Archive for the 'The Burg' Category
In reviewing the newest province of our King’s domain i included some dank accessions, violating the king’s decree of single words. However, i was immediatley struck by the limitation of perspective, though very pleased with the King’s curse and all of our curses of self-awareness, i felt some additions were neccesary. In the savage dissapearance of two members of court, I will address the unsavagery of our disputed New Jersey savage.
This fabled tale begins in the golden age of the savage kingdom of Sunken Delight, a magical land of unbridled sensuality, limitless freedom, and philosophical exploration. There were three balladeers that roamed the land, always picking and smoking the weeds that were deemed evil by the blind followers of the terrible regime that ruled the country.
if your heart is true, pass through this threshold of the garden oasis within the evil kingdom of King William the DeceiverThese three minstrals traveled throughout the land, discovering uncharted territories and challenging the the boundaries of the kingdom. As the present ruler was not fond of the dynamic, these three noble savages were forced into the night, only mythically seen during the day, rumored to have attended some sessions of court, but supposedly protested the king and queen, within the royal compound, in their garden, with liberated merriment.
One of the dangerous mires of the kingdom, a site of tragedyIt was in this air of stagnant oppression that these brave young men resolved to battle the forces of evil until they mortally perished in the eternal quest.
Supposed sighting of one of these mythical balladeers As in all of their introductions of initial conflict, some of these virtuous crusaders were perhaps skeptical in their meeting of the King’s Irish post-runner, decked in a uniform of tyranny in the latest fashion of revealing short shorts. Shamus the Unruly, as he later became named in his total rejection of the royal family and total drunken debauchery, would soon correct his blasphemer in his hasty judgment, running his messages of savagery for many moons with broken foot and indominatable spirit.
The modern style of the messenger’s garbTwo of the revolutionary balladeers challenged the king’s mail runners in their chosen form of battle. The battle field would be level, three hundred of the king’s feet long by 52 wide. In this virtual contest of simulated battle, all warriors were on even battle filed, but the boisterous bawdiness that Shamus would later be titled for and his partner Jesse of Katsopolis
unwisely incited the two balladeers’ repressed bloodthirst with brazen shit-talking. The battle began in the province of Yates under the cover of darkness. The battle was tilted toward the favor of the unjust throughout, but the wizard’s potion would soon turn the tide. Facing their death in the final moments of battle, the Fools of Grace pleaded for divine intervention by their often dissapointed Virgin mother Mary. In seven seconds, the battle was one by their faith in their favorite weapon-the bomb.
Da Da Duh Da Duh Da Duh
The victors’ spoils did not escape them, but they respected their defeated opponents in their time of infinite dissapointment, confusion, and emasculation.
Let this be a cautionary tale to any who offend the patience of the two warriors and any who dare speak with thorn-ed tongue of their still-standing epic victory.
There was once a mythical young man named Mikey. Mikey Thrall. Mikey was a giant of unknown proportions, both in body and deed.
Once, there was a huge monster ravaging the woods of a true gem of history, culture and excellence. There was a town of Williamsburg, in the olden state of Virginia. When the pretty college lights dimmed, dark in the night, you could sometimes hear a huge thunder, a monstrous monstrosity who had never been seen.
What the people of the town did see, though, was a lot of people go missing if they went walking in the woods late at night. One night, Jimmy John Johannson (there was a small Swedish population in the town), went out to go midnight catfishing, taking a trail through the woods, and he never came back. Ever.
Another time, Sarah Jo Peasely went to visit her grandmother, who lived in the town next door to Williamsburg, Newport News. Grandma Peasely liked for Sarah Jo to stay late, but never let her stay over, so Sarah Jo would always have to walk back in the middle of the night, all alone and stinking like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Well one day, SHE NEVER GOT HOME.
People in the area started to realize that people who walked around late at night, in the woods between Williamsburg and Newport News, that they would sometimes never come home. At first, people in the town didn’t realize that anybody who went to the woods at night never came back, but then, all the sudden at a joint town meeting, they DID realize it!
The old people in the townhouse decided to call upon Mikey Thrall, the great conqueror of Mythical Proportions. They found Mikey living at his dad Marty’s house, lying on the couch and playing video games. Mikey would often lie around, and do nothing, in order to save his strength for his feats of daring and wonder.
“Mikey, the old people from the town are here! Get off your ass and get your shoes on, they need your help.”
Mikey got up slowly and unsurely; the night before he had stayed up late playing video games and smoking resin. Mikey put on his greasy shoes and plodded out the door. The old people from the town told him that there was a monster or something in the woods, hiding out and eating people, or at least taking them away. Mikey was kind of shocked, but then decided he would help out.
Mikey went inside back into Marty’s house, and grabbed his Super Paintball Gun with Exploding Acid that his mom had bought him at Wal-Mart. Then, he put on his best Battle T-Shirt that his grandma gave him for Christmas the year before, and that he always wore on days like this, when his fellow townspeople really need his help, and he was there for them. Then finally, he put on the hat that his dad had given him for safety protection….the Brown Hat of Safety.
Mikey went out into the woods with all his gear on, and that day, he emerged triumphant.
the first category tag i clicked was worthless friday, cuz that’s what i’m in. it’s fantastic. finally some time to interact with the tech-junkies, alcoholics and weed-fiends who read this link-laden, anti-american, diaperlicious bloghole.
has anybody noticed that politics are continuing to play a large role in our blog?! i can’t believe that shit. if you knew, (and most of you do), the authors, you’d be as surprised as me. four years in the burg, and we never talked about it. now it’s all over everything. i think that comes along with growing older. things we never cared about before are starting to look more and more important. we’re all realizing our global citizenship, and i think it’s pretty encouraging. now all we have to do is change the minds of all the fuckos in general society *(see stoney’s note about the a&f models on the airplane… these are the dipshits to whom i’m referring.)
on another very different topic, there’s this issue going on in the baseball world. my boy john smoltz won his 200th career decision last night. i don’t need to remind any of you who the braves defeated. i don’t need to tell you that they beat the metropolitans. further, i don’t need to explain to any of you that this win brough the braves record against the mets to 6 wins and 3 losses on the season. no, i don’t need to mention any of these things. why am i talking about it then? to hurt your sensitive yankee feelings? no. to rub salt into your still-smarting wounds from last october? of course not. well, i’ll tell you why. the braves are currently recruiting new fans, and if you all have been converted over the past few days, just let me know, and i’ll be happy to provide a letter of recommendation. no guarantees, but it’s at least a 50-50 they’ll accept you. last night’s prodigious victory over the hated mets was a rubber match. “what is a rubber match?” all of you except the sport-savvy roughty might be asking yourselves. again, i’ll explain it for you. in a 3-game series, if each team wins one of the first two games, game three is the rubber match. in a 7-game series that’s tied at three games each, game seven is the rubber match. check out this helpful wiki article on the topic. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rubber_match
what’s the point of this discussion? it’s not just to make fun of the sucky mets. in fact, i want to bring it back to politics. since i’ve been old enough to think about politics, there have been two presidents. (during bush the elder’s administration, i didn’t understand anything at all about it.) these presidents have been billy clinton and george dubya bush — a democrat and a republican. in 2008, we’ll have the rubber match between these two political powerhouses. as in sports, this rubber match will play a big role on the way our generation will be viewed. will our generation be defined by the shitty republicans or the shitty democrats? lord only knows. i got a guess, but it’s just that — a guess. so i won’t even mention it here. in a baseball rubber match, all we can do is drink beer and root for our own version of the good guys. last night, my team won, and i was happy. roughty’s team lost, and i’m sure he drowned on his tears. in politics, however, we can play the game and get involved. we can be the shortstop who turns the double play, or we can be the asshole who lets the ball roll right between his legs. (by the by, what team was he on again? hahaha.) either way, in politics, we don’t have to sit on the sidelines. we can cast our votes and join in the action, right? here’s the other big difference. if i make a throwing error, and the winning run scores for the other team, the game is over and i immediately know who won. if i hit the walk-off homer, it’s conclusive. i’m the big winner. with politics, it’s not so cut and dry. i might cast my vote and be all happy for a couple years after my selected puppet wins. then, out of nowhere, he blows some country off the map, and my walk-off homer turns into a “you-blew-it” game ending error. that’s why, when this year’s political rubber match comes along, i’ll be drinking beer and watching from the sidelines. the punchline of this discourse — do yourself a favor and don’t vote. vote for your favorite amer. idol. vote for which of the stars dances best. vote for the best apple pie you ate at the county fair. don’t vote for the president. you’ll invariably be sorry!
thus ends the politics of this post.
i’m still going to school. it still sucks. i also work at a school. that, too, is no good. i am trying to learn about the material required for my degree, but all i keep learning about is that everybody only cares about money. the only question my peers and superiors ask themselves is, “how can i make the most money off this situation?” it’s sad to think that this is the world we’re trying to earn membership into. maybe the solution is to drop out and move to an island and try to grow coconuts for food and decorative brassieres. my ridiculous boss’s boss’s boss’s boss volunteered me today to take part in some terrible task around the office. my autonomy is non-existant. i don’t decide what i do at all. they tell me what to do, and i do it. it’s bad for one’s psychology. you’ve all been there. i guess the right thing to do is just grin and bear it until retirement… in like 60 years. one more thing about work, i had to make a presentation yesterday to a room full of suits. i wore a rainbow colored (ambiguously androgenous) plaid shirt untucked and my oldest, rattiest pants. i gave a great presentation. (probably because dank wasn’t there flicking his damned zippo to distract me.) after this, i got an email from my boss’s boss who told me that i should have dressed nicer. this is a big old problem in our society. why in the world do people still judge you based on the clothes you wear? i’ll tell you. it’s because they’re terrible idiots who don’t know any better. and these are the people who i’m scrambling to compete with as a peer… sad.
well, mr dank nuggets is in, so let the fun begin. in honor of him, i’m taking this opportunity to post yet another savage roll call. feast your eyes on the following collection:
most savage cartoon character: Monterey Jack — he’ll whip your ass and then console you in a lovely aussie accent.
honorable mention: Nermal — fresh off the boat from abu dhabi
least savage cartoon character: Rita and Runt — an ill-fated space-filler in an otherwise exceptional show
most savage world leader: Queen of Jordan — rules with an iron fist and a lovely pair of jumblies
honorable mention: Stalin — (translation of caption: respect the moustache. fear the moustache. obey the moustache.)
least savage world leader: Jacques Chirac (someone either just snuck up him, or he was presented with a lovely quiche.)
most savage cereal mascot: Sonny (cocoa puffs) — this guy has “junkie” written all over his face
honorable mention: Andy Milonakis (fruity pebbles)
least savage ceareal mascot: Tony (frosted flakes) — why don’t you find a gayer bandana. we’re not all convinced you’re a homo yet.
most savage car model of all times: AMC Eagle (no competition)
honorable mention: El Camino (the original cross-over vehicle)
least savage car model of all times: ford tempo (my first car)
most savage blogger: suityourself (no photo available)
least savage blogger: you (look in the mirror and recognize your inferiority.)
finally, most savage drugs: steriods
least savage drugs: whipits (you’ll freeze your lungs)
It’s official, DankNuggets is AWOL. This site Stoney and I began, is the perfect forum for Dank to vent his boyhood aggressions. We thought he would join the fun, yet we were wrong. Now we are left to ponder, “What has happened to the estranged savage, DankNuggets?”
Currently, Dank is in hermit mode. Hermit mode consists of Dank not answering his phone, returning his calls, and smoking massive quantities of trees. Dank is a seasoned veteran of hermit mode, and as his friends, so are we. Dank used to live in a one-room house. The one room was an all-purpose area, ideal for any hermit lifestyle. Think of one of those recreation tables that are a ping pong/pool/knock hockey table all in one; that’s the purpose this room served. It was a living room/dining room/kitchen/bed room/laundry wrapped into 200 glorious square feet. Classic Dank style.
The goal of hermit mode is to incite a Dank metamorphosis. Only Dank knows how long this will take, and a full change is usually made. The last time Dank emerged from a 6-month hermit stint, he swore off smoking trees and was sucking down Budweisers and regularly accompanying us to the bar. This was a complete Dank reversal, and it felt like I was living in Bizarro World. We are hoping he will unveil Dank 2.0 by the end of the summer.
He is probably sitting in his room in Basking Ridge, watching reruns of the “Adventures of Pete & Pete”, a show he starred in as, “Big Pete.”
Next, he will have a 6-hour GTA session; ignore a couple of Stoney and my calls, then close out the day watching replays of the 2004 Red Sox World Series victory while smoking a blunt. This is a typical Dank day while in his hermit mode cocoon. We here at StoneyWageSlave are very excited about Dank 2.0, and will keep you up to date on Dank’s incubation.
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.
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:
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.
Party Marty is a true friend, and a true American hero. I used to call his old roommate Sterl the Pearl “the all-American badass,” but looking back, I see that it is Marty who was the all-American badass.
Party Marty was born in Virginia somewhere, to some people I don’t really know. When Marty was about 20 or 21, he had a little kid named Mikey. The line goes on, congratulations Marty. Mikey, by the way, became one of the roundest people I have ever met. A man named Jerm the Worm once said, “Wow, he’s beautiful, like a whale,” while watching Mikey swim. Mikey could swim pretty good, considering how big and worthless he was.
Party Marty was in his mid-30’s when I moved in next door to him, in the garden of delight known as Lawson Apartments. Marty had lived there for 10 years. At first, I didn’t like him at all, because he was uncouth and rough. I had not yet fully developed as a young savage, and his raw power was kind of scary. OR, should I say, the raw power of the mongoloid retard known as Sky who used to hang with Marty. Marty was somewhat of a scraggler, and his apartment became a refuse of refuse, a melting pot of scum and degeneracy, and any other fuckwit who needed to bum a 5 spot of some buddha. Marty was there for you.
As time went on, Marty and I became close friends, and our two parties melded into one, huge ridiculous ball of retarded savagery, which led to many bad, bad things. Book burns, binges, fucking crazy shit, we all got down.
This post is not a tale; it is merely a placard, a notification of savagery.
Party Marty will probably never read this post, but I dedicate it solely to him and in his honor. His great-great grandfather fought on the Confederate side of the Civil War (just like mine did), and he painted a picture of a battle he had fought in, complete with chopped-off limbs, blood, people riding around on horses, and guys in blue and grey with beards and swords.
Marty hung that picture up in his living room, and would always point to it and say, “My great grandpappy was a baaaad motherfucker!” or some other shit, and then try to get us to play guitar, or pack a bowl.
Party Marty, I salute you, and thank you for the badass shit you taught me how to do. If more Americans were like you, we would be a more badass country in a lot of different ways.