I'm tired of hearing people say there's not as much good as evil in the world. It angers me when people say there's so much bad, and I find it ironic that a huge chunk of the people who dare say this are good people who help society.

It may take a little delving into, it might be hidden from you, but if it weren't for social mediums like Facebook or the news, most of you wouldn't know about all the evils going on in the world either. And I'm not saying these mediums are bad, I'm just saying we have to look beyond them. We have to open our eyes and see that for every evil deed, there's someone out there performing an act of kindness.

I was on the street a few weeks ago, working in matters irrelevant to the post, but as I was I met this man. He was about 60, and he was out on the traffic asking for any spare change. I was around him, so we got to talking, and I got to finding out about him.

This man had a deep, strong accent that made it difficult to hear things like his name, but I did eventually grow used to it and in a matter of hours I was hearing his stories.

I don't know about elsewhere in the world. But over here, if you're out on the street asking for money you're usually a junkie, and people treat you as such. Some people will feel sorry for you, and they'll hand you some spare change, but that's that. These junkies don't spend their money on food unless it's absolutely necessary. A loaf of bread maybe. So imagine my surprise when this man rolled out $5 from his cup and went to the nearest fast food for a bite.

I then started to realize several things, his eyes looked healthy, as did his skin, he didn't stink... I've met my fair share of junkies before.. this guy wasn't fitting the criteria. And wouldn't you know I later on saw him counting his earnings. Wads of 5's and 10's put into a separate pile.

I took it upon me to start one last conversation before I left. We talked for a few minutes, he mentioned he would beat me up if I worked at a fast food from here to 10 years, and lead me to believe he was psychic when he told me the girl I'd only just met that day would be my next love.

He was full of it, that never happened.

Eventually I got the courage to ask him what his vice was, and he said he had none. I asked him why he was on the street, and he told me he lived in a house. I asked him why he was asking for money on the street, and he told me he was funding an operation for his clubbed feet.

Now it would've been nice to mention that earlier, but the truth is at first I found it irrelevant. I've spoken to many a wandering drug addict with the wonky feet before, and so I put it behind me and looked on for other hints and clues.

It turns out it's hard getting a job as a cripple. And it turns out that even if you do, the odds of you getting the money for certain operations are difficult. Especially if you don't have medical insurance. Who knew, right? So the man set himself out on the street on a rich, busy avenue, and started telling his stories to any stranger who would listen.

The man had been gifted everything from food, to blankets, to a trip on a cruise once he'd recovered from the operation (courtesy of the cruise ship owner). Knowing all this, I finally just asked how much he still needed.

The man told me he had already paid for the operation, and he'd be taking it January 9th of 2013. He was about $5,000 short, just for therapy and other little do-dads he'd need done. I asked him if, being that it was nearly mid December, he would be able to come up with the money. He just smiled, nodded, and said it was definitely doable.

I didn't have it in me to ask for a picture of his feet. I'm a bad blogger.
What inspired me later on was following him around, listening him speak to the strangers in the cars. You'd see the occasional butt nugget either mouthing him off or just pretending he didn't exist, but the people with empathy were more. The people who would spare anything from a quarter to a twenty dollar bill were more than the arrogant.

What does that say about society? How did this average Joe have it in him to see that people could be good, and yet the average do-gooder are stuck worrying over the evils that surround us? I'll always find it upsetting how it's easier for people to focus on the bad than the good, but as long as those of us who try get any attention, I guess we're not so bad off.

I just wanted to share that. Anyway, life is good. Enjoy it.


Smart Spam

I've been meaning to do a spam post, because come on, there's a fuckload of it out there in the wild blogosphere. Just a couple of weeks ago I went ahead and checked the automatically spammed comments. Here's what I found:

Get on the actual fucking post and SEE this image with your EYES you lazy fuck
"I seldom write responses, so here's a long one"
I got to thinking how impressive it was. How in a week the page views are minuscule, but over the course of a year they really rack up. These programmed bullshit feeding cock suckers actually make a difference to the blog, and it pisses me off. I want the result at the end of the day to be hard work and dedication, not assholes advertising.

That's fine I say. If it happens to me, it's gotta happen to everyone else. At least they keep themselves hidden from me under spam. What's sad is, there's actually a few real comments hiding under there. Usually from anonymous Googlers with actual inquiries. It's now a duty to check the spam comments.

But that's fine. All the spam goes there. All of the spam, until I got one clever fucker who managed to undo Google's auto-spam wizardry.

Get on the actual fucking blog post and you might see this image, you steamy piece of dog shit
What a little bitch
It's not the first bit of spam I'd ever gotten, but it caught me off guard. Here I was just a little while ago thinking about the subject, and wham! Fucker number one asks about it.. in an attempt to spam itself.

I mean it's genius, disguise yourself by criticizing what you are. Just like humans. A hypocrite spam bot. I'm impressed.

I'm just glad I never got rid of comment moderation.

And on a similar note.

I just checked this blogs spam comments. It has real comments on it.

Actually, this picture isn't as important. If you've gotten this far, just, fuck you.
What the fuck, Blogger?


Aftermath of a birthday party

It was a beautiful day at the park. Mary was just cutting up the birthday cake and giving it away to the other parents, leaving the slice with the big '5' for herself. Her twins aren't toddlers anymore; a smile runs through her face.

It's late though, nearly 6. Their father hasn't shown up yet and he was supposed to take them to the movies. The party starts to deflate and they're left waiting. The twins, hyper, running through the park by themselves, when their dad finally shows up in his pick-up and takes them away.

Mary waves and smiles, turning away to the mess she has to clean alone. She's cursing. Upset. Throwing the remaining bags of chips away in an attempt to speed the process. The night is approaching, after all.

It's not too long before she's done though. She starts walking away with her tinfoil wrapped cake before hearing scurried movements. Probably rats or something, she looked around and put a spring on her step as she hurried away. She's far from the park by now, making a turn at the church and coming to a halt.

There's a moment of pure humanity on her face. A bewildered curiosity. A silenced scream of a stare when you see and expect a cat, but know that in that dark corner, those red tinged eyes aren't feline.

But what could it be? The shade is overwhelming, it's low. If not for the eyes, the size and location would make her believe it really is a cat. A few, very cautious steps in the direction, she feels a grin form. The rugged forms of clothing. Is that a hood?

She steps back. It's too small to be a dwarf. Its grin is insincere.

She falls.

She doesn't know where, but she feels a sharp pain. It runs through her body and chills run down her spine as she strikes the ground. She sees the tiny being walk into the church, and she feels her ankles grabbed. Another sharp pain.

She looks down to her legs. The crimson on the sidewalk, the dark stain on her jeans, the rip on the stain of the denim, directly underneath her ankle, the knife at the end of the rip. Tiny hands tugging at her wound; pulling through the gates of the church. The pain so strong, she's crying but it can't stop. So many little hands now tugging at both her legs.

Her screams were many, as were her kicks, and hence as were the wounds on her skin. Tied down to the floor. Gashes on her arms, thighs, and her ankles. The gnomes, playfully flicking their knives on the bare tendons and cartilage.

They laugh as her tears dry. She turns paler, nearly a soft shade of baby blue. Shivering, trembling, flinching.

The church doors open. Her eyes widen, hope strikes her fasting heart. She opens her mouth, attempts to scream, but her lungs collapse.

The footsteps draw nearer, she closes her trusting eyelids as the gnomes around her run away. A set of old hands slowly reach out to her cheek. She whimpers as she realizes the minuscule feel. These aren't human hands.

A cage slams on the floor next to her, metallic clinging echos. She scrunches up her face as she feels the tip of a knife entering her ear canal. Silence, but she hears something. Softer than the crackle of paper.

She soon feels it. Something in her ear, walking around. Going deeper. And another. And another behind that one. Too weak to move, she feels dozens of insects enter her ear until they're so deep she can't feel them any more.

The gnomes stare at her. Smiling. Each drinking crimson from their goblets, and enjoying from a big plate of cake with a 5 on it.

   ---   ------------------------------------------   ---   

I was feeling that Halloween spirit recently. Does it show? This was inspired by a friend, it took some time and thought. Kinda.

Unless blogger ends up compromising my picture space (they did), the above poster should be official movie poster size (27"x40") and because of the use of a Creative Commons licensed photograph (thanks to mararie), the poster is legal to adapt, remake, or print out and enjoy under similar rules to hers. Just contact me somehow if you want it in original size, I don't bite strangers. Usually.

All other pictures used were taken by me at some point.

And yes Hollywood, I would love to write the remainder of this and turn it into a movie for a reasonable sum of cash. I do, in fact, have the rest of it pretty much planned out. It's just long and time consuming to write. You know how it is.


Paul's Cereal

I don't like people. Okay, it's not that bad. I don't like people when I'm not around. I can't see what they're doing, I don't know what their actions are. I can't monitor. I lose control.

It's not that I care what they do. Usually it doesn't even involve me, but on those occasions where someone wants to be at my home while I'm not there, or when I'm showering, or before I wake up (never giving anyone keys to my house again).. there's just reason for me to worry.

It might seem paranoid, but it's justified.

Like the other day, I was gonna go out clubbing with my friends. I specifically said I'd be ready at 9:30, but this one imbecile came for me at 8:20.

"I have to shower.." I whispered.

"It's okay, I'll just wait and watch TV or something" was his response. The sly dog.

I was hesitant, I didn't like the situation but what was I supposed to do? Shoo him away? I just nodded my head and went in for my shower.

But what was he doing while I showered? Was he really watching the crap on my basic cable, or was he doing something worse? Something I wouldn't like. Something he wouldn't be able to tell me, so at the same time something I would never know about.

I'd rub shampoo on my hair and think. Maybe he's spitting on my socks. Maybe scratching my DVD's with his keys. Or mayb-

Maybe he's fucking my cereal.

I drew my friend fucking some cereal
Before getting out of my room I took the time to draw a few illustrations of what my friend was probably doing. That way I'd get to show him that I knew, and when his eyes open in fear he can know that I know he betrayed me.

But you've also gotta give it to him, it's a genius idea. I'll be out for at least a couple of hours with him, when I come back the semen will have dried out and when I add milk to the cereal I'll never notice any of the crust. It'll all mush down.

I paid $7 for that cereal too. Terrible.

He just laughed at me. It's confusing, because at this point he should be surprised I caught on. It's not even nervous laughter, it's roaring. Who does this cereal fetishist think he is? He ruined my cereal, it was expensive. I wasn't even halfway done with it.

There he is, fucking my cereal
As D4, I'm actually quite proud of the box of cereal I drew
And what's worse, she probably liked it too. Oh I know her well, with her arrogant gluten free rings and her delicious cinnamon spices. She was probably all over him before I even stepped foot into the shower, and yet he denies me of his truth. Almost as if I didn't have all the evidence I needed right there on my hand! I drew it a mere 4 minutes ago, the blood is still wet on his hands. I can smell it.

He finally started realizing that I knew when I started shouting and went to look for the cereal box myself. I saw his eyes widen as I opened the cabinet and saw that he placed her exactly the same way I did. Sneaky.

"Paul, stop being so paranoid!" He yelled at me. In my own house, after sleeping with my cereal.

I took the box and tossed it into the garbage, ordered him to either fess up or leave right this instant, and the coward left. I'll never trust him in my house again, and for good reason too. Forget about the taste and consistency, think about the germs! Some nerve.

I didn't go out clubbing that night. I did however run out to the supermarket and get me some cereal. It was cheaper this time. She looks faithful.


Work it, bitch

I enjoy good service. No, seriously. I like to tip at least 20% if the service was good at a restaurant. I like to wish people a good day when they've answered my questions. I like being well attended at any local food place, and then telling other people they should check it out. Even if said food is somewhat shitty.

But this one time, not too long ago, I went to a better known sandwich shop. Let's call it Wubsay. Now, I like me a good Wubsay sandwich. It's not the best out there, but it's good for what it is. What sucked a big cheese encrusted cock was the guy attending me.

I'm in line, there's 2 guys ahead of me. I'm just there, waiting like any sane human would expect, when the sandwich maker asks me what I want. My neck snaps back towards him, and I see him asking the guy ahead of me what he wants in his sandwich.

"I must be hearing things."

But then he calls me again. Now I'm all for multi-tasking, but if you're going to attend me, fucking attend me. He gets the hint after I wait for him to put another Wub into the oven-microwave thing. He looks me in the eyes and asks me what I want. What I ordered doesn't matter, I've already forgotten. Let's say I ordered the extra cheesy sardine combo. He nods in acknowledgement, then deals with the heated Wub.

After he does all his chores with the heated Wub from the guy ahead of me, he comes back to me and asks me what I want. So far the service is pretty bad. His act of multi-tasking was really just a waste of time.

"But it's okay" I say "It's minimum wage, it's to be expected."

He prepares my sandwich up for me and asks what I'd like on it. I was waiting for this moment the whole time I was in line. I know exactly what I want and don't want. I start something like: I don't want lettuce or--

He looked like this-ish.
From here what happens is nothing too exciting. I get pissed off. I'm the customer, I'm always right. Don't correct me, you just listen to me and pull your saw-edged butt plug out of your anus, shit-stain.

I had a low temper that day. But I did nothing mean. I just said everything like I wanted to say it anyway. No lettuce, no jalapenos, everything else goes.

After a bit of thought, though, here's what I should have said:

Everything. Yes, even jalapenos.

Now take the jalapenos off. Now take the lettuce off. Now the tomatoes. Don't forget the banana peppers. Now the green peppers, please, I don't need them any more. Actually, I'm not hungry, I'm gonna go.

Next time some skid-mark comes at me with this shit, I'll have this ready. Be on your toes, Wubsay employees.


My Relationship with Roaches

I've had a lot of experiences with these things throughout my life. Roaches. Even the name is ugly, they're hard to get used to and real easy to hate. It's not like they do anything, of course. Usually they're just germ transmitters. Like flies, lizards, mice, cats, dogs...

But then sometimes.. things happen. Sometimes, they're just cruel motherfuckers. I'm not prejudiced, they're just assholes.

When I was 5

I had to go to the bathroom. It was maybe 9 at night so everything was dark. Of course, I waited until the very last minute of whatever cartoon I was watching to quickly run down the hall and make a right at the bathroom. Commercial breaks are so quick, there really is a need to hurry.

I open the bathroom door, slide my bare foot in and put my hand on the switch. I don't flick the switch, though. No, there's a rubber band under my foot. It feels funny, I roll it around, play with it a little while and smile. I realize the cartoon is gonna be on soon, so I hurry up and turn on the light.

From here it all happens so fast. The light is on, I lift my foot and see this big brown thing, practically drunkenly wobble out from under my foot. My teeth grind, my eyes widen, and this foot-fucker decided to fly its way up my leg.

Fuck that shit. Nearly pissed myself as I darted out of there.

Fast forward a few years to-

When I was 15

It's early morning this time. Getting ready, the whole routine. I'm the first one awake. It's time for breakfast, maybe a hard boiled egg. Maybe an egg sandwich. Classy stuff. I was always classy.

I open the fridge, I get an egg, put it on the counter top. So far so good, life is pretty fucking sweet. Lower a pot, fill it up with water. Put that pot and water on medium high and wait for it to boil. Fuck yeah I'm a pro.

So I wait a few minutes, the water is boiling, I stick the egg in it. All that fancy stuff, and then I pull a glass out. To drink from it or something. Of course, under that glass was a family of cockroaches, staring up at me blankly. Their fancy little antennae twitching like they've been caught in the act.
"That's awfully rude, man. We're here making these babies come out and you're fucking interrupting us. Why don't you go squeal like a little bitch and forget about making breakfast? Eating sucks anyway." - Roaches
I took their advice. Later on that night I found them eating my toothpaste. It's a surprising detail to note that I never got a cavity after that point.

Two days ago

I was emptying out a closet. This closet has always had a big hole that leads to the tub on the bathroom on the other side. It's for easy plumbing purposes or something. You know what whatever. It's got big piece of plastic on the wall and that's where the hole is. It's just wide enough for a basketball to fit through.

Well in the process of clearing the closet out and re-realizing that hole was there, it just seemed logical at the time to satisfy my curiosity and attempt at tugging it off. Right there, on that chewed-off rust-black floor that's most likely corroded by the never ending tub leak. With little brown marks up against the walls, and the faint smell of dirty mop.

I was pretty curious. I mean, I tugged at that plastic bitch hard. I don't know what it is that I did wrong, but apparently my feet were doing a better job. I fell.

Usually when something looks shady, you stay away from it. I however decided to stand on it and sink 5 feet into the ground all of a sudden. That cheap closet floor decided to give out, right when I needed it to work, and it was disgusting. I scraped my right arm on the side a bit, but that's fine. "Just a graze" says my inner macho man.

What wasn't fine was the hole on the bottom, near my knee. Maggots around the rim as far as I could see, the occasional flying insect zooming out, and you can't ignore the giant (about 16 inches long and maybe 6 inches wide) cockroach. I could see it too, looking at me with those fucking giant beady eyes. Its fucking antennae poking out from its hole/nest. It's at that point that I took my battle-axe, which I have on me at all times, and swung it right across its "head". It's not clearly defined, but I took the top chunk off in one swift crunch of a sound.

Oh it kept moving though. The fucker.



So there's this guy, right. Single dad, baby mama is a batshit crazy crack-whore, he's got custody of a 9 year old son, so on and so forth. Obviously the guy's made some bad decisions in his lifetime. That's not the point today.

So about 8 months or so ago he met this lady while his son was at a birthday party. He's a single dad, he doesn't really have time to date but, come on, he's a guy. So he tries to get laid, uses the kid to his advantage, so far so good.

7 months later and what do you know, he asked for her hand in marriage. Kay, he's made some mistakes before but this time it's different, this lady loves his son and they all get along (kinda) and flowers and fucking unicorns shitting rainbows all over the place. Things are nice, it's like a 50's sitcom.

I think I gave you the gist of the background, right? I mean I could give you the names but that complicates things. Let's call the dad Dad, the lady Lady and the son Kid. I'm a fucking genius here. Try to keep your brain in its container.

The newly pieced-together family has been living together for about a month now and things are good. It's different for Lady; living with someone. It's intense. I mean sharing space with a kid, waking up and serving that thing cereal. She almost feels like a mom.

Well today she made the kid chocolate chip pancakes. This kid really loves her now, and Dad's cool with this except he feels the kid is getting a little too excited. He also wants to get laid tonight so he doesn't say anything because he's terrible at speaking. Because he's the average strain of man.

So far this is a pretty realistic story isn't it, guys?

She ends up making food and baked goods the rest of the day. So far she's made blueberry muffins, brownies, pumpkin seeds (which are fucking delicious by the way, have some sometime) and she's making stir fry for lunch. Stir fry. I'm making this woman up and I love her. How sad is that?

She's also drowning out the food supplies, and Dad's realizing it. Now he really wants to get laid tonight, but he can't help but feel like flipping shit. Maybe he'll get a sorry-fuck later, but he has to set things straight. He wants to tell her to ease up on the food consumption and to go easy on the cooking, to relax a little, watch a movie together on their day off.

Instead he says something like:

Fucking stop that. You're wasting all the food and making Kid hyper, what the fuck is wrong with you? Jesus, you haven't even made me a sandwich while you're in there, what kind of woman are you? 

Then he shuts up and realizes that that went differently than he thought it would've. Well shit. He could still apologize but, no. It's his house, fuck, he can say what he wants.

This is man-logic, ladies.

Shit gets real intense now, but you all know that so I'll save you the blah-blah. Kid is stuck in the middle of everything and is just confused. Why are people angry when there's food on the plate?

So Dad storms off in his car, parks 2 blocks away and just thinks to himself. So he kinda fucked up. And he wants to get laid. Naturally the best thing to do right now apologize for his action without actually apologizing. He's not quite sure how he can do this yet, but he has money in the bank and that's a good enough start. He'll fix things because he has the money to, and because everything that sprouted out of his mouth wasn't really necessary. He was silly.

Meanwhile, Lady is thinking similarly. But she's also crying. Kid finds her and well, he just asks. Bless them, they're so blunt and stuff. It's amazing. She shakes it off and says it's nothing, but she figures everything he said was right. Probably because she's emotional and she can't think straight. I don't understand women so I don't know why she thinks that, I just know that she does.

Don't argue with me.

She decides to tell Kid to accompany her to the groceries. They pass Dad on the street and she worries a little, but she's gonna make it all better. She's paying for food out of her wallet, she's going to make nice. They go, buy a shitload of food and come back. Dad's not parked in the same spot anymore but he's not home either. He's probably at a bar or something. Smart man.

They're getting the groceries into the house, they open the fridge and fuck. It's not gonna fit. Lady bought a gallon of milk, a frozen pizza, fucking bagels and an assload of other foods she didn't need to buy and doesn't have room for.

So Kid decides to let her weep on the couch for a while as he stares at the ingredients on the counter top. He opens the fridge and gets to business. 15 minutes later and he calls Lady in. Her eyes are swollen red and her nose is a shade of pink, but she's fine. She swore to him. She steps into the kitchen and see's nothing in there. She can't believe it, he must have thrown something away or hidden something under his bed. This can't be.

She opens the fridge and it's definitely crammed, but it's all there. Everything. That's amazing too her, she picked up the kid and she's hugging him real tight. He copped a feel. He's happy. 9 year olds, you gotta love 'em.

So he's sitting there with Lady being happy that he achieved something, watching some cartoons, something about a stretchy yellow dog, stupid shit really but he's laughing when suddenly Dad walks through the door with two bags of groceries. He just looks at them and says "Come on guys, there's more in the car help me get it to the kitchen!"

Lady is tearing up, standing up and heading to the car. Kid just stands there looking at his father bring the groceries out. He's on his way back out when he sees Kid there just staring at him. Dad asks him what's up and Kid replies but only two words.

Fuck you.


Kung Fu

Today's story revolved around a child. An adorable little 4 year old that only wanted to impress the superior beings that are called adults. Let's call him David Force. Yeah, that works. Little David Force.

He woke up early this morning. Stretching in bed, opening his eyes and letting ideas roam through his mind. Improvisation isn't even necessary when you're 4 years old and have an imagination as active as a prostitute's sex life. He knew what he wanted to do, and he was happy with this idea.

This is what a happy young David Force looks like.

The poor little thing picked up his magic marker and paint set and headed straight for his mother's mirror, which was inconveniently placed in her room. This was fine, he managed to wake up without her noticing and so he got into her room without her noticing either.

Finally at his destination, he was only about 15 minutes away from success. He looked straight ahead at the mirror, picked up a yellow magic marker, and got straight to work.

15 minutes later he was done. He slid out of his parents' room and headed straight through the hall in the hopes of finding someone to appreciate his masterpiece. And then his mommy walked her way up to the hall and saw his face.

And mommy was not pleased. Quite the opposite, her eyes lit up for half a second before blinking a few times and calming down.

The shock left her with no words for a little while. Stutters, many blinks and a few deep breaths later, she managed to cross her arms and form a coherent sentence.

And little David knew exactly why he did it. It all made perfect sense in his mind, so he didn't even hesitate to answer.

"Because Kung Fu"

She just stared at him blankly, probably already contemplating how she could go so wrong so fast. He was only 4. And kung fu? Really? All this and much more could be seen in her eyes.

"What do you mean, kung fu?!" slipped out of her mouth. Poor little David, with much less confidence than before started to whisper.


But he wasn't sorry yet. This was something she couldn't handle on her own, she didn't know what to do. She tried to get him to explain, but he was obviously in the mood for jokes. So she took him outside to explain himself to his father.

His dad wasn't alone, he was taking a break from adult-man-work outside with his creepy cock-eyed cousin. They both just stared at the poor little thing, and there to break silence was the poor kid's mom.

"Tell them what you just did"


My inner 12 year old drew this.

The roaring laughter that came from these two adults would be enough for poor little David Force to reject anything kung fu related for years to come.

But the story doesn't end here! It's important to know the roots of little David's thoughts.

See, a week before this whole thing David saw a movie. Or rather, he saw the first 5 minutes of a movie, followed by bits and pieces whenever he woke up. This movie was something about To Wong Foo, which was easily switched in his mind with kung fu. He would later find out what men in drag were.

Kung fu was something David's dad was into. Anything about the martial arts, it was part of the rainbow of subjects that this guy couldn't stop talking about, so naturally, little David wanted something to do with this amazing kung fu stuff.

It all makes sense in the end, doesn't it?

Also, this totally wasn't based on true events or anything. Come on and stuff. Geeze.


A legitimate question

And not that I'm expecting all of you (or any) to honestly answer, but I'll put it out there anyway.

A while ago I was having a chat with a lady friend. Let's call her Amanda. Now me and Amanda have known each other for so long that we can be pretty excessively open with our thoughts and opinions. It's a good thing, it means we're open enough to talk about things like when her mother was looking at genital piercings. I let her know that her dad might be getting one soon in order to satisfy his curious wife; and so on and so forth until we came to the following scenario.

Now, I came up with this while talking to a hetero female, so it applies to hetero/bi females and gay males. I'll give the lesbian and hetero male twist after I'm done with the original, so don't worry. You all apply.

You wake up. You're in the arms of prince charming, literally all you physically want in a guy. You smile, of course, because he's looking at your eyes so tenderly. The bed still smells of the amazing sex you had last night, and the comfort of his arms firm around you is the only thing keeping you from drifting to another moment. This is a guy you've been living with for 6 months without things completely falling apart, things are oddly better than you'd expect them to be, too, so you want this to work.

He leans forward, kisses your forehead, and with those tender and hesitant eyes he asks:

"Can I fuck your armpit?"

What the fuck do you say? How do you respond to this? Yes, that IS the question.

NOW, some things you should know that me and Amanda were already aware of:

There are such people who enjoy sticking their dicks in an armpit, and having the arm close on the phallus as they hump away. There are also people who who find armpits so arousing that the sight of them could make them masturbate vigorously until they inseminate it. Think of a money shot. Pit shot. Look this shit up, it's hilarious.

When "prince charming" asks for armpit sex, you don't know which of these two he wants. I want the initial reaction, be it yes, no, depends on my mood, or I'd have to have a talk with him first.

Amanda said it would be as bad as anal sex, so no. I've gotten a few opinions on this matter, asking around, and it really seems like the overall answer is a tie. This means your opinions count.

And for the rest  of you with dickless partners out there, there is indeed a female-on-pit option. Unfortunately, I'm not sure a female could have sex with an armpit in more ways than grinding. I've yet to find proper female armpit fetish videos. If you have some, let me know.

Anyway, pretty much this whole thing gets inverted-  there's the woman of your dreams and you wake up with her in your arms, puppy dog eyeing you right before she asks if she can grind your armpit until she has pleased  herself.

What to fucking do.

Now, you could not answer, which is fine. There's no restrictions as to who reads this blog, and maybe you'll have a job in the future with a boss that has a thing against allowing your partner to fuck your armpit. You could post anonymously! But still I mean, who knows, there's a dozen of these excuses on why not to give your opinion.

For those of you with excuses, can you possibly imagine other ways a woman could please herself using only/mainly an armpit?

It's for a good cause. You could be inventing someone's fetish before it's even done, and become a revolutionary in the world of armpit sex. That's something to tell the grand kids in the future, innit?


Tagged againagainagainagain

I'm not sure I said enough agains. Whatever.

I've been tagged on one of these little shits once more. If you're bored and boring, you might wanna check the past ones. This one is pretty similar. Some of the stupid rules have been shaved off but there's still a few to take care of. Take a look at the original set of rules. Or get out of the  window and read something worth reading, whatever. Up to you.

Using a  lot of fonts isn't cute, kids

Needless to say, once more, I don't agree with the rules. I've revised and fixed them because I can.

Better, if I do say so myself

Today's questions are brought to you by MRanthrope of Jim's Fear. He's not a total dipshit, so if you for some reason read these questions and enjoy them, give him a look.

Also he likes some fucking amazing metal.

Let's get down to business, motherfuckers.

1. What part of the country/world are you from and do you like it's weather?
Puerto Rico. I really do. Beach during winter is amazing.

2. If you could spend a week anywhere on Earth, where would you go?
A submarine in the Mariana Trench.

3. What's your favorite film- why?
It depends on the mood. But I guess The Red Violin. Purely because it's inspired me to get further into music and thus made my life a lot happier. I've only seen it about 3 times in my life, but I do always enjoy it.

4. Which celebrity/athlete/world leader would you like to meet (first name that pops in your head!)?
First name that pops into my head is George Watsky and that's probably only because I'm listening to him right now. He's still awesome though. Wouldn't mind.

5. Monster truck or Mini Cooper?
I'd rather walk. Whatever, monster truck.

6. What was your worst subject in school?
History can suck my balls.

7. If you could transform your favorite hobby/pastime into a career, you'd be a professional what?
... I guess I'd write music articles for major (e?)magazines.

8. You wake up tomorrow and discover you've suddenly become a pro wrestler...what's your theme song/entrance music going to be?
This has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that MRanthrope's favorite band is these guys, but The Dillinger Escape Plan's version of Aphex Twin's Come to Daddy.

9. Opinions on nationalism?
I'm mostly for it in my particular political situation, but I can't say it's best for everywhere.

10. How do you kill time whenever there's a power outage?
Board games. So many amazing board games.

11. Jesus VS Darth Vader...who wins the battle of the midi-chlorians?!
I'd sit them both the fuck down with a grilled cheese and some chocolate milk and tell them to talk it out. They've got to just grow up.

Why did you even read this far? Geeze.



How many of you have heard of this guy? No, better question: How many of you haven't received one of his comments?

Not sure? Name kinda rings a bell? Yes, you know him and you wish to anally introduce him to a variety of dictionaries, because he quite obviously seeps feces from his mouth? Maybe you've just been fortunate enough to have never dealt with him.

In that case, let me show you what he's like.

Fuck you

This fuck-face routinely stops over at my baby blog, and insists on littering it with his trash. This is a person that takes all of 2 seconds to summarize a post and somehow be able to leave an opinion.

So did your mom last night

It's comments like these that take away from the credibility of a post. Say some producer is looking for music blogs to feature his music on, as long as the comments are visible these producers will look at them.

That might be why for such a long time I've been deleting his worthless comments. Speaking of worthle-- no, too early.

I know, cuntflap, that's why I put it up

What R does happens often. A month and a half of on and off commenting, followed by the realization that not once did I comment on the shit-for-brains' blog. In a few months, he'll come to my blog again and decide it's time to try and recruit me again.

Two times in a row? Gasp

It doesn't take much for  this dumb-fuckery to get on my nerves. As far as I've been aware there's no dead set way to block assholes from commenting. You can block a follower, but R isn't one.

I will hunt you down and rip your testicles apart

I could go out of my way (way, way out) and block the dipshit's IP address, but if there's a proxy involved or if the fucker ever moves, I'll get so pissed off I might do something drastic. Like report him to the CIA as a major drug distributor. The time I get for wasting theirs might be worth it, I just wish I could see R's face when it all goes down.

So let's assume that within an hour this dickwad can comment on about 100 blogs. That's pretty fucking fantastic isn't it? That should mean he writes some mother fucking excellent posts, now doesn't it? I mean, it better.

Curiosity got the best of me and I took a peek at the blog. Maybe there's quality content on it. What a terrible idea.

Fucking rage...

This piece of shit of a blog is full of other people's articles, copied and pasted. One day I'm going to post about exactly how much I hate that. For now, let me fix the blog up a little.

That's better

I'm getting to something here. After a few seconds of serious thought, I realized what this fuck brain does isn't an easy task. It's not easy to be so terrible in every aspect of something. I may suck at Chinese, but after a few months I'll get better. Not R, though. Not with blogging.

So R, if you took the time to read this, I think you're special. I've made an award for people like you.

Real award, find out all about it here

R, you are the first ever inductee to the Worthless Piece of Shit Blogger Award. This is an honor and a privilege. I'd tell you to click here and get the widget/button, but you're sporting the new dynamic layout. I implore you to switch back, just so you can put it up on your blog. That's your decision entirely anyway.

Off to let R know of his achievement!


I've been tagged again

Again. If you're somehow unaware of this, you might want to go here and here. I feel kinda stupid giving a fuck, since I said myself that these were stupid, but it also gives me room to vent when people are stupid.

Like you, person-who-isn't-reading-this.

This time I was tagged by Leon Kennedy, who I haven't been following long enough to know if I care about or not. Sorry Leon. I doubt you'll read this anyway so it doesn't matter.

Leon was particularly interesting with this one paragraph he wrote:

Choosing people was tough.  Not only to find interesting people, but because it seems like everyone's been tagged already!  If you really don't want to answer the questions, let me know and I'll try to find someone else.  All in good fun.

Here you are, man. Breaking rules #4 and #5 (which you put up yourself), in part because they're stupid and in part because you were lazy. It's okay.

To the few readers I've got here, I apologize for yet another tagged post. Please feel free to stop reading now as the questions are coming up.

1. What... is your name?
Well It's D4 to you.

2.  What... is your quest?
Not to fuck your mother in an attempt at giving you a smarter sibling. Great question here.

3.  What... is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?
African or European? Yes, dickweed. I know how original you were here.

4.  Why are manhole covers round?
I'll leave the psycho-analyzing to my future bosses.

5.  Before you stand two identical guards, guarding two identical doors.  One of the doors goes to heaven, and one of the doors leads to hell.  One of the guards always tells the truth, and one of the guards always lies.  Both guards know which door is which, and each guard is fully aware of the other.  You want to pass through the door that leads to heaven.  You may only ask one of the guards a single question.  What question do you ask?
I should probably play them play them off each other and ask what the other would say heaven leads to. I'm smarter than that, I'd bust a cap in the first one's ass and ask the second one if he really wants to fuck with me. Yeah.

6.  Chunky or smooth peanut butter?
Chunky for a pb&j, smooth for use on chocolate.

7.  You have eight balls of the same size.  Seven of the balls weigh exactly the same, and one of them weighs slightly more.  How do you find which ball is the heavier one using a balance and only two weighings?
Don't make me bust a cap in your ass too, motherfucker.

8.  Your house is on fire and you only have time to bring one item out with you.  What do you grab and why?
My wallet. I'd like to say the reasons are obvious.

9.  If you cook, what's your best dish?  If not, what's your favorite food?
I will make you the meanest grilled blue cheese burger you've ever tasted.

10.  How was your day today?
Decent, thanks for asking.

11.  A cat is placed in a sealed box with a piece of radioactive material and a vial of poison gas.  The radioactive material has exactly a 50/50 chance of decaying after 1 minute.  If the radioactive material decays, the poison gas will be released and kill the cat.  After 1.5 minutes, what is the state of the cat?
It depends if the radioactive material decays, doesn't it? Also, I know nothing on the poison, for all I know it could work slowly and even if it did decay the cat would seem fine. I might be missing something, I'm tired.

K thanks for the questions Leon. I kinda wish you'd checked this before breaking rule 4. I mean I break some rules anyway but, fuck if I'm gonna turn down the chance to call something stupid. Who would I be?


About the whole nose thing

It's hot out. The few clouds on the blue sky are like misshapen moons shining about. A sudden breeze hits you again, just like it does every 40 seconds. It makes the thin layer of sweat on your brow tolerable, but you still wipe it off.

You wish you'd just stayed on the open field next to the sea, but it's too late now. A 10 minute walk, some simple instructions, and you know you're almost there. You pass the church as instructed, and you turn at the next street. So far so good.

This street is different, though. It almost sounds abandoned, silent. You're submerged in a light scent of bar-bathroom. Of piss. You just walk through it. You're careful not to twist your ankle like you almost did a few seconds ago, the street is made up of these old blue/gray bricks that are too slippery and too crooked for human use. You're pretty sure they're carrying a lot of that urine stench too.

You're looking at your left now. You were told it would be an orange place with a small entrance, that you wouldn't miss it. You didn't.

It's an old building. The paint is faded, eaten away, but what's left of it is rust orange. Ahead of you, a wooden door that looks like it was literally made out of 6 2x4's put side by side. It's dark, carved, and tall. There's two holes, one at either side of the door, and they'd be just big enough for your head to fit through if not for for the black protruding bars that guard them. Right above the door you see a wooden sign, the paint is scaling off, but you can just make out the words. Club Dudua.

This is it. There's no knob, so you walk up to the door and attempt to push it in before it's opened for you from the inside. The man at the door greets you with nothing but his eyes as you take your first step in.

(If you're not skimming, you might wanna click here or here to better suit your imagination.)

Immediately the music hits you, the silence of the street finally broken as you stare at the dimly lit area. This place is made almost entirely of dark, polished wood. Nothing like you were expecting.

To the right you see what you could call strippers. There's 3 or 4 of them entertaining about half a dozen men scattered about. They move like silk. The well dressed men respond in tones no higher than whispers. Further behind them there's the live music you've been hearing. A pianist, a drummer, a double bassist, and a saxophonist who's currently rhyming. Next to them there's two more, it's dark and you can barely see them but you know they're talking to each other.

To the left is the bar. There's dramatic lighting facing directly towards it, so you can see that it's fairly light compared to the rest of the club, a cherry wood tint maybe. You spot the bartender, shoulder length dark hair, a tight fit black t-shirt makes him look almost like a bouncer. He's facing away from you, about to grab a bottle from the glowing yellow shelf, probably for the only person sitting at the bar.

You hear a gunshot. Your attention goes back to the right where it came from. You start stepping back. You see nothing going on, everyone is still in their general positions. It's as if only you noticed. It might be making you feel a little nervous, you can't tell right now, you're not sure what's going on. You look back to the left, the guy at the bar has his drink in hand, a brownish red liquid in a whiskey tumbler shines with the light above the bar. Or maybe you're seeing things, your heart is feeling a little tense right now.

But he's calm. He's wearing a light blue button up and jeans. He's the most casually dressed, he's out of place. You start to realize you're out of place too, and you don't feel like drawing any attention to yourself right now. He sits there, sipping still. Short black hair and a half grown beard, he's not even clean cut. You're not comfortable anymore. You spin on your heel and take a step in the direction of the door, but you're stopped.

Hey, come over here.


You're frozen now. But you came here for a reason, you turn back and face his deep set almond eyes, they're dark brown, almost black. He's not half as nerve-wrecked as you are. You're still thinking about the gunshot. Maybe it wasn't a gunshot, maybe something just fell. Maybe it's a special day and there's firecrackers around or something.

You're thinking too much now. You didn't even notice it, but you're up at the bar right next to the man in blue. The bartender puts a glass away and walks up to you. He opens his mouth but words don't come out, I waved a hand to call his attention and he nears his ear to my lips. You catch the beginning of what I whisper, something about pee or Pete or something. Your mind was jumpy, you don't remember.

I ordered for you; hope you don't mind. You'll have a glass of very fine rum, you'll like it. Just sip it slowly.

Well this is shady. You could object but you didn't, you don't remember why. You don't even remember why you even bothered getting here anymore. It feels like a bad decision now. The bartender comes back from another room and brings you a whiskey tumbler with a liquid similar to the one I'm having. You hadn't even notice he had left. Your rum might be a bit more red than mine. I told you it was a fruit of some sort, maybe cherry or strawberry, you don't remember anymore. It was a detail, but you took a sip and it tasted good. You remember that.

I like noses. I said. You're sure of it. You're not sure why you remember those words so clearly, but as soon as you heard them you took a very large sip of the forbidden rum at your hands. I had to pull your arm back down, you would've hurt yourself.

Don't do that. That's dangerous, sip it slow. You just remember my lips moving a little slower than my words. Whatever you're having, it's strong, but it's loosening you up.

You asked about the whole noses thing. I knew it was a great ice breaker, it always is.

Well I mean, it's not like a fetish or anything. I've done some research and all I can find about nose fetishists is they tend to like big noses. I just like how they look on people, or how they'd look better on others than on their respective owners.

You're not drunk enough to take this seriously. You see me taking a sip from my rum and you stare down at yours. It's easy to drink, but you want to keep control. You want to wait a little bit.

There's just a sip or two left, but it's strong. You still have the tart taste lingering in your tongue. You're thinking too much, you've just felt my hand on your back. You're pretty jumpy and you scared me off, but I've got your attention now.

Are you alright?

You're wondering whether or not you should answer. You just nod your head. You don't remember why you didn't speak, you had a perfectly logical reason. Probably.

Okay, good. So it's all about the shape. An elf nose is mostly suitable for people of fairer skin, darker skinned people have a wider variety of noses to suit them, you could say they're luckier. But you know, it's about the same amount of luck since how good a nose looks on you depends on your facial features too. You've got a pretty alright nose, by the way. Don't feel self-conscious.

You're really having this conversation. Were you supposed to? Is that why you came? That rum tastes good, it doesn't even taste like rum. Who talks so much about noses anyway? The music sounds better after a few sips.

So the first girl I ever had  a chance with was pretty. Her nose was really round, it matched well with her hazel eyes-- hey are you gonna drink the rest of that?

You look back down at your drink. There's just a sip left now, you might as well. You lift the glass to your lips and tilt your neck back. Then I order you another.

You remember taking that next sip. You laughed at something, you don't remember what but you fell off your chair, you were crying. You're outside, the moon is out and it's shining, it's beautiful. You're walking on the sand now, your body stings. Now you're in an ambulance. Everything is dark. You open your eyes.

It's warmer than you're used to, but the breeze chills. The sun is rising. You don't know how you got to where you are, but you're alone. You focus hard, but the last thing you remember is the flashlight from the medic at the ambulance.

What happened?


I've been tagged

Again. I believe this breaks rule number 4 which clearly states "Don't tag anyone who's been tagged before."

I mean I can't blame anyone for tagging me, how are they supposed to know if I've been tagged or not? What kind of fecal matter does a rule have to consist of for it to require you to be psychic?

I'll put the rules up. Again. As should be expected, I'm going to cross out any rules that super-sized their order of ridiculous with their stupid.

  • Rule#1: Put the rules on your blog.
  • Rule#2: Every person tagged should tell 11 things about themselves, answer the 11 questions asked by the one that tagged you, tag 11 other people and ask them 11 different questions.
  • Rule#3: Let the people whom you tagged know you've done so.
  • Rule#4: Don't tag anyone who's been tagged before. Gasp, motherfuckers.
  • Rule#5: Really do tag 11 others, don't go all ''if you want to take this tag''.


Let's do this.

  1. What is your most prized possession? My iPod. If the house is burning down, it's the only thing I'll look for. Edit: a big round of applause for Bersercules for realizing I'd also bring my wallet. Someone give him a re-assuring pat on the back or something. (I can be an asshole too, Herc.)
  2. What songs would you be embarrassed about on your music device of choice? I wouldn't be embarrassed about anything in there. I guess the most shocking is the Happy Tree Friends Theme.
  3. If you could go back in time and stop yourself from buying an album what would it be? I wouldn't. Every album I bought has played a role in my music taste, regardless of how shitty some purchases were.
  4. If you could be present for any past event what would it be? Woodstock.
  5. Were you raised in any religious tradition and are you still a part of it? Nope.
  6. Which fast food place is your favorite? Eh. Subway I guess.
  7. What is your favorite beverage? Hand me a nice fresh homemade lemonade and I can't say no. 
  8. What is your favorite music video? Hustler - Simian Mobile Disco. This version. You win points if you can stomach it.
  9. Are there any actors you absolutely won't watch in movies? There's always exceptions, so no.
  10. What album could you listen to on loop all day? Oh boy. Ok, Anything by Eric Dolphy, Frances the Mute and De-Loused in the Comatorium by The Mars Volta, Disraeli Gears by Cream, M.O.T.A. by Cultura Prof├ętica, this list goes on.
  11. What is your favorite piece of clothing you own? This awesome Team Brazil - Ronaldo football/soccer jersey.
Kudos to Dylanthulu for asking decent questions. He is not a dipshit and you should check out his blog to see if it's to your liking.

Again I'll mention, if this was somehow a highlight for your day, I'd recommend maybe reading a book. Here's a recommendation.


Justified Hypocrisy

Any of you remember the first post on this blog?  Most of you should. I was talking about shitty comments and how I fucking hate them. I think it's normal to hate shitty comments, and I think that they should be hated out loud.

The hypocrisy:

I leave my fair of shitty comments too, and it pains me every time. Every time. 

There's tactics involved. Sometimes I skim a post, sometimes I don't even have to. Reading other comments to get the gist of a post is sometimes acceptable, and watching out for anything fishy is always necessary. I stay away from the general 'Lol, wow nice post!' comments, but I still respond with lesser used terrible comments like 'Wow, isn't it just awesome how I took someone else's comment and rephrased it so it looks like I give a fuck about your post?'

I can justify my behavior, though.

I appreciate every comment I receive. I never go out of my way in search for new followers, I never expect a comment back, and I have this need to thank everyone that takes something from my posts. If you stop through my music blog and leave a worthwhile comment, something that required actual thought, I will give your blog a peek.

This is just my way of saying thank you. You mean something to me. Even if your blog is a steamy pile of dog shit, I appreciate that you had anything to say and I'm happy you exist.

Sometimes I grow to enjoy these so-called steamy piles of dog shit and after a few read-overs I realize that this dog shit is made of diamonds. Other times, that never happens and I end up just feeling bad for continuing following someone that apparently, I just don't like.

It's seriously not hard for me to end up liking you. I'm very open minded. But if you try to rhyme in such a way that ends up making no sense, or if you copy and paste your entire blog post from somewhere else, all you're getting out of me is a full on boycott.

Most of the people following me right now have gotten my shitty comments at one point or another, and right now most of my followers are people who I either like personally, or have blogs that I really enjoy.

Here's some tips, in case you openly admit to having shit for brains when it comes to your blog.

Write your own material, don't leech, don't be boring, don't try and fuck my eyes with your shitty writing, and eventually I'll like you. That's almost a promise. No guarantees.

Tip of the day: Rub soap on the floor of your shower to clean your feet easier. It's genius.


I think these bulk question things are stupid.

I've been tagged in a "random 11 question thing". I think these are stupid.

I remember when I first started blogging, I thought it was awesome. I might get 5 extra page views that day, maybe a shitty comment and the chance to promote some other bloggers. Then I realized that my blogger world is a community, that people run out of people to send these to because of the not so gigantic size of this community, and that when people don't know who else to give these to, they might even resort to the niche blogs that don't feature shit like this. AKA me.

Just the same, there's always gotta be an asshole ready to corrupt the flow of things, and since the reason I made this blog was to be able to do other blog-related posts, I decided to step froward and accept my role.

Here are the rules. Kinda.
  • Put the rules of this Tag on your blog.
  • Everyone tagged should tell 11 things about themselves
  • Answer the 11 questions asked by the person who tagged you
  • Tag 11 other people and ask them 11 different questions.
  • Let the people whom you tagged know you've done so.
  • Don't tag anyone who's been tagged before.
  • Really do tag 11 others, and don't go all "if you want to, take this tag".
I took the liberty of crossing off the rules that had supersized their order of stupid.

Here's the questions:

  1. First video game you ever played?
    Crash Bandicoot. I don't remember which, he spun a lot.
  2. Favorite game console (Wii, Xbox 360, Playstation 3, NES, so on so forth)?
    Playstation 1
  3. Favorite video game?
    Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 2 (Yep.)
  4. Who do you think is the greatest character ever conceived in video games?
    Tomb Raider?
  5. Who is the greatest villain?
    That's an easy one. It's
  6. Best weapon in your opinion (can be any game)?
    I'm gonna have to go with shiny lazer beams.
  7. Biggest pet peeves in games?
    Auto-lock. Hate it when aiming is predetermined.
  8. Your greatest gaming moment ever?
    It was a sad moment that no one ever saw and no one will ever believe. Fuck.
  9. If you were a character from any game, what would you do?
    I guess it depends what character I was.
  10. If given enough time and resources. What would be your life goal?
    I would own a giant music label, coordinate massive concerts around the globe in order to support it and keep the music as close to free as possible while giving artists full access to their deserved studios. No strings attached but no shitty producers allowed. Lol dreams.
  11. Do think this it the eleventh question? I got lazy and asked a shitty 11th question
    I could tell.

If you enjoyed reading that you should really consider picking up a book. If you wish you had the opportunity to answer questions like these, don't. It's a pain in the ass. Trust me.

Go play with fire, kids. It's pretty.


5 Worst Comments I've Received So Far

This blog is gonna be an outlet. Nothing regular, just a place where I can post the stuff I shouldn't on my main baby. All the silly ideas, interesting observations and especially the reasons I rage. I'll try and keep interesting.

I'll be a lot less nice here than over there. You'll notice that when I talk about the dipshits that left the 5 worst comments I've received so far. Let's start this off!

The least stupid of the 5 worst comments, this was just the average dicksniffer who stops by to let me know he exists. Usually these guys say something like "Nice post!" or "That's awesome. Following!" These guys come and go, their comments are unnoticed and deleted immediately.

Stonkmeister was special though. On a post where I mention Steely Dan consistently as a they, Stonk had to come and admit he hadn't read a word of what I wrote and said:

Steely Dan is awesome, love his stuff!

Trivial detail by a useless blogger. Nothing to get too upset over, but still, fuck off and die (but don't die yet, suffer a little first).

You can find the post and comment here.

#'s 4 & 3 Dejch and Breakingbrokers

I'm just gonna go right on ahead and say I'm glad these two idiots are no longer active.

They both made the mistake of not reading my post at all. Nothing. Not even the parts in bold. Now I'm not saying you have to read, but if you're not going to read you shouldn't be commenting. You're gonna make me realize you've got shit for brains. (It feels nice to finally get this off my chest.)

They were both on my Greyhound - Jamaica Rum post, where I explained and made obvious several times that though the song is often confused to be Bob Marley's creation, it's actually a song by Greyhound. The first blatant dickwad was Dejch:

i like good old bob.. and this song is definitly one of my favorite!

The second illiterate asswipe was Breakingbrokers. Again, if you're just gonna listen, that's fine. But if you're gonna comment, at the very least skim. Instead he plunged head first into:

Awwwww love this shit! Jamaican Rum, no better. fav BM song

First of all, it's "Jamaica" Rum, but that's a tiny detail, I let that slide. What's not a tiny detail is the author. I was perfectly clear on that post.

Both of these monkey's asses can lick each other off in a back alley.

Now it starts getting hard. Drivebot is a guy I have a little respect for, regardless of what an idiot he is and has been on the blog. Going to the profile you should find a blog dedicated to mustaches, and another dedicated to his DJing. He's decent.

But he's also an idiot. It's not the first time, but this was the worst case. He took his time to find a link and think out his comment, but not to read the post.

It was in a post about The Hi-Lo's, I mentioned that the song had been sampled in a Jurassic 5 song. And then he commented.

Ah ha! It's froma cut chemist song i recognize this. or Jurassic 5. yeah Jurassic 5. awesome :)

here's the jurrasic 5 song with the sample. enjoy

No kidding, shit for brains. Really? It's almost like I said that. And linked to it.

It's his special kind of stupid along with how lazy he was that gives him the honor of being #2 on this list. Woo!

Now, this is a guy I would really like, if not for his dumb-as-fuck comments. He has an interesting blog, is an interesting  person, but repays the favor of your visit by quickly peeking at the title of your post and leaving a comment.

If he never commented on my blog in the first place, if he never even visited, I would've still read and commented on his blog. Since I couldn't comment without receiving some form of shitty comment, I stopped going altogether.

His worst comment was on my Dub Pistols post. It was a normal post, really. I said some stuff, posted a link to a big-beat and dub band. Mentioned that dub wasn't dubstep, and got generally nice views on the song.

Scrotumthroat Bowen had this to say:

I still have a hard time getting into dubstep. Like they said on South Park, "isn't it just crap noises over a drumbeat?"

Timbow earns spot number one for not even bothering to listen to the song. He's been a worthless commenter, and I hope he never stops by my music blog ever again.

There's a moral to be learned here. Don't comment if you don't read. You're not doing yourself a favor. I'll just bring you back here and vent, give you a bad name.

Or you could do it anyway. Even bad publicity is good publicity, right?