At what point does opting to take pictures rather than helping the cow constitute evil animal porn? Is there any chance this is just a role-play thing that these two do every Wednesday afternoon? Do cattle get freaky like that?
Li’l help? There was some clover over here and I was really hungry…
Usually the Kill, Kill, Kill features are in video form. However, this picture was too freaking crazy not to post.
Every so often in Florida, a bleary meth-head, in the midst of a fleeting moment of clarity, will realize that his decision to make a pet of a Burmese python was a poor one– and the snake is unceremoniously set loose into the Everglades. When the python crosses paths with some of the indigenous wildlife what ensues can best be described as illegal immigration: reptile style.
The Burmese python tried to swallow its fearsome rival whole but then exploded. The python’s remains were found with the victim’s tail protruding from its burst midsection.
The photo shows the gruesome aftermath. The alligator, in a testament old-fashioned American determination, refused to give up merely because he had been eaten alive– spending his final moments making sure he took the Asian invader with him. The park ranger says that he is aware of four similar encounters– all either won by the gator or like this one, a mortal draw. USA! USA! USA!
This is hardly the first time that a dismembered snake has been used to represent North American nationalism. Benjamin Franklin’s well known political cartoon at the left advocated colonial solidarity. The sentiment draw upon the old myth that a chopped up snake, if left in a bag overnight, would magically reassemble. Kind of like the myth I currently subscribe to about chopped up hookers.
(Click the picture for delicious detail)And yes Drew, the next time I go off-topic I’ll be sure to include a butt wiping anecdote.
Good fucking God. I go on vacation for one random week in March and I miss all sorts of crazy shit. Since I missed so much recently I decided to cover all of the fun off-topic goodness in one sprawling post. It’s win-win for you, the reader, because it’s stuff you never cared about to begin with and it’s longer than Drew’s old-man balls. Huzzah!
-Number One Threat to America: Bear Stearns
Yeah that’s right, America’s fucking broke. That’s why I store all of my money inside of Nick Denton’s large head-vault. Fortunately for the rest of you the government is sending out some stimulus checks. They really want you to boost the economy by spending the money as opposed to saving it, which is why they’re making all of the banks collapse just in time. Personally, I plan on using my stimulus moneys to purchase illicit substances…from foreigners! Take that, Capitalism!
Speaking of nonsensical financial blather…
-TBL Came Out!
Some have said that this announcement came on the heels of FJM’s revelation, but all of this started when I appeared on Blog Show. The important question remains, how can US Weekly possibly survive without JRM’s editorial oversight?
-The Brothers Karamazov > The Brothers Marquez
That’s right Drew, I’m talking about boxing and you can’t do shit about it! A couple of weeks back Israel Vasquez barely beat Rafael Marquez and then on Saturday night Pac-Man barely beat Juan Manuel Marquez. Everybody got really bloody and had a good time. Seriously, you could see JMM’s brain through the cut on his eye.
-Uranus Still Hates Atlantans
First these southerners bitch about a little drought and now they get some rain and they can’t handle the wind that comes with it? No wonder they couldn’t win a fucking civil war.
-Some Basketball Something Or Other
IT’S MARCH MOTHERFUCKING MADNESS!
Some of you might be aware that I’m rather fond of the sport of basketball (and the race of man that tends to excel at said sport) and I have a particular appreciation for the amateur variety. As the self-appointed basketball genius of the gay I’m taking it upon myself to give you our initial breakdown of all things bracket. What follows is a list of rules you have to abide by if you’re going to participate in the springtime festivities.
Do: Know everything about college basketball.
Sure, we’re the guys who lost a bracket challenge to the
WomynLadies. But remember, I won the individual title because I’m a testosterone-fueled genius who actually watches PAC 10 games.Don’t: Attempt to fill in your pathetically average knowledge with research.
If you can’t pick the tournament blind then you’re already fucked. Two kinds of people win these things, People who care way too much about basketball and people who pick Drake to make an Elite 8 run because they “love the Drake.”
Don’t: Read a stupid list of rules for filling out your bracket.
You’re already failing at a second-grade level!
Do: Bitch about the diabolical snubbery of the selection committee.
“Waaaah! VCU, VT, and UVA* didn’t get in, why does the NCAA hate the Commonwealth of Virginia?” Sound familiar? If so it’s because you can’t react to Selection Sunday without a bit of indignation.
Oh, and to answer your question, Virginia is the AIDS of states.
*Never actually had a chance
Yeah, I’m never leaving town again.
A couple weeks ago, I noted in a Jamboroo that I didn’t abide by bleu cheese dressing with buffalo wings. I was then sternly taken to task by members of the pro-bleu cheese community, which, like the cheese itself, is surprisingly robust. But I didn’t take the time to explain WHY I was so strongly against bleu cheese. Some people obviously like it, and some do not. But I am different. I have a history with bleu cheese.
You see, when I was a child, I adored bleu cheese. Loved it. Stilton, gorgonzola, saga bleu, you name it, I happily devoured it. Some girl said to me once, “You know it’s blue because it’s moldy, right?” And I said, “Really? That’s fucking cool!” I enjoy bleu cheese in all its delicious forms: on a cracker, on a steak, on a salad, on a GoBot. No matter the occasion, it was all good to me.
Until one day in college.
Upon returning home for Christmas vacation one year, my brother, his girlfriend, my sister and I all hit the mall one day to do some Christmas shopping. In the middle of the day, we went to go get lunch. We chose Pizzeria Uno.
Let me state this plainly: NEVER EAT AT FUCKING PIZZERIA UNO.
We ordered two pizzas. One was a veggie deep dish. The other was a sausage deep dish. Guess which one I ate. My brother and I split the sausage pie and then went about our business.
Then we got home. And that’s when the trouble started. Later in the afternoon, I noticed a distinct rumble in my stomach. As I do when trying to solve any problem, I laid down to see if it would simply go away. It did not. Soon it felt as if my stomach were being used as a set of bagpipes. My brother looked at me.
“Drew, you don’t look so hot.”
“Uh, maybe I should have something to eat.”
It was Christmas. I really didn’t want to be sick and miss out on all the food. So I tried eating. Bad move. By dusk, the retching began. As you know, I am a hugely talented projectile vomiter. It’s not unlike a dam breaking. My jaw unhinges and the maximum volume of vomit physically possible exits my body at an astonishing speed. My brother came into the bathroom to check on me. Oops. Suddenly, he wasn’t feeling so hot. We began taking turns having a Roman Holiday in the toilet.
All my life, vomiting always tended to make things better. But this was hardcore food poisoning, and it didn’t stop. Through the night, my brother and I traded dry heaves until my mother decided she could take no more and took us to an ER.
The ER made everything worse. I had to lay on the floor just to keep from doubling over, but the fluorescent light made me dizzy as shit. Next to us was a very old woman who also could not stop vomiting. Only when she did it, my brother and I found it HILARIOUS. It sounded like she was on a carnival ride she didn’t enjoy.
“OOOOO WAHHHHHH!!!! WOOOOO!!!! HO HO WHOOOOOOOAAAAA!!!!”
They shot us with some sort of anti-nausea medicine. It failed. Finally, doctors brought out suppositories.
“You two can’t keep anything down. We’ll have to go the other way.”
It was shaped like a little chalky missile. Fun! Not caring, I quickly jammed it up my ass. They gave us two more to take through the night. My mom drove us home. We both felt a little better. We thought we had turned a corner.
We were dead wrong.
For Christmas, my mother had bought a very large wheel of bleu cheese that she kept cool by covering with a cheesecloth and putting out on the breezeway between the garage and the main part of the house. You couldn’t get in the house without going through it. My brother and I had completely forgotten about this. And when we hit the door exiting from the garage…
Have you ever been truly sick and miserable, and so tired you’re practically near whimpering, only to be kicked while you‘re down? Imagine going to a doctor, only instead of treating you, the doctor wipes your face with a pair of used running socks.
It was like that.
We all have our food traumas in life that put us off something for good. This was mine. I’ll never eat bleu cheese again unless it’s by accident. In fact, whenever I see it, I now think:
“OOOOO WAHHHHHH!!!! WOOOOO!!!! HO HO WHOOOOOOOAAAAA!!!!”
And whenever I see a Pizzeria Uno, I think of jamming a chalky missile up my ass. Life’s a bitch sometimes.
Some first-class asshole named Joe Damato wrote into us regarding a satirical post in which we had a fictional David Garrard act as a pimp. Well, Joe noticed an inaccuracy in the post. He writes:
Here’s your quote:
“No? Good. Did you know officers, by law, have to answer that last question honestly? Isn’t that interesting? Now, if you don’t mind, I need to have Tiny here pat you down. TINY!”
Officers don’t. If they did, there would be no such thing as an “undercover” officer because numb nut criminals would say…”are you a cop?” and the cop would say “aw shucks…..ya’ got me!” There goes the whole idea of “undercover.”
Either go to law school or do some research….get your fat asses off of the couch and stop being ignorant.
Just a friendly reminder for whichever one of you douche bags tries to buy some blow or grass from a guy on the street. “Are you a cop?,” doesn’t work. Morons.
We suggested to Joe that if he can’t recognize satire, he should probably go ahead and hang himself. He replied:
If you can’t recognize accuracy, then you should keep doing whatever it is you are doing. Fucking morons.
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T
…
Wait. So…
…
What are we supposed to do again? Is it go to law school, do some research, or keep doing what we’re doing?
Hey Joe, guess who’s both the dumbest and the most righteous jackass to ever send us an angry email?
You are, asshole. I hope this is the first thing that pops up when someone Googles you. Merry Christmas, cocksucker.
The Friday Cheerleader Post
