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Category Archives: Nostalgia

Genocide - appropriate in some cases: Smurfs

Thursday, December 18, 2008 – 11:43 AM

A former Rwandan army colonel has been sentenced to life in prison by a United Nations court for his role in the 1994 Rwanda genocide.

International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda Judge Erik Moses said Theoneste Bagosora was “guilty of genocide and crimes against humanity and war crimes.”

via Life sentence for former Rwandan colonel convicted of genocide.

Let me be clear here folks - there is nothing funny about genocide.  HOWEVER, my response to the genocide is pretty damn hilarious because I’m going to talk about Smurfs.

There is no other people in this world more deserving of genocide than the Smurfs.  (Whoops, other than the Portuguese.)

See, if you’ve ever held a Smurf in your hand, you’ll know how rigid and unbending they are.  They just sit their in one stable pose with their skis on or in some inflexible pose with their weightlifting equipment.  They never do anything productive or contribute to the world.  They are PVC choking hazards.  They need to be genocided.

Papa Smurf, apparently father to all Smurfs, had 98 children in his tribe.  Since there was no mention of a “Mama Smurf” and Smurfette was the only female in the whole bunch that was of an age where her hips could accommodate birth giving , you can bet her vajeen was busier than a local drycleaner after a Gallagher show.  (There was Sassette Smurf too, but she was too young to reproduce.)  Gad, what a wicked, sickening people those Smurfs are.

Every episode, they would elude the kindly Gargamel and Azreal, steal mushrooms (anyone wanna get high?) and basically be pains in the asses. I remember an episode where they hijacked planes and flew them into two skyscrapers - how evil and disgusting.

Hefty Smurf would walk around and be tough and intimidate all his peers in his anabolic rage. In fact, ALL of the Smurfs had one specialty that they used to intimidate, bully, and detroy thing with.  Remember Handy Smurf and his diabolic inventions?  “Hey, let’s go smurf some cute little rabbits with my smurftastic catapult!”

I’m sure there was a Terrorist Smurf too.  He’d have been best buddys with Jokey Smurf, remember him?  Joey Smurf would hand out gift boxes that would explode.  Nice presents, Jokey, you fucking Jihadist.

And what was under their hats?  I’m sure bombs.  Or vials of anthrax.  It all adds up to them being worthy of an ethnic cleansing.

They had some redeeming qualities though, but only as fertilizer.  God damn you, Smurfs.  Damn you right to hell.

By Poobomber | Also posted in Bizarre Random Thoughts | Comments (10)

No….you can’t do that.

Saturday, November 22, 2008 – 12:11 PM

When I was a young and still devastatingly handsome child, I would on occasion bike over to the closest neighbors (a mile away through treacherous prairie jungle, teeming with fanged cattle and rabid gophers) and play with them when authorized by the parental establishment.

Going over to the neighbors was not really a treat, I recall it being a last ditch attempt at maintaining sanity.  It was the kind of thing I’d do when things were so mindblowingly boring at my own home that I couldn’t handle myself any more.  It may have even been forced upon me by the parental establishment who might have been clamoring for an opportunity to place their hoo-has and ding-ding-dongs near each other.

“Go over to the neighbors and play!” may have been my parent’s mating call, I’m not sure.  I’d have done that if I were them, because you know I’m definitely not going to be back for at least an hour unless my bike tire had a leak or something potentially life-devastating like that had I stumbled home at the wrong moment.

Anyways, getting back to the story, I’d go over and play with the neighbors - three slightly simple boys of immediate Dutch descent.  They were tactless.  See, we’d go out into their garden and break out the toy cars and make roads to drive them on.  But the thing was, these boys - let’s call them collectively the ‘Naab’ boys because that’s their last name spelled backwards - would bring the proverbial knife to a gun fight.  They’d haul out the big Tonka dump trucks AND the little wee Matchbox cars and drive them around and bang them into each other or whatever kids do with toy cars.

This never sat well with me.  See, if you’re building a society out of dirt and mud, the citizens of Imaginationland wouldn’t be all BIG like the people that would drive the Tonka trucks and SMALL like people that would drive the Matchbox cars, they would probably be somewhat uniform in scale.  The proportions were all wrong.  For this reason I would argue that we either set aside all the Matchbox (tiny) cars and play exclusively with the Tonka (big) toys, or vice versa.  Can’t have both of these things on the same roads, it just doesn’t make sense.

The Naabs, bless their simple wood-shoe-wearing genes, didn’t care.  They didn’t see it as anything to bother about.  They’d be all dumb and happy to drive the little tiny cars into the back of a huge bloody dump truck.  The fact that these two entities should never exist together in the same play session didn’t bother them one bit.  I remember being upset by this - it was all out of whack and entirely dysfunctional.  Then I’d ride my bike all the way home and build my own proportional and accurate universe in my own sandbox, to hell with their nonsensical world.

Fast forward to today - I see examples of this lack of regard everywhere - it seems to be a growing trend to mix all sorts of strange and bizarre universes together.  That’s shouldn’t be.

For example, never should the Predator and Alien exist in the same movie.  I call bullshit.  Alien was from the future, Predator was from the present.  How on earth anyone can shovel these two creatures into the same film is just beyond my comprehension.  Even if the two beings happened to live in the same time span, you’d think they’d be all “Hey let’s have a coffee and discuss how we’re going to divvy up society” [quite literally], then kinda stay out of each other’s hair while they did their thing.

Or Freddy vs. Jason.  WTF?  Freddy Kreuger was an urban monster that lived in the minds of people for the most part, while Jason Voorhees was a more rural summer holiday type opportunist that would lurk in the bushes of teenage band camps and pick off screaming pubescent idiots one by one.  Why Jason would bother with Freddy is beyond me.  They shouldn’t be in the same film.

See, what set this whole rant off was a recent video game ad I saw on TV - pitting the ancient Japanese warriors from Mortal Combat versus the DC comics characters like Batman and Superman or whoever the hell the DC comics world perennially claims to.

Excuse me?  Who the hell in their right mind puts these two groups of characters together?  They’re from different universes, they shouldn’t be in the same video game AT ALL.  Jesus Christ, get a grip on reality, people.  You wouldn’t put a hot dog in a hamburger bun would you?  It just doesn’t make sense.

People like this have no problem mixing Lego with Duplo or frikking Lincoln Logs I bet.  It’s practically criminal.

By Poobomber | Also posted in Recipes for disaster | Comments (11)

My simple childhood

Thursday, November 20, 2008 – 10:14 AM

I’ve heard people’s stories about how their favorite toy was a GI Joe action figure, or a doll whose eyelids inexplicably opened themselves when it was subjected to a pitch of more than 45 degrees (remember THOSE frikking creepy things?), or maybe a Transformer whose Autobot color-changing label was rubbed into a state of malfunction by their owner’s excited and snotty fingers.

When I hear these stories, I think to myself, “Wow, you are one complicated and hip person.”  (Usually because these people have combed their hair, nothing to do with their selection of toys as a child.)

See, my favorite toy as a child had far less depth to it.  My favorite toy on planet earth as a kid was … ready for it? …. a rake.  Are you overwhelmed? Are you shocked?  Too tired from late night sexual relations to think?

Yeah, it’s true - I played with a worn out and broken down leaf rake.  I’d tie a string around the handle and drag that sucker all over the yard and make plumes of dust that went so high they must have tickled God’s platinum-painted toenails (he’s a little strange when it’s sandal season).

My second favorite toy wasn’t really one particular object - it was more a class of objects, namely objects made of corrugated cardboard.  Like, uhm, cardboard boxes.  Yep, I loved cardboard boxes.  Back when it was still okay for kids to play with knives and scissors, I would cut and tape cardboard boxes into whatever my imagination could dredge up.  The General Lee?  No problem, I could whip something fancy like that up in a matter of minutes.

My third favorite ‘toy’ wasn’t one particular toy either, it was string, twine, or rope.  I would play with twine or string nonstop.  I don’t remember what I would do with it in particular, I just remember that my mother would enter my bedroom and see strands of orange colored twine spanning from whatever object was high enough that I could anchor it to usually to the next highest object that I could anchor it to.  I’m sure there were times I was trying to trap my mother with rope also, I have a mental image about tying someone’s ankles together while they were unconscious.  No, wait, that was more recent…last week sort of recent.  Never mind the last bit.

Yep, I was a simple child, no fancy toys for me.  I had a great time, thankyouverymuch.  And yes, I’m still comparatively simple 33 years later.  Some things just stay with you.

By Poobomber | Comments (13)

James Bond: The Unfathomable Sexual Advances

Sunday, November 16, 2008 – 11:11 AM

I was watching a few of the old James Bond movies last night - Goldfinger, Thunderball, and Moonraker - and I learned an important thing about getting women to like you:  you need to be a practitioner of rape.

Seriously, in three movies I’m sure James Bond committed 9 acts of sexual assault and if a judge and jury during a trial watched Bond’s sexploits TODAY they would surely be happy to send 007 off to a cold jail cell for the rest of his life.  I suppose in jail he’d get a new number, like “Prisoner 1657890″ - hardly a sexy number if I do say so myself.

I’d like to take this opportunity to rename some of the Bond films:

  • Dr. No Means Yes
  • From Russia With Forced Penetration
  • Goldfondler
  • Thunderballs & Lightningcock
  • On Her Majesty’s Sexual Deviant Warning List
  • Diamonds Are Forever, Rape Is Only 7-10
  • Live and Let’s Fuck Now Whether Or Not You Want To
  • The Man With The Golden Gun That Has Identifiable Markings
  • The Spy Who Unwantedly Shagged Me
  • Moonraper
  • Octopillage
  • Never Say No Again
  • For Your And The Court’s Eyes Only
  • A View To A Segregated Jail Cell
  • The Living Daylight Is Too Bright Out To Force Yourself Upon Your Victim So You Should Wait Till Night
  • License To Violate
  • Goldenchloroform
  • The World Is Not Enough But You Can Settle For Molestation
  • Abuse Another Day
  • Casino Despoil
  • Quantum of Ravage

Here’s something else Bond could only get away with in the 60’s:

(Also note the woman’s name was ‘Dink’.  She must have been Swedish.  Or else she had a penis.)

Here are some of the finer moments where Mr. Bond shows us all his gentle side:

Homeless James Bond:

By Poobomber | Also posted in Pop Culture, Topical Ointment | Comments (7)

Rip Yo Pantes

Saturday, November 15, 2008 – 3:58 PM

I once live in a place where nearby there was a ‘club’ called “Rip Yo Pantes”.  Yes, there was an ‘e’ at the end of ‘pant’, followed by an ’s’.

It was in the Caribbean, and the locals weren’t so good at English with their Spanish national language and everything.  But they tried.  The sign was written sloppily on a big piece of plywood atop a wooden shack on stilts, and it looked like if a strong enough wind came through, a lot more than pants would be getting ripped - like umm, the roof, or maybe all of the walls.

I never went into the club because at that time all I owned were swimming trunks, I figured they might not let me in.  Or if they did, they might try and rip them right off and take advantage of me or something.  I never met anyone who went into the club either - it was a place of mystery.  I imagine on the inside, a lot of carribbean people sweated and grinded against each other until their clothing was torn, then they’d call it a night and head home.

Sorry, I wish I could tell you more about the place, but I was scared of it.

By Poobomber | Comments (8)

Princess Di - The blog entry that makes me a horrible person

Friday, November 14, 2008 – 2:51 PM

I’m sure my previous post made people, particularly those people with vaginas where their penises should be, gasp in horror.

That was my intention because I love poor taste, especially when it’s MY poor taste.  I know, I know, Princess Diana should be off-limits because she was a hero to many people and she was such a sweet, tragic figure, stripped of her life in her most important and nearly-normal years that she had long craved for.

But in all seriousness as of this moment, I am coming out of the closet and saying “I never cared about Princess Diana all that much.”

“What about all her hard work at being a mother, a princess, a philanderer phillippino philanthropist, and the always being the object of everyone’s constant scrutiny?” you might ask.  Yes yes yes, she was like a superhuman goddess of epic Megatron * infinity + 6 int with a savings throw of 100 level and she was the keeper of the Talisman Of Pure Holy Righteousness.  She could cure Africa of its problems and be home in time to read stories to her two ginger haired angels and give Prince Charles his obligatory evening paddling.

She was, in fact, Bono but without the 5 o’clock shadow, pink sunglasses,  triple digit couric shits, and pompus cockdashery.  Yes, I just made up that word.  I think.  The spellchecker didn’t make it red, but I really just came up with it.

But you know what Princess Di couldn’t do?

She couldn’t hold down a job.

Oh sure, “Princesses don’t need real jobs”.  1.5 million twenty year old unemployed girls with a closet full of sweat pants that say “Juicy” and “Bitch” along with “Princess” across their rears can’t be wrong.  Right?  Not true. They also need to be employed despite whatever it is they tell their tooth-losing tattooed boyfriends.  Besides, they’re not REALLY ‘Princesses’ in spite of whatever words their asses brandish.

You didn’t see Princess Di out there working her ass off, burning her hands in the deep fryer at the local McDonalds.  She didn’t crush East German conglomerates with her corporate shrewdness.  She didn’t even sell naked photos of herself to tabloids and then act all surprised and shocked.  Nope, she couldn’t keep herself employed.

Alright, alright.  I’m just making up BS.  She was okay, but mehh, people made her out to be God or something.  She was just another person like you or I, but without the immense growth on the side of her head that makes other people avoid people like us in public.

Really, seriously, I don’t get the big deal over her.  I know, I’m a horrible person and going to hell, but hey, I’ll see her down there because she wasn’t a Mormon.  We’ll share a good laugh after she vents for a while and I nod and pretend I’m listening but instead watch the naked dancing demons doing their thing.  You know.  The thing with the live Hitler dildo.

So, this is farewell, 60% of my readers.  It’s been fun.  I’ll never forget the time we shared together, especially that time I made you snort milk out of your nose when you read my post about the new Beijing Olympic event icons.

Yours in eternal damnation,

Dan

PS:  I’m also going to watch ‘Religulous’ tonight which makes fun of religion.  This should seal my fate, because I’ll be right there, laughing with all the other atheists and devil worshippers.

By Poobomber | Also posted in Recipes for disaster, Rock Stars Are Retards, deep thoughts | Comments (10)

The interview

Friday, November 7, 2008 – 6:00 PM

Today I had an important meeting somewhere.  Okay, a job interview actually, I’m retiring from my home business (fucking loser economy) and getting back into the real world once again which excites me to no end.

Really, it does!

Granted, I can’t wear my latex gimp suit at work anymore (unless the place is REALLY good to work for), but the prospect of not having to worry about making sense of all these papers I have sitting around me in my home office makes me want to e-Jerkulate all over the place.  God I’m horny for not doing accounting any more.  And the idea of not managing a business and balancing books is even more thrilling than punching nuns or some suitably awesome and illegal feat to me.

Anyways, why is it that things always go catastrophically wrong when you’re going to a job interview ?

Today it was snowing like crazy for the first time this fall (contrast with hairy nipple t-shirtless weather on Monday), and I drove to a part of the city I’d never been to before for this interview.  And of course, all the street signs were covered in a nice thick paste of snow and I had no clue where the hell I was.  So I pulled off and turned into a back alley where I thought the place was and decided to hoof it, it had to be around somewhere close by.

Lo and behold I happened to park my front tires into a deep, muddy snow covered trench because it was just that - snow covered and I didn’t see it.  The car’s wheels were buried to the axle in sludge.  “No problem,” I thought, “I’m right where this place should be.  Building #477 should be right around here somewhere.  I’ll get the car towed out later.”

Now, this was getting close to my 10am appointment - and at this point I had lots of time to burn.  But I walked out onto the main road and went back and forth along the street where the place was supposed to be.  “473, 475…okay…empty lot…481.  What???”  I couldn’t believe it, where the hell did they go?  They got all Britneymommy on me and disappeared!

I walked around the block once to see if I could find this missing #477…it was gone.  Nowhere to be found.  I checked my notebook once again to ensure I had the right place.  Here’s what I saw:

677 Whatever Road.  - 10 AM

477-1234  ext:104 (interviewer’s name)

Notice that “477″ is the first three digits of the phone number, NOT the physical location of the organization I hoped to become employed by.

Being an idiot isn’t easy.  Neither is jogging 20 blocks through a foot of snow as sloppy as Paris Hilton’s snooch, arriving 15 minutes late for your first job interview in a long long time for a career you really really want to get into that pays far far more than I make now, soaked with sweat, brand shiny new pants all covered in slush.

Anyways, I rocked the interview because everyone always loves me.

(Except the Portuguese.  Fuck ‘em.)

By Poobomber | Also posted in Around Town, Awesomeness, Griping, Ranting about something that doesn't REALLY bother me, Status of Dan | Comments (9)

A silly thing I do….

Sunday, October 26, 2008 – 4:30 PM

Whenever I get to any destination, I always sing the beginning of this Silver Spoons theme song and insert my own lyrics for whoever I happen to be with.

Like:

“Here we are - at the store, we’re going to buy some eggs…”

or

“Here we are - at the house, we’re going to watch some porn…”

I just realized that a lot of people are too young to remember Alfonso Ribeiro in The Fresh Prince of Bel Aire, let alone Alfonso Ribeiro in Silver Spoons.  So I guess I’m like 4 generations out of date or something.

Silly huh?

By Poobomber | Comments (5)

Dear God it’s Marty Again

Wednesday, September 24, 2008 – 12:45 PM

I keep getting this spam email every few weeks.  Marty Santini sure wants me to declare friendship.

I like how it says “Please respond or your friend will think you said no” and then a little sad facey.  I feel bad not getting back to him/her, but I think I can live with myself if I don’t.

I should respond:

Dear Marty,

It’s been so long since I’ve last heard from you.  I wish you were here with me.

Remember back when we were in the war together stationed in the French countryside and you were a nurse in the French legion, tending to my badly burned body?  Then despite my disfigurements you still fell in love with me?

I still have the photographs from way back when that happened.  Remember Private Jimmy, the poor deafened kid from Chicago - we would stand behind him and pretend to be his voice to the cook when he was in line at the mess hall?  “Give me three potatoes, but spit in them fuckhead.”

Remember how when the bombs fell and we were all ducking for cover and hiding and Jimmy didn’t know what was going on since he couldn’t hear anything, and we hid under the desk together and laughed and laughed while he stood there in confusion because everyone was hiding?  Then remember the sorrow we shared when we had to look around for his extremities in the rubble right after that?  Those were beautiful, terrible days.

Or remember Tomas, the captive German soldier that we helped smuggle love notes out of his cell?  Remember how we made up a fake return letter from his wife saying that she was leaving him for a Luftwaffe pilot and their children were given up for adoption?  Remember how he cried and cried and cried and then hung himself?  We sure did laugh.  I hope you haven’t lost your beautiful sense of humor.

Time changes everything.  After I returned home, I met a fine woman and got married and went on to have children of my own.  I know that all those years you were suffering from the trauma of war were hard and you were stuck in an asylum, but I just couldn’t live with myself if I’d betrayed my wife and contacted you.  God I’m sorry about that.

She passed away a few years ago, and gave me her blessing to move on.  Marty, I can’t remember if you were really serious all those years ago about wearing a horse costume and making sweet sweet love to me when the war was over.  But I’m hoping you haven’t forgot and we can get back together again and share our final years having weird sex.  Also I need someone to moisten my bandages and empty my colostomy bag on a regular basis and you could save me a lot of money.

Marty - Love, you’ll be happy to know that as a special surprise for you, I’ve subscribed your email address to all sorts of beastiality mailing lists.  I know that whatever happens to us, you will enjoy the photos of equine sex you receive daily.  Take care, and I hope to hear back from you soon.

With Love,

Poo

I think poor Marty would regret sending me anything.

By Poobomber | Comments (1)

Retro world

Monday, September 15, 2008 – 8:55 AM

This weekend I happened to leave the house.  Yes, I know, that’s hard to believe but it’s TRUE!

This is it, this is exactly what I bought!

This is it, this is exactly what I bought!

I behaved like a good consumer too.  Know what I bought for $1.99 at a Salvation Army Store?  An Intellivision controller!

Huh?

It’s a video game controller joystick thingy but has all sorts of Intellivision video games built right into the controller - you just plug it into your TV and you’re off on a magical 1982 adventure!

Why on earth would I buy this?  Well, call it nostalgia, call it craziness, I thought for $1.99 I would get my money’s worth in entertainment value just setting the thing up.

I set it up and it all worked fine.  Let me tell you that playing “Shark! Shark” on a 42″ TV kicks ass entirely.  This was my favorite of all the games, because you start off as a little fish and swim around and eat other fish smaller than you and you get progressively bigger and bigger.  This allows you to eat larger fish.  I know, sounds awesome huh?

I thought this would be an awesome game to bring to the Xbox or Playstation.  Can you imagine kids plugging the game in and being completely messed up?

There’s no intro screen, you just press start and boom, the game begins.  All you do is swim around and eat fish.  The screen never changes, there are no levels, no music, and a total of three sound effects.

Apparently you can nip the shark’s tail - I didn’t get an instruction book with my purchase, but when I found that out this morning I got really excited.

In other news, the economy sucks, there are hurricanes battering the universe, Toronto is thinking about banning paper cups, and I’m still a fucking nerd.

By Poobomber | Comments (3)