Skip to content

Happy Valentine’s Day from Malcolm Gladwell

February 5, 2016

Malcolm Gladwell

Star Wars: Not Just a Movie

December 24, 2015


Star Wars: Epic Lunch Box Advertisement

Star Wars: Affectless Action Figure Delivery System

Star Wars: A Riddle Wrapped in a Mystery Inside an Enigma Tucked into a Happy Meal

Star Wars: Two-Hours-Plus Dramatization of a Bumper Sticker

Star Wars: Raison d’être for Legions of Basement-Dwelling, Hygiene-Casual Man-Children

Star Wars: Cinnamon-Bun Coiffure Popularizer

Star Wars: Reckless Mark Hamill Enabler

Star Wars: Metaphorical Latter-Day Career Comb-Over for Harrison Ford

Star Wars: Pernicious Promoter of an “Alternative” Droid Lifestyle

Star Wars: Ewok-Infested Bosch Painting

Star Wars: Malignant, Inoperable Disco-Era Holdover

Star Wars: Insufferable Nostalgia-Generation Device for the Insufferable Children of Insufferable Baby Boomers

Star Wars: Cacophonous Prescription-Strength Soporific

Star Wars: Chernobyl-Grade Multiplex Pollutant

Star Wars: Periodic Herald for the Inexorable Decline of Western Civilization

Star Wars: Neither Holy Nor Roman Nor an Empire

Star Wars: Elbow-Throwing Ball Hog

Star Wars: The BFF You’re Desperately Trying to Figure Out How to Dump

Star Wars: Cinematic Five-Tiered Wedding Cake Made of Sawdust and Rat Turds

Star Wars: Vending Machine Filled Entirely with $1.25 Packs of Generic Fluorescent Orange Peanut Butter Crackers

Star Wars: Three-Day-Old Cup of Rewarmed K-Cup Decaf Forgotten in the Microwave

Star Wars: Lingering Cloud of Lysol in a Port-a-John in August

Star Wars: The Murky Liquid That Comes Out When You First Squeeze the Mustard Bottle

Star Wars: Bloated Macaroni Elbow Left in the Sink Strainer for All Eternity

Star Wars: In a Galaxy Not Far, Far Away Enough

The Ten Commandments (Passive-Aggressive Version)

December 2, 2015


Thou shalt have no other gods before Me. Not mad, just saying.

Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the LORD thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate Me; and showing mercy unto thousands of them that love Me, and keep My commandments. Or whatever, LOL.

Thou shalt not take the name of the LORD thy God in vain; for the LORD will not hold him guiltless that taketh His name in vain. But yeah, no, go ahead, it’s fine.

Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days shalt thou labor, and do all thy work: But the seventh day is the sabbath of the LORD thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates: For in six days the LORD made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that in them is, and rested the seventh day: wherefore the LORD blessed the sabbath day, and hallowed it. No biggie. Though I was kinda wondering, since thou slept in and went to the monster truck rally last Sunday, but really, you know what? Let’s just move on.

Honor thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the LORD thy God giveth thee. Or not. Whatever makes thee happy.

Thou shalt not kill. :-\

Thou shalt not commit adultery. [Long pause] Welp, I gotta get up early tomorrow, so.

Thou shalt not steal. The Stouffer’s French Bread Pizzas were on my side of the freezer, but I guess it’s My fault, since I forgot to put My name on them.

Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. Did I mention that? I thought I mentioned that. Maybe not. But I’m pretty sure I did.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbor’s. What? No one’s accusing thee of anything.

Vladimir Putin: I Want to Help You De-Gay and “Butch Up” the 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics

February 7, 2014


Because of the problematic connotations of “flaming,” the Olympic torch will no longer be lit at the opening ceremonies, but instead will be rigged to expectorate tobacco juice over the crowd.

Concerns over safety—and, more to the point, manliness—mean that goalie masks during hockey games may no longer consist solely of soothing mud packs and cucumber slices over the eyes. Fights on the ice must include the landing of actual punches, not just flailing slapping motions and hair-pulling.

The cross-country prancing and mincing events will be eliminated and replaced by stomping and interpretive stomping.

The disturbingly effeminate image of male figure skaters can be attributed largely to their wardrobe. However, this problem can be ameliorated with a few simple, tasteful modifications, including but not limited to: 1) requiring skates with mudflaps and underbody neon; 2) replacing matchy, sequin-spangled spandex costumes with cut-off shorts and sleeveless “wife beater” t-shirts studded with spent bullet casings; 3) sewing to the rear end of each competitor a large embroidered patch reading “Exit Only” with a comic-strip Calvin pissing on a pink triangle, which in turn is pissing on a Ford logo.

In order to reinforce and preserve traditional gender roles, only men will be allowed to “throw” curling stones. Women will, of course, handle the sweeping, just like at home, and also make sandwiches for the men at the end of each round. In deference to custom, curling matches will remain unwatched by anyone but straight Canadians.

Men’s singles competitors will no longer be permitted to skate to “It’s Raining Men” unless actual men are pushed from the rafters as part of the routine.

The biathlon will be renamed the heteroathlon. Men’s skiing events will take place under the rubric of “mascu-sliding.”

All promotional materials will make it perfectly clear that, contrary to reports from previous Olympics, the Nordic combined event will not consist of a “three way” among a charismatic trio of buff, blond, blue-eyed men named Lars, Sven, and Hjörvard.

The provocative visual impact of male speed skaters’ smooth, shiny crotch bulges will be reduced by making competitors stuff their jockstraps with Legos, for which purpose the bricks will be renamed “cock blocks.”

It has long been a subject of concern that the uncomfortably close “nuts to butts” contact fostered by traditional bobsled design practically ensures that even the most virile of sledders will emerge hopelessly and irredeemably man-crazy. Therefore, all bobsleds will now be configured with a running board, so that a nun armed with a ruler can strictly enforce a “six inches of daylight” rule in the midst of competition. The “six inches of daylight” rule must never be mentioned out loud, however, as the phrase “six inches” may prove too suggestive for weaker-willed athletes.

It’s “luge,” to rhyme with “huge,” not with “zhoosh.” In fact, any competitor found with zhoosh will be forced to wear beige, to rhyme with “page.” All beige. From Walmart.

Sounds of exertion and “victory” gestures are restricted to deep-throated grunting and fist-pumping. Prohibited: giggling; squealing; finger-snapping; voguing; tossing a sultry look backward over one’s shoulder; and rapid clapping while keeping the heels of the hands pressed together. Obscene gestures are acceptable as an expression of disapproval towards one’s opponents, but competitors must not under any circumstances purse their lips while slowly wagging their vertically extended index finger back and forth.

No French—athletes, fries, bread, toast, horns, doors, slicing of green beans, expelling cigarette smoke from the mouth while simultaneously inhaling it through the nose, kissing. No French. Except to fill out the bleachers during the broadcast of curling events, in which case they are forbidden from speaking to the straight Canadians.

Coming Soon: The Chick-Lit Massacre (and Mystical Fuchsia Zoozypants Knitting Circle)

November 8, 2013


Everything Bagel: Asshole of the Bakery

October 17, 2013

Yeah, that’s me. Asshole of the bakery. The Antonin Scalia of bread and pastry. The Donald Trump of this flour-dusted, godforsaken shithole. You got a problem with that, glazed doughnut? Kiss my ass. You think I give a shit what you think, baguette? Fuck you, you French faggot.

Number-one asshole among baked goods, and proud of it. I even look like a sphincter. Like phyllo dough is such a big fucking deal, with all those layers. I’m such a huge fucking star you gotta cook me twice. Boil, then bake, then douse me in everything you got in your spice rack. That’s how I roll. You think that fuckface corn muffin is some kind of hot shit? More like lard-ass cupcake wannabe with a fake tan.

Right now you’re thinking, Oh yeah, this guy thinks his shit don’t stink. Well, guess what? It does stink. It stinks plenty. Like salt, garlic, onion, poppy seed, sesame, and caraway. I got it all. Or maybe you didn’t know what an “everything” bagel is, if you’re an idiot. Which you probably are.

Maybe you think I only get along with my own kind, that I got no problem with the other bagels. That just goes to show you don’t know fucking shit. Plain bagel? Please. [In mocking girly voice] “Ooh, ooh, I’m so smooth and golden brown and pret-ty, I don’t put out on the first date, I love kittens and pudding and not having sex, I’m a plaaaaaaaaaain bagel.” Raisin bagel? A raisin ain’t even a fruit. It’s a grape that couldn’t hack it. Pumpernickel bagel? Yeah, I guess, if you want a bagel that’ll steal your car. Egg bagel? What the fuck is that? It looks like a plain bagel that pissed itself. Spinach bagel? You have 14 flavors to choose from and you pick spinach? I hope your stomach tells you to go fuck yourself and busts through your gut like that nasty little fucker in Alien.

Don’t even fucking think about putting anything on me. Cream cheese? Keep that nasty toe jam to yourself. Don’t even come near me with lox. I get one whiff of that low-tide funk and someone’s gonna end up bleedin’ on the floor. Butter? You know what butter is for? Scones. Because scones are pathetic little turds. Watch this. [Throws fake punch at scone; scone flinches] See? [Punches scone hard on upper arm] [Scone: “Ow!”] [Everything bagel, to scone] Get lost, shithead. This is my show.

I own two vehicles. Guess what they are? Right. A Harley and a Hummer. Chrome truck nuts on the Hummer. Confederate flags on both. Know what that apple fritter over there drives? A used Prius with a “Life is Good” bumper sticker. Sounds like he’s the asshole, right? It’s lame jackoffs like that who give us hardcore assholes a bad name. I don’t just text while I’m driving, I eat corn on the cob and play sudoku at the same time. I cough in public without covering my hole. I lose DVDs from Netflix and claim they never showed up.

Crispy and seedy on the outside, all motherfucking stud inside. You better believe that underneath my tangy, circular awesomeness, I’m all eclair, if you catch my drift. See that cruller over there? Knocked her up. Nine months later she squeezes out twin doughnut holes. Hey, not my problem, right? Got shitfaced last Saturday and had an orgy with a whole rack of danish. Woke up two days later with some massive motherfucking hangover, smelling like Jägermeister and prunes. Messed around with a hot cross bun last year and ended up with a nasty rash. Didn’t slow me down one fucking bit. Ended up giving it to a macaroon. Sorry, baby, but I don’t wear a bakery tissue for nobody.

Well, dickheads, smell ya later. The retard clerk is about to put me in a bag with some blueberry bagels so I can make ’em all taste like shit.

Possible Responses to Sudden, Unexpected, and/or Unwanted Declarations of “I Love You”

June 5, 2013


“And I love pancakes!”

“Now say it without using the sock puppet.”

[Extended pause] “Does this mean we’re not gonna screw?”

“Please submit all declarations of love in writing and allow four to six weeks for processing.”

“It’ll never work. I’m a Sagittarius, you’re an asshole.”

“Cool. Do you have your half of the rent?”

Everyone loves me! Except me. I hate myself. And you.”

[Quizzically cocks head to one side, like a dog hearing a high-pitched sound]

“Not when you find out what I did with your toothbrush.”

“You didn’t say ‘Simon says,’ Simon!”

“That’s just the chloroform and ball gag talking.”

“What is this thing called love? Seriously, it’s been sitting on the porch for a week and I’m tired of stepping over it.”

“You sure have a funny way of showing it, what with both hands around my neck.”

“At ease, private!” [They begin making out]

“Yes, but what about my pizza? I phoned almost an hour ago.”

“Would you be willing to state that under oath?” [Calls in notary public from next room]

“You’re the sorriest excuse for a dominatrix I ever dropped two hundred bucks on!”

“Prove it. Let me use your 10% employee discount at Walmart.”

“Prove it. Clean yourself up and swear off drugs and get a job and … nah, just pass me the bong.”

“Prove it. Move to Greenland and never contact me again.”

“I’m still taking half of everything, and the dog, and the kids have to live with you.”

“You’re the sorriest excuse for a panhandling mime I ever dropped a buck on. Also, you need to stop screaming, ‘Let me out of this goddamned transparent box!’ ”

[Leaning in and pointing at other person’s nostril] “Booger.”

“Sorry, Axelrod, but the warden says we still gotta electrocute you tomorrow.”

“I don’t think you understand how haiku works.”

“What do you want, a medal?” [Pulls out heart-shaped platinum medal with “Love” emblazoned in rubies] “Here you go.”

“Shut the fuck up, E.T.! I’m trying to watch the CHiPs marathon!”

“Go fish. Do you have any jacks?”

“That’s it? I thought you were going to tell me that you forgot to bring the coupons.”

Danke, mein Führer. And may I add that your English is excellent!”

Now you tell me!” [Holds up empty pill bottle, slumps to floor]


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 5,588 other followers

%d bloggers like this: