Moved!

Okay my peoples, pack up your things, WE’RE MOVING TO RICH UNCLE ARBUCKLE’S HOUSE.

Serisously, I write there now. It was good while it lasted. Now, get on over there!

Hot Jupiters, Batman! Bargains, straight ahead!

So it was Sunday, and I was trying to decide what to do. My options were three-fold what they usually were — 1) sleep more or 2) eat and then sleep more — because I had some extra revenue from some well placed bets at the Hobo Wrestling Circuit the night earlier (I guess I was the only one who saw that Skinny Ol’ Man Douglas had a knife). And then I get a call from my friend Sam. “Hey,” he says, “the next town up is having a huge yard sale type thing, lets go get some serious swag.”

I checked around for a few moments, and replied “Yeah, I definately don’t have enough swag. I’m in.”

Yard sales, for those of you who don’t like having money and therefore go to actual stores to buy your goods, are places where people take all the stuff they dont use anymore and throw it on their lawn so other people can take it. This is awesome for 2 reasons. 1) You find the weirdest junk, and 2) Usually the people are buried waste-high in useless garbage so they can’t run after you when you steal their good stuff.

Hence, I acquire these items:

Picture of an Awesome Boat - This picture is 3 ft tall and 2 feet wide and comes with a frame and everything. It depicts an awesome pirate ship or some jazz to that extent, and even has a little water damage for character.

Classics Illustrated - These are the same comics used by comedic legend Jay Pinkerton to make hilarious spoofs of old stories. (If you have not read the Duke of Conte Fisto, you have not yet truly seen the internet). I was lucky enough to chance upon a copy of “20 000 Leagues Under the Sea” and “The Mysterious Island”, both of which are displayed in glorious sixties-o-vision. Seriously, these are dated and fucking hilarious.

An Awsome Cane - It’s a stick, carved up so that it has a handle. I now use it to turn on my bedroom light from my computer chair. Efficiency at its finest!

A Scanner - If anyone out there knows how to get an Epson Perfection 1250 scanner working under Windows Vista, email me. Seriously, I have pictures of boobs and Zeus and stuff I want to scan in and this whole driver shit is keeping me from doing it.

Various Medias(?) - I got various CDs, including the album East, by New Age Jazz Fusing something group Hiroshima. I also found UHF, the Weird Al movie, on VHS.

Thats about it. I also got a bunch of pins, the best of which says “Eato Bandito” on it, but those will be for later maybe.

The Rap Community Strikes Back! (With promises of love!)

My recent post, entitled Uncle Von Crackenstein’s Opinion on the Modern Muse, seems to have shaken the rap community in more ways than I could have thought possible. Despite the numerous mentions it received from the latest gangsta’ rap magazines and it’s appraisal as The Most Precise Representation of The Downfall of Society at Large, several fans of the surprisingly still-around genre were enraged to hear the true meaning behind the words of their greatest hero, the suave Chameleonaire. And surely enough, after spending a couple weeks poolings their thoughts and ideas, the rap community has finally lashed out and showed me who’s who.

From this, we learn several things:

- The comment was left by Chamillion, which is a distinct 5 letters different from the artist in the former post. This leads me to believe that this person was perhaps using some form of the internet that charges for every character inputted, and they were trying to save money.
- Mr. Chamillion seems to think I am a negro, when in fact I am not. Being that there are no pictures on this website of myself, and that I did successfully translate the most rip-roarin’ of rhymes, I suppose I can see why he’d think this.
- Mr. Chamillion seems to have taken a sexual interest in me, which is flattering, but disturbing.

A visit to his website, http://website/ is apparantly malformed (a typo perhaps?), and my attempts to send him an email failed (it would seem that ass@cunt.com is not accepting messages at this time).

If any of you know Mr. Chamillion, please tell him that, once again, I am flattered but uninterested. Thanks.

Yet Another Recipe for the Lazy Houseperson

This recipe comes from the 41 hours I logged in Adobe Cooking Simulator 5.0 Professional Edition, and the program no longer gives it a score of “HORRIFYING ATROCITY”. So, let me introduce a yummy treat that might be able to get you off work!

Almost a Cake

Preparation Time: 952 parsecs
Time it took for the Millenium Falcom to complete the Kessel run: many, many less parsecs (presented for comparison purposes)

Ingredients:

Eggs
Bucket
A Box of that Cake Mix Stuff
Oil
A Big Ol’ Soon
A Stove
Various Bowls and Pans

First, preheat the stove. It doesnt matter what temperature you put it at, just make sure it’s hotter than what your toaster could do because if we could use that amount of heat, we would cook the cake in the much-easier-to-use toaster. After doing this, put the “oil” (interpret this ingredient however you want) on the pans and bowls and stuff, so the cake doesn’t stick to it when it burns in the oven.

Now, open the cake mix. See that brown powder-type stuff that is supposedly supposed to make your cake? Throw it out. I say this with the most seriousest of faces, like the one that a person would do while announcing that the Colonel’s plane had been shot down over the Sea of Japan*. This is because, as hypothesized by the entirety of science itself, pre-packaged cake mix is actually fairy shit. If your cake mix is chocolate, then it was shat out by negro fairies. I kid you not. And while the cake will still be delicious if you use it, come on. Think about your reputation. Judd Nelson might come up to you some day and be like “Hey, do you eat shit?” and you’ll say no, and then he’ll say “Oh yeah!? Well I saw you eat that cake once!”

And you won’t be able to say a single, goddamn thing.

So out with the cake mix. We WILL be using the box the cake mix came in though, because it probably has a picture of a good cake on it, and it will give you something to shoot for.

Now, take your bucket (which, if you’ve been following the instructions, should be slathered in about a gallon of motor oil), and travel to the nearest tropcal paradise. There, you will find chocolate trees, which produce chocolate seeds. Pick approximately 1 million of these seeds and crush them with your manly hands until they resemble the powdery cake mix you threw out in fear of Judd Nelson’s scathing insults. Voila, cake mix.

They look gross, but these are actually chocolate seeds.

Note: if you were hoping to make a non-chocolate cake, you are out of luck, because real men eat chocolate, motherfucker.

Now that you have your cake mix, mix it with the eggs, and more of the oil apparantly. Pour this gross looking monstrosity of a liquid into a pan and insert it into the oven to cook for a while. I didn’t time mine, it might have taken an hour. Maybe. Just look at the cake box and compare.

Once done cooking, be sure to allow 15 to 20 seconds to cool. If you are successful, you should have a delicious, non-poison cake. Bon appetit!

You did it!

La-li-lu-le-lo!

So, for whatever reason, I decided to dust off my PS2 controller and play some Metal Gear Solid 2. I played for 5 hours, getting through about 3/4 of the game (I think). That is not the point, not yet. The point is this:

“You’ll never escape the la-li-lu-le-lo!”

I’m serious. This little tidbit, said by an old man as he has a heart attack explicitly expresses why I both hate AND love this game. Oh, good times.

A Job Interview? For me?

Yesterday I applied for a job at the local convenience store. “But Ben,” astute readers will exclaim, “don’t you already have a hilarious job?” Of course I do. But we all need a little change here and there. Also, I hear from a friend that an old lady fell down at Mac’s the other day and couldn’t get up, and that is just awesome.

In going though with this, I realized several things:

1) Apparantly I think Jack Handy quotes are more important than my resume, because that’s exactly what the file entitled “resume.wpd” on my computer contained.
2) I have no skills or interests that apply to the convenience store environment that don’t have something to do with laughing at the elderly.
3) Job interviews are annoying and I never want to do one again.

You see, I went up there with my resume thinking the manager would simply see the name and go “Ben Nicholls? Aren’t you that guy that keeps stealing things and making complex structures out of the unsold VHS tapes of Ninja Turtles 3? I’m just going to file that resume under B, for BURN!” So it took me completely by surprise when the manager brought me back into the ‘Employees Only’ area and began flinging questions at me.

—

“Why do you want to work here at Mac’s?”

Uhh.. well, you see, I live next door to the Lawn Bowling centre, so I can just look out my window and see these old people, right? And they, like, have these white outfits that they wear and they’re all like “stop watching us!” and I’m all like “GO STEELERS!” and then I run away. Anyways, the Lawn Bowling season is almost over and I heard that old people like to buy lottery tickets from here.

…

I need the cash. Next question.

“Where do you see yourself in 5 years?”

Not here! Hahahah-that’s not funny. Uhh… well, that’s kind of hard to say. Well, if I had to choose, I’d have to say… Morocco. Yeah, Morocco. That’s where the money is. “First, you get the money. Then you get the power.” That’s my motto. By the way, how much money do you keep in the till here? A hundred? Fifty? I’m just curious, is all.

“What would you say is your biggest weakness?”

Oooh, that’s a toughie. Uhh… hmm. It would probably be my crippling, insatiable need for the blood of th- no, that’s not it. It would probably be that I can’t bake a cake. It always burns the edges, and then there’s like, chunky stuff in it, and the other people are like “Ben, your cake tastes like liver!” and then I tell them why it tastes like liver, and then they vomit, and I am the one that has to clean it up. Can you believe that?

“We’ll be in touch.”

—

Let’s hope I got the job.

(I did not make this graphic, this is from spacebar.com or something. Google found it, never you mind.)

Ben’s Handy Dandy Guide to Ordering a Sandwich Without Sparking My Eternal Rage

Just incase you don’t actually know me, I work at a Subway. And I don’t mean the cool kind of Subway with the train and the tunnels and the hobos. I mean the one with the sandwiches. And the hobos. Now, before you load your Inept Fast Food Service Worker Insult Gun (patent pending), consider these critical reasons\excuses:

• My town has approximately 8 places where they employ people
• I’m not an indian, therefore disallowing me to sell smokes to people
• The work is insanely easy
• I enjoy free food.

There is a downside though: my job involves me having to deal with people. And, being that Subway employs one of the most retarded ad campaigns on the planet, the majority of the people I have to deal with are complete morons.

I suppose it is important to tell you of the area in which I live. Put simply, it is a rural area. This means that 93% of the people who live within 5 kilometers of me drive a tractor around as their job. Now, scientific studies have shown that you need an IQ of 51 to drive a tractor. This means that virtually no one in my county decides to finish (or in some cases, enter) high school, so now I have to take orders from people who think tomatoes are called red roundies.

Some people I serve are so intensely stupid that I have trouble figuring out how they manage to keep from eating rocks and sand. Unfortunately though, certain chapters in the Subway Rulebook prohibit me from using a stale loaf of bread as a makeshift cudgel and forcibly removing morons from the premises. So, in an attempt to educate and inform, I present yet another guide in my Best Selling series of Guides, which also includes: Ben’s Handy Dandy Guide to Funding Your Space Program, Ben’s Handy Dandy Guide to Battling Butt Cancer, and Ben’s Handy Dandy Guide to Licking Hobos: The Do’s and Don’ts!

---

Ben’s Handy Dandy Guide to Ordering a Sandwich Without Sparking My Eternal Rage

---

Chapter One: Eight Easy Tips!

1) Our selection of breads is clearly shown using a giant sticker. In case you are blind and have somehow overlooked it, they include: Italian (or White), Whole Wheat (or Brown), Italian Herbs and Cheese, Parmesan Oregano, and Honey Oat.

We do NOT have: Wheaty Italian, Premio Original, The Crusty Bread, or Dough Bread (whatever that means). Read the sticker, morons.

2) The bread takes an hour to rise and 15 minutes to bake. Do not ask me to cook a fresh bun for you. (When I told the lady I wouldn’t do it, she left, then phoned me saying “I’m going to be back in 2 hours, can you bake me one for then?” I told her I would. When she came back, I told her she was late so I ate the bun. Naturally, she threw a full can of coke at me and left. Hey, free coke!)

3) A simple glance downwards at the ingredients will inform you that we have 4 different kinds of cheese. They are easy to tell apart. They are all different colours. One of them even comes shredded in a cup. So when I ask “What kind of cheese do you want?” do not say “Both”.

4) If you say “I want everything” and then go out to your car for 20 minutes, you can’t yell at me later for putting on every single sauce we have. Take 30 seconds out of your life and actually tell me what you want. Also, dont make me wait to ring you in for 20 minutes. If you do, your sub will invariably be used to kill flies.

5) We DO NOT have the following vegetables: cabbage, purple peppers, hot onions, greencumbers, potatoes, old cucumbers (referring to the pickles), or red roundies. Learn the names of simple vegetables before ordering them.

6) Do NOT order smokes with your sub. We are a SUB SHOP, and a proactive contributor to the retarded health food craze. We do not sell cigarettes.

7) You do not need to point at the ingredients as you say them. I work here, I know where they are.

Do not send in your six year old son to order an entire family’s food from memory. If you for some reason do, do not phone me four hours later to complain about how all your subs were microwaved tuna smothered in pizza sauce and ketchup.

If you follow these simple rules, you will receive an absolutely delicious sub from a smiling, happy Sandwich Artist. Otherwise, I will be forced to show you why they call it a “sneeze guard” instead of a “knife guard”.

You have been warned.

Chapter Two

Give me money.

---

As a footnote, I would like to add that everything mentioned in this post I have actually heard or witnessed while working. No exaggerations, this stuff basically writes itself. Riding on the coat tails of other’s stupidity… I now see why Bill Engvall has a career.

All the Kreditkardens you Could Ever Want

Today I was lucky enough to have a long-time reader, “rtryurhs5″, leave a nice heartwarming comment on a two week old post about techno-robots. It read as follows:

Here are some links that I believe will be interested.

(Please note that the above link leads to the Ninja Turles website; the original comment’s link wasn’t nearly as awesome.)

Now this is my kind of guy. He’s been kind enough to let me view his list of “interested links”. I can’t help but think that I’m moving up in the internet world. First those guys email me to inform me of massive savings at the “dick enlargement super palace” (which unfortunately I could not take advantage of due to a scheduling conflict), and now a faithful Reader From the Top gives me the key to his prized collection of links. What an honour!

---

---

Eager to find out what these links are interested in, I clicked away. It took me to a website whos url, from all I could tell, was printed in that language that those African Tribespeople use. You know, the one where all the do is click and cluck at eachother. This aside, my browser had no problems telling me it was “Load page”, and the bottom bar of my browser told me it was delightfully executing some scripts or something. It then relocated me to lycos, opened up to a search for “kreditkarden”. “Why didn’t I think of this before?” I thought aloud, my amazement only trumped by my apparant stupidity, “I could just search Lycos for all the german credit cards I could ever need! And to think I’ve been going around finding german people and stealing their wallets like a moron.”

Shown: Germans
Not shown: Me, stealing their bulging kreditkarden-filled wallets.

In closing, thanks rtryurhs5. It’s a pity you didn’t leave your email address, I have no way of paying you back. Looks like I’ll have to keep all of my cialis and degrees that I earned at home to myself. Your loss I guess.

His speakers shatter ear drums, kids.

Several months ago me and Mr. Keith were flipping through random songs on my Cypress Hill-themed radio station when to our hilarious surprise, an obscure rapper came on and started telling us of his Gold Plated Chops or Diamond Womens or something like that. We laughed at the song for a few minutes, imitating his probably inept use of sign language in a fashion that could only be described as “immature and a sure precursor to the nastiest of carpel tunnels”. Wiping the tears of what must have seemed like intense racism from our eyes, we took in the greatest word ever printed:

Chamillionaire

Now THIS, this man knew what the score was. Millionaire? Bah, too common. Billionaire? Naw, only fat guys and nerds get to be billionaires. This man is a Chamillionaire, which, uhh… I can only assume is a reference to the most unholy of shapeshifting hellspawn: The Chameleon.

And when this man chooses to devote himself to such an avatar of wickedness, he follows through, as his lyrics are filled with chamelleonic properties. A simple glance may reveal nothing but some inane jibba-jabba, but delving deeper we reveal layers and layers of complex subtext. Which brings us to:

THE WORDS BEHIND THE… UHH.. WORDS. SURE.

They see me rollin’
They hatin’
Patrollin’
And tryin. to catch me ridin. dirty. (Rep. x4)

I’m driving in my car. The police, who hate me because as a rich black man I am stereotyped as a man who commit crimes, are out and about on duty trying to discover my devious plan to drive without my liscence.

My music so loud;
I’m swangin.
They hopin’
That they gon’ catch me ridin’ dirty. (Rep. x4)

My car has an excellent speaker system, and I use it to its full potential by forcing everyone to listen to my hot thumping beats. And while this is a crime in that it disturbs the general public, the police do nothing as they are devoted to revealing my plot to drive without shoes, or perhaps without my seatbelt.

ma asss??
Police think they can see me lean;
I’m tint so it ain’t easy to be seen.
They see me ride by, they can see the glean
And my shine on the deck and the TV screen.
Ride with a new chick, she like “Hold up.”
Next to the Playstation controlla;
well have a four clip, in my pistolla
that im’a send a jacker into a coma.

How is my butt? The authorities believe that light reflects off of me and into their eyes, but I am black, so all light that hits me is absorbed into me, much like a black hole. All they are able to witness is the light reflected off of my TV. I ride with girls who don’t like me driving very fast, as they cannot play Playstation very well. As a result I get angry, which is okay because I have bullets in my Italian gun and I can shoot them at people with heroin addictions.

Girl, you ain’t know, I’m crazy like Krayzie Bone;
Just tryin’ to bone, ain’t tryin’ to have no babies.
Ride clean as hell so I pull in ladies.
Law’s on patrol; you know they hate me.
Music turned all the way up and to the maximum;
I can speak for some niggas tryin’ to jack for some.
But we packin’ somethin’ that we have
And, um, will have a nigga locked up in the maximum

Miss, you probably don’t know this, but I am quite the strange character, just like another rapper. I desire intercourse with you, but I can assure you it is for no reason but carnal pleasure. Fret not though, if you do not agree, I can pick up another fine woman, because my car does not make a lot of noise and has a well-tuned suspension. You see, the police are looking for crimes because they dislike me. Once again, I must remind you that my music is very loud. I know some of my brethren who do drugs intravenusly. Also, we have things that we own, and sometimes one of us gets sent to prison.

Security cell. I’m grippin’ oak.
Music loud and I’m tippin’ slow.
Twins steady twistin’ like hit this dough;
Police Pull up from behind and im sittin low.
Windows down, gotta stop pollution.
CDs change; niggas like “Who is that producin’?”
This the Play-N-Skillz when we out and cruisin’
Got warrants in every city except Houston
But I still ain’t losin’.

My car, you see, is armoured and can withstand the toughest of barrages. It is lined with fine oak, which is a luxury that I enjoy while listening to my unnecessarily loud music. While the music plays, I slowly nod my head sometimes. I really, ma’am, let me stress this , REALLY enjoy liccorice. This must wait though, as the authorities seem to have drove up behind my car. Luckily I’m down in my seat, or they would be able to see my hair. I keep my windows down, so as to not have to use the air conditioner. The next CD in my player is a mix that one of my brethren have never heard before, and he inquires upon the name of the producer. I answer that the rappers are the notorious Play-N-Skillz, and I always enjoy their songs when I drive. On an unrelated note, I have papers which allow me to do unspecified things in every city on the Earth except for Houston, Texas. Despite this, I maintain a high level of confidence in my abilities.

And on and on it goes. Like, seriously. It says the chorus about ten more times, and there are two more full verses. In any case, it is clear what he is trying to convey:

- He has a great car, equipped with one (1) woman and the things she needs to keep amused while he’s not boning her (TV, Playstation, etc.)
- The police dislike him, perhaps because of his wild hair.
- He likes to shoot heroin users, except for the one’s he knows.
- His speakers are very loud

Truly a modern day prophet if I ever saw one.

It’s like anime, only without the subtitles.

Okay, before we dive headfirst into the rock-solid ruby-encrusted titanium statue of me that this blog represents, I have one thing to say: ROT IN HELL, EVERYONE ELSE! I HAVE FOUND A NEW GOD!

That having been said, we shall move on to..

BEN’S BI-WHENEVERLY ANIME REVIEW: Insterstella 5555

Now, I know what you’re all thinking. “Ben, anime is for losers! Ben, anime is in different languages, I thought you hated other languages! Ben, anime smells funny!” WELL FOR GOD’S SAKE LET ME EXPLAIN MYSELF YOU WHORES. Anime is like one of those boxes of chocolate your grandmother gives you at Christmas. It may say that it is from Switzervania or The Netherworld (or wherever fancy chocolate comes from), but deep down inside it’s all just chocolate and you’ll end up throwing it out anyways. What I mean is that the packaging and presentation may be different, but in the end, it’s all the same crap.

BUT WAIT, SHOCKING TWIST! This movie is awesome. I don’t usually say this, but those who have an opinion about this movie other than “it is better than air and water COMBINED” is stone cold wrong. That said, we move onto the thing where I ruin the entire plot for you.

Firstly, I must explain what makes this movie special. You see, there is this French band (or whatever) called Daft Punk, and they make the House music. But it’s not exactly house music. It’s different somehow. Don’t ask me why, I’m not a techno specialist, all I know is that I listen to these guys religiously but I wouldn’t touch the rest of House music with a 12-foot clown pole. In any case, Daft Punk, being as awesome as they are, decide to make the worlds first animated House musical. It is exactly how it sounds. It is anime. It is a musical. Essentially, it is 65 minutes of carefully chosen and beautifully created music accompanied by 65 minutes of awesome animation that tells a funktastically interstellar story.

This story begins on some planet where blue people live (see above). On this planet live a band of four (see above, again, if you like), and they are essentially the greatest band in the universe. So naturally, during one of their performances, a hyperspace-travelling lunatic band manager kidnaps them and turns them into humans so he can use them to get the last gold record he needs to power his conquest-of-the-universe machine he built in his volcano. Of course though, a man who flys a giant guitar-shaped spacehsip chases after them and saves the day.

Or something like that. To tell you the truth, I didn’t pay very good attention because I was thinking about Transformers the whole time. Anyways, I can say this: there is absolutely everything you could want in this movie. Action, mystery, covert operations, a gay fashion guy, conquest-of-the-universe machines that, once again, I stress are POWERED BY GOLD RECORDS, and even a love song. Don’t believe me?

Anyways, this movie gets my total approval. My rating? 40 STARS UP.

PS. For those who aren’t convinced that they should immediately bow to their new electronica masters, feast your eyes upon their mighty visage:

That’s right. Thye are robots. All the time. And yes, those ARE working LCD screens embedded into their hetmets. And yes, they DO display words and things, like, all the time.

‘Nuff said.

Mean People Hurt my Feelings

I sat down at my computer tonight and, as I always do, inflated my ego by checking the neat traffic monitor that wordpress gives you. It is growing steadily, I will have you know, which is good. That is not the focus of this writing though. The real focus is this:

Ok, this is the thing that tells me what people are googling my site for. In more coherent words: when people type these things into google, my site pops up. Now, the astute observer will notice strange things (since when do I ever say “cummupins”? What’s a scary Skwid?). He will also notice that people are once again flocking to my blog to read about Tanya Harding just like before. Hooray I guess. But this is what infuriates me the most:

I DO NOT EAT A LOT.

Seriously, anyone that knows me knows that I subsists on a small, high calorie diet. It consists of the following, each and every day:

1 Sandwich
4-10 marshmellows
Random cheese
5-10 freezies
A sub from Subway
A bag of free penny candy from the local convenience store (which after tonight I may not be allowed back to)
Lots of water

THAT IS NOT A LOT. That is less than most people with their fancy schmancy “three meals a day” and their “I eat over the whole day” and their “my fridge has food in it sometimes”. Screw them, and screw you, stop calling me fat.

Good news though, googling my name brings up this blog as hit number 10 on Google. Try it yourself.

Good Show

I’d just like to say that whoever left “The Architect Speech” as a comment on my blog should get in touch with me via email or letter or hurled-brick or whatever. I want to meet you.

Pure gold I say.

Actual update coming later tonight as I think of things that rhyme with “Pelvic Thrust”.

Yet Another Country That Hates Me

NEWSFLASH: Denmark, or where ever this guy is from, is trying to launch a full scale tactical assault upon my blog!

FOR THE HORDE!

Well, luckily for me, that only involved a small post on the website which, according to my connections in Denmark, details how I am stupid and a big stupid-head.

Ouch. A direct hit right in the honour. We can’t take much more captain! We’re down to auxilliary honour!

Well, in an attempt to leave this gross misunderstanding behind IN THE PAST, I am going to be the bigger person and just let this slide. Yeah, that’s right, I am going to let Denmark win this one. Why? Well, for several well-founded reasons:

1) My mighty ego is protected by an aura of chivalry. I open doors for people, I pull out the lady’s chair for her, I resist the sins of the common folk.
2) According to Babelfish, in their post they spelled most of their words wrong, thereby severely lessening the amount of insult they can possibly be dealing out.
3) It’s Denmark (I think). Give them a break.

Okay, now that we’re friends again, lets have a big party. I’ll bring dip.

The Worst Button in the World.

Okay, so it’s about 3 am last night. I am bored. All my jerk friends have alibis and won’t talk to me on MSN (stop it, I’m trying to sleep) and my collection of DVDs is out of arms reach, so I can’t find solace in the adventures of Chuck Norris or Bill Murray. Guh. I then think to myself “Hey, my blog is super great. Maybe there are other great blogs that I can find enjoyment from.” This, as it turns out, was a very poorly thought-out thought.

You see, for some reason I have this button on my blog that says “Next Blog”. Now now, you may not be able to see it, but trust me, it’s there. That is what I clicked. This is what I found:

Techknowledgy

Okay, here’s is an example of someone who needs to be hit by one of them runaway boulders like in Indiana Jones. Firstly, techknowledgy?!?! What kind of message are you sending when you force your readers to spend 30 seconds analyzing your name just to realize you suck at word play? After cursing this blog with the powers granted to me by the almighty Baal, I realized this blog-owner’s deficiency: he’s a foreigner. From what I can understand, Microsoft is sueing Windows, and windows has the genuine advantage. Bah, useless, if you’re going to come onto our internet, learn to speak our language.

My rating? Negative 8 pies.

PROMPT

From what I can tell by glancing at the front page, this blog is devoted to something that has downtime. Also, it has a “focus motor”, which means that the machine (whatever it is) has eyes. Now, this may be a shot in the dark, but I believe that PROMPT is a large robot capable of large amounts of carnage and death. What does PROMPT stand for? Easy, it stands for Personal Robot for Obliterating Many People’s Things.

My rating? Plus 6 pies

Se Dagen Vakna

Okay, another foreigner. No problem though, I used to be able to read Danish, so all is not lost. It says something about… ponies… hungry…. spandex…. uhh.. something about a large man who roams the countryside eating livestock. Thats it. Okay, so maybe it isn’t. But look at this, if this doesn’t say it all, I don’t know what does.

My rating? Negative 13 pies

I decided to stop after that, the prospect of Strumthos, the Danish spandex man whom devours cows and horses in single bites was simply too terrifying to bear. Worst button in the world.