American Renaissance (Blog Format)

Pass the torch, little bitch.

Ah, the Olympics. What a chance for the world to prove to itself that humanity is real, that the human heart is alive and well. What a joke!

The new job has arrived, da-DING! Excellence.

What can I say after 2 months off the shit job, under the radar? Not much, to tell the truth.

And for some serious commentary…

Hillary has been exposed, and I stand corrected for my support for the feminazi wench. Now I must choose between an incognito Muslim and a crazy white boy! This one will be tough…

And as for the Stoneys, ouch what a sorry crew. What a pathetic excuse for camaraderie, what a tired effort in solidarity.

Keep up the good faith, ye uninformed jumble. Do not forget about the times when we almost had 1000 page views in one day, a number spurned higher and higher only by the sick twisted social machination of Roughtonius, who would fool a peasant schoolgirl into believing in the mythical Pegasus, if only to stroke his gay Irish ego. Pfffft.

And there you have it, the Great Blog Revival continues. I wanted to write more, but I am tired after stuffing envelopes all day. Where’s the beef?

Hark Upon the Gale

PBK inductee

Dank is Gay/ Trapped in the Closet/ Operation Bunghole is Over

Here’s Chapter 21 from R Kelly’s ridiculous masterpiece, Trapped in the Closet. I’m always late to the game, and this time is no different. Watch this shit, it is fucking NUTS.

***video edited OUT

Let me now turn to Dank. Dank, you are gay. Do not play with my emotions by saying you are getting married, and then be like, “Nu huh, jk.” Bitch, please. You are officially the gayest, and your youtube video doesn’t work still, shithead.

Now Roughty. Where the fuck you at, bitch? Seems like you’re not doing shit these days except whining about some bullshit or something. Get off your lazy drunk ass and make yourself useful.

Operation Bunghole has been derailed by Dank’s falsimonius proclamations of marriagehood. I repeat, what a fucking gay move Dank. I can give you some slack because you wrote that bullshit in the backend and Suit published it, and I guess we all “jumped to conclusions.” However, in the wake of my “what the hell are you thinking” post that I tried to make real nice and supportive, I feel embarrassed and exposed. Boo on you for being such a toolbox; I don’t even want to get into why I think you did it. I will try to let it go for now.

Anyway, Operation Bunghole was an initial raging success. The Ministers of Sound helped to set the mood, and the party was alright at first. However, soon afterwards the festive atmosphere was overshadowed by rumors of an engagement of one of the Stonies, which then turned out to be nothing but an offensive fantasy…

What did we achieve though, in just 4 days of strategic execution and nuggetocity?

For a second, I felt a little unity, a little camaraderie.

I soon realized that no one else was down with the BungOp, with no real response from my camp, or yours either.

Then, we had Dank’s gay bullshit.

I was made a fool, a sensitive sucker played by the hucksta.

Friday is here, I have to focus on better things.

Like all-day class on Saturday. Quantitative Methods/ Accounting.

Followed by Monday, estimated arrival time at work 5:10 AM.

From which point, I will commence planning and execution of my next event, Operation Fucknugget.

Operation Bunghole, Full Effect

The time for petty bickering and bullshittery has come and gone. Operation Bunghole is here at full effect, on the heels of a bumbleclot shitstorm which is raining feces and cottage cheese, dampening troop moral and negatively affecting our cause.

The newly-appointed Ministers of Sound will keep the beat. The rest is really up to us. Let the destruction begin.

No stone will be unturned by the end of this conquest.

We are in control here.

There is no turning back.

Do not deny the force of our existence.

Or be forever banned from this land of the internet, by the force of our Minister of Defense.

Do not ask questions, because we don’t have answers.

Let the revolution begin.

Statement of Intent and Rejection of Fuckabilly Principles, O. Bunghole Deux

I, Stoney, decree that the sole purpose of this fuckhole of a blog will be to unite any and all people, whose sole purpose is complete uselessness and depravity.

Uselessness and depravity are big words with lots of different shades of meanings, so we’ll stick with the obvious. You could be:

1. USELESS– worthless, retarded, stupid, a waster, procrastinator, slacker, you-tube watcher, myspacer, facebooker, blogger, non-book-reader, news-avoiding, in denial, a baby momma, a baby daddy, middle-aged, gay, big fat fucking loser…anything goes.

2. DEPRAVED– drunk, stoned, out of your mind, against the grain, hating your job, fucking off at work, doing something that someone else doesn’t want to do, talking shit, being mean to your friends, searching for dog sex tips, basically anything that society deems disrespectful, irrelevant, or otherwise unwanted.

What do you get when you fuse our core values? You get a useless fuck that nobody wants, a vagrant with no responsibilities, and with no desire or need to get some. Want some responsibility? Sign up for 18 years of it and pop out a kid.

A complete Rejection of all Fuckabilly Principles also goes hand in hand with the key values of membership here at Stoneyville. Fuckabilly Shitheadedness oozes out of every greasy pore of this fine nation, from the bullshit fuck fakery that’s on TV right now, to the bullshit fuckheaded cock sucking that goes on at night (in the form of Presidential debates), to a goddamn moron working in a Kansas City supermarket who thinks all people from India are ragheads on a jihad against the U.S. because we are “free.”

There was a time when I was not so jaded, when I wasn’t so withered by the salt stings in my eye, when there wasn’t anything for me to bitch about except that my tennis match didn’t go as planned, or when my eraser broke off during my SAT exam. Oh, those were the days. Now, I have to sit here in my office in Los Angeles, and plan my domination by banding together with the outsiders. I sit here in my office and watch the sun rise each morning, over the Pasadena valley or whatever, and look out over the 405 at all the fuckheads in their cars, stopped, and I just think, “What the fuck is going on here?”

And then I’m overwhelmed by the site of it, and I just lump anything I don’t understand, know about, care about or have heard of, into one big pot of ideas, and say,

“Fuck this, I don’t care about this, I don’t want to hear about this, I don’t want to think about this, and I wish it would all go jump off the goddamn bridge and get it over with.”

And as for closure, or a summation of the principles, or anything else, I say, “Fuck off.”

Call my secretary, Roughty, and I’ll get back to you later.

Tuesday: Operation Bunghole

Operation Bunghole began as a simple diversion, an excuse to dilapidate, an extension of smugmuggery and tom-shennanigans.

Dankiel, you are not the only one aboard with hidden plans and masterful deceit. Operation Bunghole, directed by the master of the 4 ninjas, Donatello, will be the crowning glory of blogulation, a master achievement to be recognized by all.

What began in the halls of Valhalla, in the kingdom of Tuckerhood and in the jaws of the mighty Wenskarble, has turned into this. Operation Bunghole will be a culmination of all of the lost wishes, the broken dreams, and the real realities of this meek existence.

Consider the French, who inscribed upon our fair symbol of freedom, “Give me your tired, and your hungry.” We say instead, “I will eat your children from the comfort of my living room, and will judge you accordingly for your misdeeds.”

Consider Mr. Vick, a known animal torturer, and gambler of souls.

Thousands and millions have watched him run and throw, for the sake of a cheer and a reason to drink alcohol, and to generate sales. Millions and millions of dollars we poured into his war chest.

All the while, soldiers come home from our War without legs, and with destroyed brains (and little brown kids got blown up too).

And our elected leaders bickered, and purposefully stalled and ensnared the words which could help our cause, the scene.

And all the while, we sat at work, blogged, rode bikes, got drunk, had sex, and made more little souls to inhabit this fine country.

What will come of Operation Bunghole? Nothing, nothing at all. My willingness to shout and scream at the faceless masses is matched only by my painful impotence.

The lack of comments could mean a few things. 1. Nobody gets it. 2. Nobody cares. 3. People get it, but don’t care. 4. People get it, but afraid to look. 5. People don’t get it, and don’t care.

I’d say that accounts for about everybody in the room, including you.

In other revelatory news, perhaps the sole understanding that I can take away from today, is that “Nobody grows up until you have a kid.”

I mean think about it, what the hell is the reason to grow up, if you don’t have a kid. The [metaphysical] dividing line in life shouldn’t be 18 or 21, it should be when you pop one out and take responsibility (or not) for the byproducts of your sexuality. Because I haven’t done that yet, I feel like I’m on this side of the wall, with my parents, and all the other parents of the world, on the other side. It gets weird when you get older, I think, but I’m not there yet, so I don’t really know.

Anyway, Operation Bunghole was a success, even if we didn’t really achieve anything. When you set low standards for yourself, it’s easier to handle flagrant disappointment.