I went over to a Super Bowl party tonight. I’d tell you my thoughts on the game, but apparently re-broadcasting, or any pictures, descriptions, or accounts of the game, without the express written consent of the National Football League, is strictly prohibited.

My friend Brian made chili seriously amazing chili. I couldn’t stop eating it. Now I feel like something’s going to burst out of my chest like in Alien. So, I’m going to take a break from studying for the quals to curl up with a bottle of Pepto-Bismol until this all blows over. Still, there is the very real chance, given my genetic make-up and family history, that I am currently having a heart attack.

So, with what may or may not be my dying breaths, I want to tell the world that I hate Christianity, because they keep doing shit like this:

That cost $3.01 million. That guy in there was Tim Tebow, who’s made something of  a name for himself by being pretty and using makeup, effectively making him the Taylor Hanson of collegiate football. The ad was paid for by Focus on the Family, a non-profit, tax-exempt hate group which runs the gambit of all the common causes with which Christians poison our society. They are devoted to the suppression of individual liberties through a staunch anti-choice agenda, compounded with a decided anti-science philosophy via their alliance with the Discovery Institute.

Most heinous of all, Focus on the Family opposes the rights of people of all orientations to marry the ones they love. Read that again. They oppose people being in love, and anyone who opposes love is the enemy of Yellow Hat Man.

Focus on the Family begged for change to scare up $3.01 million, to tell people that abortion is bad. I beg to differ, case and point:

I wondered how many people starved tonight, because the Religious Right was neither: opting to keep Haitian food banks empty to keep the cable networks laden with their precious propaganda. I made a few calculations to see what exactly $3,010,000 can buy in this day in age:

At this point, August has already sent an angry letter out to be proofread before sending it to me. This is about when other Christians approach me and say: “You complain about how these ‘Christians’ act…but that’s not the ‘real Christianity’…” Everyone claims to have the real Christianity. Well, I offer a challenge to the “real Christians”. If you really love your neighbor, you’ll find a way to stop these people. Have your God use his magic if you need too. I thought I was a real Christian for a while. Then I remember that Jesus was a long-haired construction worker who shot his mouth off at every opportunity. If Christ were here today, he’d walk into your churches, break all your shit, and somehow weasel out of doing any jail time. He did it before, and allegedly, he’ll do it again.

Don’t try to save me. Save yourselves from yourselves.

I’m doing the Christians a favor by going to Hell. By going to Hell first, I’ll have the keg tapped by the time they all get there, so I’ll have worked out those first few cups of foam.

I can’t bad for the Whos, and I’m glad they get robbed. Yeah, I said it. Because I too, have been driven to madness by all the noise, noise, noise, noise, noise!

The problem with X-Mas music, is that very rarely, is it sung or performed by actual musicians. People play X-Mas music because its X-Mas, and not for any artistic merit that it may have. The record labels know that, and will mint a metric fuck-ton of CD’s every year of whatever scuzz they could scrape from soup kitchens and plasma centers to sing the same damn songs, over and over, because they know people will buy those discs without ever looking at them.

I remember back when I was at Miami, there was this one radio station that would switch to all all-X-Mas 24/7 format on November 1, and stay that way until January 1. That’s 16.71% of a goddamn year. I shared an office with this one chick who kept her radio on, and tuned to that station, even when she wasn’t there.

Because of this, I wanted to stab people in the face, all day, every day. After class, to prevent face-stabbing, and its legal repercussions, I would leave immediately, with a note on the door reading “Office hours have been canceled due to incessant X-Mas music.”

I asked her to please stop, but I was only met with the “You’re a Grinch who hates Christmas,” which would lead into the “you’re with us or against us” rhetoric that was popular at the time. If I wanted to hear that crap, I just would have hung out with out delusional neo-con department chair.

The only reprieve came from Bruce Springsteen and his E Street Band. Only the Boss knew X-Mas. Well, the Boss and Bowie.

Then I went home. My sister replaced her text-message ring tone with the Whos singing their Whoville song. So anytime she recieved a text, at maximum volume, her phone would blast:

“Fah-hoo-door-heys Dah-hoo-boor-hays… Fah-hoo-door-heys Dah-hoo-boor-hays…”

Ten seconds later:

“Fah-hoo-door-heys Dah-hoo-boor-hays… Fah-hoo-door-heys Dah-hoo-boor-hays…”

Ten seconds after that:

“Fah-hoo-door-heys Dah-hoo-boor-hays… Fah-hoo-door-heys Dah-hoo-boor-hays…”

This repeats until I go to karate, go to a bar, or leave to start the Spring semester. Sometimes she’ll take a nap on the other side of the house and just leave her phone on, so it just keeps going off until she answers it in a few hours, or until I snap and pull the battery in a few minutes.

Also, around 2000, for reasons known only to her — and in spite of all evidence, which only points to the contrary — my mom became suddenly and irrevocably convinced that Yoko Ono was the single best thing that ever happened to music.

Yes, you read that correctly.

My mom bought one of those cassette tapes of butt-ass horrible X-Mas music explicitly for “Happy Xmas (War Is Over),” and nothing else. My mom would play it as we came into the dining room for our Christmas Eve dinner, and when it ended, she would get up, go into the other room, rewind the tape, play it again, sit back down, and get up three minutes and thirty-seven seconds later to do it again.

After the fifth time, I dropped my fork.

“I can’t do this. I refuse to be part of a family which enjoys the music of Yoko Ono.”

“Oh come on, Ryan, why not?” said my mom.

“Because that malignant cunt broke up the Beatles!”

“Don’t use that word!” said my mom.

“Sorry. That vorpal cunt broke up the Beatles!”

My dad wanted to be mad, but couldn’t because he knew I was right. He used “Rocky Raccoon” as his CB handle back in the 70’s, and was the one who turned me onto the Beatles, and taught me the importance of hating Yoko Ono. The soundtrack of my high school years drew largely from Sgt. Pepper’s, so we were both offended, just I was more vocal about it.

All these stories went on in tandem, and became annual traditions, like the January 8^th Party, Mouthpiece Cleaning Day, or Indiscriminate Thursday. So once X-Mas degraded into Post-Halloween Psychological Torture Season, it became pretty easy to hate X-Mas. It became hard not too.

Fortunately, I no longer feel this way. Apparently, the rest of the universe must have felt as I did, because the then-novel Trans-Siberian Orchestra quickly became mainstream, and an annual favorite. On top of that, other artists followed suit, and began to produce much-needed unshitty X-Mas music. My sense of hope in mankind was momentarily restored in 2006 when it was announced that Billy Idol released a X-Mas album.

The only thing better than news of a Billy Idol X-Mas CD was Mike’s reaction to it. It went a little something like this:

Do you want to know what the real dicked up part about the Billy Idol X-Mas album is? Your grandma will love it. No, seriously:

I thought that was the non plus ultra of holiday-themed awesome. I thought wrong. A year later,  We Wish You a Metal Xmas…and a Headbanging New Year was released, featuring every single type of awesome. No, seriously it has:

• Ronnie James Dio and Vinny Appice (Dio; Black Sabbath)
• Tony Iommi (Black Sabbath)
• Lemmy (Motörhead),
• Dave Grohl (Nirvana; Foo Fighters)
• Billy Gibbons (ZZ Top)
• Geoff Tate (Queensrÿche)
• George Lynch (Dokken)
• Jeff Scott Soto (Yngwie Malmsteen; Journey)
• Chris Wyse (The Cult)
• Ray Luzier (Army of Anyone; Korn)
• John 5 (Marilyn Manson; Rob Zombie)
• Rudy Sarzo (Quiet Riot; Ozzy Osbourne; Whitesnake; Dio; Blue Öyster Cult)
• Scott Ian (Anthrax)
• Bruce Howard Kulick (Grand Funk Railroad; KISS)
• Carlos Cavazo (Quiet Riot)
• James “JLo” LoMenzo (Megadeth)
• Simon Phillips (The Who; Big Country; Toto; Asia; Pete Townshend; Jeff Beck)
• Tim “Ripper” Owens (Judas Priest)
• Steven J. Morse (Deep Purple)
• Tracii Guns (L.A. Guns; Guns ‘N’ Roses)
• Steve “Luke” Lukather (Toto)
• Joe Lynn Turner (Yngwie Malmsteen)
• Tommy Shaw (Styx; Damn Yankees)
• Kenny Aronoff (Cinderella, Bon Jovi, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Smashing Pumpkins)
• John Tempesta (White Zombie)
• Stephen Pearcy (Ratt)
• …and Alice Cooper

I mean, listen to this shit! It’s perfect!

If there’s one thing which Christian holy days need more of, it’s Black Sabbath.

(Yes, I know that Toto is totally not metal, but I don’t care. Toto IV is a great album.)

Earlier today, Ray “Bananaman” Comfort and Kirk “College Kids are to Young to Remember When I was Famous” Cameron, went viral with their remix version of Charlie Darwin’s smash hit, On the Origin of Species.

Their version intentionally omits a few chapters, and includes a fifty page reductio ad Hitlerum introduction, which Comfort wrote/plagiarized.

These doctored copies were then distributed around the country to be handed out to random-ass people on the campuses of top universities yesterday. That makes sense, because when I think of a fundamentalist Christian jihad, I immediately think of MIT and Caltech. They came to Purdue a day later, since I guess we were a second-round draft pick.

I’d review the introduction in detail for all of you, since they were being handed out here, but I didn’t get one, which sucks. I knew I should’ve taken the long way home today.

However, since turnabout is fair play, I have come out with my own version of the Holy Bible. The SuperFunAdventureBible clears up and confusing or flowery passages and allows the reader to concentrate on the real crux of the Christian faith:

Christians should be thanking me, as I carefully removed (with a utility knife) all of the times the Bible urges people to participate in:

• murder (Ezekiel 9:5-6)
• genocide (Deuteronomy 20:16-17; Exodus 17:13-16)
• incest (Exodus 6:20; Genesis 19:30-38)
• abortion (Hosea 13:16)
• cannibalism (Jeremiah 19:9)
• materialism (Proverbs 14:20)
• domestic violence (Proverbs 20:30)
• shit-eating (Ezekiel 4:12-15),
• genital mutilation (Genesis 17:9-13)
• …and Communist party membership (Acts 4:32-35)

Thanks to me, the Christian apologetics have less to apologize over. Now, Christians can concentrate on the central themes of intimidation and greed without the requisite cognitive dissonance.

Yesterday, in a stunning blow to freedom and justice, gay marriage has been re-illegalized in Maine. This anti-civil rights campaign was received large amounts of funding from a number of notorious hate groups, such as Focus on the Family and the Catholic Church, in another example of the Religious Right being neither.

Sure we read in Leviticus 18:22 (and Leviticus 20:13) that “Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination,” but that doesn’t say anything about girl-on-girl. And why would it? Yahweh is said to be male, and therefore, by definition, is a big fan of lesbian porn.

Leviticus 11:12 tells us to avoid Maine lobster, and Leviticus 19:27 bans shaving and haircuts, but we ignore those. Why? It all comes from a little thing theologians like to call “exegesis.”

Exegesis is the process of sticking one’s hand up God’s ass, in order to make him talk. Since the Bible is the compiled mythology of wandering Bronze-age goat headers, it cannot be made applicable to modern day without creative interpretation. Say I wanted to convince people of something, like that I had the power to fight off a pack of crazed unicorns (Pslams 22:21), or to go about rationalizing the destruction of an entire race of people, like those fucking Hittites two doors down from me (Exodus 34:11-14). Well, the Bible is a pretty thick book with a large number of whacky statements, so I just need to leaf through it and cherry-pick out some lines, and then pepper them in to my next hate speech/homily to make my personal agenda sound like it’s God’s agenda, much like how I’m about to do.

See, in the Gospel of Mark, Jesus explicitly states that homosexuals should be able to legally marry in the State of Maine.

No, seriously. I just leafed through the one of those little green Gideon’s Bibles which tend to pile up in my office, and I saw it there plain as day:

Sure, your bible may be a different edition, and that line may have a different wording, or not be presented in my large, effeminate, cursive script, but it’s just as true as anything else the Bible has to say. God divinely inspired the hand of [this] man to write [in] the Bible. So although it was written by [this] human[‘s] hands, it is is none the less the inerrant word of God. This is true, and I know it’s true… for the Bible tells me so.

I wouldn’t go as far as to have ever called myself a “Conservative Christian,” but up until I started graduate school, I was both conservative, and Christian. Shortly thereafter, the neocons went mad with power and began to force their Christo-fascist agenda onto most aspects of American life. Upon realizing that the Religious Right was neither, I renounced my erroneous ways in an attempt to atone for my past.

Lately, the whole US is ranting and screaming one way or another about Obama’s plan for universal health care. Last I checked, LBJ and Reagan were the ones who socialized health care in the United States, and no one goes around bashing them for that, or even talks about Reagan’s socialist policies.

I could make all kinds of rants about health care, like the ones available at 10^34 other places on the internet, but I don’t want to go through all that. Instead, I want to show this video i found of some guy, because this is the true face of health care in the United States of America. This is what the greatest country in the world has chosen to to offer its citizens up to now. Keep in mind, this guy could have been sitting next to you at the movies:

If a picture is worth a thousand words, than a video is worth 1000*[frame rate (frames/s)*video playtime (s)] words. This passes for health care in the US. Beer and some paper towels.

I first walked into the main floor at WizardWorld with joy and wonder. Then Mike stopped us.

“Dude,” he snapped. “Liefeld’s here.”

We all sprung into crisis mode.

“What do you mean?” said a surprised August. Liefeld was not on the list of guests, but about three booths to the right of the door was “Liefeld” in that sketchy, completely linear Rob Liefeld font.

“Oh shit!” said August. He still has a soul, so he worries about other people and their feelings. I, on the other hand, have nothing but my dreams, and apparent they came true. I knew what to do. We were joking about this on the car ride over, what to say if Liefeld were to magically show up. I knew what to do.

I walked up to him and spake: “Hi, my name is Ryan Coons…”

“Hey!” said Rob Liefeld. He didn’t even look up at me; he just kept sketching away at yet another blocky, disproportionate, and overly-linear picture of one of my beloved childhood heroes. This time, it was Wolverine, in a mirrored swipe of Jim Lee’s cover for X-Men #11.

“…I am a huge Captain America fan…” I tell him with jazz hands and a huge fanboy gleam. “…and as such, I demand an apology for Heroes Reborn.”

Rob stops. He gives me an action hero sneer and said, “Hey, it was nice to meet you,” and followed it up with a fuck-off get lost nod. You know, the upward one. I walk off and hyperventalate for a while, because I can only process a set amount of awesome at one time. That’s why it took me four hours to watch 300 the first time.

Rummaging through the boxes when I came across a copy of Lee & Buscema’s seminal text How to Draw Comics the Marvel Way. We were in awe.

“Coons! You need to buy that!” shouted Mike. I was thinking about it, because I’ve wanted a copy of that for some time now.  “You need to give it to him!”

“You’re right! Rob needs it more than anyone!” I said.

“That’s why we’re here Coons,” said Mike. “The planets have aligned.”

“What’s this?” asked Javier, the dude who was working the booth we were at.

“We’re going to by a copy of How to Draw Comics the Marvel Way, then he’s going to give it to Rob Liefeld,” said Mike.

Javier was awestruck.

“How much is this?” I ask.

“All trades are five dollars, but if you’re giving that to Rob Liefeld, then I…I…well, I can chip in,” said Javier, digging through his wallet. “Here’s two bucks.”

I give the man three.

“I’ll be back,” I tell Javier.

I waited for a bit, I wanted him to forget about me, I wanted him to think he was in the clear and have him let his guard down. Also, I fully expected to get thrown out for these shenanigans, and I wanted Mark Millar to sign my copy of Superman: Red Son, and that wouldn’t be for another few hours.

In the mean time, I took the time to personalize his gift.

On the blank front page, I wrote:

Rob,

I know you aren’t willing to apologize right now. This manual will help you in you future endeavors. Please study it carefully, and consult it before rebooting another comic title. If you still wish to apologize for “Heroes Reborn,” you can do so by emailing me at YellowHatGuy@gmail.com.

Let’s make things right.

Sincerely,

Ryan Coons

Then, I slipped my business card in between the pages, to make sure that Liefeld knew my name, website, email address, and cell phone number. Then I put his gift in a nice bag…

…and I was ready.

“So, you’re going through with this?”

“I have too. It needs to be done,” I said.

“What are you going to say to him?” asked August.

“I’m not going to say anything,” I told him. “I’m just going to set it in front of him, and then walk away.”

“…and then what?” asked August.

“I don’t care,” I sad. “I don’t care what happens. You can watch if you like.”

I started sweating pretty bad, and started to hyperventilate. “You okay Coons? You gonna make it?” said August.

Immediately, I regain my composure.

“No, I have to do this. I’ve waited thirteen years for this,” I tell August.

So I walked over to Rob Liefeld, who was busy ignoring everyone in the entire convention center. I set the package in front of him, and patted it a few times, and the walked away. According to Mike, the following ensued:

“Rob didn’t look up, but the bald guy did, and pulled it out and showed it Liefeld. He shook his head and got all pissed off. Then the bald dude opened it up and red the inscription, and busted out laughing, and laughed for like, five minutes straight, and Liefeld’s face just tightened up and he just got more and more pissed off.”

I’m not a bad guy. All I want is an apology.

I had major plans for July 11. We’re set that Saturday aside for celebrating my birthday, and I had a full schedule of fun planned. I was going to a karate seminar at August’s new dojo, go to a cookout, watch UFC 100, and get the fuck drunk.  I was only able to do three of those.

About three hours into our training, Mr. Capella was having us work on harai goshi. I was going pretty well. I was a judo player when I was studying at Oxford*, and harai goshi was one of my signature moves. I was kind of leery when people were practicing on me, because four years and nine days earlier, I had dislocated my left shoulder in a harai goshi accident.

I was practicing with August for a while, then I went to work with Joe for a bit. He was throwing me, but it wasn’t harai goshi. He was having problems with working the swinging leg into the equation, as Joe throws are typically of the “pick them up and drop them” variety. They work, but tits not compatible with the sweeping part, which makes harai goshi a faster and more brutal throw.

In order to help Joe get the feel of rolling the opponent over the hip,  Mr. Capella was showing him how to do seoi otoshi, which is basically the standard body drop (tai otoshi) executed from a front stance rather than a side-facing stance.

Seoi otoshi is a good move to have.  Seoi nage, the standard judo throw, can be easily countered if your opponent places the palm his hand on your hip when you comes in to throw him. This way, you never get close enough to have good leverage, and you opponent retains his balance, making him impossible to throw. If this counter is used you on,  the setup for seoi nage can quickly be changed to a seoi otoshi setup, allowing you to counter the counter.

Rather than pulling me straight forward, Joe pulled at an angle, so rather than fall forward, I fell at and angle. On my way down, my arm hit his knee.

I laid face down on the mat motionless.

“Ahhhh,” I said lackadaisically. I didn’t feel a thing, but I knew something was wrong. My arm was numb and paralyzed. I couldn’t feel my arm, but if I could have felt my arm,  it would’ve hurt.

That’s when my day got weird.

Joe called me up one July 4^th, and told me to travel to Easy Street, where Ted Thompson*, brother of Tom Thompson* was going to “…set off some big ones.”

It took me considerable time finding the place, because “Easy Street” is apparently not an actual street, though it was clearly specified as such in Joe’s directions.

I introduced myself to Ted Thompson, and from what I was later told, though a convoluted chain of events which I do not fully understand, was thoroughly convinced that I was an undercover cop, and was plotting my murder for most of the night.

Joe, Ken, and I spent the afternoon in the pool, flinging Joe’s teeming legions of cousins around in the pool, and into each other.  When we got out the pool, the cousins kept on coming, and in greater numbers. Ken and I were immobilized, as we had children latched onto out backs, chests, legs, and arms. We tried to walk away, but were encumbered by the 300 lbs. of people we were wearing. Eventually, Ken and I mustered every ounce of strength into having a fist fight, using the horde of Joe’s leech-like cousins as a form of ablative body armor.

Once freed, Ken and I were surrounded, but we were able to hold our ground by throwing Joe’s cousins into Joe’s other cousins. By “throw,” I don’t mean “push,” “knock over,” or “shove,” I mean “lift over our heads, and in a shoulder-press like motion, launch into two other people like goddamn Lou Ferrigno,” as shown in Fig 1.

FIG 1: The Incredible Hulk finds a grizzly bear, and proceeds to completely ruin its shit.

This went on for about twenty minutes. There was simply no reason — including divine intervention — why anyone survived, let alone escaped uninjured. I later learned that this was a re-occurring theme at these parties. Eventually adults who the children feared and respected stepped in, and told them to leave us be. Ken and I were relieved. The powers that be then told Joe, Ken, and I to play with a near-infinite supply of fire and explosives for the amusement of the children, to tide them over until dark, and the real insanity began.

Joe made an immediate B-line for the Roman Candles, and gave me one, because no one ever gave me Roman Candle before. And that was pretty neat. When my dad would smuggle fireworks across state lines, he only bought ladyfingers and Moon Travelers, because that is where dFun/d$ is a maxima. I set off a Roman Candle, Joe sets off a Roman Candle. We both set off a Roman Candle.

See, the thing about explosives is that showmanship is a huge component — each feat must be more and more spectacular than the last. Thus, Ken had to dual-wield Roman Candles, while spinning them around. However, unbeknownst to all of us, Ken, through no fault of his own, had damned us all.

He didn’t pick up Roman Candles, he picked up Happy Bees, which look like Roman Candles in every shape, way, and form, except they have a different name and behave in no way like a Roman Candle would.

See, a Roman Candle is a stick, about 1 foot long that when lit, periodically shoots 1 cm fireballs of various colors.  But these weren’t Roman Candles, these were Happy Bees.

Happy Bees are like Roman Candles, but they shoot their fireballs in random directions, with a distinctive “Vvvvwwwooo! Vvvvwwwooo! Vvvvwwwooo!” noise. It would’ve been great if we knew that. Live and learn.

So, we light the Happy Bees in Ken’s hands, and run back.

Multicolored sparking death spews forth towards all of the defenseless women and children, who threw themselves to the ground and hid under blankets. Ken went into shock and screamed maniacally. Eventually he gained enough composure to turn away from the general direction of the innocents, towards the safer path of directly at me and Joe.

This story takes place shortly after The Matrix was released to DVD, so the bullet-dodging scene was a popular meme at the time, which everyone mimed for comedic effect, and in our case, as a survival mechanism. That shit is real, I know.

After this, it became sufficiently dark to set off the real fireworks, and all the males spent the next two to three hours setting off approximately $1,800 worth of Wile E. Coyote rockets and amusement park grade mortars.

The rest of the night passed without incident, and we all left happy, and with a healthy fear of Happy Bees.
____________________________________________________
* Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

The internet has opened our eyes to the extremes of the human condition. We’ve experienced testicular fire-setting, skateboard injury montages…. and lots and lots of webcam whores. The ability to see virtually whatever we want whenever we want has pushed the limits of our response stimuli. If you want to see a Japanese girl poop on herself via complex yoga positioning, while in a bathtub…. it’s there, man. I’ve seen that shit……… you can’t go back.

It’s also a place where raw human emotion parades into our consciousness via YouTube superstars with mystical appeal. Let’s talk about anger. I would imagine that a Jewish child who just saw his parents sent away to their deaths in a Nazi camp would still show HALF the anger you are about to see in these videos. If I was kicked in the balls by a clown wearing steel-toed red shoes, only after viewing a forced-watch session of my wife in bed with Uwe Boll (Clockwork Orange-style, of course), i would be mad. Probably REAL mad. guess what: My anger is dwarfed by this child of Legion. You will meet him, and he will pull a part of your soul south of Heaven.

Today, I go on record as seeing the greatest series of moments in internet history. The following chronicles the life and times of a truly dysfunctional person. Allow me to introduce you to ‘wafflepwn’, possibly the worst brother ever. Yet, like Santa Claus, he brings joy to the world: through the exploitation of his psychotic Satan-possessed brother Steven.

To say that Steven needs a roomful of priests as well as a swimming pool full of holy water is an understatement. You have NEVER seen anger in a child until you see these videos.

Username wafflepwn (real name unknown) uploads videos of his brother FREAKING OUT over videogame-related mishaps. Allow me to introduce you.  By the way, wait for the 1:10 mark for things you can’t unsee:

Who shoves a remote control up their ass in anger? Anything, for that matter? Hitting his head with a shoe, he asks “Is this what you want?”. The answer is yes. You, Steven, have made 2009 a year to remember. After uploading this video on the internet, wafflepwn showed this to his brother via YouTube and recorded his reaction, where millions of people have found purpose in life because of it. It went as planned:

Oh…. it gets better. AN ORIGIN STORY? YOU WANT AN ORIGIN STORY? DONE. See where it all began! find out WHY Steven’s World of Warcraft account was taken away: what follows is nothing short of brilliance in manipulation and absolute penultimate terror.

Finally, fast-forward to age 16. Steven gets a beat-up jalopy truck as a first vehicle to drive around in, that his parents got him for cheap. His reaction? Wait toward the end for ultimate cash money.

Ok, lets talk about this. I did some research, and found out that Steven is NOT retarded, does NOT have Autism or any severe learning disability. Apparently, he’s moderately intelligent with a small penchant for burning the wick at both ends when it comes to anger management. Anyone who doesn’t want to beat this kid like a baby seal should stop what they’re doing, make an appointment with their family doctor… and DECIMATE YOUR BABY-MAKING CAPABILITIES, because you will be a terrible parent.

Would you like some dessert? of course you do.

Lately, I’ve noticed that a celebrity dies about as often as I change my underpants, because I’m a guy, and I wear my underpants for a couple days at a time, provided I have good air circulation. Kilts FTW.

The whole media is taking its final pot shots at Michael Jackson, who’s been a bottomless pit full of comedy ever since the “Black and White” video premiere. I remember it well. Afterward, my dad stood up and said:

“When he started sleepin’ in scuba gear, I knew it was over,” said my dad, lighting a cigarette. “I mean look at him!” he shouts using the cigarette as a pointer. “He’s actually pretty… in a ‘hideous vampire’ kind of a way…”

That’s why I don’t care if MJ is dead. The Michael Jackson we knew has been dead for some time. Ever notice that all the tributes to him use clips from Thriller? Wonder why? Because even fans are ashamed of him.

That’s why this article isn’t about him, it’s about Billy Mays, because he was 1) awesome, 2) a decent family man, and 3) not a washed-up burned-out homosexual pedophile manchild.

A lot of people loved Billy Mays, and a lot of people though he was a loud asshole. But there is an agreement between us all. Those who loved Billy Mays loved him because he was a loud asshole. He knew it too. Billy Mays knew he was loved, and he knew he was a loud asshole.

From Wikipedia:

Mays was found dead by his wife in his Tampa, Florida home on June 28, 2009.^[2][1][14] The Associated Press reported that there were no indications that the house had been broken into, and that police did not suspect foul play.^[14]

According to Fox News, Mays had been aboard a US Airways flight that blew out its front tires as it landed at Tampa International Airport on June 27, the day before his death. None of the 138 passengers and five crew members were reported to be seriously injured immediately following the incident, but several passengers reported having bumps and bruises from falling objects.^[2] Mays told the local Tampa TV station that some of the objects “hit me on the head, but I got a hard head.”^[14] It is unclear whether Mays’ death was related to the incident.

I’m going to with the obvious conclusion that it’s all an intricate scheme propagated by Offer Shlomi, a.k.a. Vince Offer, the ShamWow Guy. He SlapChop’d the tires. Billy once made Offer an offer which he refused for fear of being p’z0n’d:

Offer then killed Mays to save face, and to dominate the late-night infomercial landscape. Offer has the motive, has demonstrated his mean streak before, and was a Scientologist, and therefore, devoid of all morality.

Don’t let him win. Buy ZorbEEZ instead.