infesting their collective residence with 87 cans of disgusting tuna, which contained an odor that permeated the entire premises.

To make matters worse, he’s pretty weird. Just saying. I never know what he’s fucking talking about. A few months before apologetically subjecting his friends to potential mercury poisoning, Bekir disrespected the home of myself and Wade R. Veselka, in a brilliant scheme to frame a helpless dog. To the best of my knowledge, Bekir waited until all of our housemates had gone to sleep, then proceeded to lower his drawers and unleash a hellacious turd that had the consistency of guacamole with the potency of Zoltar’s asshole. He would have made the poopie princess herself extremely proud. However, he did not commit this act in the confines of a bathroom, as most reasonable Americans (I have reason to believe Bekir’s birth certificate was forged) would. No, Bekir shat upon our cabinet. This particular cabinet was a family heirloom, made of Sudanese oak with gold and diamond encrusted handles.

I think this little anecdote perfectly sums up Bekir’s attitude towards both his friends and finely aged wood: insubordination. He lacks the understanding that served Scottie Pippen so well throughout his years in Chicago: Bekir needs to understand he is not, and will never be, “The Man.” That title belongs to me. Check mate. Game over. Light the victory cigar. Get off of Wes. By the way Bekir, your blog now belongs to me. It will be called Elias the Examiner. This is not up for debate. I expect your computer and your gun on my desk in the morning.

Sincerely,
Elias H. Schulkin III Esquire, Regional Footwear Manager of Modell’s Sporting Goods

Orange Cream Soda

Last weekend I had the pleasure of testing out one of America’s most popular soft drinks – Stewart’s Orange Cream Soda. The first sips I must admit were actually quite mysterious and unexplainably, psychedelic. The next several hours consisted of me trying as hard as I ever have trying to pinpoint the sensation that I felt while drinking Orange Cream Soda. It wasn’t a rich flavor but couldn’t be exactly described as flat either. Then in one moment, it all became so amazingly clear to me.

Orange Cream Soda gives you the feeling that you are slightly better than everyone else, a feeling which is so perfectly captured in this shot of our friend – let’s call him the zookeeper. Arrogance, pompousness, and chauvinism mixed into a melting pot of superiority produces this phenomenon which we shall call the feeling that you are slightly better than everyone. That’s all folks!

Why You Should Drink Pepsi Max

It never occurred to me when I gave birth to this beautiful bullshit blog (alliteration, check it) that I’d resort to going around door-to-door forcing people to read it. And then waiting for them to LOL. That’s nothing but shameless self promotion, and I’m over it. No, from now on I’ll be writing the most nipple-hardening, boner-inducing, just got some dingus juice on my v-neck because I wasn’t paying attention-literature you will ever come across. And no more cheap Google image searches to find a picture of the soda I’m sampling. With all the capabilities of modern cell phones, such as T9 texting, setting of alarm clocks, and postage stamps, I think my readers deserve something more genuine.

That’s right. You are looking at a picture of Pepsi Max in front of a picture of Pepsi Max on my computer. It took me three hours to come up with that. According to the laws of physics, the universe should have ended when I created that creation, but because this blog is better than Oprah Winfrey in her prime, we were able to secure a pardon. Anyway, with this long and anxiously awaited installment, I’d like to pursue a separate route from the usual. Instead of meticulously dissecting and analyzing this evening’s soft drink, I’d like to focus on Erik Csontos. Now some of you may not be familiar with Erik Csontos, and you may be thinking there is no use reading about him, and you’re probably right. In any case, you should avoid him like the plague. And not like some weak bubonic plague, I’m talking the government just shifted the terror alert level to orange – plague. Is that really a type of plague? Honestly, the argument can be made either way, but that’s beside the point. I’m not gonna just keep telling you how horrible of a person Erik is. Like any brilliant writer, I will support my claim with concrete evidence and irrefutable facts.

Fact: Erik is the younger brother of Matt. Fact: Erik would be lucky if he could hold a candle to Matt, let alone a torch, let alone a zippo lighter (not really sure if you can do two let alones back to back, and I’d appreciate some feedback on this issue). Evidence: When Matt was in grade school, he was such a badass he would spark cigarettes in the middle of class, and then flick the cig butts in the teacher’s eye. The teacher would then thank Matt for gracing not only her, but the class with his aura of aesthetic beauty. Erik, on the other hand, still wears a diaper and sharts whenever he gets nervous, which is every time he has to talk to someone. Note: Sharting is funny and you know it.

I’ve always thought the relationship between Matt and Erik to be similar to the relationship between Pau and Marc Gasol. Matt is to Pau as Erik is to Marc. Matt & Pau are both champions, while Erik & Marc sleep with night lights and are NOT champions. The only exception to this comparison is that unlike Marc, Erik possesses no skill, talent, or competency on any level. Furthermore, Erik and his friends started going to Dadz wings after Matt and his friends started the tradition decades ago. I remember my first time copying my older brothers’ friends tradition. What I’m trying to say is, Erik, you’re a dead man. Don’t tell your parents about this either, you twat-fairy.

Pictured below: Older brother Matt, Being a BOSS

The Tonic

This evening I will be blogging about Tonic.

Quick word of the wise for the readers of this entry. I’m not going to try to get all pompous on your asses this time with big words like pompous and ‘entry’. You’re only as pompous as you might think you are. Gonna’ keep it realllll simple. Why tonic? First of all, up until the time I started to write this, I was pretty sure that one of Dr Dre’s albums was The Tonic. This I will swear by. A little google fact checking revealed to me that the Dr Dre album I was thinking of was in fact named ‘The Chronic’. As usual, the reason as to why Dr Dre would name his silly album ‘The Chronic’ completely eludes me. Elude: escape, either physically or mentally; "The thief eluded the police"; "This difficult idea seems to evade her"; "The event evades explanation". Again, that’s me trying to keep things simple. That’s what google has to say. Google. Okay what I’m really trying to do here is see how bad of a blog I can write.

I got this. I remember in grade school I read The Catcher In the Rye. It seems like someone always has something to say about that book. Here’s what I have to say about it though, which is what is actually important. 1) No one should ever be asked if they want their sandwich/sub/hoagie/fanny-pack/bagel toasted. Of course you want it toasted. 2)If you’re on Family Feud and you get the option to pass or play, you fucking pass. No team in the history of Family Feud has ever won a game by playing. 3) If you have to result to numerically listing things to legitimately prove something, then you’re probably screwed. John Somerville did it, but I’m pretty sure he was tripping balls at that point. 4) I hope I don’t end up numerically listing things tomorrow for my econ papers.

In closing, to all of you who share my cruel fate, I wish you the best of luck on your finals. To my peers who don’t share this fate, everyday it feels more and more like you made the right choice. Bill Gates apparently said something like “Five years from now, on the Web for free, you’ll be able to find the best lectures in the world. It will be better than any single university.” Apparently this guy is smart or something, and I think he’s on point with that one.

(more unrelated pictures)

The Re-Finale

Every great artist has a comeback album/tour/blog. Justin Timberlake came out of nowhere in 2006 with Future Sex/Love Sounds, Barry White came storming back in 99’ with Staying Power, and who can forget when Michael Jordan came out of retirement in 93’ to become one of the best advertising agents since Ronald McDonald. Of course, there was that one time when Ronald came to your elementary school assembly and Jimmy kind of lost it because he was fucking terrified of clowns.

No cursing please. Anywho, I realize I’ve taken a pretty long leave of absence from the blogging business, and the blogging business being the nasty business it is, it’s not all that easy to just get back into it. It’s not like I write a bunch of stuff, click submit post, and it’s magically ready for you guys to read. No friends, before my brilliant material can make it to the intergalactic web I must pull strings you didn’t even know existed and bribe very powerful business tycoons. Business. Some people say I’ve lost touch with the masses, others don’t think I have enough blog-juice left in the tank. To these people I say, just read the first entry again . . . that was gold, dude. Also, please turn your attention to the chief of the dark colas, Dr. Pepper.

Now, through allegiance, I should be a supporter of Mr. Pibb, Dr. Pepper’s arch nemesis. You see, two of my friends were once an absurdly successful powerhouse hip-hop duo, and one of their songs was essentially a ballad for Mr. Pibb. And there was this other fellow, a very Mr. Grinch-like character if you will, who loved Dr. Pepper and whose name we will say for anonymity purposes to be Meith Kiccio - which brings me to the most traumatic experience of my life.

Circa sophomore year of high school. I’m doing my usual lunch thang – waiting in a justifiably long line for Vinnie the sweet old Italian lunch lady to put all her warm love into my daily Turkey sandwich. Vinnie's line was always three times as long as the next deli line, and you could see in the other lunch ladies' faces that they were visibly upset and jealous. I wait for probably near 20 minutes for my sandwich to be made but what felt like an eternity. I come back to my table to sit with the BeakSquad (that’s what people liked to call me and my friends back then), and everything was going well until I noticed I had forgotten napkins. When I got up and returned once again, I was forced to witness no other than Keith Miccio, I mean Meith Kiccio, tossing my hard earned sandwich into the garbage. The explanation? IT WAS TACO DAY. Not only did Meith forever turn me off from tacos but I also developed a debilitating sleep disorder, mostly from staying up long nights searching for answers.

Still, Dr. Pepper has the edge. Why would I pay less for a knockoff of Dr. Pepper that tastes exactly the same? Logic evades me. You might be thinking, you didn’t try very hard to keep him anonymous. Actually, I tried really, really hard.

The Finale

Some of this . . . some of that. A novel idea. But you know what they say. All good things come to an end, sometimes. Firstly, I’d like to thank Nashman Davenport for inspiring this project. Without you, I’d probably be spending these extra 30 minutes of my life wondering about who was so completely frustrated with me that they had to break my car’s windshield. Or maybe they thought my car was Rob Jordan’s car, who knows. Who am I kidding, I spend hours coming up with this shit, pour my heart and soul into it. You sample a couple of beers, big fucking deal. You’re not fooling anyone - it all tastes like shit, I don’t care how hoppy it is. “Ohhh beak-daddy, why the finale so soon?” You try seriously writing about soft drinks asshole, and don’t call me beak-daddy. Alright, that’s enough cursing. Anyone can get some cheap laughs by dropping an f-bomb here and an a-fart there. Let’s get this ball rolling for reals. Am I going to poppycock for the first couple of paragraphs? Probably. Will rhetorical questions serve as the backbone of my blog yet again? Arrest my case. Yes, arrest it.

The soft drink of choice for this milestone blog will be Canada Dry.

This may be surprising, given I spent much of my last entry informing you, the masses, about the superiorities of American free market capitalism to the socialist, ludicrous tendencies of the socialist French regime run by the tyrant they call Sarkozy. It may now seem confusing that I introduce a drink whose roots are synonymous with the unspeakable sin that is universal healthcare. Now, I never meant my blog to be a discourse on the political leanings of the times, so let’s get back to reviewing soft drinks. What I adore about Canada Dry is its logo’s classic mark of feudal supremacy, the crown representing the total dominance the royalty enjoyed over its measly peasants. What about the taste you ask? Canada Dry tastes exactly like that time you shoved three horseshoes up your asshole just because you were feeling a little curious. I don’t make up the rules so don’t ask me how that has anything to do with taste.

Yeah, that about sums it up. Remember though, sometimes it’s just as funny to bomb as it is to entertain. If I wanted people to take anything away from all of this, it would be that I don’t give much of a shit about anything, even futile blogs. I hope you had as much fun reading these hollow thoughts as I did writing them. People have come to terms with the inane idea that because something has never occurred, it will never occur in the future. Rest in peace Karl Marx and Freddy Engels.

remember that one time?

Hey guys . . . I have been slacking hard with updates, but not with drinking. A wise man once wrote that. All week I’ve been thinking about this second post. With all the success and endorsements that came following the first blog – enterprise rent-a-car, toys r us, Nielsen company, just to name a few – I suddenly became overwhelmed with the pressure of writing a second installment that could hold a torch to the first one. People come up to me on the street and ask me. “Hey squeaks, how are you so funny?” “You wanna go to subway? We should go to the one in the student center, they don’t charge a sales tax.” “What should I do about my girlfriend? I really like her but sometimes I just wanna slit her throat." Stuff like that. All this publicity has really got me stressed out but I realized I just need to do what I do best – share my ideas with all of you on the latest soft drinks I’ve been testing out.

^TOOLBAG

First up, seltzer water. What I love about seltzer water is that it is pure carbonated water in your face. No flavor, no bullshit. Some people say they prefer seltzer water’s distant cousin mineral water and these people should go fuck themselves. Mineral water gives rise to such ludicrous companies like Perrier. The only thing we need to know about Perrier is that it is French.

Let’s take a look at some of the other things the French have given us. The Statute of Liberty.

Okay, not bad.

Remington Koch. Now here’s this French dude, who is from France and shit. He is a real person, you can look him up on facebook and he’ll probably have a gay ass picture. Also, I’ve heard he goes around at night and smears his feces on people’s cars. Now we can’t be sure of this because it is based completely on hearsay. What we do know for sure, however, is that he is definitely a homosexual. Now am I saying being gay is wrong or that gay people do not deserve the same liberties as his fellow man? No, not at all. Am I saying we should tar, feather, and burn Remy Koch alive because he is a homosexual? Precisely. Rise, my friends, and dispose of this parasite before he compromises your car’s windshield, and more importantly, the freedom of your country.

P.S. This is exclusively for the internet police. I’m not sure if you exist internet police, but I’ve been told you do. Remy is actually a friend of mine, and not the worst person in the world. I’m not even completely sure that he’s gay. Just wanted to let you know that, internet police.

First Blog!

Hello ladies & gents.  This is my first blog but I don't want to waste any time or space.  As an experienced connoisseur in the business of sampling fine soft drinks, I'd like to introduce all of you to a little gem I like to call the king's speech.  If this drink were a girl, I'd definitely put my squeaker in her beaker.

Ohhhh yes.  Many of you may be familiar with Baja Blast of Taco Bell fame.  What you aren't familiar with, however, is the thrilling sensation that will overcome you when you sip on this extravagant carbonated wonder   through the classic 500 mL bottle.  It hits your lips, travels through the esophagus, passes through the small intestine, large intestines, falls through the bilateral pancreatic trimester, and before you know it the green goblin is traveling out of your dingus and into your filthy toilet that you probably should have cleaned two months ago.  In retrospect, it was Todd's turn to clean the bathroom last weekend but he had to go home for President's Day.  And Todd's roommate Roger would have cleaned it up in his absence but Roger was up all day and night studying for his Theatre Appreciation exam in two days.  

In summation, Is that purple/brown mold on your toilet seat healthy?  Probably not.  What about that raccoon that's been hiding in your kitchen cabinets?  I don't know, you should call a specialist for that.  Is Baja Blast the second coming?  Yes.  Yes it is my friends.