I recently made the mistake of sitting through Oliver Stone’s recent film: “Savages.” While leaving the theater, I couldn’t help but notice large herds of degenerates muttering under their breaths: “movies just ain’t what they used to be,” and “boy I tell ya, cinema died with Alfred Hitchcock.” These people were wearing cutoff Def Leppard T-shirts and wrinkled cargo pants, serving as unpleasant reminders of a bygone era. Upon closer inspection, it was confirmed in my head and I finally realized who these people were: irrelevant.
You know what? Fuck Alfred Hitchcock. I hate all of his movies. I’m tired of hearing wrinkly old toads, raising their granny glasses at me and preaching about the classics. Snobby culture elitists (writers for the New York Times) will claim that innovators like Michael Bay are cheapening cinema by making movies solely for profit and skipping over the “artistic vision” and “life-lesson” aspects of film. I’ve seen a lot of shitty art-flicks in my day, and let me tell you, there is nothing more nauseatingly void of meaning than the artistic visions of auteur filmmakers. There will be static shots of a tangerine for 10 minutes straight, while some lady moans in the background. Cut to a scene of a monkey howling with no explanation, then some old woman puts paint on her vagina. What are we supposed to take away from that? I can inject a bunch of meaning into the stupid imagery: maybe the tangerine represents the stolen virginity of the artist, or maybe it represents religion somehow! Or maybe it’s a bunch of forced, contrived, horseshit. This is why art-flicks are ultimately failures: with the à la carte symbolism where anyone can derive whatever meaning they choose, the film winds up completely vapid and interchangeable with anything else that could possibly be on a screen.
You know what’s infinitely better? Watching massive, glistening CGI robots shoot giant explosions over the pyramids of Giza, interspliced with shots of people orgasming. That’s positively more meaningful than watching a time-lapse of a tangerine. What are two things that everyone in the world can relate to, regardless of culture, race, gender, etc.? Sex and violence. Humanity has been paved upon the bloody lubricant stained highways of combat and cunnilingus. In the last 3,400 years of human history, there have only been an estimated 250 years of “peace,” and even that peace is relative because it excludes civil wars and intra-national conflicts. Every death and sex scene in a movie is representative of humanity’s struggle to be at the top; the timeless cycle of life, death, and rebirth. Watching robots, the pinnacle of modern technology, fighting over a pyramid, humanity’s most perennial monument, all in a battle to save the cosmos and juxtaposed with an alpha-male engaging in sexual intercourse with a nubile woman, is literally: fucking awesome.
I’m tired of the old and the weak trying to make me feel ashamed for appreciating two of humanity’s greatest exports. Enough with the rotting old tangerines, give me more violence and sex. And 40s. 40s are good too.
If you’ve ever been unfortunate enough to argue with a “hippy,” or anyone going through a phase involving drinking herbal tea, camping, and reading Henry David Thoreau, you’ve probably heard the following words:
“I only put natural things in my body.”
“I don’t trust that, it’s unnatural.”
This of course, makes perfect sense —providing you have the IQ of Snooki’s unborn child, and long-term untreated syphilis (her child probably has that too). What is it about the word “natural” that lulls everyone into a smug sense of self-assurance? It makes it incredibly easy for companies whose job it is to adapt to trends and stay relevant, to sell rehashed bullshit to oblivious purchasers under the guise of being “natural.” All they do is stamp the magic words somewhere on the packaging and people eat that shit up like gluttonous vultures.
This logical fallacy is being thrown left and right in political and social spheres —which pisses me off almost more than Enya. People argue against gay marriage and birth control because they’re “unnatural,” while on the flipside, a lot of dipshit potheads argue for legalization of marijuana because they “trust everything that comes from Mother Earth.” Really? Next time try arsenic, shit head. (Note: marijuana should be legalized, but not because it’s “natural.” There is nothing natural about ingesting smoke.)
In a futile attempt to debunk this ubiquitous myth, here is a list of some things that are natural, versus things that are not:
Climate control —that’s right, how do you like the luxury of having regulated heat in the winter and AC in the summer? Don’t like it? Great! Build a fire and enjoy freezing to death while watching your house burn down —I’ll be the last to join you. Buildings in the developed world are corporate, meaning they’re well lit, earthquake resistant, climate-controlled, and free of bugs and rodents. There is nothing “natural” about that, and yet it seems to be most people’s preference.
Facebook — that’s right, the social media juggernaut that all you idiots use to
singlehandedly take down Joseph Kony (contribute nothing at all to the world) is being powered by electricity and runs on a global system of interconnected computer networks. There is literally nothing natural about it.
Prosthetic Limbs — Ever plan on losing a limb? Most people don’t, and most people probably aren’t going to be clinging on to their “It’s unnatural” mantra when in desperate need of an appendage. Hypocrites!
Feeding Tubes — made of polyurethane or silicone, these are typically used for, oh you know, saving lives.
Defibrillation — So you thought it was natural to have high-powered electrodes shocking your heart and bringing you back to life right? Of course not, you didn’t think.
Smart phones, GPS, contact lenses, SCUBA, the Internet, iPods, airplanes, vaccines, remote controls, Antihistamines, Chucky E Cheese, the list goes on… Now let’s take a look at some things that are naturally occurring.
Anthrax, hurricanes, tapeworms, avalanches, Malaria, AIDS, earthquakes, bears, cockroaches, influenza…Over 9,000+ poisonous plants, thousands of diseases, bacteria, moulds, viruses, parasites etc. Read a list about all the great natural things in the world here.
My appeal is simple, next time you find yourself about to open your mouth boasting about how great something is because it’s natural —don’t. That being said, there is one thing, which occurs naturally and does live up to the hype: 40s. Thanks to Mother Nature there is a process known as saccharification which turns cereal grains into fermented sugar. The end result is typically me drinking the sugar and being happy. I love 40s.
You feel the stimulation building. As it escalates to the point of no turning back, you prepare to be overcome by intensity. Your brain is dishing out more dopamine than your body knows what to do with, and in the final moment, the crescendo of emotional ecstasy, you freeze. BAM! Suddenly, it’s over. You don’t know what happened but you feel a strange tingling sensation, and you know you want more.
I am of course referring to blacking out. Blacking out is one of the most virtuous experiences.
Don’t believe me? Well then take a look at this proof: Nirvana has been described as “freedom from pain, worry, and the external world.” What happens when you black out? The official medical definition is: “temporarily free from pain, worry, and the external world.” You don’t have to be a rocket surgeon to see the parallels. It’s as easy as Pamela Anderson, but it shouldn’t stop there.
Every achievement in human history can be measured in blackouts. The Egyptian workers who built the pyramids were paid directly in beers. They skipped the pleasantries of random currency metal bullshit paper and went straight to the core: beers, the occasional loaf of bread, and blacking out. The wheels of progress kept spinning: in the middle-ages, beer was cleaner than water since rivers were usually contaminated with E. Coli. Blacking out was thus considered a noble thing to do as only people of high status could drink beers in excess. Not surprisingly, the annual consumption of beers was about 65 gallons a year, per capita. Those were the glory days.
It seems that in modern cultures, beer-drinking has been largely put on the back-burner. The culprit is a bizarre ritual behavior modern humans partake in, consisting of arbitrary drivel every day from 9 AM to 5 PM, sometimes known as “work.” No one is quite sure where this strange concept originated or why people do it, but sociologists speculate it has its roots in self-loathing. Thankfully alcohol still secures its rank as the meat and potatoes; we now have what is appropriately named “Happy Hour.”
What really tugs the camel’s dick, however, is what I have deemed “The Blackout Zen.” The Blackout Zen is one of the most fulfilling sensations in the human spectrum. It frequently occurs after a night of heavy alcohol consumption, leaving you only vague clues as to your past encounters and interactions. Here’s where the Blackout Zen comes in: despite having no knowledge of your experiences, you still feel a deep sense of fulfillment and retrospective bliss. It’s kind of like when you get in a fight with your significant other, and somehow the fight is resolved. You have no idea what happened or what you did to mend things, but you know it was right. That’s the Black Out Zen in a nutshell.
Peace. Love. Blackout Zen.
Anonymous asked: Just seen your moronic article on Listverse and thought it couldn't get any worse. Then I read some of your other articles. Now all I can do, out of mercy, is offer you some simple advice. Before you touch another key on your computer, do 3 things: 1. Take your head out of your ass. 2. Go to college. 3. Lose your virginity (if you can). That is all.
Hollywood is filled with good and bad directors. Here are ten of the most overrated:
10. M. Night Shyamalan
M. Night Shyamalan is to movies what Michael Vick is to dogs. Trying to sit through his movies is almost as difficult as trying to pronounce his name. After his 1999 debut Sixth Sense, he evidently let fame and success get to his head and the rest is tragedy. His only recent, notable achievement is that he literally turned into a punch line: anytime his name appears on a screen now, it is immediately followed by audible sighs and laughter.
9. Wes Anderson
I’m sure every barista at Starbucks finds Wes Anderson’s hipster approach to comedy to be on the forefront of clever and witty. To everyone else, it’s completely disjointed and unfunny. The awkwardness is supposed to be where the charm lies, but instead is where the humor ends. Apologists of Wes Anderson will claim, “No, you just don’t get his shtick.” How incredibly convenient to accuse everyone else of being the problem and not him, and how smug and condescending as well.
8. Joel and Ethan Coen
The Coen brothers’ tactic of taking normal genres and then subverting them is interesting, original, and annoying. No Country For Old Men for example, is a classic Western, except it is completely lacking of any action or sound. The result for the audience is a bored, frustrated feeling similar to that of sitting around at the airport and finding out your flight was delayed.
7. George Lucas
I’m not going to deny that George Lucas is a genius —the first three Star Wars movies are firmly rooted as three innovative and timeless classics. It is precisely for that reason that I find it so insulting when Lucas decided to slop together The Phantom Menace, reviving and subsequently ruining the series. The new Star Wars movies are completely oversaturated with special effects and utterly lacking in content. Characters like “Lord Dooku” and “Jar Jar Binks” represent the death of a once meaningful artistic vision.
6. Tim Burton
Tim Burton would be a great movie director if the role of the director were to promote merchandise for Hot Topic stores. Catering largely to the prepubescent, emotionally unstable crowd, Burton’s movies accentuate weirdness the same way that corn kernels highlight fecal matter. Not one for subtlety, his zany, hip personality seems to muddy up all of his movies to the point where they blend into one giant cesspool. Movies like Corpse Bride and Batman Returns really actually do make me seriously depressed, so I guess all that dark imagery bullshit worked.
5. Zach Braff
Remember seeing Garden State back in high school and thinking, “Wow I can relate to this so well!” Go back and re-watch it. It’s an incredibly pretentious movie that feigns profundity by having a bunch of cheap, vaguely philosophical dialogue. Quotes like:
“ You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore?”
Whoaaaaa…. Great insight Mr. Braff! Thank you for making us question the…well.. nothing in particular? The characters are constantly pontificating, almost as if they have an invisible glass of wine they are swishing throughout the entire movie. And yet in the end, nothing is resolved, no questions are answered, and we are left with only vagueness and boredom.
4. Dennis Dugan
Every time I think Adam Sandler has finally flat-lined I start to celebrate, when suddenly Dugan resuscitates him and we get more horrific, train-wreck comedies. I use the word “comedy,” loosely because the only thing funny about his movies is the critic reviews. With Jack and Jill scoring a mighty 3% on Rotten Tomatoes, it’s questionable as to why Sandler is still ignoring all of his well-deserved feedback. The “jokes” in his movies range from bathroom humor to ethnic stereotypes. Sandler’s tagline should be: “Fuck comedy.”
3. Mel Gibson
Apocalypto and Passion of the Christ were stunning; Gibson seamlessly hit all the right notes at all the right moments. In fact, he’s not so much a terrible director as he is just a terrible human. Racist, anti-Semitic, homophobic, is there any group of people safe from Gibson’s rampant bigotry? It’s hard to support someone like this, regardless of how talented they may be.
2. Jason Friedberg & Aaron Seltzer
There are few things more mystifying in Hollywood than the totally unwarranted success of these two. Epic Movie? Disaster Movie? Date Movie? It’s like a race to the bottom! To say these movies are horseshit is being generous. These movies are such a massive blight on cinemagoers; it’s actually impressive, in the same sense that Walmart is impressive. It is widely believed that Friedberg and Seltzer retain their audience solely through morbid fascination.
1. Tucker Max
If you’re unfamiliar with Tucker Max, that’s because you should be. He’s a washed-up alcoholic nobody who is only famous within a microcosm of drooling, frat-bro idiots. His fame came when he wrote a book turned movie called I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell. Mr. Max was afraid of having his “artistic vision” for the movie ruined by a Studio, so he opted to have it released independently instead, giving him full creative license and director’s cut. The movie was a hilarious comedy —not at all because of its content —rather due to its rock-bottom failure, scraping in at 1.4 million against a budget of 7 million, and being dubbed “the worst of the movie of the year.” Watching the movie is the cinematic equivalent to listening to your friends’ study abroad stories. It’s painfully unfunny, and you can’t wait until it’s over.
I personally love peer pressure and get a deep satisfaction out of watching people make choices they otherwise wouldn’t make. It’s something I actively research and take great pride in, and I’ve devised this guide to help you peer pressure your friends, effectively acting as their guardian angel. I now present you with the 40s Guide to Peer Pressure:
1. Question their values
Do it until the breaking point. Make them reevaluate their entire moral compass and hammer the point home that they are in the wrong for not wanting to drink into excess, you’re merely trying to be a good friend. In pure black and white: you represent good, they represent bad. They are in the wrong, you are in the right –it’s that simple.
2. Calling them out for wavering
The “well….” That friends reply with is sometimes all you need. Most people are not strong enough to decry an outright “no,” allowing you to feed off their weakness. Wavering is a chink in the armor which allows for deep penetration –the best kind. Ask them why they’re unsure; keep asking questions incessantly until they are legitimately confused. Remind them that if they don’t know, the best solution is to follow a friend’s advice who has their best interests at heart. Let the shotgunning of beers and excessive drugs ensue.
3. Reminder of how hard they work/ how much they deserve this
This one is especially good because it makes people feel like not everything they did at their cubicle job was ultimately meaningless. Upon hearing a few lies like “you worked so hard all week,” and “you really deserve this” their heart will be warmed and their defenses lowered. Strike quick and fast, shove a beer and eightball in their hand before they can put their guard back up.
4. Hype up the Future
The future is like Paris Hilton’s personality, it doesn’t exist — which means it has infinite potential for exaggeration. Make sure to shamelessly hype up everything up that could happen and convince them that they might be skipping out on the greatest night of their life. You want them to regret not going out, before it even happens. If they go out drinking with you, they will be happy! Who doesn’t want to be happy?
5. Dismiss the negative consequences
“Boohoo, my flu/homework/relative will be worse if I drink tonight.” This is based off of guilt, not logic. Remind them that drinking more will make them happier, allowing them healthier access to the facilities of their brain that handle homework, illnesses, and family troubles.
6. The group effect
Dating back to tribal ancestry, humans have been creatures that do best in groups, whether foraging for food, hunting, or getting blackout drunk. What is best for the tribe is best individually, and vice versa. Don’t let a friend be alone.
7. Curiosity killed the cat
Some people just don’t know how great it is to feel fucked up. If you shed a tear reading that last sentence then you and I share something in common. That’s beside the point, most people are naturally curious —make them feel like Sherlock Holmes — they’re going to unlock a great mystery if they drink and do drugs tonight. Curiosity is a powerful and innate human desire, let it do the work.
8. Selfishness vs Selflessness
Accuse them of being selfish for not wanting to drink with you. Say that (for whatever made up reason) you really need a drink. Remind them that a true friend would help out a friend in need.
9. Strip them of their free-will
Saying “no” only works if “no” is an option. If all else fails, use brute force.
That about sums it up. Remember, their weaknesses are your advantages. Best of luck!
As America sinks ever more deeply into debt and general malaise, one thing that seems to remain unscathed is the corporate monster Starbucks. Since its birth in Seattle in the early 90s, Starbucks has spread like the swine flu into over 55 countries, including countries that hate the U.S. like Saudia Arabia and France, and countries that don’t even exist like Bailiwick of Jersey.
I don’t actually mind Starbucks so much. Don’t get me wrong — the clientele piss me off, consisting mostly of washed up philosophy majors and Steve Jobs enthusiasts. I hate the baristas, who have mastered the art of turning a simple order into a game of 21 questions. And I think their coffee is an exercise in shittiness, with a flavor comparable to afterbirth, I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to say that Starbucks treats its customers like its own personal bidet.
But the real bone I have to pick with Starbucks is with their decision to unleash the newest size: the “Trenta.” First of all, I want to back up a little: what the fuck is a “Grande?” It’s a coffee, not a municipality in Germany you assholes! (No really, that’s the name of a municipality in Germany - egotists). I fail to understand why a company that reflects the paragon of American consumerism has adopted a piecemeal version of romance languages to deem its custom sizes. My best guess is Starbucks’ team is trying to expand their globalism. I’m not even totally sure what that last sentence meant, but it still pisses me off. The “Grande” is only 0.005 away from being a pint, and yet continues to stick to its obnoxious pseudonym. Apparently the Grande didn’t score high enough in the Starbucks pissing contest, because they had to outdo themselves and unleash: the Venti. Finally a beverage named after a number. Still, it wasn’t enough. Like a baby crying in its high chair, America demanded MORE! And who responded to the call with more eagerness and moist vaginas than Starbucks CEOs, lo and behold, now we have: “The Trenta.”
The Trenta should replace the word “excessive” in the English language. Clocking in at 16 mL beyond the average adult stomach capacity; if you were to order the Starbucks’ iced hazelnut mocha in Trenta size, it would contain 180 more calories than a McDonald’s Big Mac. IT’S A FUCKING BEVERAGE –not a full course meal! Nutritionists have also voiced concern regarding the sugar quantity, as the Trenta is the equivalent of a king size Snickers bar… Just kidding, two king sized Snickers bars. And the caffeine amount? Starbucks has admitted that it’s “widely considered safe.” It has been leaked to sit right around 200mg –the same amount that pregnant women are absolutely not supposed to over exceed in a day. Good to know Starbucks! Thanks for catering to all the pregnant, former crack addicts of the world. (By comparison, Red Bull contains a mere 80 mg). If you have read all this and are still thinking “Wow, the Trenta sounds perfect for me!” Then please, reevaluate yourself, and then choke. There could not be a better example of wanton consumer gluttony and belligerent excess. I am repulsed by few things, but one of those things is someone who sincerely believes they need a Trenta.
What it all boils down to, however, is there is only one beverage that is allowed to be sold in that high of quantities. You guessed it: 40 ounces. It’s the perfect amount, and malt liquor is the perfect beverage. Remember earlier when I said “I don’t actually mind Starbucks” –I lied. Fuck Starbucks and their weak competitor.
To anyone located in, near, or around the Chicago area, you may recall the first time you traversed through Gary, Indiana (home of the late Michael Jackson). The experience is irreversibly traumatizing; when Dante wrote “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here” he had Gary in mind. It is a smoky, rusty, and withering monster nested in smog and sewage. The only residents are people too poor to get out, and masochists.
A quick sojourn to Gary will render you depressed and hopeless. You will toss and turn at night trying to forget all the details about Gary, and you will constantly lie to yourself and pretend that Gary doesn’t really exist. But it does. Like a grain of sand in your urethra, Gary is always there, irritating you and giving you hot flashes of pain.
The reason I bring this up is because, when I was asked to describe how I felt about the “chick-lit” magazine Cosmopolitan, the only relatable experience I could think to give was the first time I drove through Gary.
For over 40 years now Cosmo has been a noxious stain on society. Cosmo rears its ugly head once a month in over 30 languages to ensure that prepubescent teens and suburban moms everywhere turn into vile, manipulative hags. I used to know a girl who was very smart and talented. She played tennis at an Olympic level, read War and Peace, and was researching a cure for AIDS. Then one day she picked up a Cosmo and started reading. Last time I saw her she was shooting heroin in the underbelly of New York, trying to figure out if she had enough change to buy both an eightball and her STD medicine. Yet another promising young nubile girl turned Succubus by the modern day Mein Kampf. Fuck you Cosmo.
What’s really baffling to me is how Cosmo always manages to find “NEW” and “NEVER-BEFORE-SEEN” sex moves. Apparently there is an infinite surplus of undiscovered sex moves, because lo and behold, every month Cosmo has somehow managed to find “75 NEW SEX MOVES MEN CRAVE.”
I’m not sure how to even begin dissecting the above sentence, because it’s on a creationist level of stupidity. I could point out that not all men have their brains wired directly to their dicks, or I could point out that even though men are really horny, men are also lazy and don’t fucking care about doing upside down, leather, fruit-syrup, staircase sex. Seriously, some of the suggestions I’ve read in Cosmo are so utterly far-fetched I can’t tell if they’re jokes or not. Ladies, if you ever approach a man with a “smooth pebble” and try to stick it in his ass, don’t be surprised if he runs away and files a restraining order. Despite what Cosmo might say, there is nothing sexy about geodes going anywhere near assholes. The type of guy who would enjoy that is the same type of guy who hides under the staircase, licking people’s toes as they walk down.
Another massive shit Cosmo takes on its readers is when it extrapolates things based on user submissions: “I like when she pokes me in the eye while rubbing my penis with potatoes.” (Dwayne, 35) or “stick a pineapple in my ass” (Bertha, Missouri). No Bertha! I won’t. Cosmo will eventually compile all of these obscure fantasies into a list that supposedly represents “25 FANTASIES THAT ALL MEN HAVE.” Hey Cosmo, you forgot one thing: Dwayne and Bertha are not collectively representative of the entire male and female population. Quit using your select group of drooling idiot readers to prescribe universal truths. I don’t want to know about how Willard likes to have his wife slather him in barbecue sauce and dress up as Bob the Butcher, and I certainly don’t want young impressionable girls to think that that’s what I want.
In the end though, what’s the use? Pointing out flaws in Cosmo is like saying “40s are awesome” –a blatantly obvious statement —and yet it seems to fall on deaf ears. Cosmo continues to have their alleged PhD “sexperts” write articles that will insult and exploit lustful socialites everywhere. Using their Mad-lib literary technique of occasionally swapping random words in and out, these PhD authors have mastered the craft of writing nothing new, ever. Every single article is practically a carbon copy of the previous article with random words like “sexy” and “hot” interchanged. And yet people continue to drink the Kool-Aid. Except it’s not Kool-Aid. It’s gruel. Cosmo is the literary equivalent to the gruel in Oliver Twist. It’s completely lacking of anything substantial, it’s the same every time, and it gives me heartburn. Go to hell Cosmo.
There comes a certain point in every person’s life when he or she will be required to make a decision of tremendous magnitude, bearing lifelong ramifications. A few examples might include picking the right spouse, quitting your job, giving away your parachute, and most importantly: trying to find a 40 alternative.
Perhaps due to some evolutionary mishap, the human body does not lend itself well to drinking malt liquor every waking hour. This leads to times when we simply cannot take any more brutal high-gravity carbonation. These dark hours which I will hereby refer to as “doldrums,” force us to find something else to drink. I am reluctant to even drink water as I feel every cup of water I drink is one less cup of 40, but during the doldrums I have found myself expanding my horizons in the beverage field. After years of diligent research at the prestigious Belmont Beverage University, these are my findings:
1. Franzia (Sunset Blush or Chablis):
Franzia is not unlike juice boxes we enjoyed as kids; addictively delicious and goes down easy. What distinguishes Franzia is that it contains amounts of alcohol that are arguably biohazardous –a true sign of perfection! You can’t really go wrong with detrimental levels of alcohol masked beneath a fruity, boxy veil. It’s all the joie de vivre of childhood, with all the immaturity of being a drunken adult. Another standout factor of Franzia is how quickly you’ll lose consciousness upon drinking it. People who have “Franzia nights” report waking up in foreign places, missing most of their clothes and memory. If you really think about it, “blacking out” is like the same thing as “lucking out.” Success!
2. MD 20/20 Mad Dog
If Franzia were ashes, Mad Dog would be the Phoenix rising from them. Mad Dog tastes identical to Hi-C, but has better vitamins, namely alcohol. Even more so than Franzia, Mad Dog is conducive to destruction of property, unconsciousness, and incest. It comes in delicious fruity flavors and contains so much sugar that you will start involuntarily shaking, (or that could just be the alcohol). Either way, next time you find yourself having some sort of crisis in your life, desperately searching for a glimmer of hope, skip all of the meditative soul-searching bullshit, and get a Mad Dog.
3. 99/1 Gin & Tonic
Gin and Tonics are fantastic, or at least they were. Unfortunately due to rising concerns about health risks and all that other malarkey, the true integrity of the beverage has been called into question. Case in point, if you happen to stumble into a café and order a gin and tonic, chances are you’ll get 75% tonic, 25% gin, and 100% bullshit. As a general rule, I like gin and tonics to be like my mud wrestlers, strong enough to hurt me, and not full of tonic.
4. Four Loko
A cousin of the 40, how fitting that number 4 on this list is the magic potion otherwise known as Four Loko. Allegedly distilled from the urine of Cerberus, it contains enough caffeine to command Charlie Sheen’s undivided attention. It starts out at 12 proof and goes up to 24, so by the time you’re through with Four Loko, your liver will empathize with Tina Turner. One thing worth noting: you can probably cross “make good decisions” and “sleep” off of your list, as neither one will be happening anytime soon after consumption.
5. Whisky on the Rocks
I guess we’ve come full circle –in the end there’s really no reason to drink anything else. 40s are to humans what air is to humans: perfect, refreshing, life-giving sustenance. You know that magic moment when a Mother has just given birth, and is looking at and holding her child for the first time? It’s described as being the most fulfilling, sentimental moment in one’s lifetime. That’s how I feel every time I drink a 40.
Here’s a quick magic trick that anyone can do:
Take eight U.S. coins (the trick works best with quarters), and with an Expo marker draw an “X” on four of them. Be sure to show everyone the coins, and let them feel and play around with them so they know you’re not bullshitting. Put four of the coins in your left pocket and the other four in your right pocket. Now, go to the liquor store, hand all of your coins to the man behind the counter, and ask for a 40. Drink the 40, Presto! Guess what Houdini? You’re drunk —the trick works every time!
Alright, enough about magic. That’s the only trick I know so I cannot really divulge further. Now comes the moment of reckoning: it’s 40 oz question time. I guess people have taken it upon themselves to press the “Ask me anything button” which makes perfect sense as I am a world renowned thought-leader, so here are some of my answers:
This is something I have spent a great deal of time pondering, and even been accused of trying myself (I still deny it happened). While there does seem to be a stigma against drinking your own urine, it seems obvious that malt liquor is an infallible trump card, which would in turn mitigate any of the shame society tries to bestow upon you. Ignore anyone who laughs at you, they’re likely brimming with jealousy on the inside.
On a related note, there is a hallucinogenic mushroom where the high may be transferred through urine, the “Fly Agaric” or Amanita Muscaria. Tribes in Siberia, Finland, the Middle East and even Native Americans have all been reported to try these boomers. The mushroom is a true golden goose in that not only may the high be transferred through the original user’s urine, the person who consumes the original urine will then also bear magical urine which can be drunk, going back as far as five people! Like I said, a true golden goose.
What this question really boils down to is the age-old omnipotence paradox, or the paradox of the stone. My hat is off to whoever is actually reading this shitty blog and mulling over these deep thoughts. The answer is something I have already worked out long ago, and attempted to publish in a philosophy journal several times but to no avail. It goes like this:
Only God could drink infinite 40s, and only heaven could be a place where we could drink 40s infinitely. So God must be in heaven, drinking infinite 40s.
The logic is all very sound, I assure you.
Whoever asked this question, I want you to go to the mirror, take a good hard look, and frown. This was the first question to actually make me feel insulted. The answer is a resounding “Fuck you!” Drinking is awesome, and as a rule of thumb, should always be done in excess. People have been blacking out for thousands of years; archeologists were surprised at some of the hieroglyphs they unearthed depicting Egyptians taking massive bong rips, snorting lines of coke off of each others dicks, and drinking Steel Reserve until they passed out violently.
There’s a certain sentiment behind that kind of tradition that you just can’t ignore. We need to be respectful and pay homage to our elders after all. Sure there are some people out there who are quick to lambaste drinking, making claims like “Ohhh it’s bad for your health!” These are the same kind of people who claim the world is still flat, that we never landed on the moon etc. Don’t listen to these people. They are delusional naysayers —they are only trying to bring you down.
I was scared at first, that my lack of finding dicks appealing would disallow me from classifying myself as gay, but in the hopes of finding an alternative definition, I decided to do some research:
Thank God! A saving grace, definition 5. Good sir, whoever you are, I assure you that while drinking 40s, I am very gay.
Well, if they were bottled by the gallon then technically they would be 128s, which would be awesome to a level and degree that I cannot fathom. Pabst Brewing Company, however, does distribute a malt liquor called Big Bear which I have seen on rare occasion in 64 oz bottles.
Be forewarned! Like the Kardashians or those potato things at Old Country Buffet, it’s not as good as it looks. The flavor of Big Bear has been described as being a cross between earwax and warm garbage. While drinking a 64 is pretty cool, it takes a mighty alcoholic and a fistful of determination to stomach this swill.
I will be accepting checks in the mail for another session of edification. Keep sending me your questions, I’ve got the answers! Until next time, keep drinking.