6 Animals That Just Don't Give a Fuck

From Cracked.com

By Danny Vittore Nov 30, 2010 121,045 views

Some animals are boring, and that's fine: They're all gathering nuts or looking for mates or marking territory or some stupid shit. Hey, you know, whatever floats your boat, squirrel. We prefer the animals that just straight don't give a fuck: the ones that punch sharks in the dick, ghost-ride somebody else's whip, beer-bong tequila and look you dead in the eye while plowing your girlfriend. Animals like:  #6.  Mongoose It's common knowledge that the mongoose and the snake are mortal enemies. And you'd think that statement is one-sided: On the one hand, you've got the very emblem of evil and sin -- a scaled, wriggling tube of poison, fangs and death. On the other hand you've got what looks like a cross between a rat and Prince Charles. If they allowed bets on interspecies rivalries, we'd lay our money square on the snake, every time. And we would lose that money, for one very simple reason: because the mongoose isn't fighting snakes for food, or for territory, or for survival -- it's fighting snakes because fuck snakes. That's seriously the reason why: Occasionally you will see a mongoose eating the meat from a defeated snake, but as a general rule, they prefer to avoid it. Yet they still actively seek out and hunt snakes, oftentimes ones larger than themselves. Some species of mongoose have even been known to fight king cobras, a snake so badass it literally eats other, lesser snakes for breakfast. The iconography of the king cobra inundates our culture, and from Commander to Kai, it is always used to intimidate. The hood, the hypnotic weaving, the forked tongue -- every visual aspect of the king cobra screams rotten death and fear. And then along comes this doofy hillbilly weasel, which proceeds to murder the shit out of the living embodiment of terror just because there's nothing better to do that day. #5.  Pen-Tailed Tree Shrew Aww, aren't they just darling? The tree shrew looks like a real-life anime character, all big, round eyes, adorable little paws and tiny mouth. If that thing spoke, it would have the squeaky voice of a preteen Japanese girl, and it would teach jaded sword-wielding teenagers the importance of nature through its precocious antics. "Listen! Cocklebur can be fatal if fed to livestock!" But the pen-tailed tree shrew isn't all cuteness and innocence. It's on this list because it eats only one thing: The fermented nectar from the bertam palm plant of Malaysia. This nectar is naturally fermented inside the plant to have an alcohol content of around 3.8 percent, roughly equivalent to one (cheap) human beer. Now, these shrews aren't the only animals on Earth that drink alcohol -- bats, birds, monkeys and many other creatures drink on occasion -- but we meant it literally when we said they consume only one thing: booze. That is their sole sustenance. They do nothing but get blasted, every hour of every day of every year of their lives. These guys spend an average of two hours a day doing nothing but drinking the bertam liquor, an amount roughly equivalent to about 10 to 12 glasses of wine for a human, all in one sitting. The Kennedys of the wild. So yes, it might look like it's about to do a series of tiny cartwheels while singing you a little song about where rainbows come from, but if it did, it would probably vomit on your pants afterward and then take a swing at you for "judging it with your eyes." #4. Wolverine This one should come as no surprise to anybody: They didn't name the comic book character after the wolverine because he's often found on the tundra and scent-marks his territory (although it might make for a better comic book if he did). It's because the damn things are vicious. But most of us have never seen an actual wolverine, so that picture up there comes as somewhat of a surprise. Look how cute he is! Then there's this: And it's like watching a baby unhinge its jaw to swallow a kitten whole; the cuteness all instantly perverts into horror. So you know that the wolverine is somehow associated with berserker rage, and that it can transform from a cuddle machine into a threshing maw of horror in an instant. It's a psychopath, you get that. What you might not be getting, however, is the sheer scale of its madness: That berserker rage is not selective to animals its own size, animals it can realistically take, animals it wants to eat or animals that pose any direct threat to it. No, the wolverine will attack and eat everything from small rodents to arctic foxes to deer, musk ox and even bears. Wait ... what? The fuck can that thing take on a bear? The sheer size difference makes it impossible. Are we cheaping out here and counting one-sided fights where bears corner and devour wolverines while the tiny animals haplessly gnaw on the giant predator's ankles? Nope: Wolverines will actively stalk and attack larger predators by hiding on top of rocky outcrops or in trees, then leaping off onto their backs, biting, chewing, mauling and stomping on their spines like a backpack capable of hate. But don't take our word for it -- witness all the random spite of nature firsthand:

#3.  Tasmanian Devil

The Tasmanian devil is nearly identical to the wolverine in pop culture: We know that they're smallish mammals known for their viciousness and fury. And, once again, we see that they are substantially more wuvable than we've been led to believe -- just look at that little guy! Is he wearing a wee cardigan? How precious! We'll call him Trevor and pretend he enjoys tennis!

And then again, just like the wolverine, the Tasmanian devil has to go and ruin the snuggle-fest by opening its mouth and turning into the fucking Sarlacc.

But we're not here to repeat ourselves. The devil isn't here for its fighting ability; it's here because it eats literally everything: It devours its kills whole, bones, fur and all. Here are some other things that have been found in Tasmanian devil poo: pencils, plastic, collars, tags of devoured pets, echidnas -- spikes and all -- and blue jeans. The only logical conclusion, on that last one, being that it either ate the pants off of one very terrified Tasmanite, or it ate everything but the shirt off of one very dead Tasmanite. Tasmanian devils even bite through metal traps, and not because they're stuck in them. Just fucking because.

Some people keep Tasmanian devils on them at all times for occasions like this.

"What is this, some kind of steel blade? Looks delicious," says the Tasmanian devil. "Don't mind if I do."
Once they do tuck in to a meal, they can eat anywhere between five percent to 40 percent of their body weight in one sitting, after which they are too bloated and tired to move, so they just go to sleep -- with complete disregard for their surroundings. That is how few fucks the Tasmanian devil will give: If you're standing there, helplessly watching while a Tasmanian devil eats your kid brother, it absolutely will not stop ... until it's full. Then it will lie down and take a nap immediately after, even with you still right there, screaming.
It might ask you to keep it down, but that is the extent of its concern with you.

#2.   Cane Toad

In the study of animals, there's something called Davian behavior, which is just the polite way Science says "animal necrophilia." But this behavior is often a mistake -- some dumb, horny animal not realizing that hot piece of tail is more lukewarm, and literally just a tail. The behavior is rarely ever habitual, and even more rarely intentional.

They have no boundaries

And then there's the cane toad: Not only will they regularly have sex with dead bodies, but they'll even make sweet love to corpses outside of their species. Not just different types of frog, mind you, but animals that in no way could ever be mistaken as a former cane toad: Snakes, lizards, small mammals -- the cane toad is a firm believer in the "hole is a hole" attitude, and an even firmer believer in the "if there's no hole, just make one with your boner" attitude. There has been at least one recorded attempt of a cane toad to mate with a long-deceased female that had been completely flattened by a car ... for eight straight hours!

In conclusion, here's a cane toad raping a dead salamander. You're welcome.

#1.  Honey Badger

Let's do the wolverine-style breakdown again. Pictured above: Snuggles incarnate. We'd name him George Clooney and feed him a diet of peanut butter and hugs.

Now, murder from concentrate:

Oh, and hugging is a bad idea; they attack the testicles first. That's just how the honey badger rolls. Here are other ways the honey badger rolls:

 

In that one, short video, you can see a honey badger chasing a leopard away and climbing a tree just to attack a cobra -- presumably because it looked at him funny. But the perfect example of the honey badger's inability to give one hot shit comes around 2:15 into the video: One particular honey badger got hungry, so he went to find a nice meal. Now, he could snuffle around in the dirt all night, looking for the safest food source, but that sounds hard, and it might take a while. So instead, he opts to piss all over the very concept of survival instincts, and just eats the first damn thing he comes across. Unfortunately, it happens to be a puff adder -- one of the deadliest snakes in the world.

The badger stumbles across the snake midway through its own meal, so what's a badger to do? Why, steal the food straight from the death-serpent's jaws, of course, and then sit down to eat the snake's stolen meal right in front of him, while he furiously spits and hisses. When the badger finishes the snake's dinner, he's still a bit peckish, so he walks right over to the still-furious snake and mauls it to death, sustaining multiple bites in the process. Ignoring the deadly poison coursing through his veins, the badger settles in and starts eating the puff Aadder. Tragically, a few minutes later, he collapses.

And so ends the story of this honey badger, who died as he lived, spitting in the face of mortalit- what's that? He's back up? Holy shit! Two hours pass, and the badger miraculously resurrects himself from apparent death! He's been given a second chance at life! A second chance to ...
Go right back and continue eating that snake.

Danny Vittore is a freelance writer. When he isn't writing, he is found sitting at his desk twiddling his thumbs waiting for his next writing job. If you feel the need to contact him for whatever reason you deem necessary, his email address is: dannyvittore@gmail.com

R.I.P. Leslie Nielsen

If you haven't seen The Naked Gun, this clip lacks context, but take my word for it.. it kicks ass.

Better yet, watch the movie.

Kan't Rprt Nuwz 2Nigt ... So Wastd

A Surreal Saturday

Twas the Saturday after Thanksgiving, 2006. I sat in the Jacksonville Amtrak station with my good friend and roommate Robin, and his family. We were waiting to head back to college, after a tryptophan- and tryptamine-filled half-week o'fun with some of their family friends. Suddenly a travesty of a show came upon the waiting room television, Eye For An Eye.



A commenter on the youtube video above pretty much nailed it, describing the show as "basically the courtroom scene from Idiocracy." Legal disputes are brought before the venerable Judge Extreme Akim, whose bench is a plasma screen, and gavel a baseball bat with the word "justice" inscribed on it. The plaintiff and defendant stand in metal ring cages, the host is Kato Kaelin, irresponsibly let back into a courtroom, and the bailiff is former boxer Big Sugar Ray Phillips. The show's concept is that to truly deliver justice, those found guilty should be made to experience the same wrong that they have inflicted upon the victor of the case. Por ejemplo:



Robin & I were able to tear our attention away from this train wreck of a show when we realized we were hungry, and could use some sustenance before our 8 hr ride back . We left the station and wandered down the closest street until we found Jenkins BBQ.



We each ordered a rib sandwich, and waited at the counter for our orders. While we were waiting a customer approached the counter and nodded at the cashier. The cashier went back into the kitchen and came back with a brown paper bag filled with 4-5 loaves of bread. The customer pulled out his wad of cash and counted out about $120 in 20's, paid the cashier and left the BBQ spot with his brown paper bag. Soon Robin & I's sandwiches came and we headed back to the train station to eat. The rib sandwiches consisted of a half rack of ribs, bones and all, plastered between 4 slices of wonder bread and slathered in some delicious BBQ sauce. Forget the bones, this sandwich was delicious. Maybe it was because it contained trace amounts of crack, but if you're ever in Jacksonville I recommend you stop by a Jenkins BBQ.

MOST EPIC CAT FIGHT EVER

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Complete Lunatic's Guide to the 5 Best Sipping Whiskeys

From Cracked.com

You're not operating under any false pretenses here: You're an asshole. The only things you truly love are yourself, the cardinal sins, and fine whiskey. And you're okay with that. But you're sick and tired of grabbing a Kentucky Bourbon and getting into a fistfight with a bicycle courier, when you should be sipping a nice Single Malt and watching mail-order Russian brides wrestle for the imitation diamonds that you threw on the floor. If only there was some way to know what type of whiskey pairs well with the specific kind of irredeemable asshole that you are! Unfortunately, whiskey is like madness - its exact effects will vary depending on family history, mental state, and pattern of drug use - but here's a rough starter guide to help ensure you're the right kind of dickhead drunk tonight:

 

#5.   Maudlin, Repressed Jerk

Bushmill's '70s porn title-sounding Black Bush is definitely a member of the Bushmill's line, but with a more distinguished character than its common counterpart. It also comes in a fancy cardboard tube that will utterly fail to convince the liquor store attendant that you're an "aficionado" instead of a "sobbing drunk."

Nose

Wood, leather, and sherry. It reminds you of your grandfather's library (before he killed himself in there and your great aunt had it sealed up because she couldn't take the memories).

Palate

Light and fruity, just like Mickey Swarsdon, that kid in middle school who you ridiculed mercilessly for his lisp. And who you then stalked just as mercilessly, secretly dreaming of his touch while you sat in the bushes outside the Round Table where his family ate after soccer games.

The Argument You're Going To Get In

Your night will be sexually charged and confusing, followed by a touch of resentment at a life repressed, with some light afternotes of morbid nostalgia. You will make one too many subtly homophobic jokes, and in defending yourself, you'll only make it worse. You will be quietly shunned by the rest of the table.

Who You'll End Up Fighting

An old man telling war stories to the bartender just a bit too loudly.

 

But don't assume you'll win: He once did for sixteen Japs with their own gat dang machine gun.

His eyes will be glazed over as he alternately reminisces on the camaraderie and regrets the atrocities of wartime. Something about his cadence of speech will remind you of your grandfather and the confusion you felt at his passing. You will headlock him by the dumpsters when he steps out to smoke, and that will go swimmingly for about two minutes, but then the drunk will turn on you and you'll end up internally mixing a cocktail of familial grief and childhood sexuality. They'll find you partially inside a trash can, half-hugging a scared old man while sobbing something about Mickey Swarsdon's beautiful little hands.

Who You're Going Home With

A she-male. She will steal your wallet, but the joke's on her: Those cards are long maxed out, and your debit card only links to an account with seventy four dollars in overdraft charges. That's her debt now. Score!

Finish

The conflicting excitement and shame of childish sexuality. And some banana.

#4.  Closet Racist

Distilled in 1830s Kentucky, Bulleit's original recipe vanished abruptly, along with its founder, Augustus Bulleit, while traveling from Louisville to New Orleans. Revived by his great-great-grandson in 1987, Bulleit is a classic Kentucky Bourbon aged in oak barrels and flavored with the sudden, mysterious disappearances of southern gentlemen.

Nose

Notes of vanilla and rye, with just a touch of hobo (but the good kind of hobo: Like that old Asian guy who's always yelling about young love to passing couples on the street, not like that big black dude that stabbed you in the calf last winter when you stepped on his hand).

Palate

A sharp, sour alcohol impression followed by a dark, burnt, oaky smoothness.

The Argument You're Going to Get In

Your night will begin jovially enough: Joking loudly and crassly with your co-workers at a familiar dive bar. Eventually, a friendly argument will sprout between two of your fellows concerning what, exactly, belongs on top of a hamburger. It will quickly turn ugly when you manage to turn what starts out as a hilarious, quirky diatribe against onions into a cruel and biting rant about the state of the black man in America. It is a segue that surprises even you.

Who You'll End Up Fighting

The bartender (he's black, and he fucking loves onions).

Who You're Going Home With

The bartender again. Because this is the kind of beating that's going to last a long, long while.

 

That this is the first place your mind goes for "black bartender" is kind of the issue, really.

You have inadvertently sparked the kind of racial blood feud that could only end amicably if you somehow saved his life while trapped in a basement with two hillbillies, a gimp and a samurai sword.

Finish

A sickly sweet vanilla, which, incidentally, will be the bartender's pet name for you over the coming weeks.

 

#3.  Unfaithful Husband and Pervert

 

Hailing from the Scottish island of Islay, Laphroaig had its beginnings in small, illegal stills, like Scottish moonshine, but eventually grew to be a respected and esteemed establishment, like a Scottish Red Lobster.

Nose

A strong smokiness dominates Laphroaig, mercilessly grinding out any other softer, weaker notes.

Palate

Earthy and unpretentious but utterly dominant. Like it knows. Like it knows you've been bad.

The Argument You're Going To Get In

You're not going to get in any arguments, largely because of the ball-gag she put in your mouth about two hours ago. You met her downstairs, in the lobby bar of the Ramada Inn that your shitty office supply company put you up in for this two-day conference. You would've argued against the trip when you were younger, but these days you leap at any chance to get away from your ugly wife and hateful children. You got to talking to the pretty blonde over drinks, and you were utterly charmed by her sultry, forceful ways; she was presumably wooed by how much you know about printers.

Who You'll End Up Fighting

Oh, nobody! Nobody at all. You're handcuffed to this radiator so tight, you can barely move.

 

"Beat me! Belittle me! BURN ME! I've been so nau-wait, do you think this might be getting a little out of hand?"

You'll just have to do whatever you're told. Whatever anybody tells you to do.

Who You're Going Home With

Shit, you might never go home again if this girl keeps working it like - is she going for your stuff? She is! Oh yeah, the belt. The belt, baby. Or...the wallet? You guess that's uh, that's pretty good too. It's leather, at any rate. If she rears up enough, maybe gets a running start, you could leave a pretty good mark with a wallet.

Finish

A peaty, mellow burn, which will go nicely with the burning shame you'll fell as you give your statement to the police the next morning, naked save for an emergency blanket and the perfectly knotted tie you had her Double Windsor around your junk before she made off with your clothes and petty cash.

 

#2.  American Standard Angry Drunk

 

Everybody knows Johnnie Walker Black: The much cooler cousin of Johnnie Walker Red, who only comes to town two or three times a year to make JW Red look bad in front of all his friends. But he usually buys Red some weed before he leaves, so it's all good.

Nose

Sweetness, followed by spice.

Palate

A bit of sourness at first, but you adjust to it quickly. It gets easier to drink by the sip. Easier and easier and easier.

The Argument You're Going To Get In

You didn't even want to go out tonight, but hell - this is great! Just you and the boys at that little place around the corner, there's a decent bar band playing (but not so good that you feel bad talking over them,) it's just like the ol' college days. You're really getting into the swing of things. You're swinging the hell out of things!

Who You'll End Up Fighting

Okay, now you're just taking swings at people: You try to backhand Steven, your next door neighbor who blasts fucking Snow Patrol every night - you get it, he misses his ex-girlfriend, but some of us are trying to watch re-runs of Cold Case, Steve. You try to uppercut that guy in the Red Sox hat - because really, fuck that guy. You know he only bought it after they won the Series. He wasn't a true fan, down in the god damn trenches with you back before it was all golden shits and diamond giggles. Then you try to jumpkick the barmaid, because she was standing by the guy in the Red Sox hat and you got confused. You're basically taking on the whole god damn bar, and as soon as you manage to actually land a punch, they'll know it.

 

But that's okay: The whiskey says you can take 'em all, no problem.

Who You're Going Home With

 Surprisingly, a cute little redhead. But that's only because she couldn't correctly decipher the drunken spinning of your fists, and admired the spontaneity and balls it took for you to try and start a solo mosh-pit for a Creedence song. She's just a little too eager to suck a dick, but hey -- that's a problem for Tomorrow You to worry about. That guy sucks anyway, and besides, there's like eighteen hours before you even have to think about grabbing a cab to the clinic for an STD panel.

Finish

Chlamydia. Now, a lot of people are going to swear Chlamydia doesn't have a taste, but you know better. It's like cigarette ash and those Fun Dip candies, you know with the powder? And something else, like moldy br - you just, you know better, okay? Let's leave it at that.

 

#1.   Period Piece Villain

 

A unique and distinguished drink, Redbreast is a 12 year old pure potstill Irish Whiskey distilled in County Cork, Ireland. It is one of only two pure potstill Irish Whiskeys still in production today.

Nose

Orange and vanilla, with hints of tea. Both dignified and robust.

Palate

Slick and oily, with cream, cinnamon, and exotic spices. Redbreast practically screams prestige and subtlety. Screams it right in your god damn face until you start crying.

The Argument You're Going To Get In

It will be a scholarly argument, but one made no less passionate by virtue of its civility. Mr. Preston Humboldt, being his usual, stodgy self, will argue that the only way to effectively shatter the hold of that military Junta in the colonies is through trade embargoes and sanctions. He doesn't understand, of course, that these savages are only temporarily installed leaders, and that they rarely maintain power long enough for the consequences of diplomacy to take hold. Any fool can see that, Preston.

Who You'll End Up Fighting

A man in a top hat and little else, having been possessed of the strange urge to strip himself of his clothing in direct proportion to his rage.

 

Like this, but with all the dignity replaced by dongs.

When you insisted that his trade embargoes where the political equivalent of cowering behind his mother's skirts, he stripped off his waistcoat and flung it to the ground. When you implied that his reluctance to approve a campaign of precise sorties on key supply routes was due to an unseemly concern for his own public face, off came the shirt. When you called him the black sludge that leaked out of his father's anus after a night of coital role-reversal, the congealed puddle miraculously given life solely to teach his parents the consequences of perverting God's sexual will, he threw his underwear into the fire and came after you with a cast iron hat rack and a fury-erection.

Who You're Going Home With

Preston's mother. She is of an unseemly age, to be sure, and was likely no prize even in her salad days, but you have a point to prove to dear Preston, and a point to bury in his haggard matron.

Finish
Surprisingly mellow.

...Until you cross it.

Basketball sure is gay sometimes

Marcus Jordan, getting some Air

Yeah, that's who you think it is.

You like hangin' on twitter, and we like beer

New People Under the Stairs:


Other drankin' raps:








"I told her time and time again: never swallow pink drinks"

Get that Saturday started proper

Good Riddance

THIS IS MY SUPER TRENDY POST ABOUT FOURLOKO GETTING BANNED!!!!!

FORGET THAT SHIT, CAMO SILVER ICE 4 LYFFFEEE!!!!

photo credit goes to Adam Katzman

Police training video: How to tell if your perps are satanists!

The internet is boring today.

I think we should destroy it.

Who's with me?

If Big L is in hell then satan is definitely not runnin' that shit

Just found out a new Big L record is coming out in time for Thanksgiving. While you're enjoying your turkey and cornucopias and alladat Nov. 25 think about the unfortunate Coleman family. For there's no food in their fridge, just body parts.

Squishin' Squash

Kirk Hammett: kid kicker

Oregon defeats the meth monster

An op-ed in the New York Times brought my attention to a small but important victory within my home state. Thank God those meth addicts will no longer be skulking around the podunk shithole-towns that scar the otherwise striking and beautiful landscape of Eastern Oregon. Or, at least, their numbers have decreased somewhat due to an Oregon law put in place four years ago that made pseudoephedrine---a key ingredient in meth production---a prescription-only drug.

Because, you see, just selling it behind the counter, like condoms and cigarettes, does hardly a thing to prevent the meth heads from acquiring enough of it to manufacture the drug. Once Sudafed and other products started being sold this way, with limits on how much one could purchase, they realized that they simply needed to visit more than one store to obtain the necessary amount.

Then, once electronic tracking systems were put into place to monitor purchases across various locales, the "smurfers," as they are called, figured out that sending MULTIPLE PEOPLE in the gang out to buy individual amounts would equal enough pseudoephedrine to produce enough meth for all. Everybody wins!!

Sometimes we urbanites forget the scourge that meth is, especially in rural America. But the drug devastates small towns and their economies, and, more importantly, REALLY FUCKS UP YOUR FACE.

Example here (I'd rather not post a picture, because it's just disturbing as hell).

love,
a proud Oregonian

PS: If you are interested in learning further about the meth epidemic and are an ardent lover of depressing non-fiction like me, you ought to read Methland by Nick Reding, a journalist who explored the effects of the drug and its production on a small Iowa town. There's a totally crazy chapter which begins with the story of a man who exploded his house and melted the skin off his body while lighting a cigarette in his basement meth lab.

Anyone who gets hurt during a rodeo, bull fight, or bull run fucking deserves it. Fuck you, rednecks and spaniards.

六号以后中国的工作人建造一家新旅馆!

sped-up video proof right here of why Chinese cities are fucking nuts:



you can visit the same spot of the city you live in after two months and not recognize a damn thing.

BASEBALL NERDGASM

where does it come from?

In a large metropolitan area in California there is an average recording studio. It has numerous glass-encased records lining the walls. Some have signatures on them. There is a photograph of a sound engineer and Ringo Starr displayed prominently above an immense and expensive-looking soundboard, on which the sound engineer from the photo is resting his elbow. His eyes are closed and he is gently squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger. Looking through a large pane of glass, we see a twenty-four year old male standing in front of a microphone. His name is Zach. His hair is cut in a deliberately uneven manner that is consistent with the prevailing fashion sensibilities of his social circle. It is dyed black in places. There is a ring in his left ear that stretches his earlobe into a six centimeter circle, revealing a portion of his neck that would otherwise go unnoticed. His eyes are decorated with a small amount of black eyeliner.
At the moment, he is pressing a set of headphones to his ears with both hands and melodically reciting the lyrics to a song he wrote entitled “What Goes Around Comes Around.” The song is a departure for Zach--an acoustic number lacking in much of the heavy percussion and layered guitar work that characterized his prior musical endeavors. He has recently moved to this city from the suburbs of Ohio, leaving behind his band, “In Silence Prevails the Glory,” to seek out greater opportunities. However, until he is able to find a group of like-minded and similarly dressed musicians, he will be limited to a certain musical asceticism.
His voice reaches a whiny, slightly effeminate crescendo and he stops singing. He gives a “thumbs-up” to the sound engineer on the other side of the glass who does not notice. He pulls up his pants, which have drifted below his knees during the course of the vocal take, delicately rests the headphones on the microphone stand, and enters the room where the sound engineer is staring blankly at his computer monitor. The sound engineer speaks languidly, without looking at Zach.
“Alright.”
“I think that was the one,” Zach says. “We can probably call it a day.”
The sound engineer nods. “Cool.”
“So are we good for tomorrow?”
The sound engineer stretches and tilts his head slightly, evincing doubt. “I dunno. I think I’m busy tomorrow. We’ll check the calendar.”
Zach understands. “Cool.”
“So,” the sound engineer begins, “Let’s go ahead and square-up before we start mixing.”
“Yeah, cool.” Zach is slightly put off by the request.
The sound engineer begins to punch numbers into a small calculator. “It’s going to be seven hundred and eighty all-together.”
Zach’s eyes widen. “What?”
“Sixty-five dollars an hour. Twelve hours. Seven hundred and eighty.”
Zach pauses. “Man…”
“I’d prefer cash if you can do that.”
“I don’t really have it,” Zach says quietly.
The sound engineer frowns.
“I mean, I didn’t think it would be that much.”
“You’d better get it,” the sound engineer says calmly.
“I can’t.”
“How much do you have?”
Zach reaches down, fishing for his wallet, which is at the end of an enormous chain. He pulls out several bills, counts them, and hands them to the sound engineer. “Two-fifty,” he says.
“Get out.”
“ Well, okay,” Zach says nervously, “but could I have the recording? I can pay you when I get a band together and stuff. I just want to get this thing out there, you know?”
“No. Get out.”
“Well, I mean, it’s my recording-”
“It’s not your recording,” the sound engineer hisses, “it belongs to Harris Teeter now.”
“What?”
The sound engineer retrieves a wooden baseball bat from somewhere underneath the console. Before Zach has a chance to process the strange turn of events, he is running down the studio hallway, holding his pants up with one hand, being chased by the bat-wielding sound engineer. His shoulder slams into a glass record frame, knocking it off of the wall. He hears it shatter behind him. He stumbles down a staircase, slipping and bruising a butt cheek. He limps through the front door and continues down the street. Looking back he can see the sound engineer standing in the doorway, bat in hand. “Don’t come back you fucking bum!”
Two blocks away, deciding that he is safe, Zach slows his pace. He glances over his shoulder and notices several Starbucks patrons eyeing him through the store window. A terrible thought runs through his mind: what if he never becomes famous? A tear runs down his cheek, ruining his eyeliner.
Meanwhile, in the recording studio, the sound engineer presses a speed dial button on his phone labeled “HT HQ.”
“May I speak to Mr. Morganthall please?” The sound engineer waits patiently, staring at the recording on his computer screen.
“Hello, sir. I have another…yes…yes sir, it’s a real shitter.”
In a richly decorated office in the heart of Atlanta, a man sits behind a desk in a large leather chair, gently petting a black cat in his lap. “Excellent, Mr. Jones. I know the perfect branch.” He looks at a large map of the American South, his eyes focus on a pushpin labeled “Carrboro.”
Both men laugh maniacally.

They Fixed the Site

http://whatinthefuckhasobamadonesofar.com/

now more accurate!

Hemp granola will not get you high.

Well, my work computer isn't working this morning, meaning the data I so critically need is tantalizingly out of reach, leaving me to do nothing else but post here.

A few things on my mind this morning:

1. Despite associations and commonly-held beliefs, granola really isn't that good for you. The hippies had it wrong. Maybe that's why there's a lot of aging dudes with ponytails wearing tye-dye to distract from their large gut.

2. The time is nigh for soup! Soup, glorious soup, chock-full of vegetables and stew meat and potatoes and beans and whatever else our little hearts desire. I'm seeing a lot of soup dinners in the near future. I just need to get a lot more bowls before these commence, as we currently possess only 5 deep bowls, and 4 shallow ones that would never work for you stork-beaked people.

3. WHEN IS THAT MOVIE ABOUT THE GUY THAT CUTS OFF HIS ARM (played by a sexy sexy sexy James Franco) COMING TO MY LOCAL THEATER???

'Tis all.

Telestrator Dong Champion: CNN

I love the internets

While g-chatting with Christine this afternoon, I googled "incling" to check whether that spelling was correct (it is not) and found about 5 links down what I believe to be the eighth greatest website ever...

Roy Orbison in Cling Film

I've shared/copied the first story below, but HIGHLY recommend reading Roy in Clingfilm in Space

It always starts the same way. I am in the garden airing my terrapin Jetta when he walks past my gate, that mysterious man in black.

'Hello Roy,' I say. 'What are you doing in Dusseldorf?'

'Attending to certain matters,' he replies.

'Ah,' I say.

He apprises Jetta's lines with a keen eye. 'That is a well-groomed terrapin,' he says.

'Her name is Jetta.' I say. 'Perhaps you would like to come inside?'

'Very well.' He says.

Roy Orbison walks inside my house and sits down on my couch. We talk urbanely of various issues of the day. Presently I say, 'Perhaps you would like to see my cling-film?'

'By all means.' I cannot see his eyes through his trademark dark glasses and I have no idea if he is merely being polite or if he genuinely has an interest in cling-film.

I bring it from the kitchen, all the rolls of it. 'I have a surprising amount of clingfilm,' I say with a nervous laugh. Roy merely nods.

'I estimate I must have nearly a kilometre in the kitchen alone.'

'As much as that?' He says in surprise. 'So.'

'Mind you, people do not realize how much is on each roll. I bet that with a single roll alone I could wrap you up entirely.'

Roy Orbison sits impassively like a monochrome Buddha. My palms are sweaty.

'I will take that bet,' says Roy. 'If you succeed I will give you tickets to my new concert. If you fail I will take Jetta, as a lesson to you not to speak boastfully.'

I nod. 'So then. If you will please to stand.'

Roy stands. 'Commence.'

I start at the ankles and work up. I am like a spider binding him in my gossamer web. I do it tight with several layers. Soon Roy Orbison stands before me, completely wrapped in cling-film. The pleasure is unexampled.

'You are completely wrapped in cling-film,' I say.

'You win the bet,' says Roy, muffled. 'Now unwrap me.'

'Not for several hours.'

'Ah.'

I sit and admire my handiwork for a long time. So as not to make the ordeal unpleasant for him we make small talk on topical subjects, Roy somewhat muffled. At some point I must leave him to attend to Jetta's needs. When I return I find he has hopped out of my house, still wrapped in cling-film. The loss leaves me broken and pitiful. He never calls me. He sends no tickets. The police come and reprimand me. Jetta is taken away, although I get her back after a complicated legal process.

There is only one thing that can console me. A certain dream, a certain vision...

It always starts the same way.


© Ulrich Haarbürste

Holy Crap! This lady only needed one letter to make Wheel of Fortune her bitch

ohgodohgodohgodohgodjesusfuckme this is going to be awesome

"They Live," John Carpenter's 1988 cult classic, is a fairly subversive piece of work. The film, which combines sci-fi, horror and satire -- and includes one of the iconic fight scenes in movie history -- is an allegorical treatise on the evils of capitalism, set in a Los Angeles populated by evil, conspiratorial and wealthy aliens. The film, despite a mixed original reception, has developed a rabid fan-boy following over the last few decades, and now Jonathan Lethem, the author of "Motherless Brooklyn," "The Fortress of Solitude" and, more recently, "Chronic City" has written "They Live," a meticulous, scene-by-scene analysis of its many, many layers. (If you haven't seen "They Live," the film has apparently also made its way online here.)

View the Slide Show at Salon.com for some of the best excerpts from Letham's new book.

How to talk like Michael Caine

I know Rach wants to move this blog away from linkfest meme-posting but this is way to good not to link to.

18 Dogs That Look Like Chewbacca

Cover Song Wednesday - Bonnie "Prince" Billy and The Mighty Bill Withers

And, with any luck, he'll drown in the under shit of that wave

So I'm trying to figure out how to post. animated .gif's

let's see if this works

Kosovo's OK

Unauthorized audiobiography of Weird Al

I Wasn't Going to Post About This, But Now I Have To

So... There's this Australian rugby player... and he got really drunk... and did something with his teammate's dog that he probably shouldn't have.

Follow-Up: Why The Large Hadon Collider Might Kill Us All

This probably won't happen. But it could. Maybe. Probably not, though.

During the Manhattan Project, there was a substantial number of scientists that thought splitting an atom would create a chain reaction that would ignite the atmosphere and extinguish life on Earth. They were wrong, but it is good to have a few haters around to at least make you consider the possibility that pressing "that" button might be a really, really bad idea.

Large Hadron Collider (LHC) generates a 'mini-Big Bang'

Even a lot of non-crackpot scientists think this is a terrible idea. Oh well, I'd rather get blowed up by science than Mooslims.

From the BBC:

The Large Hadron Collider has successfully created a "mini-Big Bang" by smashing together lead ions instead of protons.

The scientists working at the enormous machine on Franco-Swiss border achieved the unique conditions on 7 November.

The experiment created temperatures a million times hotter than the centre of the Sun.

The LHC is housed in a 27km-long circular tunnel under the French-Swiss border near Geneva.

Up until now, the world's highest-energy particle accelerator - which is run by the European Organization for Nuclear Research (Cern) - has been colliding protons, in a bid to uncover mysteries of the Universe's formation.

Proton collisions could help spot the elusive Higgs boson particle and signs of new physical laws, such as a framework called supersymmetry.

But for the next four weeks, scientists at the LHC will concentrate on analysing the data obtained from the lead ion collisions.

This way, they hope to learn more about the plasma the Universe was made of a millionth of a second after the Big Bang, 13.7 billion years ago.

One of the accelerator's experiments, ALICE, has been specifically designed to smash together lead ions, but the ATLAS and Compact Muon Solenoid (CMS) experiments have also switched to the new mode.


David Evans from the University of Birmingham, UK, is one of the researchers working at ALICE.

He said that the collisions obtained were able to generate the highest temperatures and densities ever produced in an experiment.

"We are thrilled with the achievement," said Dr Evans.


"This process took place in a safe, controlled environment, generating incredibly hot and dense sub-atomic fireballs with temperatures of over ten trillion degrees, a million times hotter than the centre of the Sun.

"At these temperatures even protons and neutrons, which make up the nuclei of atoms, melt resulting in a hot dense soup of quarks and gluons known as a quark-gluon plasma."

Quarks and gluons are sub-atomic particles - some of the building blocks of matter. In the state known as quark-gluon plasma, they are freed of their attraction to one another. This plasma is believed to have existed just after the Big Bang.

He explained that by studying the plasma, physicists hoped to learn more about the so-called strong force - the force that binds the nuclei of atoms together and that is responsible for 98% of their mass.

After the LHC finishes colliding lead ions, it will go back to smashing together protons once again.

Your tax dollars going to subsidize cheezier Dominos Pizza

One of the least talked about enormous wastes of taxpayer money has to be the obscene agricultural subsidies. I don't know what it is, maybe the myth of the American farmer or some shit, but whereas it is offensive or socialistic to throw money at the american auto industry it is somehow perfectly acceptable, even noble, to subsidize the american agricultural industry.

Even worse than the billions to trillions of tax dollars spent on agra-corporate welfare programs every year are the billions that go directly to subsidizing food that kills us. Sorry to go all Mike Pollan on y'all's asses but The New York Times did a good piece this weekend detailing just one example of this nonsense that I wanted to share...

Then help arrived from an organization called Dairy Management. It teamed up with Domino’s to develop a new line of pizzas with 40 percent more cheese, and proceeded to devise and pay for a $12 million marketing campaign.

Consumers devoured the cheesier pizza, and sales soared by double digits. “This partnership is clearly working,” Brandon Solano, the Domino’s vice president for brand innovation, said in a statement to The New York Times.

But as healthy as this pizza has been for Domino’s, one slice contains as much as two-thirds of a day’s maximum recommended amount of saturated fat, which has been linked to heart disease and is high in calories.

And Dairy Management, which has made cheese its cause, is not a private business consultant. It is a marketing creation of the United States Department of Agriculture — the same agency at the center of a federal anti-obesity drive that discourages over-consumption of some of the very foods Dairy Management is vigorously promoting.

Just to be clear, other than the fact that their pizza fucking sucks, I don't think the Domino's should be chastised for this. I think the US government should. Someone should write those tea-party fucks about this and see what they say about cutting this program as a part of their anti-socialist agenda. Or something...

You're all Forgiven!

It seems to me that we ought to take a break from politics for a moment and bathe ourselves in the soothing light of a late-60's Rock set-piece.

The Rock-and-Roll Circus was designed by the Rolling Stones' Mic Jagger as a musical spectacle of Olympian proportions. Featuring artists such as Jethro Tull, John Lennon, The Who, and other mega artists of the time; the Rock-and-Roll Circus is an absolute joy to behold. Most of the performers are at their best and the absurd poncho-wearing audience, half of whom are the other musicians, looks to be having the time of their lives.

Unbelievably, the whole show was scrapped at the last minute by Jagger due to his dissatisfaction with the band's performance. The special never aired on the BBC as it was intended and the footage was almost lost for good until someone found it in a trash can in the mid-1990's. This action by Mic could be understandable; original band member Ronnie Wood was well into the descent into drugs and madness at this point it shows in the Stones' set. I rather prefer to think that Mic Jagger was so pissed that the opening acts showed him up (The Who are at their finest, in my opinion) that he decided to burn the whole show rather than appear second-best.

Fortunately, the footage was remastered and, thanks to the internet, I am able to share this with all of you! I encourage you to watch the whole video with the sound up really, really loud. It is all a pleasure, except for one unfortunate song featuring Yoko Ono. If you don't feel like watching a 60-minute video though, please at least rock out to just The Who's performance in the second link. After all, you owe it to yourself, don't you?




The who - a quick one
Uploaded by piRjtull. - Music videos, artist interviews, concerts and more.

Music is the Weapon

"cheerleading for mediocrity"

Most of y'all non facebookers wouldn't know this, but facebook (especially among the political class) has been all a flutter after the mid-term elections with links to this site, http://whatthefuckhasobamadonesofar.com/

Now, I don't think Obama has been a bad president, really. But he's been a complete disappointment - not because he's some political rorschach test in which I finally saw my unattainable liberal idealism, but because, as someone who specializes in and has devoted his life to understanding politics, movements and political history, I know what Obama had in January of 2009 and what he has squandered.

I've been unable to really express how i feel about this sentiment and that's why I was so glad to see my buddy Zack Exley, an amazing online and on the ground progressive organizer (who lived in Chapel Hill for years) say it better than I ever could...


Zack Exley:

This site everyone's linking to misses the point. You can't even call it incrementalism (let alone "sweeping change," to quote Obama) if the net change in people's lives is still negative. I remember a white guy in greasy coveralls walking into an Ohio Obama office in October, 2008. He declared, "I don't care if he's got a four foot l...ong red tail, I'm voting for him because I can't take any more of this." Obama's accomplishments haven't added up to a direct impact on that guy's life. He promised sweeping change, he had a mandate for sweeping change, that guy and millions of Americans would have done anything to help him make sweeping change. Instead we got a string of stokes of a pen. And the few things he did fight for, like health care, were confusing compromises that will now be repealed by the GOP anyways. I'm sorry, but if you guys keep spamming me with cheerleading for mediocrity, I gotta say something.

Fucking right, Zack.

Just so you know, this crazy bitch is now a Congresswoman from the great state of North Carolina. Watch the whole interview, it is simply amazing...

Socrates – a man for our times

He was condemned to death for telling the ancient Greeks things they didn't want to hear, but his views on consumerism and trial by media are just as relevant today.

The Death of Socrates, 1787, by Jacques Louis David. Photograph: World History Archive / Alamy

Two thousand four hundred years ago, one man tried to discover the meaning of life. His search was so radical, charismatic and counterintuitive that he become famous throughout the Mediterranean. Men – particularly young men – flocked to hear him speak. Some were inspired to imitate his ascetic habits. They wore their hair long, their feet bare, their cloaks torn. He charmed a city; soldiers, prostitutes, merchants, aristocrats – all would come to listen. As Cicero eloquently put it, "He brought philosophy down from the skies."

Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure - Socrates from Oz is Over the Rainbow on Vimeo.