Archive for March, 2007

Stoney News.

To respond to Suit’s question about where my usual high quality stuff has been, I must say I know I have been absent lately.  I have been busier than usual this past week.  If you follow my city’s news, you will notice an increase in ninja-style beatdowns.  I don’t know what it is about spring changing to summer, but it brings out the non savages who have been hibernating.  Therefore, my duties as Executive Irish Ninja have been in overtime lately. 

Furthermore, as Stoney alluded to earlier today, he and I are working on a project for this site.  Upon completion, reading our site will undoubtedly be an eye opening experience.  I will return, however my thoughts are currently focused on grander things than why my belly button accumulates an unholy amount of lint.

When the mouth breathers in my city curtail their excessive douchbaggery so I dont have to thump dozens of skulls each night, I shall return with scathing wit.  It will not be long faithful readers.  Along with a journal of non savages subdued, I keep my ideas in written form.  I have accumulated many subjects I want to brain dump on you, and I promise to be writing once this project nears its completion.  Patience is a virtue; be virtuous assholes.

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Crossroads (fuck off)

We are at a crossroads here at this piece of shit blog. I am, at least. Lately, the most-clicked thing anyone has written has been Suit’s Most-Savage Roll Call post, because he put a picture of Sid Vicious on it. About a million people came to see that stupid shit. While that particular post was funny, that particular picture was weak, and the fact that it gets the most views and drives all our traffic proves a lot of points.

1. Blogs are gay, and so are people who read them. Fuck off, everyone who came here because of Sid Vicious.

2. Quality is ignored for the sake of picture mashups. Yes, I guess that picture of sid vicious is quality too, but not really. Suit’s post about Danknuggets was far superior to his stupid savage roll call.

3. This post will probably get picked up too, because of how many times I said sid vicious. Sid Vicious, while a savage, is quite low on the totem pole of savagery that this site was supposed to represent.

It is a confusing situation, and I don’t know what to do. It feels a little like Arrested Development, where the broad audience of society is too retarded to get the real point, and is often driven by and finds the wrong shit.

My old Hawaiian mentor often emphasized the philosophical question of intent versus interpretation. Where is the middle ground? I don’t know, and neither do you. The fact that the sid v traffic has gone away has calmed me down a bit about it, and I see that you fuckheads are still coming to the site. Well guess what?

We ain’t putting up shit right now. We are too lazy and busy to put up shit on our gay blog everyday because sometimes, the real world gets in the way.

Am I jealous of suit for beating me in page views for a sub-par post, whose popularity was driven solely by the fact that little indie punkers are searching for that name in the fucking wordpress search engine? YES

Am I going to let that get in the way of the ultimate savagery of what we are undertaking here? NO

So, to all of you true savages who come here for a taste of the good life, the good old days, I say this:

Keep the good faith, the savagery will continue. We are investigating big things for this shizzle. One tired week does not equate to one tired blog. In one month, we accomplished a shit load, set standards for ourselves, and I for one wasted plenty of hours at work ranting about shit that doesn’t really matter. And you read it.

I have learned a couple of things about blogging, in particular, if you want traffic, post pictures of pseudo-savages that little kids will search for. If you really want to suave it, keep your posts tight, and don’t make a blogroll, because that shit is weak.

As a final note, Pete Doherty is ten times as savage as Sid Vicious. Sid could not play a musical instrument. Pete smokes crack and shoots up all the time, AND plays a savage guitar. Do you not think so? That’s ok, I’ll send you my ABBA CD, or the next time Sid puts out an album, I’ll send it to you. As a Doherty aside, he is officially no longer a rock star god. To do that, you have to die during the year when you are 27 years old. He missed it because he’s 28 now, but I guess that’s ok. You can’t win them all.

And as another final note, where the fuck is danknuggets? I am about to revoke his invitation, because I am offended by his blogsnobbery.

Fuck off, Danknuggets. Get your own blog.

an homage

for my pal, danknuggets.  this was stoney’s idea, but he’s been writing a bunch of bitchy, whiny blogs lately, so his vag is probably too sore to type a real post right now.  that means, it falls to me.

danknuggets — the name alone conjures images of neon-greenish ganga trees blowing in the rastafarian jamaican breeze.  that’s the image that comes to mind when i consider my friend danknugs. 

danknuggets resides in a suburb of one of our nation’s largest and most fucking ridiculous cities.  this city is diverse, but dank’s town is nothing of the sort.  you can walk around for hours and never see a non-white.  the results of this phenomenon are simple.  instead of newspapers flooded with stories about black-on-black crime, they’re flooded with stories about white-on-white crime…  also, you don’t even need to take your keys into the convenience store with you when you go buy some blunts.  just leave your car running, and walk in, do your shopping and walk out.  your car will be there, and some white stranger may even have tightened the lug nuts on your wheels.  anyway, that said, the town is lovely.  it features rolling hills, lovely fields of grain, big-ass houses, a whimsical train station and several fine dining/drinking establishments.  this is the town in which our hero grew up and first spread his wings…

beneath the placid exterior of this town, however, lies a heart of darkness.  there are weed-heads, coniving-ass hoes and tons of coke traffic — or so the story goes.  this seedy underbelly is where Dank (DN) really spent his teenage years.  after four years of ripping huge bongs and captaining his soccer team, DN was honored with the title of Mr. (DN’s state of residence).  he had played by his own rules and had bested his peers.  he graduated high school with honors and went on to a lovely little southern college.

it was at this college that DN and i first met.  it was the first week of the freshman year.  he was pimping a hoe, and i was pimping a hoe.  both of us had just met these hoes, so we were flexing out proverbial muscles to try and impress these hoes as best we could.  i noticed in DN a worthy adversary and decided to take him on — like two worthy knights trying to slay each other for the sake of proving their verility to the courtly maidens.  no need to go into needless details, so i’ll just say that the ensuing verbal fist-fight concerned marijuana.  he thought he knew most, while i thought i knew most.  SIDEBAR:  had i known anything at all, i’d have known not to try and battle DN when it comes to any ganga-related issue.  either way, the auditory fisticuffs came to an abrupt end.  both hoes in question were, if i recall, sufficiently impressed, and DN and i parted ways, exchanging squints and snears as if to say, “this ain’t over.”

as we lived in separate dormitories, i did not run into DN for quite some time — about a month.  during that time, stoney had befriended me, and i had been invited to a mystical place called the gazebo (known to deddog as the GAZ) to partake in a ritual blunt-smoking.  after a few rejections, i finally accepted and walked over there with stoney.  on the way, he told me about the dude who would be meeting us there and, consequently, providing the herbage.  his name was — you guessed it — danknuggets.  i didn’t know who this was, but when he arrived, i immediately recognized him from our first meeting.  what he was feeling, i cannot say, because we never discussed it.  rather, he sat down, bid us hello, lit a fat-ass kine cone and proceeded to blaze the shit out of it with stoney and myself.  after that, there was rarely a day that we did not replicate this procedure exactly.  it was a scientific experiment.  our research question — how much weed can some dumb-ass white boys smoke before they flunk the fuck out?  the answer — apparently more than we were capable of smoking.

mentioning every idiosycracy of DN’s character would not be a good use of time, so i’ll merely highlight some of the finer points.

first, DN is a rasta.  he is white, but his soul is black — black as bob marley’s i swear to god.  he hosted a reggae radio show.  at this show, lots of people showed up, and it was a weekly social event.  we drank beers down there and even, if you believe the lore, smoked a couple joints down there.  in addition, this rasta man introduced me to real bob marley music.  you may be saying to yourself, “i know bob marley music.”  well, fuck you.  you don’t know shit.  you own the Legend album.  you close your eyes and rock back and forth listening to “no woman no cry,” and you think you know about reggae.  you, motherfucker, don’t know shit.  during my four years of knowing DN he introduced me to more scratchy, vinyl reggae than i could have properly processed in a life-time.  in addition to this, he taught me about reggae history and rastafarian culture.  lastly, he taught me about how fucked up a white boy’s dreadlocks can look.  and let me tell you, they can look pretty fucked up, indeed.

DN is a weedsly dude, too.  he knows all there is to know about the sticky green.  from his youth, he smoked on the reg.  he taught me how to find it, how to procure it, how to prepare it and how to smoke it.  i had nothing but some rudimentary high school knowledge, but after four years of DN’s expert tutelage, i can say that i have a motherfucking weed ph.d.  believe that shit.

DN is a musician.  he played guitar on the back porch of his woodshire estate with a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes squinted from the smoke, ashes floating down into the guitar’s body at all hours.  if you were ever looking for dank, just follow the sound of out-of-tune acoustic (or unplugged electric) guitar chords, and you were sure to find him.

that’s a rough sketch of my pal, DN, but i have a motive.  that lazy son of a bitch won’t lower himself to writing on this blog.  i wrote this blog in the hopes that, knowing what you now know about the man, you’ll write enough harrassing posts to provoke him into our cesspool of electronic sewage.

this has been an homage to Danknuggets. 

and finally, the benediction: 

hey, hey, hey, hey,

smoke weed every day.

On the effects of capitalism, and coming back from war without a leg

Capitalism means a lot of things, blablabla money, blabla society, but I want to talk about what capitalism means to me, as an individual sitting in my office, wasting time by writing about basically nothing.

Capitalism, as I know it, means that you work really hard to gain a set of skills (usually specialized) which you can then sell to your employer, thereby earning money, thereby buying food, a place to live, clothes, and anything else that you can afford.  There are about 300 million people in the United States who are de facto a cog in the capitalist wheel, just on the fact that in our society, you need money to eat and have a roof, and to have money, you probably have to sell yourself to someone richer than you, who can then use you as a tool to make more money. Or, you are dependent upon money that has been generated in such a fashion, which you did not help to “make.”  You, my friend, are a free-loader.

So, you are part of a whole. You, sitting there at your computer, are a part of this whole. For the purposes of this piece, let’s call that whole a “machine,” something that is working on a scale that is bigger than you, without your approval or recognition, regardless of whether or not you want it to.  We could call it a “blob” if we wanted to, it does not really matter.  Machines are more fun, though, because it creates a sharp contrast to being “human”

Humans are warm and machines are cold.  Humans (supposedly) care about each other and have feelings, whereas machines (supposedly) don’t care about anything really, and cannot feel.

I believe that the machine does not care about the individual humans that are running it.  The machine cannot feel pain or pity or anything; it only is. I believe that some people can cut themselves off from what it means to be human, to stop feeling, in order to become a better wheel for the machine.

———–

I wrote all that like 2 weeks ago then dumped it on account of its general blandness.

Here is an article about the US troops coming back fucked up, and not getting any help after they have their legs blown up and have nightmares.

The army lady goes, “I think we have the institutional structures in place, but at the individual level, some things don’t happen.”

In other words, we have the time, money and resources (institutional structures), but no one is taking the initiative to help out these kids (individual level).  That, my friends, is fucked up.

I knew a kid freshman year of college who was a skinny little bastard, like 5’5 or something, really skinny, etc.  He joined ROTC, and while I was studying 17th century British Lit junior year, he was setting up road checkpoints in Baghdad.  Shit, he might be there right now.

He moved in next door to me randomly at the end of my brilliant college career, and I asked him if he killed somebody.  I don’t give a shit, I’m the one fucking paying for his gun, and he is defending my “freedom,” so I fucking asked him if he ever killed anybody.

He said, “No” but told me some fucked up stories, one about how he had a bead on this dude’s head driving a truck. He was going to blast this dude, but he didn’t because the guy stopped, and he didn’t have a bomb on him after all.

That is a fucked up story to me.

If my buddy got his leg blown off in Iraq, I hope somebody would help him when he got back, make him feel better about it and shit, maybe try to make the nightmares go away.  I can literally only imagine the intensity of going to war, and I bet that’s all you can do too. Halo doesn’t count, shit head.

——-

Where do these two stories meet?  I don’t know.  Capitalism is fucked, and makes people like machines to become better $ producers.  We are dehumanized (made to stop feeling) in order to become better worker bees for the good of the whole.

It gets fucked up when the bees break a leg, or get shot, or freak out at their desk, and they get swept aside for the good of this fat ugly nation.  Fuck that, I feel a lot of shit, and I guess that’s why I started this gay blog.

If you or your buddies go to war, I hope you come back un-shot and ok, and I also hope that you don’t have to shoot someone else.

Blogrolls are gay and non-savage

I got a lot of hits from my “gay” post the other day. I use the word “gay” a lot, and I use it in a derogatory fashion. I just wanted to clarify that, as Jerry Seinfeld would say, “Not that there’s anything wrong with it,” but I can still use the fuck out of the word to make fun of shit that I think is…..really fucking gay. If you want to call something “white” or “cracker” or some shit, go right ahead, I don’t care, you fucking gay ass bitch.

Blogrolls are gay as shit. Let me tell you why.

First, this relates to my Circle Jerk post. Blogrolls facillitate a circle jerk mentality, where everybody is friends with each other, and there’s a bunch of people running around in circles, clicking on everyone’s blog and stroking themselves to The Sound of Music. NON-SAVAGE.

This blog is an entity unto itself. I hereby declare that this blog shall have no “blogroll,” in the regular sense of the word.

I will not rely upon the linkage of others to expose my grandeur to the world. If you hear about this site, you heard about it from someone who has been here, not just on a random, late-night, internet blog binge (you are gay if you do that) link sausage fest. Fuck you, blogrollers, you suck.

And another thing. I’m trying to think of it, but I think I will post funny pictures or something that someone else took and copyrighted as their own. Get with the program, bitches, you cannot keep shit on lock down on the internet. The fucking internet pirates used to be on the “good team,” but then they realized how gay it was, so they became pirates, and now there’s tons of free shit on the internet, for you and I to consume for free.

And you know what else? Who the hell are you, reading this site? I mean seriously. Do you know me? Do you know Roughty? Are you interested in our demise, or are you just randomly clicking around the internet. Or is this just a mini-circle jerk, which will never become a mega-jerk because I won’t have a non-savage blogroll up here.

Anyway, I guess that’s it. I’m still tired from my “Fuck You, AH” from yesterday. That shit wore me out.

Alert: My old man just called me, a U.S. veteran savage. Savage. He was slightly freaking out about the AH post, the status of my job, and how this blog will hamper my future abilities to get a job.

To him, I say, “Touche.” However, Fuck a job, fuck all this bullshit. Please. Thank you.

Lookout, summer is coming

With the summer months approaching, I am becoming increasingly anxious.  Not because the urge to go swim with my deep-sea friends is torturing me, or because long days basking in the sun allure me.  It’s just too damn hot, and I don’t like it.  Let’s get one thing straight from the beginning; the sun and I are not friends.  In fact, it is the longest running battle of savagery I know; me vs. the sun.

SAVAGE:

mooning_leprachaun1.jpg

NON-SAVAGE:

the-sun.jpg 

We Irish are blessed with a myriad of superpowers.  However, our kryptonite is ironically the very thing that gives Superman his powers, our asshole yellow sun.  The blood of an Irishman is too thick for these grueling summer days.  That is why we have to drink so much; it thins our blood so we can more aptly blend with the non-superhuman.  After 23 years of being absolutely miserable three months out of the year, I have a gripe with Mr. Sun. 

The increasing temperature produces a strange phenomenon.  This monster of a beast is known as “Swamp Ass”.  Swamp Ass is a cruel fate for the glandular inferior.  Behold: 

swamp-ass-man.jpg

Scary.  Especially if you have an ass that large, Swamp Ass is the last stigma you want to befall you.  It is basically a neon sign reading, “Hey ladies, stinking fat ass over here.”  If you are trying to run any game, whether it is with some ladies, a business deal, or swindling the idiot down the block, Swamp Ass is an instant kill. 

This is why the business suit standard is black; this color can counteract the evils of Swamp Ass.  However, do not fret when Swamp Ass strikes.  You should be glad your glands are working correctly; they are cooling your fat ass.  So, if you come across a stuck up bitch who gives you lip about your Swamp Ass, just give her some wisdom from Kevin James, “I’m just a delicious piece of man meat, and you’re gonna have to deal with it.” 

Sunburn is more wickedness unleashed by that nefarious ball of gas.  My superpowers decline exponentially when the sun is bombarding me.  I was walking home from work the other day, and it was a reasonable 75, yet the UV index was at some unnatural level.  I could actually feel my skin getting hotter and burning.  I had to race home like a vampire on the Summer Solstice.  (For all you retards, that’s the longest day of the year.  Hence, that day has the most sun exposure.  Eh, I don’t know why I waste my talent on you.) 

I had a dream (nightmare?) the other night about me being at the beach for a day, next thing I knew, I woke up with sunburn.  I’m not worried about the sun though, because I’m going to live forever, or die trying. 

There are however, activities that I love so much that I will venture outdoors and brave the ills of the sun.  Topping that list is the most savage game; horseshoes.  Horseshoes is probably the only thing I enjoy about the summer.  In Williamsburg, our cul-de-sac would coordinate days off with our respective places of business just to play guilt free shoes.  The first stake would be planted around noon, and the games would last until the final rays waned on the horizon.  Horseshoes cannot be played with less than a case of beer.  This is a tailored made drinking game.  Any game where you throw around heavy, possibly life-threatening objects must be coupled with massive consumption of beer.   

Fuck You, Arianna Huffington

This is a true story. I swear. I will not make up shit in this story, because I might (?) get in trouble for printing the truth in public about something that happened to me, in real life. A big part of this story lies in you, the reader, knowing about who Arianna Huffington (AH) is, and where she gets all her power and prestige, if you want to call it that. AH has a big blog, where lots of people go everyday to read called http://www.huffingtonpost.com/. Fuck that site, and fuck AH. Read her stupid wikipedia here.

It all started when I used to really really fucking hate my job and want to get out of here STAT. I STOPPED SMOKING WEED for like 2 weeks so I could pass a drug test, if a potential employer were to ask me. That shit is no joke to a smoker, I fucking quit cold turkey. I sent in my resume to her weak site in probably early November for a similar position to what I’m doing now. I was like what the fuck, I’ll send my shit in and maybe she’ll get me back. Well, readers, divine providence struck in the form of an email from one of her minions, “Call us” or something like that. They wanted some of my sizzle, and I said, let’s do it. I was talking to her right-hand feminist woman friend on the cell phone in the hallway of my office building. That’s right bitches, I do my first interview on my boy DW’s cell phone from the office hallway; it’s a standard practice. I usually go down a flight or two, so my boss doesn’t come out to see me scribbling notes and directions about some espionage shit on his dime.

So I get the call, I call back, and it’s fucking on like donkey kong. The first day I call, the girl on the phone is like, when can you come in, I said, today, she said, let’s do it. I was like Oh Shit. Back and forth a few times with Minion #1, and I get the green-light, with personal info. The interview and job itself is at AH’s house, right in the middle of Brentwood. For you losers who don’t know, Brentwood is where the big $$$ lives. As an aside, AH is big-time left-wing, pro-environment, blablablablablablabla. She drives a Prius. WOW. Her house uses as much electricity a day as Mexico City people. Like Al Gore. There’s a disconnect.

ANYWAY, the meeting is on, and it’s on at AH’s mansion estate-home thing in Brentwood, and I’m not really dressed up for a powerhouse job interview. Fuck it, I say let’s do this. I drive directly from work, and up through the winding canyon roads to this mansion (Arnold Schwarzenegger has a house on the same street I think, and his arch nemesis Stallone does too). So I get there, I see the whole Prius deal parked out front, and I ring the gate, and I get to go in. Wheeee I’m thinking.

This girl H answers the door. I’m not going to blast the employees too hard, because I do in fact know what it’s like to be somebody’s bitch, and it’s not all their fault. So anyway, H answers the door, and I get to come in, and I go to the sitting/waiting/living room deal, which nobody really uses I can tell. It’s got a fucking tree that’s literally 25 feet tall in it, in this huge fucking mansion in the hills. I cannot emphasize the estate-hood of this place enough.

So I go in and wait, blabla, her right-hand power feminist woman comes out and gives me the schpiel…”Hard work blabla, no mistakes, blabla, CEO face to face, blabla, TAKING CARE OF THE KIDS, blabla” The hair rose a little on my neck at this point. “We’ve had a really hard time keeping an assistant for AH lately, we’ve been through a bunch over the past few WEEKS.” In other words, this bitch has a higher turnover rate than McDonald’s, and you better watch it when you’re changing her baby’s diapers. Etc.

So then, I get to go meet AH herself, whheeee, in her big old library with TONS of fucking books. TONS AND MILLIONS OF BOOKS. AH is very nice to me, and has a big thick Greek accent, she’s this kinda old lady who looks nice, acts nice etc. BUT it was weird. Very fucking weird. She asks me about archeology, because it’s on my resume per my pimpness, and I suave it real nice with her, etc.

Then, her right-hand lady is like, “Let’s go upstairs and I can show you where you’ll be working.” blablabla

Let’s get to the point, all this wording is killing me. I go upstairs and meet the slaves. I am a stoneywageslave, but these kids were fucking sweatshop labor slaves, and I could sense immediately that something was very wrong. I was the oldest person there at 23, which meant to me, that all these kids (3) were just out of college and needed a job, and thought it was normal to get yelled at by an egotistical maniac. So I sit down, and they’re kinda like, “Show us what you can do.” So I point, click and edit 100 of these comments. I got my name in the backend, I worked for about an hour on this shit, reading these bullshit comments, and taking out the “ad hominem” arguments in the comments. This girl half-assed explained it to me, and I was asking her questions on basically every comment, because I DID NOT KNOW WHAT I WAS DOING; I HAD NOT BEEN TRAINED OR GIVEN PROPER INSTRUCTIONS, BUT I WAS DOING WORK FOR AH WITHOUT SIGNING ANY PAPERWORK OR ANY OTHER SHIT, NO PAY RATE, NO NOTHING. NADA. That, little kids, is a violation of employee rights on a number of different levels.

So I do work for an hour. I worked from 4-5. That puts my total working hours for that day at 12, being as how I’m at work usually at 5 AM. Talk about fucking toast.

I get home and tell Lady T about my adventure, and SHE IS IMMEDIATELY SUSPICIOUS AND UNHAPPY ABOUT THE WORK SITUATION. SHE CALLED IT “SKETCHY”. I instantly attribute her suspicions to selfishness and jealousy, but remember kids, do not underestimate the intuitive powers of women. That shit is no joke.

So, with a new job on the line, what do I do. Fucking smoke a bong and pop a pill, that’s what bitches. I could tell that this place was not for drug-testing, one of the kids looked like gayass Pete Wentz. Anyway, me and my girl are driving to the Joker, and her phone rings with an unknown number. I immediately knew it was AH on the horn, calling me up to bitch at me about my work.

We get to the bar, and I call back because I didn’t want to deal with her shit while I was driving. Lady T was right there watching. I called back and got CHEWED THE FUCK OUT by AH. Apparently I missed a few “ad homenem” comments, and I approved some stuff that AH didn’t want on her site. I backpedaled and tried to cover, but failed miserably after she used logic to prove that I had failed to do a perfect job. Minion #2, the one who told me to do this bullshit that was actually HER fucking job, was on the phone too, and tried to take some of the blame, but while still smearing it around like a dirty poo-wipe.

Let me tell you something, any and all prospective employers. To have the rights to bitch me out, you have to actually be my boss. You have to pay me something. I worked for free for this bitch Arianna Huffington for 1 hour, and you know what I got?

An earful of Greek accent logically proving to me that I didn’t do my job.

Want me to do my job? Pay me money and explain to me what to do. If that doesn’t work, give me 1 more try, and then fucking fire me. You know why I get to fuck off at work and write this kind of shit? Because I do my job, and I get paid for it, I do it well, and that is all.

I say, “Fuck You, Arianna Huffington,” for a number of different reasons, but mostly for her terrible attitude towards a prospective employee (me), whom she illegally used to do work without going through the proper government methods. On top of all that, she was a fucking raging bitch to me on the phone, ego-tripping and getting her granny panties in a wad.

Maybe that’s how they run the sweatshops in Greece, bitch, but not Hollywood. Get a clue, you suck.

It’s obvious this bitch is full of herself, but so am I. The difference is, I’m not a rich mean old bitch, I’m a fucking pimp-ass StoneyWageSlave savage. Please.

I came back to work the next day with a full appreciation for the shittiness of my job.

Editor note: This blog has been kicking for a month now. Very nice!