by Damon Martin

Have you been looking for a new way to let Jesus into your life? Well, this list of God-related businesses, products and services might provide the answer. And before you ask, no we didn't make any of these up.



[Al in Habit]

10: Gamers 4 Jesus (free / advertiser supported)

Blowing people up on Call of Duty is fun, let's admit it. But you know what's even more fun? Blowing people up on Call of Duty while letting everybody know you're holding hands with Jesus the whole time! This website is for strictly for gamers who love the Son of God; to join you must agree with their statement of faith. They even hold bible study sessions. And once you've finished reading your scripture, you get to smite thyne enemy with God on your side!

9: Christian Life Coaching (Silver Self Coaching $29 per month / Gold Interactive Coaching $209 per month)

We all have goals we want to achieve in life. Whether it's starting a new business, a new job, meeting the right person or just coping with everyday stress. But there's a better way - Godly way. Yep, that's right, if you plop down some money a "qualified professional" will show you how to apply "proven truths from Scripture" so you can
discover "the unparalleled adventure that we call the Christian Life!"

8: Christian Soulmates (free / donation supported)

If you're looking for that special someone, and God is not leading you down the right path, let the internet do it for you! On this dating website, the front page lays it all out for you: "It's all Christian, all single and all here!" You know it's Christian because they use the word 19 times on the home page alone. Yes, it's just that Christian!

7: JC's Girls (free / donation supported)

If you're an exotic dancer, but you just can't get that relationship with Jesus going, this ministry has you covered. Started by an ex-dancer, JC's Girls provides spiritual guidance for those involved in the sex industry. Also knows as the Pussycat Preacher, Heather Veitch calls herself a 'modern day Mary Magdalene.' Just makes me want to start putting clothes on to avoid this one.

6: Pole Dancing for Jesus ($20 per class / free with church program*)

Yes, Texas has figured out a new way for people to look at their state and shake their heads in shame. As if rewriting textbooks to include creationism wasn't bad enough, a fitness studio in the Lone Star State is offering pole dancing classes in the name of JC. The first 11 lucky ladies that bring their church programs to the studio on the 2nd Sunday of each month get admitted for free! Nothing says "I love you God" like reading scripture while hanging upside down from a pole. (*restrictions apply)

5: Holyland Experience (Tickets $35 / Annual Jerusalem Gold Pass $120)

Based in Orlando, Fla. this amusement park is a living, breathing Bible experience. They feature full sized replicas of buildings that are described in the Bible, as well as a live action crucifixion of Jesus! The best part about the Holyland Experience? Free parking! (Sadly their "Pastors Appreciation" promotion is all sold out.)

4: Confession: A Roman Catholic App ($1.99)

Need to unburden yourself but don't have time to make it to the local church? No worries the Catholic confessional app has you covered. You can confess your sins through your iPhone and, based on conscience, choose from 7 different acts of contrition. You also have the "ability to add sins not listed in standard examination of conscience." Angry Birds? How about Confessing Catholics!

3: Windy Ridge Trapper (fees paid for pelts vary from $0.25 for a short green raccoon hide to $60 for a 36" grade I bobcat).

Yep, he's the preacher who buys fur. Based out of West Virginia, this born again Christian wants to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ to you, just don't keep any exotic animals around or he's liable to skin them for their fur. He apparently believes in love thy neighbor, just not love thy animal.

2: Miracle Soap ($13.95 / 22oz)

Nothing says clean like being washed in the spirit of the Lord. This family based company has developed a cleansing product stripped of all the harmful chemicals that poison us on a daily basis, replacing them with...yep, you guessed it...Jesus! The sales pitch for their Miracle Soap reads: "The only product that is made in the world that can wash a newborn baby or clean up an oil spill and everything in between." So if your baby ever falls in an oil spill, you're set with a bottle of Miracle Soap!

1: The Catholic Church - Nuff said.

***

Related Posts
Atheists Are Good Without God (And It's Not A War on Christmas)
Christopher Hitchens: A Light That Continues To Burn
South Park Creators Go Mormon

by Aaron Colter

Since I was old enough to legally get a job, I've been working for record stores, comic book shops, publishers, and magazines. If people didn't pay for entertainment content, it's unlikely that I would have had any of those jobs. Jobs which pay my rent, buy my beer, and allow me to support other artists. And as a current music producer, I sometimes fear the online culture of free has made it almost impossible for me to earn a living recording independent bands.

But, I like pirates.



Honestly, I don't steal content very often. There are so many legal, free services available from the small-time artists I enjoy that I don't have much need to sift through unknown files from potentially destructive users. Still, I understand why millions of people all over the world steal entertainment on a regular basis. It's because too many major content providers are greedy, out-of-touch, and fucking stupid.

The solution is very simple - give us easy access to content at a reasonable price, or, yes, we will steal it. Like the prohibition of marijuana, criminalizing an act millions of your citizens participate in every day is a foolish, futile, and costly stance for any nation to take.

Cue a nation taking such a ridiculous stance in three, two, one . . .

The White House, in its apparent journey to completely disenfranchise the young, internet-led base that helped elect Barack Obama, recently suggested that people who illegally stream copyright material should be open to wiretaps and surveillance from the FBI.

This probably shouldn't come as a shock since Obama has appointed several former RIAA lawyers to top positions within the Justice Department. But one should question the logic of a proposition that essentially equates car-bombings to rickrolling in terms of what the FBI has power to monitor.

Unfortunately, this kind of ill-advised course of action is becoming more and more prevalent in the last few years. Whether it's the FCC's abandonment of key issues like forcing providers to offer cable channels à la carte style or the horrendously weak net neutrality regulations that will allow NBC/Comcast to throttle bandwidth and dictate content (potentially killing competitors like Netflix), the technological advancement of consumer services is under attack.

Take Lala, for example. The innovative online service allowed users to purchase "streaming only" versions of entire albums for under $5. Apple bought the company in December of 2009 and shut-it-the-fuck-down in less than six months. Remember when Hulu was free and full of programs people actually wanted to watch? Services like that, and many more, are discontinued when executives decide they can squeeze a drop more blood from the stones of their customers.

Pirates exist because too many companies aren't run by artists, but by corporate hacks who only care about profit. Thankfully some artists are cutting out the middle-men and turning to solutions like Bandcamp, as Amanda Palmer has done. Radiohead used to be a great example of how musicians can profit by asking for support from fans at any level, but their recent $9 for 30 minutes worth of In Rainbows B-sides release isn't very uplifting.

In the end, I think the artist should ultimately decide how their work is distributed and for what price. Using the federal government to actively pursue pirates and the resources they use may temporary stem the loss of revenue from major companies, but it kills long-term innovation at best, and at worst is another example of politically motivated aggression against dissenting factions under the guise of economic security.

The Pirate Bay out of Sweden has been one of Wikileak's strongest allies, not only hosting the leaked information, but also providing funding when PayPal, Visa, and Mastercard shut off their accounts to the global watchdog group. And the recent White House suggestion that foreign sites are some of the biggest threats to U.S. copyright indicates that the government might be concerned with files other than the latest Kanye West single.

The White House's illegal streaming surveillance proposal is only one out of a lengthy list of reasons why I won't be voting for Barack Obama in 2012. The continued torture of Brad Manning, the escalated occupation of Afghanistan, the sale of weapons to Saudi Arabia, the mandate for private health insurance without a public option, the seeming uninterested stance on bringing Wall Street executives to justice for committing the largest collective investment fraud in the history of human civilization, and so many other things are enough proof that Obama is not the change I had hoped for in 2008.

However, I have one final note on the subject of Barack Obama. It's a personal message to some people I've seen interacting online.

Recently there was a rather disappointing number of comments on the SG Facebook Page that ranged from full-out calls to have the President assassinated, to suggestions that Obama isn't an effective leader because he's too busy being concerned with a college basketball tournament. I mean, thank god Black History Month doesn't fall in-line with March Madness or else the only way you'd get the opportunity to learn about one of the most important segments of our nation's past is if someone baited a copy of the "Letter from Birmingham Jail" with a winning lottery ticket and a pack of menthol cigarettes - and threw it into the BBQ potato chip stand at the corner Cash & Carry, right?

You're all fucking stupid and you make me sad. Now here's the part where I should tell you to drown your self in a sink, die in a fire, or eat rotten cottage-cheese until your bowels rupture inside your own body, which will then bloat for days in your un-air-conditioned apartment to the point that a black and creamy bile pours out of your lifeless mouth causing the neighbors to weep and vomit uncontrollably at the mere wisp of future dairy products hitting their nostrils.

But I'm not going to do that, because suggesting serious physical harm or death as an intelligent and right course of action for political disagreement would make me as dumb and cowardly as you are. Despite Barack Obama's many faults as a President, he has made some progressive strides like repealing Don't Ask Don't Tell that I humbly appreciate. Furthermore, the closest he ever came to using his identity as a black man for public consideration was when he gave, quite possibly, the most intelligent and honest speech about the issue of race in America, when he was running for office in 2008.

I adamantly agree that portions of the United States government need to be limited, but once you say something that's a thinly-veiled cry of "We should hang that nigger!" you lose all credibility. Forever. I'm not naive enough to think the entire country will suddenly respect people who have a different color of skin or want to fuck a member of their own sex. But, if you are one of those people who's so incredibly un-evolved that you hate anything different from your homogeneous ethnicity and social environment, the least you can do is fire some of the most base reptilian synapses in your poorly wired brain to keep such disgusting, misplaced aggressive opinions to yourself so that the rest of us can work together to make life a little less shitty.

No one likes the government, Republican or Democrat. And it's pretty obvious at this point in America's history that we're all being royally butt-fucked by the rich and powerful. So now that we all agree, let's take chance on the whole civility concept in order to make real progress, okay?

Great, see ya next week.

***

If you have something that you think I might like that others might like too, please email youmightlike [at] gmail [dot] com.

What I'm reading: Ivy, Luna Park, Cartilage Head

What I'm listening to: Drippers by Black Moth Super Rainbow, American Bald Eagle by Soft Paws, Red Fang by Red Fang

What I'm drinking: Double Mountain Pale Ale, Rouge Dead Guy, Fat Tire

***

Related posts:
Things I Like That You Might Like Too: Pt. 1
Things I Like That You Might Like Too: Emerald City Comic Con

by Aaron Colter

Hello folks, and welcome back to another round of Things You Like That I Might Like Too. For those of you that haven’t played before, let me remind you that there are no winners and no prizes. This week’s challenge: Emerald City Comic Con!

There are a lot of comic book conventions in the United States, and if you didn’t already know, let me be the first to tell you – most of them suck. I understand the appeal of San Diego Comic Con, but if you’re willing to pay anywhere from $2,000 to $6,000 just to wait in line for two hours so that you can get inside to wait for three more hours just to see that thing that you like that you’re wearing the t-shirt of . . . you’re doing it wrong.



And it’s true when people complain that SDCC isn’t about comics anymore. It’s really not. It’s about the movie industry at the moment, which is partially why there was talk last year of moving the convention to Los Angeles. Even this year at New York Comic Con, as guests walked in they were affronted by a giant stage where UbiSoft decided to blast tunes from their latest Michael Jackson dance game. At least in New York there’s the pleasure of being in the greatest city in the world in early October. Sorry San Diego, but your town blows. And going there in July means that aging television stars sometimes hang out in my hotel pool area in garish swimsuits staring at me relentlessly in a tragically desperate attempt to get me to notice them. Goddamn it, Eric Estrada, I know who you are – now leave me the fuck alone!

I’m sorry, what were we talking about? Oh yeah, SDCC & NYCC have been invaded by video game companies and movie studios, who wished they made as much money as video game companies. Both of those industries need to stay the fuck away from my comics. Video games, you have PAX, both an East Coast and West Coast show. Movies, from what I understand, the entire city of Los Angeles is like a year-round convention anyway, so stick to ruining small mountain ski resorts.

Emerald City Comic Con is still very much a mainstream event, but it’s in the delightful (as long as you don’t apply logic to driving) port known as Seattle. The venue, the Seattle Convention Center, is located close to touristy shit like Pike Place and the hipster neighborhood of Capital Hill, so whether you’re dragging a long-box full of floppies to get signed, or looking to get your black & white autobiographical comic picked up by a publisher, there’s something for everyone even outside the show.

The space hosts PAX Prime each year, so the hall is relatively easy to move around in, and enough well-known names attend every year to bring out a decent number of fanboys and cosplayers, the determining factors of success at any comic book show. I had a great time this year, as did everyone else I spoke with after the show.

Here were the highlights for me:

Adam WarRock



When my friends told me to check out nerdcore rapper Adam WarRock, I didn’t really want to, honestly. MC Chris is pretty much the pinnacle of the form to me, so why bother, I thought. But damn if this dude didn’t impress me with his live performance. A lawyer turned rapper out of Memphis, Adam WarRock has incredibly smart lyrics that combine comic book references with real world political struggles. Check out his music, a lot of it’s fucking free.

***

Jason Fischer



I soon as I saw Rexa on the Jason Fischer table, I knew I would have to buy it. The Portland artist had made only four copies of this bizarre monster pornography art book. The printing quality is excellent and I’m happy to have it in my collection. Fischer, or JFish as he’s known, has a whole idea about Rexa that I’ll feature in an upcoming Things I Like That You Might Like Too, and hopefully debut some art pages he’s been working on lately.

***

Hotel Parties



You know there’s something right about the field you’re in when hotel security has to come into your room at 3:00 AM to kick out publishers, reporters, artists, writers, editors, and random fans. Plus it’s always fun to hear Suicide Girls comic artist David Hahn say, “You both have great toothbrushes, I tried them out.”

***

Meeting Suicide Girls



These ladies are as lovely online as they are in person. The stars of Boondock Saints got to sit across from them the whole weekend, the lucky bastards.

***

Drinking & Painting



Bar parties outside the convention are usually the best time to let loose for a moment before heading back to the hotel lobby to talk seriously about the future of the industry. And sometimes a moment like this happens at those bars.

See ya next year Seattle.

***

What I’m reading: Chivalry Ain’t Dead, Lapham’s Quarterly, I Kill Giants

What I’m listening to: The Doom Pop EP by Tiger House, Painting Pantheons by Pegasus Dream, The Daytrotter Mix by RJD2

What I’m drinking: Workhorse IPA, Spring Reign Ale, Fishtale Organic IPA

Related posts: Things I Like That You Might Like Too: Pt. 1

This Sunday (Feb 13th) our very special in-studio guests will be LA’s very own 19 piece 1930s New Orleans Orchestra and Cabaret – Vaud and the Villains. Every Saint has a past, every sinner has a future, and SuicideGirls hanging with Vaud and his Villains will make for a very entertaining present.



Tune in from 10 PM til midnight for two hours of totally awesome tunes and extreme conversation – and don’t let your moma listen in!

Listen to SG Radio live Sunday night from 10 PM til Midnight on Indie1031.com

Got questions? Then dial our studio hotline digits this Sunday between 10 PM and midnight PST: 877-900-1031

Busy on Sunday? Then find all our podcasts at http://suicidegirlsradio.blip.tv/ and listen at your leisure.

And don’t forget to follow us on Twitter.

About Vaud and the Villains

Vaud & the Villains will amaze, flabbergast and befuddle you. They’ve got sexy leggy dames and miles of filthy thoughts behind those brass blowin’ lips. Bring your secrets and your sins, and your dancing feet. Brothers and sisters, the sexy cabaret will stain your soul, but Vaud and his naughty, bawdy Villains lead you to salvation. It’s gospel, soul, trad jazz, zydeco, it’s death defying and electrifyingly rivetous! It takes the gray out of your hair, leaves your mind without a care, pays your bills, renews your will, fills up your tank, fills your bank, cooks dinner for the hungry runts and gives you thanks. It gives you a back rub, waters your tomato plants, takes out the trash, finds you a new job, uncovers your hidden talents, dis-spells all curses, lines your purses. You will feel unconditional and overflowing sensations of love and drown in your own giddy delight…And that’s just the first set!

For more on Vaud and the Villains visit www.VaudandtheVillains.com/

This Sunday (Feb 6th) our very special in-studio guests will be psychedelic pop/rock dandy Kristian Hoffman and Mexican masked wrestling/burlesque/comedy ensemble Lucha VaVoom. It’s guaranteed to be a fabulously stylish and whimsically colorful show.

Tune in from 10 PM til midnight for two hours of totally awesome tunes and extreme conversation – and don’t let your moma listen in!

Listen to SG Radio live Sunday night from 10 PM til Midnight on Indie1031.com

Got questions? Then dial our studio hotline digits this Sunday between 10 PM and midnight PST: 877-900-1031

Busy on Sunday? Then find all our podcasts at http://suicidegirlsradio.blip.tv/ and listen at your leisure.

And don’t forget to follow us on Twitter.





About Kristian Hoffman

Deemed the “cult legend of cult legends” by LA Weekly, pop maestro Kristian Hoffman has just released a 17 song baroque opus FOP. Hoffman set out to create the most grandiose independent album possible, in the tradition of “mission statement” double albums like Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. Hoffman calls it “‘MacArthur Park’ meets Queen”. Magnet calls it a “masterpiece,” Roctober “a grand brilliant song cycle” and Blurt “an orchestral pop lover’s wet dream”.

Kristian Hoffman will be performing tracks from his new album with a full band and a string quartet conducted by Jeff Bruner at his terribly stylish Fop Formal soiree this Friday, February 4 th at The Steve Allen Theater (8 PM). Pantyhose and powdered wig’s are mandatory attire for both ladies and gentlemen.





For more on Kristian Hoffman visit www.kristianhoffman.com/

***




About Lucha VaVoom

Mexican masked wrestling/burlesque/comedy ensemble Lucha VaVoom are prepared to turn things upside down as only they can at their annual “MY KINKY VALENTINE” performances on Wednesday, February 9 and Thursday, February 10 at the Mayan Theater in DTLA (8:00PM shows).

Lucha VaVOOM has created a Los Angeles tradition: from the low-rider car parade escorting the performers as the crowd enters the iconic Mayan Theater, to the local luminaries they attract (Drew Carey sat in at their last show), to Burlesque (which was revived right here in Los Angeles), to Lucha Libre, where masked heroic wrestlers flip, fly and amaze. It all comes together to make one fun, surreal, glam-bam spectacle of raucous entertainment.

In between matches, the finest handpicked burlesque acts from around the world wow the crowds with their unique striptease skills, including raucous aerial acts, pogo-stick peelers and hula-hoop hotties. They’ve searched the world’s dungeons, sumptuous theaters, and sweaty Mexican wrestling dens for the kinkiest performers they could find. You could say it’s a wrestling show for people that don’t like wrestling (and those that do).

Founded in Los Angeles in 2003 by Rita D’Albert and Liz Fairbairn, Lucha VaVOOM is non-stop, action-packed surrealism, where Mexican masked wrestlers flip and fly, performing breathtaking acrobatic feats in a fast paced, fun-filled, character-driven style. It’s good vs. evil played out in quick, exhibition-style, one-fall Lucha Libre matches for maximum enjoyment and action.





For more on Lucha VaVoom visit www.luchavavoom.com/

by Matt Dunbar

For many men, one of the most confusing facets of the transition from college to the workplace occurs not in the proverbial boardroom or conference room, but in the restroom. Navigating the many pitfalls of office social conventions is difficult enough without the constant fear and uncertainty that accompanies every trip to the office bathroom, not to mention the gnawing trepidation that follows the morning Grande Drip from Peet’s or the afternoon guacamole and chitlins pick-me-up.

Although utilized just as frequently, the workplace restroom offers the average male none of the treasured comforts of the apartment bathroom – most obviously, complete and total privacy. There is never any fear when using the toilet at home that your actions are being overheard by a gossipy coworker or disapproving (or, more disturbingly, approving) boss. That soggy stack of New Yorkers and the vintage 2003 Rose McGowan-adorned Maxim on top of the toilet shelf is yours and yours alone, free from the judgment and/or unauthorized use of Gary in accounting.

This loss of privacy would be fine if the workplace restroom was truly a public restroom, in the Dodger Stadium pee trough sense of the word. But it’s not. The workplace restroom lacks the reassuring anonymity and freedom of a public restroom, where at least in male-dom one is secure in the thought that you could do anything up to and including murder within the confines of the stall and no one is going to care. Those who have ever visited a beach or sporting event may rightly point out that a public bathroom’s liberating anonymity comes at a steep cost – typically in the hygiene department. But given the choice between an aspiring Jackson Pollack wielding his asshole like a paintbrush above the hand dryer, or making eye contact with my company’s CFO while pissing in neighboring urinals, I’ll take the Ed Harris butt art. Every time.





[Adrenalynn in Men’s Room]

If you’re like me, you’ve confronted literally hundreds of thousands of excruciatingly awkward moments while fighting through this netherworld of urinal cakes, Scott toilet paper, and weirdly foamy hand soap. Typically, these exchanges range from the mildly unbearable entry-exit nod to the terrifying silence that ensues when seeing a coworker who obviously listened to the stunning entirety of your Coletrane-esque performance in the handicap stall.

So what is to be done? How many promising careers of twenty-something copy editors and data-entry specialists must be destroyed before someone puts a stop to this madness? What is needed, and what I humbly submit below, is a simple primer articulating a clear code of conduct for the male workplace bathroom. Lord knows this would more valuable than the bevy of conflict resolution and sexual harassment trainings that precede full employment, and certainly less counterproductive.

First, as always, some methodological qualifications. In no way am I suggesting that the primer below is definitive. On the contrary, much like the Constitution, I hope it becomes a living, breathing and continually evolving document secretly tattood on Antonin Scalia’s midriff. Secondly, I am not arrogant enough to even speculate on the vagaries of the female workplace restroom, which I’m sure has its own complicated land mines. This guidebook is specifically geared towards males, although it may provide female readers with a rare window into the relentless scatological oppression we face on a day-to-day basis. So, without further ado…



[Adrenalynn in Men’s Room]

Avoiding the Simultaneous Stall Exit

The Simultaneous Stall Exit (SSE) – when two men spend 5-45 minutes in neighboring stalls, only to emerge from their respective activities at the same time – is the singularly worst thing that can happen in the male workplace restroom that doesn’t involve the words “clogging,” “falling,” or “missing and hitting yourself.” The crux of the awkwardness here surprisingly lays not in the visual, but in the audible. You’ve just finished listening to each other crap, and now you’re compelled not only to permanently match a face to those second order gruntings and fragrant emissions, but to exchange office pleasantries on the way to the sink. Just once I’d love to have this type of post-SSE conversation:

Unfortunately, that type of candid communication is frowned upon by the soulless arbiters of modern corporate culture. But luckily, SSEs can be easily avoided by abiding the simple “First One In, First One Out” principle, which stipulates that whoever enters a stall first must also leave it first should another person enter the neighboring stall.

This maxim ensures that SSEs will occur only under the rarest of circumstances. Be sure to verify whenever you enter the workplace restroom whether there is another person occupying a stall by quickly shoe-scanning, and then let your neighbor know your presence by shutting and locking your door with sufficient audible force. If you’re still unsure of whether this signal has been received, you can always “accidentally” unfurl a roll of toilet paper into the neighboring stall to announce your presence. This is an especially useful tactic when confronting the increasingly common iPooper, whose every bowel movement must be set to an iPod generated score by Massive Attack.

Illiteracy is the number one cause of constipation

Fact: Over 95% of all reading is done while defecating. Brushing up on your baseball standings, forcing yourself through A.O. Scott’s overwrought prose, or scanning your local alternative weekly’s escort ads is as integral a part to the male restroom experience as handwashing and the post-pee fly check. It is the reason I can instantly tell you the top three chemical ingredients in my girlfriend’s face cleanser (water, glycein, lauryl glucoside). But, here again, the workplace restroom is littered with often unforeseen hazards.

Never, under any circumstances, should you be caught bringing exposed reading material in or out of the restroom. Always keep it in a briefcase or manpurse or other acceptable restroom carry-on. When you leave your desk with your carry-on, act explicitly as if you’ll be entering a meeting or leaving the workplace entirely. For example, right before I’m about to head to the bathroom with my Atlantic tucked securely in my Manhattan Portage bag, I often yell across my cubicle, “Ahhh man, I wish I didn’t have to go to this stupid meeting on how to sneak in reading material to bathrooms….in Bermuda.” This always works.

It is also in perfectly good taste and frankly magnanimous to leave reading material for other bathroom patrons, as long as that reading material is clean and easily foldable. However, all copies of Maxim, FHM, GQ and other such “leisure” publications are expressly forbidden. In every workplace, there’s that one guy you just can’t trust…you know what I mean.

John Nash was a shoe-spy

Shoes are the DNA tracers of the male workplace restroom. Rest assured, if you’re not matching bowel habits to shoes, your coworkers most definitely are and exploiting that knowledge to their advantage. Unfortunately, as the neighboring stall shoe conundrum is perhaps the world’s most classic illustration of prisoner’s dilemma (both of us shoe-spy, both of us lose), there is no communally civil solution. What I suggest instead for any man weary of shoe-tracing is to simply pony up and buy at least 17 different pairs of shoes (depending on the extent of your IBS, you may need more). I myself rotate birkenstocks, sandals, penny loafers, and 14 different types of LA Gear to avoid as much shoe-poop forensic matching as possible.

These are only three precepts of what I hope will become the Magna Carta of male workplace bathroom primers. Please, if you have any of your own suggestions, feel free to add them.

by Suri Suicide



Artist/SG Member Name: Sundae Suicide

Mission Statement: “I live in Israel, the country of great humus and endless politic conflicts. Non of that actually had any impact on me creatively, though I do love humus. It’s just that drawing was always a thing I did. Since I don’t have an unusual, fancy, interesting life, I make it happen through pen and paper. I’ve never have a “muse” or a vision. I can actually go months without drawing because I just can’t. I get my inspiration through dreams, things that happen around me, my (very troubled) relationships, drugs, mental states and so on…My sketchbook is like my diary, the story of my life – which can sometimes be really crappy and lame, but I try anyway. “











Medium: “The thinnest pen I can get and paper. Sometimes it gets scanned and Photoshopped.”

Aesthetic: “The more disproportioned the better, cute, sad, and mostly just minimal. I don’t do extra details because I just don’t know how. And I hate drawing hands damnit.”

Why We Should Care: “Because its always fun readying through someone’s diary.”

I Want Me Some: Visit -> roteminis.deviantart.com

by Matt Dunbar

Bankruptcies and bailouts. Widespread unemployment. A once booming and diverse economy now exclusively based on the production of Shakeweights and whoopee cushion Smartphone apps.

The so-called “Great Recession” has created a new normal in many aspects of day-to-day American life, ranging from unexpected “leisure time” and delinquent mortgage payments to convincing VISA, MasterCard and Manuel’s Easy Credit Anybody Qualifies Loan Shop/Korean Barbecue that you’re legally deceased. But perhaps most alarming of all these changes is the completely unnatural, perverse and depressing phenomenon that many in our generation (read: humanities majors) are currently experiencing – moving back in with our parents.



I’m stricken with a curious sense of obligation to share the lessons I learned from spending half a year residing with my folks at the not-so tender age of 24. I do this primarily with selfless motivation, since many of you may soon be forced to endure a hell similar to the one I’ve only recently escaped from. After reading this, I hope you might be able to avoid some of the mistakes I’ve made, or at least have fair warning of what’s in store. In the words of my father, “Do as I say, not as I do – but definitely don’t do anything that costs retail.”



[Noir in Laziest Days]

A Six Step Guide To Moving Back In With Your Parents

Lesson 1: Wear pants

I list this lesson first because of its importance and because of how relatively easy it is to implement. Our generation’s parents are baby boomers, and despite their increasingly bizarre flirtations with our own hip, progressive trends (iPhones, organic food, Wii, etc.), they nevertheless are instilled with the same “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” mentality that beset their parents during the Great Depression. Thus, despite their better instincts, they are often offended by overt signs of “laziness” – such as, say, a 24-year-old asleep on their leather sofa, surrounded by a half-dozen Powerbar wrappers and a chocolate-stained L.A. Times sports section, wearing nothing but Pink Floyd boxer-briefs.

DO NOT FIGHT THEM ON THE NEED FOR PANTS. At first, I made the mistake of insisting the lack of clothing was a generational and cultural difference, that the people who work at Google never wear pants and they seem to get shit done, that the important thing is that you’re wearing underwear, which for most of college was optional. Just put on a pair of jeans at some point before mid-afternoon (save the khakis or tube skirts for when you ask for money), and you’ll save yourself a good deal of grief.

Lesson 2: Say the phrase “Well, in this economy” at least 40 times a day.

It’s best to incorporate the phrase into a fully-articulated sentiment, such as “Well, in this economy, I’d be lucky to just get an interview in the next six months, let alone a job.” However, this is not completely necessary. I’ve found that by simply saying “Well, in this economy….” aloud as many times as possible and trailing off, parents will typically ease off on questions about cover letters, resumes and other time-consuming activities that distract from Dr. Who marathons and fantasy baseball. For added affect, be sure to leave out relevant reading material about how the global economy is collapsing in on itself and how we’ll all be carrying our currency in wheelbarrows sometime next year. I kept this cover of the New Yorker from October of last year in my parents’ living room for months, often retrieving it from our recycling bin weekly.

Lesson 3: Make yourself the household IT specialist

When it comes to technology, most parents suffer from a severe autoimmune condition known colloquially as “I swear this is not how it worked before” syndrome. Induced primarily by small, unanticipated and essentially meaningless changes to software or hardware, symptoms include rapid mood swings, uncontrollable sweating (if hardware is involved) and irritable bowels. Do not be reluctant to exploit this to your advantage.

Let’s say, hypothetically, that your mom’s phone somehow mysteriously changed from a 16th century text messaging format where you have to input each letter individually to T9. After accidentally text messaging your sister that she should “remember to fork her mousework,” your mother will inevitable turn to you to fix whatever has gone horribly wrong with her phone. It is important to pretend that the problem is more severe than it is before resolving it, both to make your parents feel less technologically inept and to implicitly enhance your own IT specialist value. I recommend saying, “This could be a virus…” before miraculously touching the minimize icon.

Lesson 4: Incorporate your parents into your drinking regiment

This is a tricky lesson, and I only advise attempting it if you’ve been living at home for at least three months and have established relative detente on other fronts. Once again, understanding a generational rift is essential to successfully executing this lesson. For most of us, college was an all-out shitshow of Popov, projectile vomiting and emergency contraception that we are still in the process of recovering from and likely never will. For our parents, college was about “experimentation.” They took a hit every now and then to see if their Steely Dan record would say anything cool when played backwards, but binge drinking was rarely the de facto recreational activity it is for us.

Thus it’s of little surprise that when downing a Mickey’s with dinner, one would encounter looks of bewilderment and confusion from parents. However, if properly discerned, those looks will also betray a certain reluctant curiosity. Upon reflection, the explanation is surprisingly obvious: Your parents are old, they are just as unhappy that you’ve moved back in with them as you are, and, thanks to the likely state of their own job and/or marriage, they are in way more desperate need of escapism than you are. If they haven’t tried abusing alcohol yet, you can be that gateway.

Lesson 5: Pretend to not enjoy doing “nothing” half as much as you really do enjoy doing nothing

The syntax may be confusing, but the lesson is simple. I put quotation marks around “nothing” to signify that one person’s definition may differ from another’s. For example, one person may consider watching all of NBC’s offerings on Hulu a highly productive endeavor, while others may call it “really pathetic, Matt.” Sadly in this case, your own definition of “nothing” is irrelevant.

There are several tactics you can adopt to achieve the pretense that you somehow prefer waking up at 6 AM, commuting, and staring at your Outlook inbox for 9 hours to not doing any of that. The easiest is to simply manipulate your facial expressions whenever your parents are around to reflect a deep, brooding discontent. I like to call this, “unemployment constipation face.” Copy this archetype.

When your parents ask what’s wrong, simply tell them “Ahhh, nothing. Its just I thought I would be out of the house by now.” They will naturally sympathize, and will secretly be relieved that you’re not enjoying yourself and that your stay will indeed be temporary, thereby allowing your stay to indeed be prolonged.

Other options include emailing them Craigslist job posts that you are highly overqualified for, with a subject line “Think they’ll take a college grad for this?” Or spending 3/4 of your day at a coffee shop “job hunting” – I recommend Panera, they have free wi-fi and won’t directly confront you about not buying anything and raiding free samples for at least a month.

Lesson 6: Avoid timetables, timelines, and time travel



I would say avoid the concept of time entirely, but this is an incredibly difficult feat to execute without Rod Serling showing up in your living room and turning your entire family into pig-men. Paradoxically, the best strategy here is to initially propose your own timeline, but make sure it is obtuse and convoluted enough so that you have enough maneuverability later on: “So, if by May I’m not out of here….which really I should be, considering my constipation face…anyway, that will be my trigger month, where you can initiate rental payments on a pro-rated basis and keep those payments in escrow until September, when I’ll file for arbitration. But be careful, they may Rule 5 my ass and I could end up playing for Kansas City.”

by Nicole Powers

Arnold Schwarzenegger may have moved over to the dark side when he came out as a Republican and decided to take California, but MoveOn.org is fighting back with a little help from The Terminator. In the organization’s latest interweb broadcast, Olivia Wilde (House) travels back in time Sarah Connor-style to rally resistance against the G.O.P machine and the omnipresent Faux News Network that supports it.





The Terminator parody, which offers a chilling vision of a future where Sarah Palin is President, is written by Michael Pielocick of The Onion and MoveOn’s Creative Director, Laura Dawn. The team wrote the screenplay with Wilde in mind for the lead. “I just thought she had the exact right mix of intelligence and beauty, a la Linda Hamilton in Terminator 2,” says Dawn. “She looks like she could drop-kick some Blackwater Clonebots and she’s smart as hell. I sent her the script and she said yes immediately, so we were super thrilled to have her!”

The viewer serves as Wilde’s co-star in the state-of-the-art interactive short thanks to MoveOn’s smart use of Facebook’s Connect utility. Normally I’d be wary of allowing third parties to access my Facebook info, but MoveOn promise not to share it with the likes of Skynet. And since the resistance is fighting against RupubliCorp’s seemingly unstoppable cyborgs, it’s really worth it in this case since – come November 2nd – the future of the free world is in your hands…

By Edward Kelly

On paper, it seems like a no-brainer. Comedy and rap should, in theory, go together like Shakespeare and the stage – or CBS and derivative police procedurals. Even on a surface level, the similarities between comedy and hip-hop are many. Both are, essentially, spoken word art forms that are performed, at least in the beginning, at open mic nights in front of sometimes-hostile crowds. Both are very much raw and individual acts – an oftentimes undiluted, nerve-wracking display of what happens when a fan stops simply appreciating and starts producing material. As such, they invite a very personal dissection of an artist’s skill and talent.

But in practice comedy and rap rarely combine successfully. Sure, performers like MC Frontalot or MC Chris or Baddd Spellah are rappers and comedians, but part of their success is attributable to the postmodern, wink-wink comedic juxtaposition of gangsta rap clichés mixed with nerd culture quips. And while I love the nerdcore rappers, I can’t help but feel like I’m held at arms length. There’s an artifice there that can’t be bridged because, they’re essentially playing characters.

Rappers (and really all musicians) are at their best when the music feels, for lack of a less overused word, “real.” When Ice Cube told us that it was a good day because he didn’t have to use his AK, there was a certain sense of truth – a frustrated, angry condemnation of a society that allows injustice to continue. Likewise, transcendent comedy occurs when the comedian isn’t afraid to be uncomfortably honest about his life, such as when Louis CK rants about his young daughters’ bratty attitudes. The difference, of course, is that Cube uses testosterone-fueled posturing, while CK opts for exaggerated self-deprecation. Does that mean that CK doesn’t care about the injustice he sees in the world or that Cube isn’t aware of the inherently absurd nature of childrearing?

I don’t know the answer. But I have the feeling that Donald Glover does.



Donald Glover is the type of artist that I love. He plays Troy, the not-terribly-bright jock on NBC’s Community. Glover is also a member of the Derrick Comedy troupe and wrote and starred in the ridiculously funny independent comedy Mystery Team. He also wrote for 30 Rock and, yeah, he’s only 26, which just might make him the envy of all my friends and me. Furthermore, in interviews he comes across as a modest, hard-working, lively nerd.

In contrast, Childish Gambino is Glover’s rap avatar. His most recent album, Culdesac, was released this past summer. On it, he raps about the usual suspects: girls, money, how awesome he is, etc. That might sound dismissive, but that’s only because I can’t do him justice in print. The guy’s got style, his beats are irresistibly catchy, his lyrics are beyond clever, and the songs intriguingly alternate between quotable bon mots and angry-young-man vitriol.

It seems Glover simultaneously occupies two very different worlds. As a rapper, he’s great. As a comedian, he’s fantastic. The common thread through his work is one of inherent loneliness. In Mystery Team, Glover plays an overeager man-child who is forced to face the reality that he and his childhood friends will all be moving on to different colleges soon. Throughout Culdesac, Gambino uses variations of the phrase “I’m just different.”

This is where being an obsessive pop culture enthusiast comes in handy. You see, I’ve become a cynical guy when it comes to famous people. I tend to have my theories and prejudices about certain tabloid fixtures, mainly because I have no sense of who they are as people. They’re just pictures with scintillating headlines next to them and I won’t be pushed to look beyond whatever sensationalism “US Weekly” is pushing this week. Is Kate Gosselin a bad mother? All right, whatever. Is Jennifer Aniston doomed to die alone? Yep, probably. Is it true that Lady Gaga is insane? Uh, okay?

They’re one dimensional to me. Now logically you might think, “Well, okay, if the easy-to-follow tabloid narrative divorces you from celebs’ lives, then wouldn’t having two entirely different images of one celebrity further divorce you from a person’s true soul? Shouldn’t it be harder to connect to someone like Glover when his alter ego is just as convincing as his primary identity?”

The answer: no. It actually engenders the opposite reaction. Because make no mistake about it: Gambino and Glover are two very different personalities, but at the same time I get the sense that one cannot exist without the other. Like I said, being ostracized is a common thread found throughout Glover’s work and thus while one side opts to deal with that feeling via the tried and tested “Tragedy + Time = Comedy” equation, the other side, either intentionally or not, chooses to mire in the struggle to find a voice and overcome said tragedy. Now, I don’t know Glover in the sense that I’ve talked to him or even been in the same room as him, but I feel as though there’s a mind at work that will surprise everyone, in much the same way that Steve Martin used to stop his stand-up gigs cold to pluck a mournful tune on his banjo. The brain is a fascinating thing and when someone as downright ballsy as Glover elects to allow an audience access to a different part of his psyche, you should probably pay attention because you never know what you’ll find.

And the Glover/Gambino dichotomy speaks to something larger: the two halves represent both sides of the 21st century human condition. In the age in which we live, everyone is (or should be) concerned about perception vs. reality. However, I believe that the gulf between the two is more a reflection of the differences between our internal and external selves – which are both very real. Thus everyone has that Gambino side to their personality. Gambino is the base side – Freud called it the “Id,” the portion that just wants pleasure and forgoes societal norms. Glover represents the side of ourselves that we show in public – the polite, humble side that is more palatable to the rest of the waking world. All of us might hope that we’re putting our best “Glover” foot forward (if you don’t believe me, go ahead and check all your friends’ Facebook profile pics and see which ones are accurate representations of their true identities), but we all have that other side, the Gambino side, that stays mired in darkness and says honest-but-ugly things from time to time when our vocabulary fails us in tandem with a mental filter malfunction.

Is Glover “really” the absurd funnyman who made “I have the weirdest boner right now” one of my favorite lines of the 2009-2010 TV season? Or is he “really” Gambino who says, “Dress like a gentleman, my mouth is never civilized”?

I think the real question is: does it matter?

Earlier this year, I decided it would probably be a good idea to not be so damn fat. Getting healthier overall laid more seemed like a worthwhile possible side-effect as well. Naturally, I went about googling ways to not be fat, as I assumed it would mean more than just skipping my morning hot cup of butter-flavored Crisco. That googling led me to find out some truly startling mostly maybe possibly true information.

Bread is an asshole.

Yep, that's what the internet said to me. The internet wouldn't lie to me, would it? I mean, it brings me porn. Oh wait, hold on. I knew a girl in Sacramento who did the same thing and she turned out to be crazy.

Regardless, I decided to trust this whole "bread's a cocksucker" theory, in the interest of science, and consume a KFC Double Down. For the great unwashed, this new product from The Colonel is a sandwich that boasts about its lack of buns and judicious application of all things unhealthy.


KGC? Obviously this refers to their line of grilled products, but somehow to me it invokes imagery of communism, jackboots, and possibly Dolph Lundgren.

SPOILERS! (Click to view)

]
Ha HA! Now who's crazy?

This thing was wrapped up so tightly upon delivery, I was concerned it may be an omen of greasiness to come. Little did I know how right I was.


The last time I saw breasts this bare it cost me a dollar plus cover and a creepy hipster with Kanye West asshole glasses tried to score coke off me in the men's shitter.


Further exploration shows inside lies a gloppy combination of cheese, bacon, and The Colonel's "secret sauce". Cue the masturbation joke. All gloppiness aside, the structure of the sandwich is sound. I expected the two chicken chunks to slide around against each other like Rosie O'Donnell's ass cheeks in July, making handling difficult and awkward. This was not the case. At least not for the sandwich.


Upon first nom, I ran into a weakness. Rather than submit to my powerful jaws easily, the chicken was stubborn, tearing along its grain. I literally bit off more than I could chew. This tendancy is the sandwich's fatal flaw; the Death Star exaust port if you will.

But there also arose another issue:

A magnificent case of greasefinger. Only the lube-wrangler on the set of Ass Spelunkers #3 could top what results from the handling of this product. I recommend you fight the temptation to unwrap this thing unless you like your fingers to leave subtle meat-smelling fingerprints on everything all day.

But how does it taste? Not bad, really. If the bacon and cheese had been of higher quality it might have even been good despite its flaws. But they weren't, meaning this epicurean disaster can only achieve mediocrity. But, in a way, KFC seems to revel in that fact ... like the slow kid in class with mittens pinned on his sleeves who's way too proud about his ninth place t-ball trophy. Good try, KFC...good try.




6/10 flushes


SnakePlissken proudly sniffs his fingers after fried chicken.

When I think shit food, I think Italian. Not because it’s bad. Oh, fuck no. I mean shit food in the way that every single dish is out to clog your arteries and make you die of an infarction while you’re masturbating awkwardly in a changing booth at the Fashion Bug. I mean, what’s not to love about a cuisine where even the vegetarian dishes can turn a white tablecloth orange if accidentally spilled? Oh, right. The rip-offs. The “authentic” stuff out there that lures you in with your trust of all things Italiariffic, only to leave you searching for the nearest 7-11 that sells both Imodium and Depends. That being said, it’s time to take on one of the worst offenders: Subway.

I love a good sandwich. A lot. If I had my choice between the perfect sandwich and the perfect handjob, I’d take the sandwich. I’m not saying I don’t like handjobs. Quite the contrary. I’m just saying I really fucking love sandwiches. And Subway is to sandwiches what Captain Hook is to handjobs, preparing greasy luges of bread set to rocket out of your colon like a doomed Georgian athlete.

So, after my daily trip to the liquor store, I stopped by the local Subway for a foot long of blasphemy. There were two choices on the menu with “Italian” in their name, the Italian B.M.T. and the Spicy Italian. I settled on the Spicy Italian after deciding that I simply couldn’t eat anything with the initials B.M. anywhere in its naming scheme. Considering the gustatory dynamite that would comprise this big bastard, I selected the parmesan oregano bread, hoping the cheese would create a gluing effect in my lower GI tract, thus countering the natural laxative effect of cheap cold cuts. And do I want it toasted? Why not? I was.

Here’s what Subway says a Spicy Italian should look like.

Look at that thing. I kind of want to marry it and move to a country where it’s legal to eat your wife.

Here’s what it really looks like.

Yeah, that’s the Russian Bride effect. Looks great on the internet, but when it shows up, it’s ugly, mean, and probably will wake you up by putting cigarettes out on your arm.

Fortunately, I know it's what's inside that counts, right?

Shit. That piece of bread looks like it could try out for Jersey Shore 2. Better dig deeper.


Ok, well that's not so bad looking I guess, even though it resembles the Jolly Green Giant's first dump of the day.


Much to my surprise, it handles well. Not much topping leakage or bread crumble. These are the first favorable traits I've noticed.

But then I tried it. It tastes, well, cheap. Like licking Lindsay Lohan, only slightly less greasy. The salami and pepperoni are the exact opposite of what they should be in a quality sandwich. Most likely, I don't want to know what's in them as they probably contain at least half the periodic table. I don't even want to speculate on the half-life of Subway salami. The olives, which I normally love, were oppressively briney, dominating the flavor profile. As for the tomatoes, well, they were red. If they had a flavor they might have been nice. Same goes for the lettuce. Ugh, iceberg. Unless it's sinking the Titanic and killing Leonardo DiCaprio, I'm not interested.

So is the king of cheap sandwiches worth it? No, not at all when you consider the quality of what you're getting for your money. Why not spend an extra buck or two and visit a local establishment instead? Not only will you support your local economy, but you'll get a much better product for the money you spend. Don't settle for less when more is everywhere.



3/10 flushes


SnakePlissken eagerly awaits being sued by Lindsay.

I fucking love Chinese food. I do. And if you don't, you're probably just a racist. You need to get past Pearl Harbor, dude. It was over a hundred years ago. And you still can't be sore that they kicked our ass in Vietnam. Fuck. Let it go. Enjoy their tasty cuisine and the rich tapestry of flavors that is Panda Express.

Being a fat guy, I already knew where one was located. Right through the Oregon State University book shop, past the mini-mart, take a right turn at that table full of hippie assholes jamming to Phish, a left past the vegan burrito place where the asshole phish-listening hippies work, straight down the hall that smells like asshole phish-listening hippie farts, past the crazy bible guy who opens the door for you while screaming "In the name of Christ!", and then left at the water fountain that squeals like Emmanuel Lewis in a trash compactor when you use it. And you're there. Simple, no?

The first thing to do when approaching a shitty Chinese joint is scope out the back room situation. But, do it carefully. The Chinese are a naturally wary people and emit a neurotoxic gas when startled. You're looking to see who's cooking this shit up. I've eaten a lot of crappy Kung Pao made by white guys with dreadlocks named Pooky, and I can tell you this is a situation where indeed the Chinaman is the issue, dude.

This particular day, I needed a lot of grease to soak up some of last night's adventures with The Kickin' Chicken, so I went with a two-item combo of the least healthiest things on the menu: Orange Chicken and Beijing Beef, with a side of chow mein noodles versus fried rice.

I found the clear plastic take-away container to be ideal as in no way could it absorb any of the precious grease contained within.

Included with the meal (upon my request) were a couple packets of Kikkoman soy sauce. This is the good stuff, folks ... no hydrolyzed protein substitutes and caramel coloring here. Sort of like spinning rims on an '87 Ford Tempo, but what the hell.

Fuck you, high blood pressure!

I first sampled the most popular dish served at Panda Express, my old favorite Orange Chicken.

Wow. This stuff hasn't held up well over the years. What was once a past favorite of mine has devolved into an over-sweet under-spiced ball of grease, more batter than chicken. This is only made worse by the fact that it was scooped out of a bin that had seen more time under a heat lamp than George Hamilton. This is easily the most disappointed I've been since Haagen Dazs discontinued Sticky Toffee Pudding flavor.

Next comes the Beijing Beef, which bears a strong resemblance to Mongolian Beef with a kick.

The website describes this dish as "crispy on the outside and tender on the inside". I guess it wouldn't sell if they told the truth and said the dish "captures the full texture and chewiness of a premium brand prophylactic". Once I got past the jaw-numbing chewiness, I found the flavor to be not too bad. Not too sweet and with just enough kick. Perhaps if this was fresh and contained a few more of the "crisp bell peppers and sliced onions" the description touts it wouldn't be bad. Perhaps.

Lastly, I ate the Chow Mein. Probably because it was the most healthy. I figure that way it'll just push the other stuff right on through, no harm no foul.

Hrm. This stuff tasted off. Like smoke and burnt. It can't really be seen in the above, but the noodles themselves had a little char to them. Hmm. I'm not sure if this flavor is intentional or not, but I know it's not exactly pleasant. It distracts and dominates the flavor of the whole dish. I wouldn't have finished, but this damn combo meal was $5.60 and 75% noodle. On the positive side, it did lead to a series of farts that smelled like a campfire which, if nothing else, was an entertaining change of pace.

So that wraps up my adventures with the bottom rung of Chinese cuisine. I went into it with high hopes based on my past experiences with the chain and was shown truly how much they had gone downhill in a few years. Perhaps quality is location specific, I really don't know. I do know I probably won't go back to a place whose sole redeeming factor is the issuance of bad-ass black plastic forks that look stolen from the Death Star commissary.


4/10 flushes

SnakePlissken guarantees this article 100% Ashton Kutcher free.

I woke up this morning on the wrong side of the bed. I mean this both literally and figuratively. Not only was I in a pissy mood, but I was also on the wrong side of the bed. I was trapped like a Uruguayan rugby player in the Andes, wedged between mattress and wall. Bizarrely positioned and beyond numb in every appendage, I felt like a cross between Stephen Hawking and a discarded prom night prophylactic. Rallied forth by poop tremors, I dragged myself out from the living tomb of A-Team sheets and made my way to the lavatory where I pondered the eternal conundrum that is finishing up the deuce process with numb arms. Needless to say, this series of events did little to aid my already angry disposition.

I parked my car and began my walk to class in the cold stinging rain. Going down the steps from the lot, I noted that even after two weeks no one had the good sense or kind heart to turn a hose on the exceptionally large and amorphous pile of vomit that lay there upon the steps. At this point I could only assume that it was some part of an art project or bizarre social experiment and continued on my way. A few blocks later I realized something from that pile of vomit; I hadn't visited my neighbor the Burger King in some time. And coincidentally enough The King was angry too, and taking it out on his Whoppers!



The Reveal

This is what my $5.89 gets you. It looks like a lot, but realize that in some parts of the world that same amount can buy you a virgin and two fatted sows. Or vice-versa.



Take a moment to observe the photo below.

SPOILERS! (Click to view)

Yes, that is indeed four packets of ketchup. This is the kind of star treatment only an important fellow like myself can receive. I’ll bet Gary Busey doesn’t even get four ketchups.



And there it is. The Burger King Angry Whopper. A standard whopper at heart, but with the addition of Angry Onions, jalapeños, pepper jack cheese, and Angry Sauce. Weighing in at 880 calories, this is the smallest of the Angry lineup. It’s also available as a double at 1120 calories and a triple weighing in at 1360 calories. I decided to avoid the larger of the three as I would like to avoid riding a chair up my staircase like Mrs. Deagle. We all know how well that turned out.

The Mastication

Why does every fast food burger I get look like it was designed by a half-blind French engineer? Is this part of the Angry marketing scheme?





This is the part where I eat my words. It held together. Well even. Minimal drippage occurred, and that which did hit the paper was clearly from an eager tomato and not any sort of condiment or grease meat juice. Score one for the Angry Whopper.

But there did arise a problem. This was an “Angry” Whopper, not an “Irritated” Whopper or an “OMG What’s The Matter Honey? Nothing! ” Whopper. So where was the Angry? It’s not in the sauce. It appears to be, at best, a watered down wing topping with an extra dose of sweet. It’s not in the pepper-jack cheese either, nor was it the Angry Onions. The jalapeños did have a slight bite, but still this sandwich is not anywhere near a level that seemed indicated on the advertisements. But are they ever?

Overall Impressions

Despite the fact they tout it as Lewis Black when it’s really just a coked up Steven Wright, it wasn’t as terrible as I expected. It was almost decent, but one major factor will always hold the King back for me.

SPOILERS! (Click to view)

I hate albino lettuce and they always give me albino lettuce. There may be a sprig or too of green in there on occasion, but for the most part it’s whiter than the crowd at a Dave Matthew’s Band concert. Quit bogarting the green, King.

I give the Burger King Angry Whopper


7/10 flushes

SnakePlissken needs a drink.

I love Swiss cheese. It’s packed with glory-holes of deliciousness. I love mushrooms, too, even if they make me so gassy I could fart the entire chainsaw solo from “The Lumberjack” by Jackyl. While I'm at it, let’s not forget french-fried onions. They‘re greasy and tasty and totally count as a serving of vegetables as per the FDA food pyramid. So, how could I not love a sandwich with all of those things on it? Oh yes, that’s right; it’s from Burger King. That statement alone is sufficient to make even the most iron-gutted of us shake in fear like a Shar-Pei shitting tacks. But, maybe I shouldn’t judge. So what if the company mascot looks like he isn’t allowed to live less than two hundred feet from all schools or day care centers? Even the shittiest kid in gym class can park a homer or two on occasion.

Time for a Burger King Mushroom and Swiss Steakhouse Burger.

First Impressions

The cold, the dark, and the rain conspired to form an opaque fog on my car windows. The gentle breeze smells of cold and evil. That evil is Burger King, and I'm in the drive-thru lane to Hell. The small trollish woman at the window smiles a black-toothed grin as she approaches with the item in hand. A knowing grin. I momentarily feel like I may have just done a deal with Leland Gaunt. I rush home; if I did just sell my soul for this thing I shouldn't let it get cold. Microwaved soul-burger sounds unappealing.

The Reveal

Seven bucks this sucker cost me. How can these people sleep at night? On a big pile of money I suppose. I hope they inhale a quarter and die.




That's what you get for your hard-earned money

So that's Angus beef? Pardon me, whoever wrote that, I think your "g" key might be sticking. This terrible excuse for a patty was dry, overcooked, and had an overabundance of the color black. If this was indeed Angus beef, The King should be ashamed of himself. Maybe even more than people who have plastic spinner hubcaps or get hookers off Craigslist.

Ready to take a peek under the hood?

The Mastication

SPOILERS! (Click to view)

"Yeah, but secreted by what?!"

This thing made my kitchen smell like a church basement on potluck night. More specifically, it made it smell like the table with the three green bean casseroles that invariably show up. It's cheap fried onions and hot canned mushrooms all the way. This is the first time I've been tempted to back out. But it's too late, and the damn thing was seven bucks.



Wow, it tastes like it smells. The onion flavor is really too strong and strange, but at least it kills some of the tinny, briny mushroom taste. The last time I had ones that tasted this bad they cost me a hundred bucks, but made anime entertaining for the first time.

All in all, I'd say this thing checks in at the top of my list of life regrets. And, I'd say it's bad enough to top other people's, too. I imagine right now, probably in Washington state, there's a guy with a pile of hooker torsos in his closet who just ate one and had it top his list of regrets, too. So yeah, it's worse than murder. But at least no one will gas you to death for doing it. You'll probably take care of that yourself.




1/10 flushes



SnakePlissken wants a Hamdog.

Remember 1993? Boy, I sure do. I was obsessed with White Zombie, Warhammer 40,000, and pretty much every girl's tits at school. And, yes, I am including the lunch lady, as her arm fat flap-flopping was hauntingly captivating and the source of many a young man's lusty gaze. That was also the year we learned that Jack in the Box really did have shitty burgers. Should have just let mommy make you one at home eh? Sure there's no toy, but is a posable ALF figurine really worth a scathing case of bloody eliminations?


First Impressions

It's hot out. Damn hot. Plus, I have leather seats. Not a good combo. I'm stewing in my own juices and cursing Al Gore under my breath for inventing global warming. The air conditioner strains to keep up, like a free clinic in New Orleans the week after Mardi Gras. I roll down the window just long enough to scream my order of a BBQ Bacon Sirloin Burger combo. Do I want it large-a-sized? Fuck yes, I'd like a giant cup of ice. How much extra to have that Latina counter girl with the big ass pour it down my pants? No response. I pull around to the window and cough up my $7.68. In return, I'm handed an overflowing bag of greasy goodness from a man that looks a lot like Billy Mays. I once again ponder the concept of the doppelgänger, crane my neck for one more glance of hot Latina butt, and depart for home.

The Reveal

Ahh yes, the BBQ Bacon Sirloin burger. What's not to love about that? BBQ is awesome even if it is from the south, bacon is....fucking bacon, and sirloin is the Cadillac of meats; no buttholes and jowls for this sucker. But, will all this rolled into one mean awesomenicity? Let's see...





Hmm. It's pretty big. Peter North big. But the bacon looks less than impressive, and is as limp as Bob Dole. But, what's this? Are those onion rings? Sweet, that totally counts as one of my daily servings of vegetables.

The Mastication

You fuckers and your shitty excuse for BBQ sauce. When will they learn it takes more than a shot of brown sugar in the ketchup? It's so weirdly sweet it really ruins the experience. I can't taste anything else but it. Nothing. Not even the bacon. I repeat: NOT EVEN THE BACON. Not exactly a trip to flavor country. How could something with this combination of toppings be so bland? It's as if Dr. Wily invented a machine capable of removing all flavor and tested it on this burger. I suspect he pumped said flavor into the aforementioned Latina girls' ass.

As for the curly fries, they were pretty much what I expect from every place that offers curly fries. Chewy, smooshy, and greasy. The potato version of George Hamilton.



But, what this burger does have is structural integrity. I could have eaten this thing with one hand in the fast lane without fear of dripping grease on my crotch. So, if that's your thing, I suggest you steer clear. But does that minor feature make a mediocre burger worth almost eight dollars? Hardly. I feel ripped off, like I was fisted by Jack Palance without him even pausing to put down his cigarette.

I give the Jack in the Box BBQ Bacon Sirloin Burger




3/10 flushes

SnakePlissken would like to personally thank the makers of Imodium AD.

Once upon a time, in a magical place called "the '80s", I was a young lad and my old man sat me down and told me the three secrets of life. He said, "Don't piss on the third rail; you're proof the pull-out method doesn't work; and never make a pizza out of McDonald's."

Well pops, I'm sorry. I had to impress the SGPDX crew on white trash potluck night. What else could I do, I'm dealing with people who think bacon is a condiment.

The Construct

After studying the assembly of other McPizzas, I decided on a plan of attack. There were some nice examples out there, but my masterpiece would be special; a deadly creation of cunning design the like not seen since LeMarchand's Box. A quick trip to a Wal*Mart Super Center for ingredients seemed appropriate given the occasion. To my shock, this one had a McDonald's in it, though this did explain the unusually large stable of electric scooters at this particular locale.

I arrived at the MisterSatan household, various components in hand, and the Ritual of McDamnation began.


Note that for this application cheaper is better.


First comes the sauce.


Next comes the fries. Those evil fuckers.


The burger layer is added in defiance of all that is holy.


Judicious applications of cheese will help counteract the natural laxative effects of McDonald's.

Gathered round this greasy creation the oven clicked, signaling it was at temperature, and a hush fell through the room. We eyed each other nervously. Is this really a good idea? Should we turn back? Should I call my mom and cry a little? No, children, it's far too late for that.

The Reveal

Soon enough it was out of the oven, piping hot and ready to lay waste to our digestive systems like a cheese ensconced IED. But there was a problem. A big problem.



It looked good. And it smelled good. Some scratched their heads in amazement and others began to worship it. Personally, I found its appearance as confusing as that of a Thai ladyboy.

The Mastication

On paper, this was a weird combo. The kind of thing you'd expect to pop out of a telepod, scream across the room, and latch onto someones neck. Sadly, a shotgun-toting Geena Davis was absent in the event of that occurrence, but sometimes weird combinations work. This was one of them. The fries held up surprisingly well to the sauce, not becoming mushy and saturated as I expected. Their base foundation also served to keep the bottom bun of the burger off the sauce, allowing the bread to toast slightly. Quartering of the burgers in addition to good cheese adhesion allowed the slices to be eaten with minimal mess and topping loss, a challenge even for normal pedestrian pies.

Overall Impressions

I hate to admit it, but it was pretty good. God, I think I'm more embarrassed admitting that than the time I got caught reading Playboys at the bookstore when I was thirteen. But, would I do it again? I suppose if I was getting ready to ride the lightning I'd give it another go, but as regular meal? God no. I can't afford to put in an automated lift to get upstairs.

But that doesn't mean you shouldn't try it.

I give the McPizza



8/10 flushes

SnakePlissken eagerly awaits pics of your versions.

If you can count, and have mastered the Gregorian calendar, then you know that today is Cinco de Mayo. This festival of celebration and revelry proudly commemorates the stunning victory of General Ignacio Zaragoza Seguín over Hulk Hogan at Wrestlemania IV in 1988. Or something like that, I think. I'm not sure, I ain't so good at book learnin'. Anywho, what better day to go have some Taco Bell?

First Impressions

Today, I got to see a weird, middle-aged man sit in the parking lot and eat tacos. Not in his car, but sitting on the curb in the sun with his tray, facing the dumpster. Given his proximity to the waste receptacle, I could only assume he was a Taco Bell veteran. I thought briefly about attempting to snap a photo, but he looked a bit stabby and I haven't had health insurance since 2001.

After being put on hold, I went ahead and screamed my order into the magic talkly box and pulled around. Greeting me was a gentleman with what I can only call the weirdest shaped head I've ever seen. I know, I really shouldn't say anything if I can't say something nice, but I seriously expected Cher to pop up behind him at any moment and start belting out "Gypsies, Tramps & Thieves." Soon enough, Eric Stoltz's doppelganger had my $4.99, and I had this little beauty in my hot hands.

The Reveal

According to Adam Carolla, this "everything-in-a-box" concept is a new item for Taco Bell geared towards the fellas. It contains a Bacon Club Chalupa, a Crunchy Taco, a Bean Burrito, Cinnamon Twists, and a large cup of ice. So what's the big damn deal? Nothing really, but men love boxes (winkwinknudgenudgesaynomore) and I hope the concept catches on elsewhere.





My god, I haven't seen a box stuffed that full since my last viewing of the Pam and Tommy video. And, at only five bucks, this could be exactly what Sally Struthers needs to feed all those starving African kids with the big, swollen bellies. I doubt it would help keep the flies off them, though.

The Mastication



First off was the Bacon Club Chalupa, because I fucking love bacon. And this damn near ruined it for me. The flavor was overwhelmingly that of artificial smoke with just a hint of awful. Chug a handfull of bacos and you'll experience the full effect. I'd rather eat a bag of hickory-smoked assholes than this thing again.



A Bean Burrito was the last thing I ever thought anyone could screw up. I was wrong. So very, very wrong. The beans had separated in the tortilla like that ancient jar of Xtra-Chunky Jif I still need to throw out. This made the burrito do an impression of an Olestra eater's lower tract, leaking oily evilness all over my hands and everywhere. If I had been wearing pants they would be ruined.



Just look at this sad little Crunchy Taco. As ill-prepared as the French military, this item really failed to live up to its description. The haphazard application of fillings left the shell soggy and weaker than a vending machine condom, collapsing the structure on my second bite and spilling the contents everywhere. It was almost as if the taco had committed Seppuku right there in my hands, knowing how it had disgraced its taco ancestors.

Oddly enough, the Cinnamon Twists weren't notable in any way. I didn't even bother taking a picture of them. If pressed, I'd say they're not really what I'd call good, but on the other hand not really bad either. Very middle of the road. Sort of like the fast food equivalent of Steve Guttenberg's career.

Overall Impressions

I got exactly what I expected for $4.99. Minor heartburn and a strange grease stain on my shirt that resembled Abe Vigoda. I hope to sell it on eBay and recoup my losses on this venture. I also noticed my camera sucks ass, but that's extraneous.

I give the Taco Bell Big Bell Box Meal:



5/10 flushes

SnakePlissken has no prints for sale in his journal blog.

The Colonel and I have had very differing ideas on what fried chicken should be for quite some time now. I think it should be hot, fresh, and tasty. He thinks it should resemble a grease-filled water balloon breaded with wallpaper paste. Thus, the Colonel and I see each other as often as Amy Winehouse sees Betty Ford. But, after a little prodding from the more drunken members of SGPDX and some inspiration from Patton Oswalt, I decided to give the KFC Mashed Potato Famous Bowl a whirl. What's the worst that could happen?

First Impressions

"Five ninety-nine" said the man-child drive-thru worker, his voice cracking and pitching. I pretended not to notice in hopes he wouldn't spit in my food, as, judging from his robust aroma, he was a Marlboro Red man capable of producing astounding quantities of sputum at the drop of a hat. Moments later, the phlegm-free hand-off was made and my car was filled with a slightly disturbing aroma akin to old canned vegetables and my Grandma. She's been dead since '98.

The Reveal

Remember that show Let's Make A Deal? You know the look the contestants had on their face when they traded their Popeil Pocket Fisherman for what was behind door number three and it ended up being a fucking donkey in a dress or a lifetime supply of Lutefisk? Well that was the look on my face when I saw this.



I wish they would have cracked an egg in it to keep my coat shiny and manageable. Maybe that's being a bit harsh, but it does look a bit like the commercials I've seen for premium dog foods. I hope this doesn't lead to me dragging my ass on the carpet.

The Mastication

It came with a spork!



Which, as it turns out, is the high point. I like all the things that went into this. I like chicken, corn, gravy, cheese, and mashed potatoes. But, packed together like a raftload of Haitian refugees, it just didn't work for me. It was absolutely flavorless despite its multitude of components. A perfect example of more is less. It doesn't even burp good, and now I smell like a dumpster at Hometown Buffet.

Overall Impressions

How can something so bland give me such terrible heartburn? Ugh. Will I ever eat this again? Sure, if I had just polished off a box or five of wine, or I was getting hazed into some sort of fraternal order, I might be up for it, but at noon? And dead sober? Never again.

I give the KFC Mashed Potato Famous Bowl



3/10 flushes


SnakePlissken thinks forty cents for an extra honey mustard packet is fucked.