STREET BONERS and TV CARNAGE

END WHALE SLAVERY NOW!!!

Lacto-Ovo-Vegetarian Linus — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 06:00:11 +0000

If you know anything about me, you know that I hate meat and even considered killing myself when I ate a hamburger recently.

In protest of its years of bondage to pig human owners, a mighty orca prepares to rape its female trainer.

If you know anything about me, you know that I hate meat and even considered killing myself when I ate a hamburger recently. In fact, that’s really all there is to know about me. I want to protect animal meat. I think that slaughtering animal meat is so uncool, I was willing to slaughter myself to prove that point.

Whales are animals, and among the most beautiful and noble of whales are the mighty orca, who are frequently mislabeled with the racist term “killer whale.” If you trust me about anything, b’lee dis: An orca has never killed any human being that didn’t deserve it. If that orca had to be pushed into a corner of the ocean to the point where it felt that its only recourse was to lash out and devour that human being, that human being was asking for it.

So it is with great excitement that I realize my favorite organization on Earth (besides the Worldwide Friends of Tempeh), People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, has filed a lawsuit on behalf of five orca whales who are currently enslaved, mistreated, and taunted at the so-called Sea World in San Diego. I am especially excited because, not having hands, it was impossible for the orcas to have filed this lawsuit themselves.

PETA is claiming—rightly and irrefutably so—that the whales are being kept in slave-like conditions that are no better nor worse than the disgusting treatment of ex-African slaves in the American South during the pre-Super Bowl era. It is time to end animal slavery and free these whales. Mr. Gorbachev—TEAR THAT AQUARIUM DOWN!!!

—LACTO-OVO-VEGETARIAN LINUS

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APPLE SCOTLAND PARODY AD EXPLAINED

Gavin — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 16:59:16 +0000

Last week’s joke just broke a million so it’s worth explaining a thing or two about what is going on. The accent is Glaswegian, or at least a close approximation from hearing my Weegie parents scream it at me for the past

Last week’s joke just broke a million so it’s worth explaining a thing or two about what is going on. The accent is Glaswegian, or at least a close approximation from hearing my Weegie parents scream it at me for past 41 years. Scots talk like Nuyoricans in that they ignore consonants and blend their vowels together in a big ball of word. They’re accent is so contorted in fact, it can change the shape of your face. This twisted mouth is called “Sham Gabbit” and is seen as a patriotic badge of pride (so’s a knife scar across your face).

Here’s the rant translated into English…

“GOING TO GIVE US, GOING TO GIVE ME A HAND HERE…”
Scots always start out friendly and open minded. They embrace everyone with open arms which is why they go so ballistic when betrayed.
I shouldn’t have pronounced it “hand” as the Glaswegian pronunciation sounds more like “horn.”

“GETTIN SOMETHING TO EAT. AND UH SOMETHING SIMPLE LIKE A CHIP BUTTY AND MAYBE A JAMMY DODGER…”
I shouldn’t have said a chip butty because that’s what the English call it. In Scotland it’s called a chip piece or some shit. I’m amazed about how much starch drunks in both countries (actually provinces of the same country but don’t say that to a Scot) can handle. I guess they need it to soak up all the booze. It’s perfectly normal for someone to get spaghetti (spagbowl) with a side of chips. They also take bread with that but not rice. They don’t like rice. When you get Chinese food (a Chinky) you have to make a special request for rice. Otherwise it’s a cardboard container of vegetables and chicken on a bed of chips.

“AND THEN A PINT OF, I DON’T KNOW, YOU KNOW? McCEWAN’S LAGER OR A CALEDONIAN 80.”
At my Uncle’s pub in Glasgow the men will talk for hours about beer. They’ll ask me what I’m having and if it’s say Tenants for example, they’ll say, “Och, that’s a woman’s pint – here, try this” then they’ll slide over their pint. Soon, you’re trying about half a dozen different pints and trying not to say, “They all taste exactly the same.” They also buy a round no matter who needs it which is annoying because I don’t like drinking 5 pints at once.
Sometimes my Uncles calls me here in New York and tells me what beers are on tap at his pub (Witherspoon’s). I don’t know what to do with this information.

“OH FOR FUCK’S SAKES. SEE ME? RIGHT?..”
My dad’s from a shitty area called the Gorbals and over there they introduce every noun before saying a sentence. As in: “See me? See my ma? See fish? My ma hates fish.” I think the vernacular developed because you’re so often talking to a drunk, you have to lead him by the hand to each part of the sentence, no matter how simple that sentence is.

“I WANT A JAMMY DODGER LIKE A FUCKING JAM SANDWICH AND A CHIP BUTTY. THAT’S JUST BREAD WITH CHIPS. I’M NOT EVEN GOING TO GET INTO THE PINTS. JUST GET ME THAT.”
I was thinking of a “Jelly Piece” not a Jammy Dodger. The latter is a biscuit. The former is a jam sandwich. My dad grew up in a council estate (UK projects) and they’d play soccer in the center of the buildings almost 24 hours a day. When a kid shows up, he just goes on the team with less players and so on and so on. There’s no score. When the kids got tired they’d yell up, “Here Ma, gonnee gee us a jelly piece?” and it would come flying out the window wrapped in newspaper. Ah, the good ‘ol days.

“LOOK YOU, YA FUCKING COW! I NEED A SANDWICH, A JAMMY DODGER, IT’S JUST BREAD AND JAM. FUCK THE CHIP BUTTY. FUCK THE McCEWAN’S LAGER. CAN YOU JUST DO THAT PLEASE, YOU FUCKING COW!?”
Glaswegians pronounce cow “coo” so like “horn” that was an error. I also should have switched up cow with cunt at the end but now we’re getting into semantics. I saw many commenters noticed it was just a phone case at the end. This is true though I did shatter the case against the ground if that helps.

Anyway, I was born in England but my parents are Scottish and I spent plenty of summers in Glasgow as a kid. I still visit about once a year. Here’s some posts about the last visit.

GLASGOW STORIES: A WEEK IN SCOTLAND

GLASGOW STORIES: BORN TO SHOP

GLASGOW STORIES: I GOT A GIG

GLASGOW STORIES: LAST NIGHT’S STAND UP

10 GREAT GLASGOW QUOTES

VACATIONING IN GLASGOW

MY TRIP TO SCOTLAND

And here’s a wee movie about me Gran who’s fucking 95 the noo.

-GAVIN McINNES

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STREET BONER 1678

Gavin — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 16:11:28 +0000

When I’m mayor, brass knuckles will no longer be illegal but short hair and flats will.

8 out of 10 stars

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FIVE SONGS ABOUT DEATH

Zack Senhausen — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 14:00:11 +0000

Memento Mori. Remember, death is coming.

Instagram: johntylerm87

Memento Mori. Remember, death is coming.

It’s a fact that we’re all going to die one day. Your parents, your pets, your friends—they will all leave this planet sooner or later. Some will die in their sleep, some will die violently, and some will die as a result of not bothering going to the doctor to check the weird growth under their scrotum that just keeps getting bigger every day.

Some will grow tired of life, go down to the cellar, tie a noose from the ceiling, and then dance the Hempen Jig.

Some will be fucked to death by a horse.

When victorious Roman generals were paraded through the streets, they always had a slave standing behind them whose task was to hold a laurel wreath over the general’s head and also to constantly remind him that although he is triumphant today, he, too, will die someday, and that day might come sooner than expected.

Memento Mori.

So let me be that slave to all you whippersnappers, hepcats, and ragamuffins out there by serving you five delightful tunes about ceasing to exist. You may be a successful graphic designer today, but tomorrow your fragile cranium might explode under the wheels of a bus.

Carolyn Sullivan: “Dead!”

This is a funky soul song about jealousy and suicide that you can actually get a lapdance to. Carolyn Sullivan sounds so sexy in this song, you wonder how her man can be unfaithful to her. It’s a song that makes you either want to commit suicide, fuck someone, or both.

Best part:
Dead… I wish I was!
He is gone
I’m all alone.

The version you find on YouTube continues like this:
With this phone in my hand
I’ll try to call my man
And if he’s not at home
I’ll know he’s not alone
And I’ll be dead!

Another version goes like this:
With a razor in my hand
I remove my watchband
If no one interrupts
when I make this cut,
then I’ll be dead!

Van Morrison: “T.B. Sheets”

This song is about a nightmare Van Morrison had about a girl dying from tuberculosis. The narrator finds himself in the same hospital room as this girl and is overwhelmed by the stench of death. The story goes that Morrison broke down in tears after recording this song.

Best part:
I can almost smell
your T.B. Sheets
from your sick bed

Jack Kittel: “Psycho”

Blind country singer Leon Payne wrote this song about a very troubled man who murders everyone around him and confesses to his mama (who turns out to be dead, too), but Eddie Noack was the first to record it. However, Jack Kittel’s recording from 1973 is the best version.

Best part:
We were sitting on a bench, mama
thinking of a game to play
It seems I was holding a wrench, mama
Then my mind just walked away.

Porter Wagoner: “Banks of the Ohio”

“Banks of the Ohio” is an old murder ballad, and what is more fitting than letting country music’s finest purveyor of songs of death and madness, Porter Wagoner, sing it?

Best part:
I placed a knife against her breast
as into my arms she pressed
She cried, “Oh please don’t murder me!
I’m not prepared for eternity!”

Donna Lee: “Whispers From Heaven”

Here comes the darkness! Catholic singer Donna Lee wrote this bone-chilling song about an aborted fetus whispering words of forgiveness to its own mother. The fetus is in heaven, which doesn’t make any sense to me, because I thought unbaptized Catholic children went to Limbo. So I can only assume this grieving mother is a victim of Satanic trickery of some kind. No black-metal band can make a song this dark. I think Donna Lee must be a very sick individual.

Best part:
Whispers from heaven
I call to you with love
We can still be very close
and love each other, too
For though I’m now with God
I’ll always be a part of you.

—ZACH SENHAUSEN

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ACADEMY AWARDS ROUNDUP

Deke Rivers — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 12:00:50 +0000

Oscar is a fickle bitch. I’m talking about Oscar Meyer, The Wiener Boy. I really don’t know that much about The Academy Awards.

Oscar is a fickle bitch. I’m talking about Oscar Meyer, The Wiener Boy. I really don’t know that much about The Academy Awards.

Let’s take a look at this year’s nominees for Best Picture.

The Artist. Don’t you hate art? I didn’t see this one but unless you want to be artfully bludgeoned with artistic artistry for a couple hours, I would steer clear.

The Descendants. Didn’t see it but it’s got George Clooney in it. God, he blows.

Midnight In Paris. "Paris?" Uh-oh. French accents and shit. Stay away.

Extremely Loud & Extremely Close. Hasn’t got a chance. With an ampersand in the title? C’mon. Didn’t see it & I ain’t gonna.

The Tree of Life. This can’t be good. Anytime these cloistered pious prisspots start talking about "trees" or, or "life" you know you’re in for a two-hour snoozefest.

War Horse. Where is PETA when you need them? Leave horses alone, you fucking Hollywood jerkoffs. Find something else to make your empty vehicles for vainglory and self-satisfied pomposity about and reasons to dress up in silly "period" costumes. I didn’t hear one horse associated with this thing say, "I read the script and I just fell in love with it."

Hugo. No one in the last four or five hundred years has been named "Hugo" so you know this is gonna be another excruciatingly periody "period piece" and opportunity to dress up douche nozzles in ways that no one ever actually did and depict things that never would have happened, warranting the stock disclaimer: "The characters and events portrayed in this film are completely ludicrous. Any resemblance to people anywhere or things that might actually happen is purely accidental."

The Help. I picture a whole lot of black women going "mmm-HMM" a whole lot over this one. If you’ve accidentally seen part of the trailer for it while watching TV at home, you know this one is about black women working as maids in the homes of horrible white people who are horrible to them, as is their wont. Let’s not mention that Lemon-Pledging the furniture in wealthy white peoples’ homes is probably a whole lot safer than walking down Martin Luther King Boulevard on their way home.

Jaws. Probably not up for anything as it’s about fifty years old but it should be. A lavish bit of whimsy about a giant mechanical shark eating New Englanders. Talk about a script writing itself. Movie-goers lined up in droves at the prospect of seeing painfully actory actors like Richard Dreyfuss get ripped to shreds by a razor-toothed primordial beast. A masterpiece!

Deliverance. Ditto! Squeal like an overacting ham! If you like seeing classically-trained consummate artiste thespians getting buggered by inbred grit mongoloids in The South, this one’s for you. Talk about reading a script and just falling in love with it. The fact that its star, Herbert "Cowboy" Coward (with Ned Beatty, Burt Reynolds and Jon Voight in supporting roles), wasn’t acknowledged by The Academy for his work in this delectable bit of cinéma véritétells you all you need to know about the arbitrary nature of the self-congratulating "Academy Of Motion Picture Arts And Sciences."

As Cowboy himself may have said in his role as "Toothless Man" in this cinematic tour de force: "Oscar shore got a purty mouth."

—DEKE RIVERS

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IN PRAISE OF MEXICAN CHICKS

Lorax — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 08:00:21 +0000

In spite of all of my whitey-centric tendencies, and they are deep and many, I love me a Mexican chick.

In spite of all of my whitey-centric tendencies, and they are deep and many, I love me a Mexican chick. Not merely a female of Mexican heritage, mind you, and by no means a Spaniard. I love me a full-on, eyebrows-drawn-to-the-hairline, black-eyeliner-outside-of-the-lipstick, fake-beauty-marked, tits out, butt-shimmyin’, indecipherable, nasty, scowling loca shrouded in a Pendleton. If there is a hotter breed of female on planet Earth, by all means, strand me on hot chick island, but until that day gimme a Mexican gal and I’m set for the evening. Most especially a Mexican chick who digs a mean-spirited, crypto-racist white boy such as myself.

Let me hip you to a li’l secret, lest you don’t already know. Crazy Mexican chicks fuck like it is their last day on Earth. Better stated, they fuck as if their fucking is the sole act that gels the universe, perpetuating all creation through a whirling mandala of switchblades and hairspray . Don’t take my word for it, pally, give it a shot! When your whitey body is smeared with makeup and claw marks (the good kind), you’ll be too exhausted to say, “Lorax told me so,” but he did. Lorax told ya so.

The strange thing about Mexican Chicks, as I’ve known them, is that they respond well to bullshit Machismo so long as it is issued from anyone other than a black dude or a fellow Mexican. Mexican and black males are notorious for treating their girlfriends like fuckable rat shit. On the other side of the dark peso, finding a white boy with a spine is like playing “Where’s Waldo?” in a sea of Caucasian faggotry. What, or WHO, is a Mexican chick to do? Hopefully me!

Black chicks are a stubbed toe, white chicks are a criticism of the stubbed toe, and Mexican gangsta chicks are a balm on the stubbed toe followed by a blow job you will never, ever forget. Praise upon praise for the Mexican Loca. I’d write more but I must get Maria’s name tattooed above my eyebrow before she kills me.

—LORAX

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HEY MOM, I’M ON TV AGAIN TONIGHT

Gavin — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 16:50:24 +0000

I’m going to be on Red Eye tonight discussing all things political with the lovely Ann Coulter. Here’s a clip of a previous episode

I’m going to be on Red Eye tonight discussing all things political with the lovely Ann Coulter. Above is a clip of a previous episode where I discuss how Ron Paul managed to stay married for half a century.

And here’s the rest of it. It starred Anthony Cumia of Opie & Anthony fame who packs as many laughs as he does guns.

This one gets fantastic at 05:18 (on Gingrich cheating), 10:28 (politicians personal lives), 13:00 (Newt Gingrich nude)
–

This one becomes infinitely wonderful at 0:27 (King Diamond eating kittens), 06:20 (on eating out cougars),
–

This one really sizzles at 0:12 (Rick Perry), 01:11 (cougars), 04:28 (men and gossip), 05:47 (more gossip), 06:38 (more gossip), 12:!2 (plugging my book which gets censored)

NOTE: Previous to 8:12, I was telling the guests that a lot of Catholic girls will do it in the butt because it retains their virginity. I had just said Jessica Simpson used that same trick as a young lady.

Set your VCRs for 3AM tonight, Feb 3, 2012 or scrounge through YouTube users like HDcontentDump03 in a few days to see it on a computer.

-GAVIN McINNES

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MEN WATCH MOB WIVES?

Gavin — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 16:14:05 +0000

Clean comedian Tom Shillue has a theory about reality TV. He believes men watch shows like Ice Road Truckers and Ax Men because they want to imagine what

Instagram via glorymermaid

Clean comedian Tom Shillue has a theory about reality TV. He believes men watch shows like Ice Road Truckers and Ax Men because they want to imagine what they would do in an extreme situation. They’re never going to drive a truck over a frozen lake nor are they ever going to ~~deek~~ deke out a swinging redwood but picturing these worst case scenarios helps middle Americans trivialize problems like driving their Maxima in February and trimming some pernicious branches in the backyard.

Women don’t anticipate conflict the way men do. They’re less concerned with being attacked by nature and more concerned with some bitch pulling out their weave. So, they watch cunty cat fight shows like Real Housewives of Atlanta. They’re never going to have their best friend punch them in the face and be humiliated in front of an entire restaurant but when they’re not invited to an office party, everything has already been placed in perspective.

But what about men who watch shows like Mob Wives? What kind of weird queer actually cares about human garbage in Staten fucking Island? The only thing I find more baffling than a man watching this show is the fact that Renee keeps letting Junior walk all over her.

I wrote about it for my column at Takimag this week. Click here.

-GAVIN McINNES

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STREET BONER 1677

Gavin — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 15:27:50 +0000

You can keep your California girls. I wish they could all be breathtaking slobs who don’t give a shit.

10 out of 10 stars

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HOW I SCORED A $19 FAUX FUR COAT BY ASSERTING MYSELF

Jessica Delfino — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 15:00:40 +0000

This morning, my mom called me in tears and dumped a bunch of crap in my lap.

This may be the author, or it may be a random hooker, which is under no circumstances meant to imply that the author is a random hooker, because she isn’t.

This morning, my mom called me in tears and dumped a bunch of crap in my lap. She’s going through menopause and has three teenage daughters, so I can totally understand how much her life sucks right now. As we were talking, she said, “I hate when people tell me, ‘That’s just the way it is’. Not for me, it isn’t,” she went on. “I jump lines”. I am my mother’s fucking bull shit self-righteous daughter. I would have talked to her for longer, but I had to hang up to get to the only official job I’ve had for longer than 2 weeks.

One day a week for the past ten years, I work for a rich guy. Everyone wants to know how he got rich, as if they learn how he made his money, they’ll somehow magically get to progress from the shitty situation they call a life to one that involves them not having sex on a dirty mattress with the 4 they somehow talked themselves into believing was a 6. So I’ll tell you. It’s a really boring story. He went to college, got a law degree, threw his law degree away, started a website and then sold it for 20 million dollars. Are you happy now? No, because all the money and knowledge in the world couldn’t bring an honest modicum of joy to your bitter existence. I know. I can relate. It’s called the human condition. Sucks to be human sometimes, but it’s not like we can go be a giraffe or an octopus if we wanted to, so suck it up and enjoy minimum wage, living off your parents, or your own stab at an honest and fruitful living.

Anyway, since part of me resents working for this rich guy even though I also love him and consider him to be one of my best friends, I get really bored at this job and so while I’m out running errands, which are part of my duties, I do things like grab a semi-leisurely hot chocolate or peruse stacks of crap on the sale shelves at Duane Reade while I’m on the clock. Did you know they sell sushi at Duane Reade? I’ve never tasted it, but I bet the fish it features would be glad to know it most certainly gives you a combination of diarrhea and GERD. That glamorized drug store has really gotten too big for its britches. I had no problem with the old-school Duane Reade, before they sold brownie bites, before they had a graphic designer with a snarky sense of humor, back in the tail end of the dwindling bad old days of NYC.

So today while I was out taking his ugly custom-made cashmere coat to the dry cleaners and picking up a new filing cabinet for the mountain of coffee-stained papers he insists on hoarding, I took a paid detour. I don’t normally shop at the trite cave of business attire that is Ann Taylor, but I liked the idea of getting paid to poke my head in. Once inside, it was pretty much everything I expected—outfits for women who spend their time behind desks at their magazine, non-profit. or TV-station jobs from 9 AM to 7 PM. I poked around, saw a sweater that I approved of, tried it on and felt like for one minute I could be the type of person who could make a decision, like, for example, the decision to buy a sweater.

Disappointed at how bland the place was, I got into line and dutifully paid for the music-teacher-dressed- for-success-looking top. I made the fortunate mistake of turning around for one second, and I saw the woman behind me was holding a breathtakingly beautiful faux fur coat, marked at $19 off the sale rack. “Where did you get that?” I solemnly demanded like the mother character in a made-for-TV movie who just caught her son smoking crack. “On the sale rack,” she said, “but it was the last one.” I felt actual tears start to well up in my eyes. I’d had a coat like that once. It was a swap meet score, and it was too small, so I gave it away to a child, and every time I saw the child wearing it, I secretly wanted to punch said child. Sometimes adults want to punch children, and if you have never wanted to punch a child, you probably aren’t doing life right.

I wanted to grab it from her arms and run out of the store. She was chubby and the security guard was an old woman. They never would have caught me. But instead, I said to the counter woman, “Are there any of those coats left?” She insisted there were only what had been on the rack. “Bullshit,” I said to myself, and asked the next employee who I’d just seen in the dressing room. “Excuse me, are there any of those coats in the dressing room?” I asked. “I’ll check,” she said, and came back emptyhanded. But I didn’t stop there. “Are there any in the back room?” I inquired. She checked, and returned with one of those smirky sad faces that are taught on corporate training videos. “Can you call other stores and see if there are others?” Realizing I was a potential problem, she understood that she better come up with a coat for me and fast. As I waited, I walked around the store, looking for a coat stashed somewhere, cause that is a move I totally have done myself—the ol’ “hide it til later.” I found none, but I did find a small Hispanic woman holding a coat.

“Are you going to buy that?” I demanded.

“Yes,” she said, and gripped it more tightly to her chest. I started realizing I probably was not going to get what I wanted. I felt infuriation slowly creeping over me, my mother’s daughter, leaking her true colors.

Out of nowhere, the other saleswoman told me that she had found a customer who was trying on two coats, one was large and one was large petite. She said I could have whichever didn’t fit her best. I wrung my hands and waited by the dressing room until the customer, a chubby, angry looking white chick, came out with one coat, the sales lady following with the other. She handed it to me and it was like she’d just showered me in golden chocolate, or handed me my own live newborn baby. I tried it on, and it was too big, and I bought it.

Now, some people will read this story and take a lot of different things away from it. Some will take away the exploits of a spoiled white woman, except I was not spoiled as a child and so I probably make up for it a bit by spoiling myself today. Others will take away a positive message, that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and with persistence and ambition, sometimes you can make the seemingly impossible possible. Yet others will find a new way to criticize or reward the story.

But the bottom line, is, I don’t give a shit what you take from it, because I have a gorgeous faux fur coat that I bought for $19 dollars, and even more important than that, I got what I wanted. Because that’s what I motherfucking do.

—JESSICA DELFINO

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