Saturday, July 23, 2011

Driving to Outerspace in My '02 Chevy Malibu


       By now most of you probably know about the end of the NASA space shuttle program. Basically what has happened is that Obama, like a total dipshit, has put forth a new space exploration proposal that does not include the glorious winged symbols of freedom we natural-born Americans have lovingly called "shuttles," and NASA, like a bunch of pussies, has just sat back and let him.

       When I called the White House and demanded and explanation for this blatant socialism, they told me that Obama was not available for comment. I'm sure he was busy doing something really important, like purchasing guano for his organic garden or some other stately presidential type shit.

       But they took the time to explain to me some of the details of his awesome policies and the super-sound logic behind them.  What I basically got from the conversation is that he does it all for the nookie, but I wasn't paying very close attention because I was doing my Wii Fit and wondering what was going to happen on Housewives later. That's The Real Housewives of Orange County for anyone who happens to be a fucking idiot.
       But I do remember seeing on Fox News--and being completely outraged--that he was also doing away with the Constellation program, which was going to put Americans back on the moon. I mean we're trying to feel superior to other countries, here, Nobama. Our people need that. And don't forget it's we the people, or have you ever even read that document?

       But get this shit: NASA is instead going to use their funding to do things like put astronauts on an asteroid by 2025. I mean what the fuck is the point of putting people on some cold dead rock roughly the size of Mount Everest that is hurtling through the Solar System at thousands of miles an hour on a trajectory that could intersect with Earth's orbit at some point? Just what are they hoping to achieve and/or avoid?


       Well the whole thing just sounded kinda pointless to me and it was around that time that I just decided fuck it, I'm going to space. I didn't have a spacecraft per se so I would have to get creative. What I did have was my trusty dusty 2002 Chevy Malibu. Clearly it was time for some Back to the Future shit.

My shit looks just like this, except it's missing a hubcap.

        So what I did was I strapped a fucking rocket to that bitch. NASA had a bunch of them left over from their now-defunct space shuttle program.

       If my calculations were correct, this, along with my Malibu's powerful V6, would make it possible for me to escape the earth's atmosphere and gravitational pull, and from there it would be a smooth and also cost effective trip. Because there is no air or whatever in space, there is barely any wind resistance, so a gallon of gas would last me for roughly 50 blagillion miles.

       My final destination would of course be the moon, but I had a few stops to make along the way. Call it some "unfinished business" if you will. As I loaded up the trunk of my space vehicle with Spam and tomato juice and a few other provisions, I reflected on my mission and the challenges I would face. Those of you who have been to space before know what a cruel mistress she can be. But I vowed to overcome that vile bitch and slap the shit out of her with a little bit of modern ingenuity, and then I would backhand that malevolent whore with some good old fashioned determination. Come to think of it, this shit was going to be fun.

       The first place I stopped was the International Space Station. This is where our good decent American astronauts are made to live together and cooperate with shifty malodorous foreigners from Russia, Europe, and Japan, and they are made to follow their unsavory foreign customs such as not taking showers and shitting into a tube. As a patriotic American I was upset about this, so what I did was I drove my Malibu right into the side of that fucker. I hope that panel wasn't important you Marxist sons of bitches, because now it's space junk. Then as I was pulling away I put my ass out the window and took a shit on their antenna thingy.

       It didn't occur to me until later that Space Ghost was probably in there, too, and if he happens to be reading this, I do apologize for getting a little carried away.

Zorak, you can eat a dick.

       The next logical stop on my journey was probably the most overhyped and arrogant planet in the entire Solar System, Saturn. This obnoxious and untalented Kim Kardashian of a planet thinks it's so fucking special because it got fucked in the ass by some semi-famous asteroid and it was featured in The Sun. Big fucking deal, you're a gaudy slut, Saturn. So I pulled out my space balls and teabagged that skank.

       As I was driving by the Hubble I just had to laugh. My five-year-old nephew's iPhone 4 has like ten times more pixels than that dinosauric piece of shit.

       To me, Jupiter is sort of like the homely, moon-faced sister of Saturn, who gains a moderate amount of attention from the sleazier of the press by virtue of her repugnant arriviste of a sister who granted is considerably easier on the eyes making a name for herself by being a shameless comet-dumpster. Your parents should really be proud of you guys. Oh wait, they're just as big of whores as you are.

       As I ventured further out into the recesses of space, I came across an Earth-like planet in the habitable zone of a star system I named "Awesome 420." I decided to take a pit stop and just chill for a minute, have a Slim Jim in remembrance of Macho Man Randy Savage and get out and have a stretch and maybe do a few jumping jacks, because I had been in the car for several hours at that point. I found this kick ass beach with a clear view of several planets and celestial bodies, just like you would think there would be, and decided to go for a swim. It turned out not to be water but liquid methane, and when I got out I smelled like the worst fart imaginable. I still had a lot of pent up energy from all of those energy drinks, so I said fuck it I might as well dig for some unobtainium.

       However, I soon became bored with that pursuit. So I went for a drive through the countryside, past crystal mountains and gaseous forests, past metallic glaciers and a lake that looked exactly like Spike Lee, no shit, and through a field of hundred-foot-high translucent flowers that sang in castrato when you brushed against them. It was there that I encountered the Sages of the Brown Eye, an ancient but somewhat silly people who considered their own sphincters to be sacrosanct.

       It was clear after a short time that I had worn out my welcome when they unceremoniously commanded me to get off their rhombus of rainbow ferns. I wasn't terribly upset about that, so I drove down to a valley of silken pinwheels where I encountered a much cooler people I dubbed the Murder Junkies.

       But unfortunately I couldn't stay with them long, because of this weird storm that developed, the kind that you would only see when visiting an alien world. My space peeps will know exactly what I'm talking about.

       So sadly I was forced to get the fuck out of that planet. It was time for me to push on toward my final destination. After all, the point of this whole trip was to land on the moon, and that was still several kabillion light years away, and to make matters worse I only had two-thirds of a tank left. But luckily I remembered this shortcut through a wormhole that my niggas the Murder Junkies had told me about.

       When I came out the other side of the wormhole, I found myself on the outskirts of the universe. And to make matters worse it was the middle of the night. But there in the hazy distance I could make out the moon, shining brightly through the stardust and nebulae and what not. It ought to have been bright; it was the size of several galaxies. In my excitement I put the pedal to the metal and within three shakes of Orion's tail I was approaching the lunar surface.

       I had always thought of the moon as an almost eerily peaceful sort of place, which is why I was so surprised at the absolute shit show of bloody intergalactic war going on there. There was total pandemonium and lawlessness wherever I turned. Roving gangs were out in the streets, drinking Moloko Plus and smoking moon rocks and committing acts of ultraviolence such as flicking people in the ear and arbitrarily giving out purple nurples. It was horrific. I knew something had to be done, but I was going to need back up.

       No sooner did I think that than did I see a glorious gallant bald eagle flying down out of the sky. Then I squinted my eyes and saw that it was not a bald eagle but was in fact the biggest, baddest, most phallic and aggressive space shuttle I had ever seen in my life. And I saw that it was not so much flying as it was tearing the fucking sky in half. It swooped down at roughly double the speed of light and landed, the latch opened up and out popped a familiar face. It was my homeboy Rafa.

       And I was all like "Awww shit what da bizness is fool." And he was all "Awww you know just gettin Buck Rogers in this bitch. I heard you was like in some trouble n shit. You know you my blood and all so I gotcha back." And I was all like "mah nigga." But then he was all like "But that's not all fool. You know I gotcha girl Lemons ridin shotgun in this bitch."

       To which I was all like "Oooohhh, snap." And homegirl was like "I ain't come to this triflin ass muthufucka to be runnin my muthufuckin mouth with you fools. I came to do some 187's in this bitch." Then she pulled out her space gat and started shooting muthufuckas. And then out of nowhere someone started whispering "let the bodies hit the floor" and then I realized it was that song by Drowning Pool. Usually that song isn't really my cup of tea, but in this instance it was strangely appropriate.
      Well between the three of us we had soon piled the bodies ten deep for as far as the eye could see, and the war they were having was officially over since we had killed almost every motherfucker in that bitch. But the two evil masterminds behind the whole thing were wounded and cowering before us begging for their lives. They were Yuri Gagarin and Franklin Delano Roosevelt. FDR was all like "In the name of socialism, I beg of you to spare me," and Gagarin was blubbering away in some bullshit language that I couldn't  understand.

       But I was like "Nah, fuck all that son, this is the land of the free." Then I popped like infinity capitalistic caps in their asses.

       But we still weren't quite sure that the conflict was over and a peaceful resolution had been reached, so as we were flying away we found the deepest lunar cave in the world and dropped a nuclear warhead in that motherfucker. Then we soared off into the sunset as the moon cracked open and exploded.


Friday, July 8, 2011

Coming to Terms With the Rape of My Childhood


       I think at some point everyone comes to the realization that most of the things from their childhood that they hold to be sacred have been largely forgotten and/or molested or shit on. Except for the people who lack the cognitive function to formulate such thoughts, such as people who believe in 9/11 conspiracies.

       But for the rest of us, the experience can be disillusioning. And cultural amnesia is worse now than ever. If it happened more than five minutes ago you are an asshole for even mentioning it. They already have a dubstep remix for that shit, and it's so much better that it will make you shit yourself.

Motherfucking Dubstep.

       And so naturally, if it happened more than a decade ago it's fucking ancient, and you are an absolute turd of a human for so much as thinking about it, unless it happens to be some random shitty band or fashion statement, such as EMF or girls pulling their shorts up above their navels, making their asses appear to be three feet long. If anyone reading this does that, you look fucking ridiculous. That went out of vogue 25 years ago for a reason. And they never remember the good bands, such as Bell Biv DeVoe, or the good fashion statements, such as Z. Cavarricis.

The one exception to my "not above the navel" rule.

       Nowadays it seems like practically all of culture is born and pronounced dead on the internet in such rapid succession that we hardly have the chance to process what the fuck it is. For example, the troubled young man below has become considerably famous in recent months, and no one really knows what the fuck is the deal with him, except that he is a member of the Official Fanclub of Wayne Gretzky and Kings Team Aficionados. Being that he is from L.A., I assume this is legitimate.

       And culture isn't slowing down anytime soon. The internet is the great equalizer and everyone who uses it now has an equal opportunity to become famous, even someone as ugly as yourself, and more and more people are using the internet every day. They are running out of IP addresses for fuck's sake. Well I for one plan on becoming famous, and that is the primary reason for this blog. Don't get it twisted by thinking that I just genuinely enjoy entertaining you fuckers. But that is why net neutrality is so important, and I absolutely think it's a very good thing, for all of us to have the same shot at the big time, but I still long for the simpler times when things were more slowed down and in neater compartments, and for those old familiar cultural symbols I cherish, but the problem is that the internet has thoroughly defiled them all.

       The youth of today are so thoroughly desensitized and full of hipster ennui that they have even resorted to soiling the good names of the characters from Sesame Street. They have painted the Count as a whoremonger and deviant, have transformed the cookie monster from a mere cookie enthusiast into a terminal phase food addict, have implied an incongruous sexual relationship between Bert and Ernie, and, perhaps worst of all, have projected their annoying insouciance onto all of them. How dare you do that to my defenseless childhood friends?

       Suffice it to say they have taken the characters of Sesame Street and they have savagely raped them in their fuzzy shit pipes. And I am none too pleased about it. Go fuck yourself, Tumblr.

       Shameful how you donkey punch the good name of Donatello and just shove it up his turtle tailpipe like that.

       No he fucking didn't. He loved physical fitness and Jeet Kune Do, and you are raping his corpse.

       How dare you sit there and pinch out a steamy loaf on the good name of Jazzercise?

This isn't from my childhood but it's still fucked up.

No, it's not related, and yes, I still mad.

       For fuck's sake, take your dick out of Marty. He's got enough bullshit as it is. I'm going to leave you all with this tale of disillusionment. I have no idea which anonymous user of the internet wrote it, and I am using it without his or her permission. Sort of like you didn't ask for permission to go balls deep into my childhood's virgin asshole.

       Well it might be a little longer than usual before I post again, because I need to find a job. No, I don't get paid millions of dollars for this. I agree, it's fucking bullshit. But my absence doesn't mean that I love you any less. Your kiss is still on my list of the best things in life. And so are nachos.