http://mooncounty.tumblr.com/

Listen, Baby.

Wed, 25 Nov 2009 08:03:01 -0800

by Jeremy Chen

Baby, listen. We’ve been through a lot. Shit, I love you, girl. You’re my world. Thick and thin, famine or flush, up or down, good and bad you were there, and I know, in my heart of hearts, that you’ll be there forever.

That’s why, on this very special night, I’ve decided to grant you what I can only assume is your greatest wish, a threesome.

Now, being a lady, your vision of this threesome is probably what’s known as the “Devil’s Threesome,” which is two dudes to one girl. Now, I’m comfortable enough with our situation to be there for you as you fulfill a girlhood dream of getting hollowed out by two guys, one of them possibly black, which is cool, except maybe the black guy thing.

You know why.

Anyway, since this my anniversary, too, I think it’s only fair that we indulge in my fantasy, which, coincidentally is also a three-way, but in this case a “Holy Trinity,” or a three-way with two girls to one guy. One of the ladies will probably be a hot-blooded Latina.

So, baby, here’s what I did; I got one of those hotel rooms that has a door that leads into another room, so long as you unlock both doors. You and I will lose ourselves in a night of unrestrained passion and white-hot lust as we shuffle back and forth from fuck den to fuck den.

I’m going to shoot your straight, baby; there won’t be any gay shit. If you want to go off the lezervation, by all means, go, but I’m going to keep my shit straight.

Also, lezervation; awesome. I have to tell Pete. Oh wait, I’ll just tell him at the hotel. I managed to get him to be our third for your threesome.

Baby? Where you going? Why are you standing up, baby? Are you going to go to the restroom to deal with your soaked panties? Going to call some of your friends? Let them know what an awesome BF I am?

Baby, are you going outside to find me a lusty south of the border carnal goddess that you find hot, too?

Baby. Baby, come back. Baby, seriously, this isn’t funny anymore. And I know funny. Everyone at the office says I’m the funniest one there, and should maybe do stand-up, and I’m telling you, this isn’t funny.

Baby, don’t make me use my serious voice.

Baby, don’t you walk out to your car. Okay, fine, you proved your point but don’t unlock that door. Don’t you get into that car, baby. Do not insert that key into the ignition. That’s fine, but you better not turn the key and start the engine.

Don’t you dare put in your Rihanna CD. Don’t crank that stereo, you know what that’ll do to the speakers. Baby, if you shift into reverse we’re going to have a really long session at couple’s counseling.

Don’t you take your foot off the brake and slowly back out. Don’t you drive to the exit of the parking lot. Baby, don’t you dare merge into the right southbound lane.

Baby, don’t you drive to your house. Do not go inside that front door, you drive back here and tell me what the problem is, because I just do not see what you could possibly be upset about. Was it the rude waiter?

Baby, I will come down on him like the angry right hand of God (the smiting hand), if that’ll make you happy.

We don’t have to split dessert if you absolutely have to try the apple tart, but the tart don’t got shit on the tiramisu.

Baby, don’t you look through your contacts list on your cell wondering if you should erase me. Don’t you knowingly smile at your ex’s name. Don’t you look back on your time together with warm nostalgia. Don’t you reflect on the underlying current of fondness, compatibility, and animal desire you always shared.

Baby, hang up. Don’t you call him just to see how he’s doing. Baby, don’t you meet him for coffee. Don’t you dare order food, then. Baby, that looks an awful lot like lobster bisque being put in front of you, and a Reuben in front of him.

Don’t you start hanging out with him, but with no actual labels because you tried that, and maybe due to timing or immaturity, it hurt an otherwise good relationship, and, really, you just want to see where things are going because you’ve both realized that a lasting bond is organic, never forced.

Don’t you get engaged as a joke to make his mom happy. Don’t you gradually fall into it like an old familiar blanket on your favorite couch, but in this case, the couch is your life.

Don’t you try for a baby after three years. Don’t you peek at the sonogram and find out the sex before the birth. Baby, don’t you name that bundle of joy after your paternal grandfather and Civil War general Ambrose Burnside.

Patrick Ambrose is a terrible name for a baby, baby. If you come back to the restaurant this second, you can still be the mother of Chow-Yun Rad.

Baby, don’t you cry on Patrick’s first day of school. Don’t you cry at his graduation from medical school, where he finished second in his class.

Don’t you and your husband grow old and even more in love with every passing year.

Baby, I swear to God, if you come back right now, all will be forgiven but you have to stop leaving me for other guys, marrying them, and bearing their children.

Also, there will need to be more three-ways. Lots more three-ways.

Baby.

*-*-*

Matt

It's the Internet TV Encyclopeida Show!

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 08:00:00 -0800

by Joey Reinisch

ENCYCLOPEDIA: Hey internet
INTERNET: Want to see some TITS!?
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Why do you always have to go there. I just was wondering if you’ve seen my bag.
INTERNET: Oh, You mean your purse? Haha, check out this guy with a purse over heeah
ENCYCLOPEDIA: It’s not a purse, OK.
INTERNET: YO TV! Check out this bitch and his purse!
TV: Whats up? Ohh shit! Hahah. this little bitch has a purse.
ENCYCLOPEIDA: Jesus christ you guys, grow up.
INTERNET: Hey. You guys want to see some TITS?
TV: FUCK YEAH! I LOVE TITS!
*high five*
ENCYCLOPEDIA: You guys should just try reading… you know. Like. Once.
INTERNET: What you talkin’ about? I got all sorts of reading over here.
TV: He does, I’ve seen it.
INTERNET: See look. Because of these words here, we know to be on the lookout for this chicks latest nip slip.
TV: OH OH Look! An upskirt!
INTERNET AND TV: GOOGLE SEARCH!!!!
*chest bump*
ENCYCLOPEDIA: I really thought you had some legit…
INTERNET: FUCK YES!!!
TV: THERE IT IS!
INTERNET: OMG.
TV: Wow, that is awesome. Time to put that on all the news stations despite the fact this is in no way news. By the way, did you hear Kate and John got a divorce?
INTERNET: Yeah, like 40 months ago. pssshh
ENCYCLOPEDIA: So. Is this really all you do all day?
TV: What do you mean?
INTERNET: You mean sit around and be awesome?
ENCYCLOPEDIA: I mean, stare at boobs all day. Read about the destroyed lives of celebrities as entertainment? Wait for upskirts?
[beat]
[beat]
[beat]
INTERNET: Yes?
TV: IT IS THE ONLY WAY TO LIVE.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: That actually sounds… pretty awesome.
TV: It IS
INTERNET: Have you actually seen tits?
ENCLOPEDIA: Well, If you look here, I have some classical sculpture that has a sweet set.
TV: Ah, Nice.
INTERNET: That’s not bad…not bad.. Why don’t you take a look at THIS.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: OH JESUS MOTHER OF FUCK!
TV: WHOAAAAAAA AWESOME!
INTERNET: Right!?!
ENCYCLOPEDIA: And there’s.. more of this?
INTERNET: A lot more. Like. Pretty much all of it.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Well then….. LETS LOOK AT SOME TITS.
TV: YEAH! TIIIIITS
INTERNET: TITTY TIT TOT TIT A TRON!
ENCYCLOPEDIA: TIT-A-MON-O-TOPIA.
TV: NICE ONE!

====

Yep. That happened.

- Joey
Twitter @jreinisch @mooncounty @destructobox @LOLjoeyANDkyle

DRUSKA vs. CARL'S JR.

Sat, 21 Nov 2009 13:21:19 -0800

WHAT FOLLOWS IS THE FIRST CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN MYSELF AND CARL’S JR. HEAD HONCHOS. I WILL KEEP YOU LOYAL READERS POSTED AS THIS SITUATION PROGRESSES.

Dear Sirs or Madams,

I am writing to you regarding an uncharacteristically – yet still traumatic – negative experience I went through at one of your California franchise locations. This incident occurred some months ago, yet I have been too emotionally scarred by the episode to fully put into script the horrific series of events until now. However, before I share with you the specifics of this experience, I feel it is imperative that you understand exactly how deeply rooted my once undying love for your product went.

I grew up in the Midwest, where mom-and-pop burger stands and local haunts churn out Mother-quality food and, I regret to say, your Hardee’s franchise tends to fall by the wayside. However, I was exposed to the world of beyond delicious Carl’s Jr. food fare when I visited family in Santa Clarita, California in the summer of 1998, at the age of 13.

The mouthwatering Famous Star coupled with a batch of seasoned criss-cut fries that initiated me into the universe of Carl’s Jr. superiority sticks with me now, over a decade since those first tasty morsels breached my mouth and exploded on my taste buds with the force of a thousand deep fryers. I cannot recall specifically where, as a child’s geographical reminisces tend to fade if not rooted in “home,” yet I recall it was a roadside location somewhere between greater Los Angeles and San Luis Obispo. Munching on that pristine burger and sipping Dr. Pepper that somehow appeared to taste better than average Dr. Pepper, I knew, even as a youngster, this was the greatest burger I had ever had.

The following year I again visited my family in Southern California. Between Universal Studios backlot tours, golf outings and Walk of Fame visitations, I was adamant that we fit as much Carl’s Jr. onto the menu as possible. I needn’t remind you that we are talking about Los Angeles, California: a bastion of cultural diversity which lends itself to some of the most inventive, exotic and delicious cuisine in the nation. Yet I would have none of it. I demanded Carl’s Jr., because then, as a year earlier, it was the most delicious food I have ever tasted, every time. My good friend David accompanied me on this trip, and soon he was converted to the belief that Carl’s Jr. was unrivaled by any other fast food, and most normal paced foods, as well. Not to give myself too much credit here, but he was only the first in a long line of people I have directed to the loving, warm glow of the five point smiling star over the years.

As a 21 year old college student, I visited Los Angeles again. The woefully ignorant scholastic elites at school recommended I try the famous In ‘N’ Out, yet I could not reconcile the idea of eating a cheeseburger meal in L.A. and it not being from Carl’s Jr. I could have returned to the Midwest with tales of secret menus and Bible scripture, yet I returned silent and complacent, knowing that I had feasted on the true Southern California culinary masterpiece. Several times, at that.

That summer, friends and I – David, among them – ventured to Las Vegas for our first time. Again, it was not the gambling, semi-legal whores or free alcohol that caught my attention, it was the fact we were in Six-Dollar-Burger Country: David and I took a shady cab to a shady franchise in the universally renowned shady Northern part of town, simply to indulge in the glory of our first Guacamole Bacon Six Dollar Burgers.

The point is, I used to love Carl’s Jr. Moving to Los Angeles a little over two years ago, away from friends and family, for the fickle pursuit of cinematic fame was made easier knowing I would at least have the King of comfort foods to ingest whenever the fancy struck me. Sirs or Madams, I can easily parade hundreds of friends in front of you who will attest under oath to my irresponsible love of your products. When friends would visit, asking of In ‘N’ Out, I would direct them to you. A joke developed in which my friends would say Carl’s Jr. was the “same” as Hardee’s, and then all would laugh as I staunchly defended the honor of Carl’s Jr. as having superior quality products and a better menu selection. When the Teriyaki Burger debuted, I had to have it. When the Portobello Swiss debuted, was discontinued, then reappeared, my heart rose and fell as if cheering on a sports team. The same can be said for the Bourbon Burger and other promotions too tasty to mention here for I fear I have already gotten off track, albeit slightly. Weekly if not more often, I would journey to a nearby location and eat the finest food to be prepared in ten minutes or less. It mattered not the line at the drive through, or which employee was dishing out the fries (as you may know, some are more generous than others), I would wait diligently for my food, because, as I said, I really, really, really like the taste.

It was this internal yearning that brought me to your franchise located at the corner of Sunset Blvd. and Highland Ave. in Los Angeles, California (“Hollywood”) on the evening of June 22^nd, 2009. Being fully aware of the walk-up window hours of operation, I arrived with an order firmly in mind and cash ready to be exchanged at 9:58 PM, two minutes before walk-up service stops for the night.

I was first perplexed, then annoyed, then pissed the hell off to watch several employees IGNORE me. This was such an obvious blow off it will seem impossible to you to fathom that someone couldn’t even make not caring look like something else, say, working or talking to someone. But no. As one employee did his job taking care of drive-thru vehicle orders, two others, as I stated, IGNORED me. I knocked on the glass, I made distinct motions to attract attention, I was subjected to the jibber-jabber of homeless patrons giving me guff for not being more proactive in seeking out my food. This offensive disregard ceased only – conveniently – when the drive-thru display screen clock read 10:01 PM. At this point, all employees became very aware of my presence, as they turned to me and half-assedly made the universal “nothing we can do” shrugging gesture towards me. I walked away from a Carl’s Jr. that night – possibly for the only time ever – hungry, unsatisfied, angry and unappreciated.

I have actively derided your product since then. I insist out of towners try the glorious In ‘N’ Out when they visit. I go to McDonald’s – McDonald’s – more now than I ever did in my entire existence. When my roommates bring home piping hot bags of your delicious yet apparently soulless foodstuffs, I excuse myself from the room. I have boycotted you, because you refused the business of one of the most passionate, serious and influential pro-bono ambassadors your brand has ever known. Perhaps you have noticed a sharp decline in your profits from that location since that night. Perhaps you are so distraught as to why this franchise is making significantly less money all of a sudden, you foolishly O.K.’ed a commercial lambasting Italian-Americans. Perhaps.

I do not seek retribution against the employees…I cannot fully fault them for just wanting to get through another shift, not particularly caring about some random wanting his food. It’s not like everyone knows how great to Carl’s Jr. I have been in the past. Not yet, at least. But, the idea of living out the rest of my life not ever eating Carl’s Jr. again does not sit well with me. However, I cannot suspend my boycott or propaganda campaign against you until some sort of mutual understanding is reached.

Perhaps you may try to buy me with a V.I.P. coupon booklet or free food for life, but, as I’m sure you have gathered thus far, I am a man of extreme conviction and principle, and this will not suffice. Perhaps you may try to literally buy me, offering me money to keep hush about this affront, or perhaps even offering me a job as a commercial spokesman. Again, as appealing as these things sound, I will not accept them or stop my actions or change my opinion.

No, what I seek from you, Sirs or Madams, is an apology. An official apology. A written, formal, possibly public apology, acknowledging not only my years of servitude and praise for your brand, as well as the suffering and embarrassment I received that night at the hands of those who wear your colors. And, an official declaration that it was indeed wrong. That you, by association, were wrong. And that I did not deserve that type of abuse, especially given how much I have done on behalf of your brand in the past. If you choose to include some sort of coupon booklet with the apology, well, that I could accept.

I feel this is a reasonable request. I hope it is fulfilled sooner than later. In fact, if you chose to make it public, it could quite be a nice little gimmick for you folks. One that won’t get pulled from the airwaves for offending people. However, with all due respect, if this correspondence is ignored, or worse yet, rebuked, I will make it my life’s goal to make this public, in any way possible. And in our internet age, everything is public, like it or not. I hope to avoid such malice, but I am prepared. You’ve read the effort and passion I just put into a letter I typed in between menial tasks at work. The fury and rage from my public campaign against you will rain down on you like a sloppy Six Dollar Burger slamming onto a non-descript white background.

Sirs or Madams, say you are sorry.

Warmest Regards,

John N. Druska

The Last Straw

Fri, 20 Nov 2009 11:43:40 -0800

10 Things I Think Today on Little Sleep.

1) I know I’ve been calling them a couple of times a day, but if I get the In ‘N Out song stuck in my head one more time…well I might go crazy. Or go get a job at In ‘N Out.

2) 13 hour days seem downright short after working 17-20 the past few days. Also I’m not sure I’ve ever said “…No I get to sleep in. I don’t have to be to work until 7:30 tomorrow.”

3) Telling people I’ve won a modesty competition may be my favorite joke ever. Even more fun is the fact that others are too burnt out to catch that it’s a joke.

4) The Photo Lab girl is the highlight of any day.

5) It’s amazing how much better the highways are at 5am. I know this would appear to be obvious but frankly it’s riduclous that a drive that took me 45 minutes last night, took me only 6 minutes this morning.

6) I finally got my roommate Louie addicted to Lost, right after we finished with Avatar. Probably my two favorite shows in the world. I tell you this because I want everyone to watch them so everyone knows what I’m talking about whenever I reference them. We have to go back, Kate. We have to go back!

7) Are Snapple facts real or fake? This a topic of contention amongst our staff and our PA’s life was turned upside down when he heard they weren’t all true. Like a real life crisis for him. I thought the untrue ones were merely disproven facts or perpetuated myths, not that they were blatantly untrue. Does anyone know?

8) I used to hate being on hold, now it’s like the only breaks I get. In fact this is being typed as I sit on hold. I’m not saying I like them now, there’s just more of an appreciation for it.

9) That being said, a fucking limit on drive on calls?!? I understand the reason, when people are on hold they don’t want to wait while the person before them calls on 25 people, but you know what? Sometimes you have more than 3 people arriving at once. And it’s very hard to explain to these people that if they’re gonna arrive in groups greater than 3 they need to give me two hours notice.

10) I don’t think I’ve bought food for myself in like 3 months. I know that’s at expense of working that much, but still, it’s nice.

Thursday...because wish all you want, Monday ain't coming back.

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 07:00:00 -0800

Nick Allen presents

PETEY POWERSQUITH ADVENTURES

A Choose Your Own Adventure Blog!

In case you missed it, here’s the first installment of Petey Powersquith:

Thursday…Because it’s your destiny.

And now we continue the saga of our young adventurer with Chapter 2.

(I know chapters are kind of counter-intuitive when it comes to choose-your-own-adventure books but then again so’s your face. Oosh…you want some Neosporin® for that buuuurrrrn?)

___________________________________________

CHAPTER 2: BETTER LATE THAN KEVLAR

Petey Powersquith threw his lunchbox into his empty book bag after expelling the Snickers bar from it. It’s not that he doesn’t like the candy bar so much as it seems to be a magnet for ferocious bears. Any normal kid would laugh at the thought of being attacked by a bear in the middle of suburbia. But not Petey. Not after being attacked by 18 bears in the last year. He learned not to laugh at the thought of that, except for that one time where he killed a bear with a picnic basket. He found that irony quite pungent.

The lunchbox awkwardly beat on his back as it kept the pace of his strides down the driveway. Bip. Bop. Bip Bop. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The sounds of the crisp leaves on the ground flattening under his feat were soothing.

His thoughts moved from the present to the past. Of crunching foliage to the lessons taught at school yesterday. Petey hardly ever took notes. He had a photographic memory. He likes to work under the assumption that when you’re tied up to a dead tree in the middle of a 400 mile desert with a sandstorm on it’s way you don’t have the luxury of looking for your notes. Petey chuckled to himself, “Man, I’ll never forget that spring break.”

He made for the road where the school bus usually picks him up. Crunch. Crunch.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. CrunchCrunkcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunch.

“Wait a minute, that doesn’t sound like me”, Petey thought. Snapping from his daydream he turned about to face.

YES ANOTHER BEAR!

It was still 40 yards from him. Just enough time to evaluate his situation, how convenient. His eyes prowled the vicinity. Apple tree. Orange tree. Willow tree. 30 yards away. The apple tree is too far away and none of the trees are tall enough to climb to escape the bear. Besides a bear this size could simply knock down the tree. It was probably one of Bearcules’ brutes.

25 yards and closing.

He could reach the orange tree and use his skills at the school’s stud pitcher to throw a decent sized orange into the throat of the horrid beast. And if the beast’s mouth wasn’t open he could throw an open orange and enrage the beast by getting citric acid into its eyes.

20 yards. The willow tree is the closest.

He could buy himself more time by grabbing a handful of branches and swinging around the tree for one revolution. By then the bear would be upon him but not after he could fashion dual whips.

15 yards. He needed to make a decision or else he would find out what it feels like to be a salmon.

10 yards. Now or never.

Which is it? Petey had to make a choice.

With 8 yards to go the bears giant paw slammed down onto a rake. The handle flew up into the bears face, instantly blinding it. Suffering from vertigo the beast’s course detoured towards the willow tree. With no navigation the bear bit down onto the willow tree’s branches which sent it swinging up in the air. Once off the ground the branches snapped free and the bear fell to its death, impaled on the garden fence.

Standing in amazement, Petey overheard some swearing. He looked up to see it’s source.

“Bearcules!” Petey knew him from his ridiculous homo-erotic outfit, complete with bear fur thong, cape, and giant bear paws as shoulder pads. He was riding on a flying Beariffon (a winged bear, like a griffon …but with a bear).

“Stop fucking sending bears at me, Dick.” Petey looked at the Orange tree and smiled. He picked up a nearby orange with his pitching arm. Fate was in his hands.

“I’ll get you next time, young Powersquith.” He pulled the reigns and flew off.

Disgruntled, Petey reached the end of the driveway just in time to catch the bus.

His stop is a little late on the route so there are very few seats left. The only ones left were next to Susie Simmons and Opie Owens.

If you would like Petey to sit by Susie turn (scroll) to Page 97.

If you would like Petey to sit by Opie turn to Page 137.

Page 340.

Petey awoke to the sounds of waves beating on the debris that once was the Black Nautilus. Steadily rising above the crashing surf, the sensual voices of the sirens echoed throughout the abandoned island of Roanoke. Petey stripped off the armor of Gilead in order to move easier through the jungle. Only after a few miles he found the sirens, naked with their backs to him, washing their goddess-like bodies in the cool mountain stream. In all of Petey’s travels he couldn’t remember the last time such beauty stole his breath from his chest. With a sultry look over their shoulders, they turned to him and said simultaneously, “You must choose wisely, young lover.”

Page 97.

Susie was usually a quiet girl. And today was no different. The bus ride consisted of Petey wiping some dandruff off his shirt and Susie clasping her trapper keeper.

She eventually asked him if he had a good breakfast. He said that he didn’t have any. Susie offered him an orange. Petey laughed.

Page 137

Petey sighed and plopped down next to Opie.

After a couple of awkward minutes went by after Opie very clearly farted, the air was clean enough to start a conversation. Opie started, “Did you see that Susie has a new trapper keeper?”

“That’s a weird thing to know.” Opie always struck Petey as ‘odd’.

“You fenced a great match the other day, Petey.”

“Thanks.”

“You probably would have broken some fencing records if it hadn’t been for the robot assassins that crashed the meet.”

“Maybe. But these things happen.”

_____________________________________

The END….for now.

See ya next Thursday.

~NGA

Return to Moon County

Oh Sh-t My C-ck, It's Pomegranate Season

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 07:21:26 -0800

by Jerry Coleson

You have got to be fisting me. Halfway through November and I’m just now remembering that it’s pomegranate season.

I feel like a real twat, believe you me. Nature’s most perfect fruit is at its zenith, and here I am, beating off like some kind of idiot that hates pomegranates.

Trust me; I love those little fuckers as hard as I fucking can. Just the idea of one gives me a total food chub. And sometimes an actual chub.

And of course by ‘sometimes’ I mean constantly, and by chub, I mean harder than I’d be if I used the Viagra handed down by some kind of Viking god.

Now, I’m not saying I’ve fucked a fruit. Because I haven’t. But what I am saying is that if it happened, naturally, in the heat of the moment, I wouldn’t stop it. Just saying.

There’s just something about peeling back that sexy rind like a dress, and just going to town on those seeds like an ex-con who just did fifteen years in the big house and bought himself a prostitute.

Fucking shit cock, I need a goddamn pomegranate like right fucking now. I would suck every dick in here for a goddamn pomegranate. I’d suck every dick, murder every child, and I don’t know, a third thing that’s unbelievable/murderous for a shitting pomegranate.

Is there a more perfect fruit? Bananas, suck. Apples, suck. Strawberries, more like Fagberries. Raspberries, more like…fagberries…too. Shut up.

I’ll just call my wife and tell her to go to my pomegranate guy’s house and pick some up and have them ready, willing, and spread wide the fuck open for when I get home.

Hey, honey…guess what season it is?

‘Jesus Fuckin’ Christ’ is right! It’s pom season, baby, fuck yeah!

Yeah, go to my guy’s house and get a bushel. Scratch that, get several grosses.

Yeah.

Yes.

Then rent a fucking truck.

I know you work hard, but you get off sooner, and you can get the fruit, and when I get home, I’ll eat the living shit out of them, and fuck you blind while still wet from the juices.

Baby! Everyone wins!

If you’re not in the mood, then you eat some poms too. That’ll get you wet.

You are not faking it when we fuck on pom. Bullshit. It’s like a vise down there.

Kegels my ass.

I come like a fucking freight train!

Fine.

Yes.

I said fine, didn’t I?

No, don’t wear the costume.

Because I hate it now.

Yes.

Yes, I mean it.

Because your heart’s not into it, apparently.

Well, then, it’s certainly diminished.

Because.

Because it’d be like taking a lie from behind!

Fine, fuck it, whatever. Let’s become a grape family. That’d be awesome. Let’s just eat grapes and watermelon and have to piss all the fucking time.

Yeah, chicken’s good. Bye.

Jesus.

*-*-*

Next week, more swear words and stuff.

Matt

Aquaman Will Rock Your Fucking Balls Off - The Screenplay

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 08:00:00 -0800

by Joey Reinisch

I was walking on the beach the other day probably when I happened upon an AMAZING find! As luck would have it, washed up on the beach beneath my very feet was one of the most amazing things I had ever seen.

In the ocean foam, just floating there, were the pages of a long lost script written by one of my favorite superheros AQUAMAN! I couldn’t believe my eyes, I had to scan it and upload it for the world to see RIGHT AWAY! I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

That was way great Aquaman! I’d buy TEN copies of that movie! Hopefully i’ll find more some day because this SCREAMS sequel!

-Joey
Twitter @jreinisch @mooncounty @destructobox @LOLjoeyANDkyle

(Blue) Monday Punday

Mon, 16 Nov 2009 20:37:58 -0800

- DIARY… UGH -

The Toga Party

Sat, 14 Nov 2009 15:05:51 -0800

Remember the first time you saw Animal House and you couldn’t wait for college to be exactly like that? The frats, the emotionally scarred teenagers willing to allow you to devirginize them, the beer bottles constantly flying around the room? Bashing people’s guitars because they’re fruity “musicians,” banging the Dean’s wife, and drinking. And drinking. And drinking.

Well, college, as you may have realized, isn’t exactly like that. Well, there is the drinking. And drinking. And drinking. But alas, the good ol’ days were long gone by the time I matriculated to University in the 21st century. But one grand tradition from Animal House survived: The Toga Party.

Let me tell you a story. People were shocked, SHOCKED when Animal House came out. Not at the gross moral reprehensibility, but at the accuracy of the college party shenanigans. The “Alligator” dance move, the “Shout” dance move and yes, the Toga Party, were all legit collegiate party tactics in the 70’s. That the stuffy, elitist shitbag Hollywood types had tapped the subculture of American educational drinking was unheard of. Animal House was half greatest movie ever, half documentary. But as soon as the world knew of all the cool stuff, as tends to happen, it wasn’t cool anymore. But the Toga Party lived on.

I went to one Toga Party in college. It was all right, pretty fun, lots of hot chicks (the supercool Club Rugby Team had thrown it) and lots of beer, but it was pretty much just people standing around boozing like usual in bedsheets. The most interesting part of the night was actually at another party that had a stripper, and I fell ass over teakettle down a flight of stairs. Toga Parties are supposed to summon the grotesque over-indulgence of the Roman cultural elite, the prostitutes, the vomitoria, the slaves!!!!!! But alas, some things just don’t happen like you wish they would.

I figured that was probably the only Toga Party I would go to. Non-college people just don’t throw that type of theme party anymore.

SHUT MY MOUTH.

Uh, yeah they do. They do tonight. I’m going to a Toga Party, and it’s going to be awesome. There’s going to be Roman beer pong and….other….Roman type stuff. But the point is, tonight I’m going to party like it’s college. Tonight I’m going to party like Bluto. Oh, and it’s in Orange County, California. Ryan and Marisa might show up. Oh wait, she’s dead. And now he’s an LAPD cop. Whatever.

TOGA!!!!! TOGA!!!!!

destructobox: HAPPY HALLOWEEN FROM DESTRUCTO BOX!!!

Fri, 13 Nov 2009 16:12:45 -0800

destructobox:

HAPPY HALLOWEEN FROM DESTRUCTO BOX!!!

Thursday...because what the F*&# was I on?

Thu, 12 Nov 2009 06:35:00 -0800

NO, NICK…FUCK YOU

by Nick

It’s 9 am. Do you know where your landscaping crews are?

No?

Well I DO! THEY’RE RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY F*&#ING HOUSE! Making such a clatter that would make the coming of Xerxes sound like a mere whisper. Seriously! How the fuck can they make so much noise! It’s the F*&#ing future. We have cars that are so quiet that people f*&# them up by starting them twice because they weren’t sure it was on to begin with.

Oh good. Another truck arrived. They must’ve called up reserves for Retard Squad out there.

Now I can’t understand what they are saying to each other, well because of the deafening clamor and all, but I know they are communicating somehow.

According to my best estimates, this is what they’re saying:

“Hey fellow F*&#-face, isn’t this the house where that f*&# wiener-guy lives?”

“Yes fellow Asshole, it is.” “You remember that one time we woke him up?”

“Yeah. What a boob. They don’t even have a front lawn. Here…this’ll make it sound like we’re doing something”

“Are you two Masters-of-all-sorts-of-tard talking about the guy that sleeps there?” ”I heard he works nights now.”

“So when we’re working he’s trying to sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“So when I’m weed wacking, like for say….right now.” “He’s inside that house, this house right here””trying to sleep in order to function the next day?”

“Yeah, only it’s next ‘night’ to him”

“Hey fellow Assbags, there’s a dandy-lion tryin to grow over here.”

“Well then Doucher, don’t be an idiot. F*&# it up!”

”Already got one”

“What are you two doing?”

“We’re looking for some more gasoline to fill this riding mower towing three other mowers.”

“That’s a one man job. Will one of you pick up those pipes and drop them already.”

“Will do, boss.”

“Hey boss.”

“What?”

“I f*&#ed up those two chainsaws….can I have a third?”

“Here’s the keys to the truck, fill the bed with running chainsaws then drive doughnuts over the dandy-lion while laying down the horn”

“Should I try to run over the dandy-lion?”

“That’s for fate to decide. You there, F*&#face number 7,?”

“We have names, sir.”

“Sorry. You there, F*&k McF*&kerson. Grab a supercharged leaf blower and clear that driveway.”

“Sir this is LA….”

“And…”

“It’s 86 degrees out…”

“And…”

“…there’s no leaves on the ground. Maybe I could just use a broom. It would be much quieter-“

“-NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” (gun battle actually starts 40 seconds into it)

Back to sleep. I’m not hostile towards all yard crews….just those ones out there. Seriously guys, fuck you.

~Nick.

BLAMblamBOOMbangZOOMBOOMBLAHBLARI!#@!$7*(!&(0!#$&^

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 08:00:00 -0800

Hey everyone. Joey here. As matt said yesterday. We’ve swapped days. So starting now, i’ll be posting as Matt.

*-*-8-*

Welcome to OMG wednesdays mother FUCKERS!

Hey guys, I didn’t get a chance to write a lot. SOrry Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorrysorry

Hay guys…don’t you just hate it when HOLY MOTHER FUCKING OF SHIT FUCK. ITS A GOD DAMN MOTHER FUCKING FUCK PREDATOR!

WOW guys.

OH HOLY SHIT you guys. CHECK OUT THOSE SWEET ~~BREASTS~~ TITS!

Wednesdays RULE, right guys?

Wait

Wait.

YES!@#(&&)*(!

FINALE!

* GUITAR SOLO *

also

P.S. - CELEBRITY ~~WOMEN~~ BITCHES ARE HOT AND ALL OF THEM ARE DATING ME.

*=*=*=8=0*

- matt

================================

Phew.

I don’t like it here.

See you back on tuesday.

- Joey
Twitter @jreinisch @mooncounty @destructobox @LOLjoeyANDkyle

The Shambling Zombie Corpse of Cartoosday.

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 07:26:53 -0800

Hey everyone! It’s me, Matt! I know you’re all like, “Yo, Matt, what’s up with this? Don’t you kick it on Wednedays?”

Fact: I kick it all day, everyday, I don’t even give a shit.

Fact: Both Joey and I have jacked up schedules this week. It turns out that by switching days we can keep up our respective posting streaks, and take some of the pressure off ourselves during this little stretch.

Fact: We agreed to switch days and to post on the other’s days in a similar style so any regulars we might have won’t find the change too jarring. It would be equal parts writing exercise and homage to another writer’s style.

Fact: I have chosen to betray Joey’s trust. Because, fuck Joey.

Fact: Fuck Joey.

Ladies and gentlemen, every Joey post, ever.

*-*-*

And at no point will my uppance ever come.

Matt

MONDAY PUNDAY!

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 08:48:43 -0800

Q: What do you do if Hobby Lobby doesn’t have supplies for your specific hobby?

A: Hobby Lobby

A County by any other name...

Sat, 07 Nov 2009 13:51:58 -0800

So allegedly, on this day, November 7, 1908, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid were killed in Bolivia. I am led to believe they literally went out “guns blazing,” but what would you expect from guys with names like that? Okay, okay, nicknames. Turns out Butch was really named Robert Leroy Parker and the Kid was named Harry Alonzo Longabaugh. Not exactly screaming badass right out of the womb, eh?

But that’s the point of a nickname. It’s generally earned at some point in your waking life as a result of SOMETHING you did. It could be good, like “Old Hickory,” tacked onto Andrew Jackson as a recognizing of his inherent toughness in battle; “The Great Emancipator,” applied to Abe Lincoln even though his emancipation techniques were dubious; or “Buster,” given to one Joseph Frank Keaton IV, after taking a tumble down a flight of stairs as a kid and not crying or showing pain (p.s. Harry Houdini gave him the name. Look it up, asshole!).

Then there’s obviously bad nicknames, too. “Chemical Ali” from recent memory. “Fighting Dick” Anderson, a Confederate General during the Civil War. “Fatty” Arbuckle strikes me as particularly cruel.

Then there’s a lot of middle ground (read:cool as fuck no matter what)nicknames. A lot of these coming from, of course, the United States of America. “Scarface” Al Capone, “Machine Gun” Jack McGurn, Stu “The Grim Reaper” Grimson (hockey, not mob), Mordecai “Three finger” Brown (baseball), “Baby Sweet,” “Bones” and “The Guvnor” all graced the marquees of Jazz Music Halls in the past.

Nicknames can condemn you to a life of childish name calling, a legacy of hipocrisy and overall shittyness, or an unending cavalcade of credit being given to you, long after you’re dead. Hell, the best nickname could even inspire a pro wrestler to twist it a little bit to use as a stage name, and no matter what anybody says, pro wrestling is still totally cool.

So considering Moon County as a collective is PRETTY FUCKING AWESOME, I have taken it upon myself to assign nicknames to all parties of the Confederacy, for proper, awe inspiring purposes:

Aaron Waltke: Tall, refined, tends to make me laugh the hardest with minimal effort. Drops his middle name, John, a lot, but c’mon, we’re going to call the Godfather of Moon County A.J.? Get real. Oh, I got it! “The Godfather!” No, that is pretty stupid sounding. But “Uncle Aaron” has a good ring to it. It implies friendship, familial love and respect, and the guy who sneaks you a beer or two at your grandparents’ Christmas party because that fuckhead your mother married never lets you have any fun. Sorry, I got a little too into that. Also, “Uncle Aaron” allows for the rest of Aaron’s name to be filled in, if the news reporters or he wishes. Yeah, I’m going with that: Uncle Aaron Waltke.

Joe Rogan: Joe hails from the Munster, Indiana area, and this lends itself to myriad puns, but we need something better than that. And Joe is a hell of a name, able to be adapted really to anything. “Broadway Joe,” for instance. You see, the problem with Rogan is that he’s a really nice guy. He does play league soccer, though, so I can’t pass up a sports-type nicknaming possibility. He also lives on Quebec Av., so imagining his surgical precision with his midfield passes and taking the street route, “The French Connection” would definitely sound cool coming out of a play by play announcer’s mouth. I’m going to go with The French Connection, although it should be noted Joe already occasionally goes by JoRo as it is, and that has a nice ring and far fewer syllables.

Kyle McVey. Now if anyone needs to be named “Broadway,” it’s McVey, the handsome, babyfaced surfer manchild from…suburban Indianapolis? Well, Indianapolis is the hardest city in America, so he’s got some street cred. But man, what a ladykiller. Oh, he’s also got arguably the dirtiest mind in Moon County, so nicknaming him “Dahmer,” might actually work. Hm, no….no it wouldn’t. Hmmm….McVey, McVey, another great part of name-hood that begs to be nicked. Oh shit, I got this. You combine the birthright hardness of Central Indiana, his employment directly related to horse racing (and gambling) and his plush living in the “Miracle Mile” area of L.A., and you got it: K. McVazy (rhymes with Swayze).

Phil McLaughlin. Phil’s big. Height wise, he keeps in pretty decent shape otherwise. And he’s got INarguably the dirtiest mind in Moon County. He wrote “The World’s Smallest Obstetricians,” among others. Sketches that freaked me out, and I’m soulless. Phil also makes really good costumes and stuff, for shows we have or otherwise, so you could say he’s good with a needle. Calling a dude 6’5” “Needledick” probably isn’t even an insult, but I digress. Phil,..Phil,…he’s a great pal, a good drinking buddy. If I ever had something worth confiding in anybody, it would probably be him…he’s like a brother…and Phil and Philadelphia, well you know, Phil in the blanks. And he’s sometimes kind of epic and serious like a monk. How about “Brother Phil?” Or better yet, Brother Mac. Hell yeah.

Joey Reinisch. Joey’s our cartoon guy. He’s also married, so any nicknames need to be able to fit on 4th of July Barbeque invitations, or monogrammed towel sets, or whatever. He’s got “Reich” right there in his name, but that’s, y’know….. I can’t get away from the cartoon thing, he’s really good at it, and he games a lot too, I think with those headsets where he can talk shit to some 12 year old in Iowa while blowing the back of his character’s head out on some Halo ship or whatever. Using the onomatopoeia of cartoons from the golden age, and knowing Joey will soon need another Left4Dead Live handle, I’m going to nickname him Crash Boom Reinisch.

Paul Straw. Straw and I go way back. In fact, I think he’s the first guy I met who would eventually go on to be in Moon County. And we live together, so you’d think I’d have some good material here. But think about it, when you spend a significant amount of time with someone, the mystery and uncertainty of their legacy kind of goes away, leaving most nicknames jokey and sarcastic. But I’ve got one. Paul’s weekly post is called the Last Straw. And I know he’d love a name that could potentially be a comic book character (is already?). So I’ve chosen to nickname Paul, as in “The Last” Straw, Omega.

Nick Allen. It’s been said time and time again. Nick and I have a special friendship. It was his relatively half-assed invitiation to an audition in college that effectively started my friendship with elements that would form Moon County. We drove out to L.A. together, seeing the Petrified Forest, Grand Canyon and majestic Oatman, Arizona together. But a nickname cannot be too personal, so let’s look at some of the facts. Nick used to be an IU cheerleader. Nick is from Newburgh, IN. Nick edits for his day job. I can’t not give him a mafia sounding nickname. Since in editing, you “cut,” and I think I’ve seen him move his arms in a swinging motion once or twice on Branch McCracken Court, I want to call him Nicky Chop Chop. With a nickname like that, he’s obviously the muscle of the organization.

Eric Cahill. Cahill’s the spectral tenth member of M.C. In a way, you could say that he’s shrinking. He used to be a “healthy,” beer-swilling, cheeseburger slamming man made of America. But now he’s actually healthy, sips water and eats,…something besides cheeseburgers. He’s probably the only guy I know who looks the way God intended for every living male. So he’s fit as hell and could probably punch a hole through my less than firm abdomen. How do we nickname that? Smokin’ E? Not bad, but a little homo. Hm,…there was an old sketch someone wrote in college called Mt. Eric or something. And I was thinking, “hill” is already in his name. And he’s now as strong as quarry limestone. So why not name him The Crag? Fuck you, Nickelodeon.

Matt Loman. Matt is of Chinese and Italian decent, so right there we’re begging for another mob nickname, but let’s think about this. Matt’s also into comics, and gaming, and lately, I don’t know, he could be making a jump to MMA or something, so we need a truly epic nickname for such a good guy. Well, his last name sort of sounds like “No man” as in No Man’s Land. But if you rearrange the letters, you could spell “No mal.” “Not Bad” Loman? That wouldn’t fly in MMA. No Man’s Land, no one can touch him. Don’t fuck with him, you want to keep him “no mal,” keep him happy. Keep him merciful. Matt Mercy Loman.

Me. Everyone knows you can’t give yourself a nickname. I used to be called Johnny Ballgame, which eventually turned into Ballgame, J.B., B.G., and then Johnny Nutsack. (?) And then Johnny Python. Either way, my last name sounds so cool, it’s almost like a nickname in and of itself, so call me whatever, I’m one of the few who has a nickname quality name on my birth certificate. Or leave a suggestion in the comments. -DRUSKA.

The Last Straw

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 10:58:00 -0800

Brief post today. But if I could inform you of two things.

One my friend and former roommate, Joe Avella, has his short film Wheel Chair Werewolf in The Midwest Independent Film Festival. Which as a note is a fest that I used to volunteer with back in my Chicago days. So great people all around.

Anyways please vote for his short here.

But if you feel the need to actually see what you’re voting for first (commie’s) then go ahead and take a gander.

Also this Sunday at 11pm, the very funny all female group Tang has a fundraising show at the IO west for their trip to perform in the Toronto Sketch Fest. Moon County as well as many other funny groups will be putting up sketches in what should be a great night of comedy. Please join us, only $5 for the whole evening.

Thursday...Because without it....things would be awkward..

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 05:00:00 -0800

What in H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks is Going On, Hollywood?!

by Nick

Friends….I’m going to be honest with you. It’s about 2 am as I’m writing this and I’ve still got hours of “work” to go. For this week I’m on night shift. Which means I work all night so that big execs can see their precious dailies the next day after shooting, then I go home and attempt to sleep….but when you live in LA fall just simply doesn’t exist. It’s so hard to sleep when your house has no AC and your room window acts as a giant magnifying glass when the sun hits it. Sleep is impossible during the day.

BUT There is something that is keeping me going….and that is my outright RAGE against the future of American Cinema.

Apparently…they plan on remaking “Short Circuit”,

a movie I enjoyed watching as a kid when I pretended to be sick to stay home from school. What the hell, Hollywood? Have we honestly run out of all the ideas and have to go to recycling movies? Didn’t we just have a robot movie?

Ok, well maybe they’re thinking that no one will remember “Short Circuit” and so it will seem fresh. ;a nb, jjgjkgdfhhghddrjndfhgdhrehtreht hertherh dfhgh rhrhghhbvddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddhvcxhdfg

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…a…

woah…

…I’m sorry…

…I must’ve dozed off there for a bit. It’s just that I’ve been working these long hours and sleep.;jjjj sounds so good/.kj/ llllllllll and my headllllllllkkkk so heavy sf jnfkkknnn.vcxbnx.bmxcb,xc,x,dkjnxm,d bnkjd xnm db,dkflsbncsbnlsjbnkvjdsbnkvlnsdklnvksdjbnvsdjvnkjdsnvkjnsdjkvnsdkjvnksvkjsjdddd

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WOAH. Sorry. Happened again.

That time I had a dream. It was a pretty weird one. Where was I? OH yeah. You guys see X-Men Origins: Wolverine?

Jeez, wasn’t that the biggest pile of shit you’ve ever seen? Oh…it’s not?

Oh yea…that’s right…Kingdom of the Krystal Skull…right. Got ya.

efefffawesdddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddkk, yujil;./’

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]WOAH. Sorry….just woke up again. You know what’s weird? That time I dreamt that I was a dog, chasing after a rabbit….weird huh.

I guess I also did what dogs do when they dream. According to what I typed I was moving my hand like a paw, starting around the “y” key then moving away from my face to the “enter” key. ….interesting….

But anyways, the last good movie that I saw in theaters was District 9, man I loved that movie. Intense. I saw Zombieland but that was more of a fun movie with no serious gravity to it. Yes, people…you have to learn how to watch different genres of moviesl; a’lksjasdffffff dasffffddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd

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HUH!

Ok. That dream was even weirder than the other one. **You guys ever dream of an old girlfriend that for some reason is serving at Mother Bears in Bloomington

and she also has a haircut that’s almost exactly like Cleopatra’s from HBO’s Rome?**

No? I guess it’s just me then.

Well it’s a decent show. Apparently they had to re-edit the UK version because the general British population have a bit more knowledge about the history of the Roman Empire than the stakl;jskjlllllllllllllssfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffdsd

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….

Okay. I’m sorry that this keeps happening. …but at the same time I’m astounded at how the keyboard represents the dreams I keep having. Want to know what I dreamt that time?

Well it’s a little embarrassing but in my dream my hand was on a boob. Now ….if you’ll look at the numberpad that’s on the right side of the keyboard and then look back to what I typed during my last nap…you’ll notice there’s no “5”. 5 would be the nipple.

I know! Astounding right?

Where was I on the film discussion? Oh yeah,

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EAT THAT!

oh shit. That dream was freaky.

I broke the keyboard. I’m sorry, in my dream** I was throwing grenades…………

……..at airplanes……

……….Japanese airplanes…….

………Japanese WWII era airplanes……….

………..that were bombing my hometown…….

……….of Newburgh, Indiana………

………..and yes….

I realize now that I’m awake that tossing grenades at airplanes probably caused even more damage and had no affect whatsoever on the Japanese bombers.**

But damnit, I had to do something….Look at my keyboard.

Well…with my keyboard broke. I couldn’t possibly blog anymore. Who knows if the “a” key would work, or even the “b” key, let alone the “c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y and z” keys. Nope….can’t finish at all. I guess that means I can’t work as well. Well…better just go home and wait for the Thursday yard crew to come along at 9 am to wake me up with leaf blowers, weed wackers, and trumpets….I feel the trumpets are unnecessary.

I’m sorry that this has been an insight to somewhat of an insane person but… See ya next Thursday…because…you know you like it.

~nick

** = real dreams I’ve had.

Click here to go back to the Moon County website,

Dear Celebs: Part Infinity

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 07:34:57 -0800

I’ve been without internet for like a week and half, and had no ideas. So you get this. Sorry. Really, really sorry.

*-*-*

Dear Avril Lavigne,

Are you out of your fucking mind? You’re dating this douchebag?

Why? Because his dead eyes and greasy hair and skin are such huge turn-ons? This is the guy who dated Lindsay Lohan near her prime and called her a “firecrotch,” on top of talking tons of shit about her.

What makes you think this guy is trustworthy or shouldn’t be immediately drowned?

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve heard your lyrics, and you’re not the brightest crayon in the box, but, really? Fucking really?

It’s not even that I’m worried about you as an artist, I just think that that guy should be chemically sterilized or thrown off a bridge or something, and I can’t write to him because I don’t know his name.

Matt

*-*-*

Dear Giada DiLaurentis,

So, I couldn’t help but notice that you cook a lot of Italian food. And that you like to wear tight, low cut tops.

I happen to enjoy Italian food quite a bit, and am a huge supporter of women who need to showcase ‘the girls.’

So. What are we going to do about this?

Are we steady’s or what? Do you have a date for homecoming?

Baby, get at me.

Matt

*-*-*

Dear Jon Gosselin,

Holy shit, you are stupid. You had the entire world on your side because everyone realized that your wife is a control-freak-attention-whore. All you had to do was shut up, sit down, and let all the truth come to light.

And you blew it in perhaps the greatest fashion since Dubya’s went from his post 9-11 approval ratings to the worst in RECORDED HISTORY.

I mean, let’s look at all the ways you failed.

1.) Ed Hardy shirts - Who the fuck keeps buying these things? They should be sent overseas to developing nations so that when they ask for money to donate to these countries we can see impoverished kids wearing tribal tattoo shirts next to other kids in shirts declaring the Cardinals the winners of the 2009 Super Bowl.

2.) Smoking - I don’t smoke, but I will admit; it does look cool most of the time. You somehow fucked this up. You’re doing the smoking equivalent of chewing with your mouth open/sneezing/soiling yourself. How hard is it? James Dean and Humphrey Bogart did all the work for you. You just have to show up.

3.) Cheat Up, Stupid - If you’re going to use your fame to bang dumb chicks, at least nail the hot ones. Don’t get me wrong, I understand where you’re coming from; we’re both part Filipino men, and, let’s face it, Filipino men aren’t exactly setting the panties of straight women on fire (is that a mixed metaphor?), but exercise some restraint. Show some fucking patience, Grasshopper.

4.) Not Shutting the Fuck Up - You are not a bright man. Look who you married, look at your show, where you’re filmed existing and nothing more, and look at all the reasons I pointed out above. You needed to just fucking fade into the background while people that you paid to handle this, handled this. But, no you had to go out, and go to Vegas, and go shopping. You couldn’t bang skanks at TGI Friday’s?

God, you’re a fuck.

Matt

*-*-*

Dear Gina Carano,

Baby, I’m begging you, please, stop doing things that might get you punched in the face.

Movies, color commentary at MMA events, tampon commercials, I don’t care; I’ll buy whatever product you endorse, but please stop letting mannish-women try to pummel you.

Think of our future kids.

Matt

*-*-*

Yeesh. See you guys next Wednesday.

The Dancing Pickle...

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 08:00:00 -0800

FROM THE DEPTHS OF HARDDRIVES PAST.

THIS GEM WAS MADE FOR MY OWN AMUSEMENT IN THE SUMMER OF 2003.

AT 4 IN THE MORNING.

IN MY BASEMENT.

IN THE DARK.

ALONE.

Actually, now that I think about it. Not much has changed.

Such humble beginnings…

Huh

Anyways… I’ll post for real next week.

-Joey

MONDAY PUNDAY!

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 17:53:25 -0800

-First Impression-