Duraflame Log

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Duraflame log weighs less than the premature baby, and does minus ugly smells in the firething. Science proved that it burned longest past other fake wood in a Science building.






As well, this time in year is best for giving. That's why Duraflame Log of this season is giving back at people struck in the face by hard luck. When you buy the Duraflame Log from one store nearest you, we will give four percents of our profit to the ugly poor people. Because in the holidays, all the families deserve a smile, and to eat.

This winter, make your home burning in the best of ways. Buy the Duraflame Log. We'll keep your holidays merry with bright. I am Bill Schecsky.

Premi videos

So over thanksgiving break, Jake and I were up late one night doing a double dutch rudder, and we decided to take a break and get out the camera. We ejaculated some improv interviews into the camera, and after some shitty editing we ended up with these. Enjoy.

Fuck you, Nature.

Goddamit.

You know when you're out the door on your way to work, or a social gathering, or a lynching, and you get in your car, and you drive for about three minutes only to discover that you've left your phone or some other thing in the house? And all you want to do is swerve suddenly into the old couple on the sidewalk coming back from the video store because you're so frustrated?

That's what having a cold is. It's leaving your phone in the goddamn house. It's a minor inconvenience. It's a prison cell forged from moderate discomfort. It ravages your body just enough to make you lie down a lot and render you incapable of doing anything that isn't blowing the snot out of your face into fourteen rolls of toilet paper or coughing and spluttering like an Indian bread jitney.

I recently had a cold that lasted two weeks, which was long enough for me to completely give up all hope of anything ever, but not long enough for me to attempt suicide by walking into a full-to-capacity Nascar stadium and screaming "NASCAR IS THE WWE OF AUTO RACING." while masturbating with a sock and trying to get in the way of oncoming cars. In that time, I became emaciated to the point that I was mistaken for Nicole Richie on three separate occasions, communication was reduced to croaks, grunts, wild flailing hand gestures, and finally Morse code, and my testicles took on the shape and consistency of melting Raisinettes.


The common cold virus under magnification


To give you an idea of how utterly buttfucking inconvenient and wasteful being sick for that long is, I've compiled a list of all the great achievements of mankind throughout history that have been accomplished in two weeks.

Jake's Marshmallow Smore Blog-o-List© 2008: 2 -Week Triumphs Edition

1. The Eradication of the Dinosaurs

In 400 B.C., a group of paramilitary soldiers from Northern Ireland were dispatched by King George I to swiftly and systematically kill every dinosaur on the planet, thus ending their reign of terror and violence upon the peoples of the Earth. For 13 days, the soldiers carried on a military campaign unrivaled to this day in it's ruthlessness and potency, traversing all seven continents in tanks and bazookaing every dinosaur they encountered in the face. With minimal losses to their fighting force, they successfuly obliterated the entirety of the dinosaur menace and returned to their homeland as heroes, until King George declared Northern Ireland unholy and sank it with missiles into the Atlantic Ocean.

2. The Discovery of Hell

In 1968, a Scientist named Herschel Knudstein from Cambridge, Massachusetts, was engaged in a study of the original copy of The Bible, using all manner of scientific techniques and sorcery to learn more about it's origins, it's author, and the many places it had been since it had been written. While x-raying it with early infrared technology one day, he stumbled upon an inscription that had been made in watermark on the page of the 23rd psalm. Upon translation from Arabic, it was discovered that the inscription was a detailed map plotting out the exact pathway to Hell. Along with a team of cartographers and Navajo code-talkers, Herschel fleshed out the route described by the inscription in a matter of days, and soon after was preparing for an unprecedented solo journey to the gates of Hell itself. Five days after his initial discovery of the map, Herschel set out from Cambridge on a trek to be the first person to ever step foot in the fabled place of eternal damnation. After a week and a half of torturous and peril-laden travel, he arrived at his final destination. Informing the U.S. Government and the leadership of the Roman Catholic Church immediately, Herschel would describe in the letter addressed to them, "It is a loathsome and terrible place, just as very much a pit of anguish and despair as you would imagine it to be. Everywhere lost souls are to be seen, toiling in endless drudgery, their demon overlords giving them no quarter from the barbed whip. The landscape is bleak and filthy, and the screams of the damned and the deranged echo eternally from the farthest reaches of the horizon. Assuredly, it cannot be soon enough until I can leave this dreadful place." Upon returning to Cambridge, Herschel was celebrated as a national hero and pioneer, and basked in the admiration and reverence of the populace for several years, until he went mad and stabbed himself with a Tonka truck. The Department of Transportation would later rename Hell "Bakersfield, California" and build a major interstate freeway in it's immediate vicinity, giving millions of commuters every day a glimpse into the horror and unending sorrow that lay in store for them.

3. The Invention of Sex

In 1 A.D., it was decided by the world's leaders that after the birth of the baby Jesus, immaculate conception was no longer going to be a viable option for procreation. Declaring that change was necessary, the leaders convened in an unprecedented meeting of the minds, with the promise that they would not rest until a new solution had been discovered. Depriving themselves of basic human necessity, they toiled away in a noble's palace in Jerusalem, researching, debating, and testing new and various ways procreation might be achieved. Among the failed attempts were included such trials as throwing large stones at a woman's stomach, smashing two babies together in the hopes that a third would miraculously be produced from the impact, and baking pies made from human waste that were then sold to the townspeople. After 12 days, the leaders finally narrowed down the search to some form of physical contact with two bodies. Humans were paired with animals, men with men, men with women. Women and men were punched, kicked, headbutted, and indian burned. Men would swing women around by their hair, hippopotami would roll over monkeys. Every orifice was brought into play, with every body part imaginable being shoved into nostrils, anuses, and mouths. Finally, on the fourteenth day, one of the leaders suggested putting the penis of a man into the vagina of a woman. Two volunteers were chosen, and after 53 seconds, the first ejaculation of mankind took place. minutes later, a baby came tumbling forth from the woman's womb, and a riotous cheer erupted from all gathered. Word spread quickly around the globe that the leaders had succeeded, and soon people from all walks of life were having sexual intercourse, and continue to have it to this day, although it's getting a little weird, with the internet and the poop and everything.

4. The Building of the Moon

In 1862, Abraham Lincoln commissioned a team of masons and sculptors to build a massive, brilliant white spherical structure that would be capable of orbiting ceaselessly around the Earth for all eternity because, according to him "The wife says that the night sky is boring and dull and makes her want to kill slaves." Tasked with building the structure in two weeks due to a deadline imposed by Lincoln's wife, Mary (who stated she'd "go all apeshit crazy and fuck a bitch" if it wasn't completed in time), the artisans worked at a feverish pace, designing the plans, gathering the raw materials, and launching into space in a matter of days. For the next week and a half, they put in a colossal effort, assembling the giant sphere piece by piece in their primitive spacesuits and painting it one square yard at a time, until the moment came for them to gather together and give it one strong push, sending it on it's neverending course around the circumference of the Earth. Though the team lacked the rocket fuel and navigational skills to ever make it back home, and though Mary Lincoln was often heard to mutter "Where in the shit did that giant fucking ball come from?" "The Moon," as it came to be called, named after it's lead sculptor Nathaniel "The Chistlesmith" Moon, stands today as a testament to the ingenuity and limitless potential that mankind possesses.

So as you can see, even in a cosmically insignificant span of time such as two weeks, great things can be achieved. Unless you happen to be sick, like I was, in which case nothing at all can be achieved, except for wanton self-pity and pissing the color of Lemon-Lime Gatorade. I don't know who's responsible for this, but when I find them, I'm going to sodomize them with Poseidon's trident and make them watch Katie Couric's interview of SarahPalin on an endless loop until they go insane and twist off their own gonads.

For all my inconvenience, they deserve nothing less.

Potato Cannons and 60 ft. Cliff Jumps

Before I jump right into ranting about one of my all-consuming psychopathic hatreds, let me start by recapping my week.  

It's been a good week, so maybe talking about it first will help me let off a little steam before we get into the meaty goodness that this entry promises.  I went rock climbing a few times this week, first on Tuesday with my good friend Matt.  Matt showed me a boulder in the canyon about 60 feet high that hangs over a pool in between two waterfalls, which I revisited yesterday with two other friends to try out.  I also built a potato cannon out of some ABS pipe and a barbecue igniter, which looks pretty badass and I think I could use to convince Al-Qaeda to let me join if I was ever so inclined.

On another note, as a proud member of the facebook community, there is one aspect of the site....no, aspect of how people use the site that completely ruined my otherwise fun week.  Instead of enjoying the potato cannon for its intellectual benefits such as learning about propulsion and how to cave in a car door,  I found myself imagining shooting it into the face of every person who overuses the facebook "status" feature.  Instead of just enjoying the adrenaline rush of jumping off of a 60 foot cliff into a questionably safe landing pool, I found myself brainstorming about who I could there to push to their death.  Instead of just explaining what it is about the facebook status feature that upsets me so much, let me just drop a few REAL EXAMPLES of status' (stati?) from people who I have been kind enough to accept as friends.

 _________ is going to work.

_________ is home.

_________ is off work.

_________ is back from the gym.

_________ is tired.

_________ chillin'.

_________ it's friday bitch!!

First of all, these are all from different people, so it's not just one offender that is making me write this blog.  Not only that, but there are dozens more examples of these status' every day that make me think that a lobotomy might be preferable to having a facebook.  I'm going to delve a little deeper into some of the regular status' that really irk me in a section my brother so cleverly named "Hateorade".

_________ is home.

Really?  Because most people I know spend about 80% of there time there.  That is quite possibly the most uninteresting piece of information I could ever want to destroy one second of my life learning about.  I sleep about 10 hours a night, and guess where I do that 99% of the time?  AT HOME.  You know what though?  I don't broadcast to the world in a tragically feeble grasp for attention that "Marcus Moreno is sleeping."    because you know what my status would be at the exact same time the next night?   "Marcus Moreno is sleeping."  I don't find it interesting that I sleep, my parents don't find it interesting that I sleep, so why in God's name would I think anybody would care that I'm sleeping.  And honestly, it's even less interesting to know that you're "home."  At least sleeping is an action.  And last of all, if you're on facebook, chances are, you're home.

_________ is chillin'.

Right off the bat the grammar fills my body with a wonderfully psychotic, burning hatred that makes me want to put a knife between the eyes of every cuddly baby animal on the face of the earth.  It's chilling.  Chilling.  Right behind seeing the willful use of typing slang comes the realization that this person really thinks anybody is going to be interested in the fact that you are chilling.  I've never thought to myself, "I wonder if John is anxious or frustrated right now, or if he's just chilling."  Then I go online to facebook and see, YES, THANK GOD.  It's OK everybody, he's chilling.  Unless I'm hanging out with you, I could care less about how relaxed your mental state is.  Try posting something like:

"_______ is contemplating suicide."  I guarantee I'll find that one interesting.

________ it's Friday bitch!!

That is a very clear statement of fact.  Good job, it is friday.  And don't call me a bitch, I'm a grown man.

I need to stop talking about this because it's making me fussy and it's about time for my juicebox.  I'd just like to reiterate though, for all of you out there guilty of this heinous facebook offence, I'd love to try out my new potato cannon on your face.  Nothing personal, I would just like to push you off a cliff onto some rocks.  Please, for the love of God, reserve posting about your status for interesting things like jokes or "I just met Oprah."  That's awesome, who doesn't love Oprah?

-Marcus

p.s. I'm going to post some photos from my week to calm me down, and if this blog made you as angry to read it as it made me to write it, hopefully this will distract your hatred.

Just look at that body

An Afternoon With Pure Evil: My Interview With Cthulhu

On Wednesday of last week, I received a call from a steward of the underground prison dominion of The Great Old Ones. The steward told me that The Great Old Ones were planning their emergence from their sub-oceanic bondage after 100 eons, and to commemorate the occasion, their great priest, Cthulhu, wanted to sit down for an interview. In what would be unprecedented access into the life of the infamous and all-powerful God-Being, Cthulhu would discuss his past, the perception of him by the public, and what lies in store for him when he and his extraterrestrial brethren ascend to the planet's surface in a few weeks time and rain down havoc and terrifying destruction upon the peoples of the Earth.

For those unfamiliar, The Great Old ones are cosmic deities that were imprisoned here on Earth many solar cycles ago by the Elder Gods for using black magic transgressions. Doomed to remain in captivity until the stars B'glol Taurnus, Xanclath, and Njirl-Z'uqqa are in alignment, they have waited impatiently for their imminent release, when they are once again free to reign over the cosmos.

Cthulhu, the holiest of the group and messenger for the Elder Gods, is arguably the most well-known of The Great Old ones. Having roamed and laid wholesale waste to countless galaxies over the millenia, he is feared and respected in equal measure, and is considered by the bulk of humanity to be the very embodiment of pure, unadulterated evil.

Arriving the following day in the cavernous antechamber of his subterranean dwelling, R'lyeh, I was seated by a tribal cult slave and told to wait. Cthulhu was deflowering 200 virgins simultaneously and then bathing in their blood, so he was to be a few minutes. I intended to immerse myself in the ornate architecture fashioned from human skeletons, baby elephant scalps, and charred Red Cross vehicles, but I didn't have long to wait. Cthulhu arrived with great thundering footsteps and horrifying screams, and, with him placing all 600 feet of himself in a throne opposite my own chair, we began our chat.


Yours truly with the interview subject

(Author's note: The interpreter minion arrived slightly late, so I was unable to translate Cthulhu's reply to my first question. It is therefore printed here unedited, in Cthulhu's native tongue.)

Jake: Cthulhu, thank you so much for agreeing to sit down with me for this interview, it is such an incredible honor, I can't even tell you. You must be very excited for your upcoming release, yes?

Cthulhu: KM'OL JUNG LETHDAHH JOOO'GN CHAUGNAR CXAXUKLUTH BO'MET ZCHU GIRR'DEQ FA JHEN TLO AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAA
AARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHH.

Jake: Absolutely, absolutely. So, this is an amazing place. What's it like down here, how do you bide your time while you wait for the Ascendance? You've been in captivity for a very long time.

Cthulhu: Torture. Chaos. Genocide. Wanton sexual indulgence. Gluttony. Also every Thursday my god-brothers and I get together and play Battleship.

J: That sounds like a lot of fun, and surprisingly innocent for a being of your reputation.

C: We use real Battleships with real soldiers inside.

J: Ah. Right. That makes more sense. And speaking of your kin, how do you get along? Do you enjoy each other's company down here?

C: No. I hate them all. I would incinerate them with fire and brimstone if they were not just as powerful as I.

J: No love lost then, eh?

C: I do not understand the concept of love. I understand the ecstatic feeling I experience when I watch a child's flesh burn from it's bones, or when I put my holy vessel into a she-slave's pleasure-hole.

J: Let's switch gears for a moment here. What was your childhood like? Was it a pleasant one?

C: It was very pleasant. In my youth I raped and pillaged many small planets at the urgings of the Elder Gods, and would often phase in and out of different dimensions to upset the very balance of the universe.

J: Were you close to your mother?

C: I have no mother. I was birthed by the outer cosmos, which I then exploded, because they were not to my liking.

J: I see. Are you close to anyone then? One of the Elder Gods, or some of your minions?

C: You are in my immediate proximity, as is the interpreter minion.

J: No, I mean, I are you close to anyone, do you have a bond with anybody, a best friend, a partner, something like that?

C: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

J: So that's a negative.

C: I like you, question-human, you make me laugh. Probably I won't twist off your head later on.

J: That's awesome. Tell me, Do you bask in the reputation that you have throughout the universe and, specifically, here on Earth, or do you feel that it's somewhat unfair and unjust, and perhaps people just haven't taken the time to understand the real you?

(At this point, Cthulhu picked up the interpreter minion and slowly crushed him between his thumb and forefinger. A replacement was sent in immediately.)

C: I have forgotten the question.

J: Do you think you've been misunderstood by the universe? Is the perception people have of you unfair?

C: My intentions are clear. If you are living, I want you to not live. If you are happy, I want to crush the happiness out of you until you sit on a stone made from despair. If your world is a lush and wonderful garden, I want to burn it to a cinder. Anyone who misunderstands this is a stupid fool, and I hope to draw out those people's deaths as long as is physically possible.

J: So they're all right on the money then. With Cthulhu, what you see is what you get.

C: I will annihilate everyone.

J: Okay.


Moving on, what are your plans when you are released from your prison in three weeks time? What can the people of Earth expect when Cthulhu and the rest of The Great Old Ones take their first steps in 100,000 years onto the Earth's surface?

C: Suffering.

J: Uh huh. Anything else?

C: Misery. Hopelessness. Shame. Damnation.

J: That's very ambitious. Sounds like you've got a very full plate once you're free.

C: Carnage. Immolation. Guilt. Disgust. I will go to your White House and paint it red with the blood of the innocent. I will empty the Atlantic Ocean and dump it on the swath of land you call China, because I want to see all the floating bicycles. I will also find the girl-humans called Miley Cyrus and Dakota Fanning, and violate them until both their bodies are one mass.

J: I think we've all wanted to do that at some point. Well, Cthulhu, I want to thank you for your time, I know this is the first and very likely the last interview you're ever going to give, and I'm grateful to have been chosen for the opportunity. I wish you all the luck in your upcoming re-emergence, and I hope it's everything you've been waiting for.

C: Your kind words are unnecessary. This prison-rock will burn in the most spectacular of fashions. It's destruction will have a special chapter in the Galactic Scrolls of the Byydrl-Z'hdek, and will be remembered and marveled at for thousands of centuries. Go now. I must spawn a 100-foot Michael Jackson to place in the holding pen of all the children-slaves.

And with that, the interview was over. I was whisked away by an escort-minion and led to an iron carriage that set off immediately for home. As I mulled over my time with Cthulhu on my journey back and tried to organize my impressions, one particular thing as regards the sacred high-priest stuck in my mind: Everyone was right. He is very, very evil. Evil in a way that none of us humans will ever have the cognitive capacity to understand, not even the likes of Adolph Hitler, Charles Manson, or Ryan Seacrest. His malice and appetite for the decimation of all things in the universe is simply beyond our scope, or the scope of any of the civilizations in the hundreds of billions of galaxies in this universe. It is because of this that he will remain a legend for all time, never forgotten, his legacy never lost to the infinite plains of eternity.

None of this really matters though, because in three weeks, we are totally fucked.

-Jake

Rockstars

"I have condoms, will you have sex with me?"

Women don't ask me this question nearly as much as I would like, however I had the good fortune to hear it asked of someone else just yesterday. Yesterday, at a free Pepper concert in the Volcom store in Santa Barbara, a beautiful, questionably 18 year old girl walked up to the guitarist and lead singer and asked him "Will you sign my poster?"

Alright, that's pretty innocent. Her next move was to lean her leg up against mine while I sat on the stage and ask him to sign her leg. Her smooth, tan, dear God please let me fuck this girl leg. The guitarist obviously obliged, and moved on to sign the back of my shirt. BUT, while he was signing my shirt, this girl came back for one more request and said, and I quote, "I have condoms, will you have sex with me?"

Pepper

Like i said, I really don't hear this question enough. If I asked a girl this, I would get a face full of pepperspray plus a possible 6 month stint getting my asshole pounded by a mongoloid who calls me "Cream of Meat". I know for a fact this girl would slap any guy who asked her the same question, but she was enamored enough with this guitarist to straight out ask him in front of other people if he would bend her over backwards and fuck her like she was 7 again. I got to thinking, just how much power does being a rockstar really give you? They're not able to successfully promote political agendas (unless you're Bono, and like I've said before, that man needs a stake through his skull), they're not necessarily that rich, and most have no freedom to do anything other than travel and perform. I have to say though, the power to play you're guitar and have a beautiful girl offer herself to you is better than any other power I can think of.

That made me realize, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad (president of Iran in case you're retarded) isn't pissed off because America is killing his people or because America treats him like they would a petulant child with the potential to nuke Jerusalem, it's because he isn't getting enough free pussy. Every powerful man in history only took the job because he thought he'd get some free power-pussy out of it, but in today's heavily cultured world, the political leaders are losing the free pussy battle to the rockstars. Every great ruler in history did a good job because he was being satisfied under his desk while he was making decisions. Julius Caesar had three wives, was fucking the Queens of Egypt and Mauretania, and was nailing his best friend Brutus' mom (Little known fact, that's probably why Brutus betrayed him). Fast-forward to now, we all know about Bill Clinton's love life, and he was a great leader. JFK was fucking Marilyn Monroe, and Abraham Lincoln had a taste for the whores.

With this knowledge, how can people still expect kids to try in school or pursue higher education? I know that my drive to achieve in college is pretty hard to maintain, considering that I could just take up smoking pot and walking around LA with an unbuttoned shirt and my guitar. Which would really make me happier? Do I hope for the deferred gratification of a good job with a good salary and a hot gold-digging trophy wife, or do I go for the spontaneous gratification of skanks craving my manly phallus because of my mediocre guitar-playing skills?

Seems like an easy answer to me. Why am I even still writing this blog? Why did this blog have so many question marks? Why does the bible trace David's lineage to Joseph if Joseph wasn't really Jesus' dad? Why do I get a boner when I watch Spongebob Squarepants? Fuck this, I don't even know what I'm saying. This blog sucks and you may hate me for it, but I won't care when you're blowing me for playing you some shitty cookie-cutter lovesong.

-Marcus

Bolt versus Gay: What's in a name?

In keeping with the current Olympic theme started by my brother Marcus, I thought I'd sound off on one of the events that doesn't get as much attention as it should, mostly because that alien cyborg Michael Phelps keeps driving his competitors to suicide, and most of the men in this country are pedophiles who keep tuning in only when Shawn Johnson is flipping around the balance beam in her underwear.

The event is the 100-meter dash. It's a spectacular, awe-inspiring contest, containing some of the most ferocious, visceral displays of fitness and athleticism since those four LAPD officers beat the hell out of Rodney King.

The men and women that take part in this event embody everything my mind conjures up when I think of the word "athlete." They are coordinated, powerful, and unbelievably fast. One of these such men was the favorite going into the Beijing games, the American Tyson Gay.

Gay is a 26-year-old from Lexington, Kentucky, and holds the official world record for the fastest 100-meter ever run at 9.68 seconds, which is only slightly slower than the unofficial time put in by Rush Limbaugh earlier this year when he leaped from his car to retrieve a Chunky bar that a child had dropped on the sidewalk.

Two weeks before the games began, at the Olympic trials in Eugene, Oregon, Gay was nearly launched into orbit when his hamstring exploded during his 200-meter qualifying run. Despite his protestations that he would be in top condition for the games, the Eugene incident came back to haunt him during the qualifying heat for the 100-meter event. Finishing a lowly 5th as a result of his injury, he was automatically out of contention for the final, and any possibility of a medal.



Gay prepares for takeoff


A few hours later, the pistol-shot marking the start of the 100-meter final was inching ever closer as the competitors walked onto the field.

Enter Usain Bolt.

Born in 1986 in Trelawny, Jamaica, Usain Bolt partook in sprinting from a young age. He had won several medals in various championship meets throughout his career, and came to the Beijing games fresh from having won two silver medals at the World Championships in Osaka, Japan.

At 6-foot-5, Bolt walked onto the field like some kind of Rastafarian Frankenstein. Few paid him any attention as he squared up in his lane, as other more established athletes surrounded him on the track.

The gun went off, and 9.69 seconds later, the entire world knew who Bolt was as he virtually smashed the competition, taking the gold and setting an Olympic world record in the process. As Bolt ran and danced around the track like Howard Dean at a campaign rally, the other competitors slunk off the field into anonymity, and probably early deaths.

Where did this Usain Bolt come from, and how did he rise from relative obscurity to achieve ultimate success in his event while the favorite, Tyson Gay, stewed in the Olympic Village, gorging himself on Filets 'o Fish and yelling obscenities at the rowing teams?

The answer is buried deep in Bolt's surname.

It doesn't matter how talented and proficient you are in your chosen field, if your name is "Gay," then somewhere, someday, someone with a name less god-awful and unfortunate is going to come along and beat you at your own game. Tyson Gay just had the misfortune of competing in an Olympics where a guy named Bolt came out of nowhere to challenge him on his own turf.

Let's break it down here for a moment: Usain's last name literally means "to start suddenly and run away." Gay's last name means "When a man does things to another man that shames and horrifies God and makes puppies run head-on into oncoming traffic." You see? Bolt was always going to triumph over Gay, it was a forgone conclusion.

Do you know why the entire world isn't currently under the oppressive and barbaric rule of the Nazi Empire? Because Adolph Hitler's first name was Adolph. Adolphs don't seize power and control the globe, they play competitive lawn-darts and get irritable bowels when they have too much dairy.

Your name is what defines you and your chances for success in life. This is why we've never had a President Delmer. Look at all the names of Army Generals throughout the years that have had successful campaigns in their respective wars: Gen. Armstrong Custer, Gen. George Patton, Gen. "Stormin' Norman" Schwarzkopf. Hell, even the Iraq war turned around in our favor a little bit when Gen. Patraeus came along, and that's because his name sounds like an evil alien overlord who wears necklaces made out of baby legs and rides around in a caravan that rolls on panda carcasses. If General of American forces during the Vietnam war Paul Harkin's name had been Gen. PussyMagnet McDeathsabre, he would have had that shit sewn up in three months.

Tyson Gay, additionally, would have had the 100-meter sewn up, if his father had stapled on a nutsack when he was a young man and gone to the Hall of Records to change his last name. But he didn't, and so saddled his son with a terrible burden, sealing his fate of a lifetime of mediocrity the day he came whimpering out of his mother's womb. He was never going to win a medal at these Olympic games, was never going to be a champion, and that makes his story all the more tragic.

Borne from this tragedy however, was a man with a nearly implausibly awesome name who emerged from the ashes on the battleground of Olympic Competition victorious, triumphant, and etched in the annals of History. Usain Bolt, that fleet-footed sasquatch who came out of Nowhere, Jamaica to clinch the loftiest prize an athlete can aspire to, will never be forgotten, and neither will his achievement of having the coolest fucking name in the history of the universe. That's the stuff of true champions.

-Jake

Thatsa spicya meat-a-ball!

Hooray stereotypical racism.

I'm really excited to bring you guys another exclusive olympics story tonight, this one's also about gymnastics.  Even I'm a little thrown by this one, because what are the chances that I personally uncovered two major Olympic stories, neither of which have made their way to mainstream news yet.

This time, I was just minding my own business trying to bring some comfort to a broken olympian.  I was spending some private time with American gymnast Alicia Sacramone, trying to soothe her jangled nerves.  If anyone saw the women's team finals two nights ago you're well aware that Alicia had a tough night.  Some people may hold it against her, but even before I discovered the truth I understood and accepted the nerve-filled performance.  HOWEVER, last night in our private time, she......um........a-hem........she uh..........gagged........................................ and Lo and Behold!......she coughed up a meatball.  THAT'S RIGHT, Alicia had a bad night not because of nerves, but because of sabotage.  The Italians, the FUCKING Italians slipped a plate of meatballs in front of her before the competition, and come on, who can turn down free meatballs?

I know there's nothing we can do about this disgusting foul play by the Italians now, but I just wanted to clear the record as to why Alicia really fell while mounting the balance beam and fell on her butt and went out of bounds on the floor routine.  It was because of those dirty grape-stompers from Italy.

So when all of you negative Nancies and doubting Debbies and fuckface Francine's and douchebag Darlas say she choked because of nerves, you're just plain fucking wrong.  She choked because of a meatball.

-Marcus

All Quiet on the Squinty-Eyed Front

The mood is sombre today in Japan after last night's severely disappointing performance in men's gymnastics. The Japanese team, regarded as one of the two best teams in the world along with China, ended the night over 7 points behind the home team in what will surely be one of the biggest disappointments for Japan in this year's Olympic Games.


Many analysts will tell you that the Japanese failure was due to the incredible amount of pressure to take gold or because of their "faggot hair", however on my recent trip to Japan I think I uncovered where their gymnastics program really went wrong. I was on one of my philanthropic missions around the world donating my semen to hungry young women when I met Olympic gymnastics coach Sum Joo in a whorehouse in downtown Tokyo. We had a few drinks, shared some women, things got a little weird, and the next thing I knew I woke up in their world class gymnastics training facility.

Of course I was surprised to find that their training facility contained no gymnastics apparatus', weights, or Chuck Norris Total Gyms, but instead there were about 15 big screen televisions dispersed around the room with a Wii console attached to each one. Joo went on to tell me that in an experimental move, he chose to train his gymnasts using Wii fit. He said while he wasn't sure if it would guarantee a gold in this year's Beijing games, "at least we'll still beat those sissy motherfuckers from the US". Even so, he said he was confident that Wii fit would boost the performances of his gymnasts and possibly bring them a gold medal over the slightly favored China home team.



While history will not remember Japan as this year's gold medalists, I will remember Sum Joo's almost clairvoyant prediction that his team would beat the US's "sissy motherfuckers". I had the chance to talk to Joo last night after the medal ceremony, and he assured me that this year's failure doesn't mean an end to his team Wii Fit training regiment.



"We Japanese love video games, and if I can coach a team to an Olympic medal playing them then we are going to stick with it. We can only hope that the upcoming bonus exercise downloads and the possible release of Wii Fit 2 before the next Olympic games will lead us to gold in 2012."



-Marcus

Important Things That Are Happening in the World: Cubans Launch Space Program

Havana, Cuba, The Earth - It was announced today by The Revolutionary Armed Forces of Cuba a bunch of dirty ex-convicts with tanks that after decades of research, planning, construction, and beating indigents with sticks, the Republic of Cuba is finally launching it's own space program.

Rumors of a Cuban space program have been popping up sporadically for years, but were always brushed off as scaremongering by the U.S. government to keep Americans from buying Cuban cigars, or attempts by Ted Kennedy to deflect attention from the fact that he is a drunken, morbidly obese murderer who still employs slaves and thinks that the one thing that would make America even greater is "more serial rape."

With today's announcement however, the validity of these rumors has been established and the endless whisperings, debate, and ethnic/tribal chanting can be put to rest.

Speaking from the program's (officially dubbed "¡Spaceship Fantastico!") mission control in an abandoned Vallarta parking lot, project leader Lt. Ga. Hugo Ortiz Escobar Adobe El Torito III talked to the Associated Press about the long and arduous journey his fascist nation-state had taken in order to achieve this technological milestone.

"Ever since the United States put a chimpanzee in a trashcan filled with explosive liquid hydrogen and blasted him to his death into outer space, the Republic of Cuba has longed to plumb the virgin depths of the cosmos as well, so that we might learn about life, the universe, and where we came from, and also to find a possible place to relocate so that we can get out of this fucking stinkhole.

"Now we are proud to announce that we have achieved this monumental goal, and eagerly anticipate the launch of our first mission in three days time.

"And while we are ecstatic, the road to success has not been an easy one, and we must not forget the sacrifices we have made to get to this point. In getting this program off the ground (AHAHAHAHA, I didn't even mean to do that), thousands of lives have been lost or irreparably destroyed, our GDP has withered to twelve dollars as of last fiscal year, and enterprising young Cubans fleeing to America must now do so on rafts made of other Cubans that have been crudely lashed together, as the rubber normally used for rafts has been appropriated to build our space shuttle."



Following Lt. Ga. El Torito III's address, the space shuttle and it's crew were unveiled to the gathered crowd. The crew, consisting entirely of peasant civilians with no prior experience with piloting aircraft, zero-gravity environments, or using electricity, were warmly applauded and then herded into the back of a waiting truck with billy clubs when they tried to flee the staging area.

The shuttle itself, christened "Caja de la Cogida," was then revealed when a massive burlap quilt that had been shrouding the gantry fell, and a Mariachi-band broke into a rousing rendition of "MacArthur Park," by Richard Harris.

Requiring four years of construction time and utilizing the most state-of-the-art technology available from Bangladesh, the shuttle wowed and delighted the audience. Built from a hyrdroformed composite of steel, industrial-grade plastic, and Cuban children's tears, the spacecraft is durable enough to withstand three or four mission cycles before it completely implodes on itself in a massive fireball. It's heat-shield is comprised of old sweet-bread loaves donated stolen in the night from local bakeries, and is unique in that each loaf only gets harder and more impenetrable as heat levels increase. Lt. Ga. El Torito III praised the shuttle design and assembly teams for the quality of the work they had done given how small their budget was.

"For our team to design such a sophisticated and capable craft with a budget of only nine thousand dollars is an achievement worthy of much praise and admiration. These men are tireless, dedicated team members who forfeited much to see this program become a success. It's amazing what a human being can do when he is striving towards a goal of this magnitude and importance, and when his entire family is being held at gun-point by our secret police in a corner of the assembly hangar."

After the crew and shuttle presentation, the event was ended with music and fireworks, and a barrage of tear gas fired into the viewing area by the local militia that quickly dispersed the crowd. The first launch of Caja De La Cogida will take place on August 13 at 8:00 AM EST. During the mission, which will last two days, the mission control team hopes to observe the effects of zero gravity on the astronaut's large, bushy mustaches, and to not atomize the entire flight crew.

-Jake

Banana Boat: Big Business Bigotry

Uno, dos, tres, catorce. Shut up Bono. Please, for the love of God, die.

Now that I've got that off my chest, I'd like to bring to light one of the most abbhorable yet least noticed examples of racism in America today: Banana Boat sun products. For years this company has waged war on racial equality by using science to keep the whites white and make the darkies darker. Everybody knows that only white people use sunblock, which keeps them white and challenges the sun's campaign to make them more 'color neutral'. In the same way Banana Boat is working to keep whites white, they are making the dark-skinned even darker. Only people with already tan skin use sun-"tan" lotion, which is making them darker every year and moving the world closer and closer, shade by shade, to a world defined by just two races: black and white.

Perhaps the most offensive part of this campaign against racial equality is its focus on children. Gone are the days when kids were taught from an early age to discriminate, right? Wrong. Here's your proof:

BABY SUNBLOCK!!!!!!!

(I expect royalty checks, Hairproducts.com)

Proof positive that corporate America is breeding racism, in the same way John Mellencamp breeds hatred of John Mellencamp every time he sings.

Now please don't think that Banana Boat is the only company guilty of these offensive behaviors. Countless other companies have taken up the racism cross since the government dropped it in the 70's. Bullfrog, Neutrogena, Coppertone. The only reason I chose to call out Banana Boat is because I enjoy alliteration. I used alliteration because I like alliteration, even thought I know it has a tendency to rapidly repel regular readers........Shit.

Much like the great Stephen Colbert, I am racially colorblind. However, unlike Stephen, when I hear someone speaking poor English I recognize them as black. I love and embrace other races' charming inadequacies, and for this reason I am sickened by the sun product market's lack of tolerance and their perpetuation of differences in skin color.

-Marcus

Now I am become death cupcakes, the destroyer piñata of worlds.

Writing introductions about yourself is really hard. This fact is evidenced by every "about me" section on every MySpace page ever. Have you read some of those things? Probably you haven't, because they're terrible and no one wants to read terrible things, unless you are stupid, or a fan of "Family Circus."

Here are some "about me" excerpts that I took at random to help me illustrate my point. And by "took at random," I mean "took from anyone who's screenname included curlicues, stars, or the word 'dawgg', and also some of my friends."



• yo wut up yall my name is ty. i'm 27 and i'm str8 livin and keepin it krunk here in peoria illinois. if yall now of any fine biches or r a str8 up fine azz chickenhead urself, holla at a boy SNAAAAAP
  



• i luv cats, im usually cold, im still looking for my night in shinning armor, my last name rymes with bull, and bull is what a taurus is and im totally a taurus!!!!!1!one. amandah [LUV U!!!!!!!!!!!11!] is my bff 4ever and if pinkberry ever lifts that no loitering charge againts us we r TOTALLY going to get summer jobs there!@!!!!!



• Life is a dark and solemn journey, and we are but faeries huddled on the eaves of a watchtower as we fruitlessly try and grasp that ethereal silken web that is truth and catch those glistening silver raindrops that are happiness and love eternal. My IM is Doug42661.

You see what I mean? It's nearly impossible to write an introduction for yourself without looking like you're functionally retarded, or so fucking batshit insane that even PETA won't allow you to come to their rallies anymore.

In an attempt to circumvent this unpleasantness, I'm going to forgo trying to tell you all about myself and instead list out some of the things I hate. This will give you some kind of idea of who I am, and will also act as a guide for things you should not bring up in conversation with me unless you want me to walk away and/or hit you with a brick.

Jake's Bloglist© Edition #1: Hateorade

1 - Local commercials for mattress warehouses that feature infuriating owner/mascots with equally infuriating catchphrases like "I won't take high prices lying down!" and "I hereby decree Royal Savings!!"

2 - Tiny fuel-efficient cars from Europe that explode into a million pieces, killing all occupants inside if you bump into the door with your leg, or if a pigeon takes a crap on the hood.

3 - Girls who tell you "it's not you, it's me" when they're breaking up with you. That's a lie. It's always you. If it was them, they wouldn't be dumping you, for fear of never finding anyone who would date them ever again. Also, "I still want us to be friends" means she wants your relationship with her to be exactly the same as before, except that you don't get to put your penis in her vagina.

4 - Pennies. Seriously. What the fuck.

5 - That high-pitched shrieking sound that a bag of chips makes when you're struggling to open it and makes me want to strangle orphans and eat my own face.

6 - People who use the phrases "hella" and "butthurt." You are why the planet Earth is a terrible place to live.

7 - Love song dedication shows. What is this? Why does this exist? I can't think of anything I'd rather listen to less than a bunch of valium-popping, sexually frustrated housewives professing their love/sorrow to their significant others who are off having sex with other people anyway, because they couldn't stand that their spouse listens to love song dedication shows.

8 - Potato bugs. What kind of a god would create a creature so heinously unholy and terrifying that a human being's only available instinctual reaction when he sees one is to soil himself? Certainly not my god. And probably not yours either. If anything, the potato bug proves that there is no god, and that we should all give up and live like hooligan banshees, fornicating in the street and hunting poor people for sport.

I also hate other things, but hopefully this list has proved to be a fantastic solid adequate introduction and given you some insight into who I am and the direction that I'll be taking on this site. My brother Marcus and I will be posting alternately, so there will always be new content to read, and if you come to the page and there isn't, then just keep hitting your "refresh" button on your browser until there is.

-Jake

I'm Better Than You

My name is Marcus Moreno, I am a member of the Flying Moreno Brothers, and yes, I absolutely am better than you. In my relatively short 19 years of life, I have accomplished more than a regular man can in 5 lifetimes. I've climbed Everest, seen the spectacular ruins of Macchu Pichu, and killed a lion with my bare hands. I've entertained the Queen of England on 3 separate occasions, each time with a virtuosic performance on a different instrument. I'm fluent in 11 languages, I've made love to beautiful women in 16 countries, I've been accepted to Harvard, Yale, and Princeton, and I ended a 30 year old war between Botswana and Zambia. I invented the cure for Polio and gave acting lessons to Brad Pitt. I invented the term "Dirty Sanchez" and popularized the use of the word "Fuck" in everyday conversation. I've won the Scripps Howard National Spelling Bee, run with the bulls in Spain, and travelled to space with the NASA Young Astronauts program. I've written 4 bestselling novels, eaten mountain goat feces, and stapled my thumb to my ear twice. I coached the 2005 Japanese little league baseball team to a little league world series championship, was charged with 19 DUI's in the summer of '93 (I was 4), and received an honorary Heisman from the NCAA.

One thing I have not done, however, is write a blog. If this blog written by myself and my equally God-like brother is anywhere as incredible as our lives have been, prepare to have your mental cherry's popped by our penis-like wit and insight. I promise to shove my fist of justice into the vagina of tyranny, and money-shot my comedy right into the face of every sad soul looking for the slightest glimmer of light in their dark, depressing lives. If you are reading this, count yourself blessed. Not by God, but by me for sharing a little bit of my revolutionary mind with you. Thank you for reading, and WATCH THE FUCK OUT for the Flying Moreno Brothers.