USA. Happy b-day from the north. Thanks for being such great neighbours & Super thanks for AFV – we love seeing infants getting beaned with different balls. I have some gifts for you on behalf of our nation. Times are tough so they aren’t that great but hey it’s the thought counts eh?

5 pin bowling
Here ya go. We invented it but we want you to have it. Our frozen minds led us to take a fantastic pastime like 10 pin and huck it through our patented “fun subtractor”, leaving 5 impossibly positioned runt pins on strings and a diminutive ball designed for finger amputees. You won’t get the same smashing shit thrill as the real game but the footwear is backwards compatible. Happy independence day.
oh while we are on the subject of balls… thanks again america.
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Harness Racing
Here’s a jem for you gambling folk. It’s just like yer Kentucky derby shit but again we decided to run it through the fun subtractor. Instead of putting a coked out anorexic midget on the back of a raging throughbread we stick some unemployed dude in a wheelchair behind the horse. Our jockeys are just like being a drummer in Nickleback except they only have to stare at one asshole.
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The Mad Dash
Degrassi and the Kids in the Hall are a little to precious to give away for a non-milestone birthday so all I can offer is one of our finest contributions to the gameshow world. The Mad Dash was a little nugget produced in 80’s Montreal that challenged couples to risk their lives on a gigantic slippery gameboard (Gulliver’s Travels shit) for 5, 10, sometimes upwards of 50 bucks. If you knew your stuff you could walk outta there with a dinner for 2 at the Old spaghetti factory. Working with a tight budget demands creativity when trying to build excitement (2:47 in the unbearable clip below). A pretty snazzy lesson for these tough Economic times.
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Ben Johnson
Big Ben ran a 9.79 in Korea. It was the first time we tasted pride from the international buffet but three days later when he was stripped of his bling for doping and our fuck you Carl Lewis faces quickly turned into omelet masks. I’m still kicking myself for not buying the “we believe in Ben” sweatshirt. Anyhooters this dude can still bolt. He runs against cars and horses now. Ben isn’t permitted to race people anymore because he is “tainted” but yous might find him useful for PSAs and stuff – check out his “amazing” acting abilities. Disclaimer – check in with Jamaica to see if it is ok if you can keep him.
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Anal Chinook
This gift is kinda like giving someone a lottery ticket or scratch n win. It has potential when you get it but the odds are not in your favour so it just turns out to be nothing more than an anus slicing shit ticket. Sorry for the dud. You get Gavin, Aiden and Orca plus superhits like “Pubic Lice”, “womyns Rights” and “Ozone Layer”. Supplied here is a ditti about gavin’s infected foreskin called “foreskin”. Note the deafening silence after the song has ended…much like this article.

Have a great USA day and barf on someone you love.
Sincerely,
Black Jacobs

233 years ago today, America told the strongest empire in the world to get the fuck out of their face. They hid in trees and jumped out of bushes and beat the entire British army! Say what you want about the USA, but that’s pretty impressive.

In what can only be described as “The Greatest Story Ever Told” Right in the Queen’s Onions hit theaters today with wall to wall standing ovations. There was tons of celebrities at the premiere and everyone was clapping and clapping. Oh, it was marvelous. I feel sorry for you for not being there. Some rich chick barfed, even.

This person is going to chew you up and puke you out but you’re not a man until you’ve: had your heart broken, broken a heart, had the shit beaten out of you, and beaten the shit out of someone, so you might as well get this first part over with.

1. Find an online version of Karl Marx’s “On the Jewish Question”
(I’ll do it for you: http://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1844/jewish-question/)

2. Copy the relevant text
[ED: I guess I'll have to do this because the author's a lazy dick...]

3. Paste text into a blank Word document
[Simple enough.]

4. Replace all instances of the words “Jew” “Jews” “Judaism” and “Jewish” with “Hipster”
[Alright.]

5. Replace all instances of the word “Christian” with “Reg” or “Norm”
[This better be fucking good 'cause this is taking awhile.]

6. Read
[Bruno Bauer replies to them: No one in Germany is politically emancipated. We ourselves are not free. How are we to free you? You Hipsters are egoists if you demand a special emancipation for yourselves as Hipsters. As Germans, you ought to work for the political emancipation of Germany, and as human beings, for the emancipation of mankind, and you should feel the particular kind of your oppression and your shame not as an exception to the rule, but on the contrary as a confirmation of the rule.

The Reg state knows only privileges. In this state, the Hipster has the privilege of being a Hipster. As a Hipster, he has rights which the Norm do not have. Why should he want rights which he does not have, but which the Norm enjoy?

What the fuck? I see where you're trying to go with this, but it's not exactly working.]

7. Secretly become a Marxist
[Fine.]

8. Feel a great shame of your bourgeois stratum and its associated privileges
[...]

9. Desperately try to escape said social class by co-opting specific struggles (preferably those of the predicted “winners” of class struggle)
[Go dumb NYU kids!]

10. Realize what you’re doing (repeat step 8.)
[I realize that I'm wasting a ton of fucking time on this charade.]

11. Give up, and have fun
[I should have given up on this awhile ago.]

12. Desperately covet the profligate lifestyle, which is needed to have the best fun ever
[Anything is more fun than what you just put me through.]

13. Understand
[Fuck you]

- Don Malkemes

I had their fucking address and I was temporarily insane and constantly drunk and my pop owned guns. Guns you fucks Guns!! Remington 870 Express Semi Autos, and my old Pump Action Youth Model; the shotguns of choice for working American people. Believe that, and believe me, I was gonna stake out Fucksquad Condos and map that fucker out.

And so I did. One night while arguing with V.D. over the phone, pointlessly trying to persuade her to give up her full blown sex addiction, she resisted and stated that she was going to meet the boys no matter what. At this point, maybe a month after the initial Auction Night, she had graduated from her usual double menage a trois with five cocks on the side, to getting fully airtighted with an audience. Meaning she would take it as God intended, as well as in the ass, while sucking dick. To push it off the charts, the rest of the team would watch, in a darkened room, and use their cell phones as flashlights. They’d do play-by-play and hoo-haw and just love every second of it. She was also giving it to the equipment manager and friends of the players by now. Anyway, she hung up the phone and unbeknownst to her I had borrowed my pop’s Jimmy for the weekend, so I raged out of Brooklyn and covered the Turnpike in record time. I followed the address and sure enough, found myself in a half empty condo parking lot with V.D.’s car in attendance. I parked the truck next to a boat on a trailer, at a far corner so V.D. wouldn’t spot me. The night’s hockey game had been over for well over an hour or so, and players were still getting back in two’s and three’s. I was sweating and nauseous and going out of my mind. I knew she was in there in some sort of multi-twisted position with the hootin’ and the hollerin’ and the… when she came outside. She came out and walked off the front porch, and a group of about seven players and friends stayed on the porch with beers in hand, a couple of them peeing in the bushes, calling after her. I couldn’t hear what they said, I was too far away. I expected her to get in her car and jet, but she just walked into another condo unit. Another fucking unit!

That was fucking it! These pube shaved Canucks had no idea what was in store for them! These units had three levels to them and anyone could walk in whenever they wanted to. They weren’t lit up too much inside and there were so many guys and so very few girls that it would take a while to pick an odd man out. An odd man with three boxes of 12 gauge double ought and his pop’s Semi Auto Express. I’d have to take the magazine plug out so I could load five shells instead of three and it would help if I sawed off the barrel but not the stock because I’d need the leverage and recoil absorption and I’d work my way from bottom to top trenchcoating the fuck out of the place and try and corner as many as possible in the top floor. But this was to be no murder/suicide, just fucking murder, I wanted to live to tell the tale to the judge and the papers. But wait, why even murder? Why not kick it up a notch? Forget it, I’d grab my 20 gauge 870 Pump Action Youth and load that little bitch with birdshot and just maim these pricks. I’d be aiming to end careers; crotchshots and kneecaps, shots to the face from distance so they would have to spend the rest of their lives looking at their ugly pock-scarred faces. I’d give myself up freely to the cops and grant newspaper interviews and the whole country would know what twisted sex romps went down behind the scenes of their minor league franchises. The Plan was in effect!

So I waited until V.D. finally took her body fluid soaked self out of the condo, all alone, and got in her car and then I — Wait.

You know what? I proved my point. I proved my point that love can make a man want to murder. You guys don’t even deserve to hear about the showdown at her house during the blizzard. You know why? Because half of you don’t believe this story anyway, and the rest of you think that I’m just some weak pussy. Well FUCK you. None of you deserve the rest of this story because none of you know what it’s like to be driven by the thralls of Codependent Obsession, with Oxytocin firing your synapses and Adrenalin making every one of your lousy gut decisions. You didn’t ball out your story to the large, warm, saint of a black woman at the Chelsea Clinic after getting served the metal Q-tip. You didn’t go to free half-ass counseling for months because you couldn’t afford a real shrink. You didn’t read a book about sex addiction written by some butter-churning Quaker and give up all drugs and drink without any help, just to save your own fucking life, through sheer will power. You didn’t see it, you didn’t feel it, you didn’t live it…

and I hope none of you ever do.

- Mike E

So a good friend of mine runs off to Manhattan to be the live-in arm candy of some monkey working at some rotten pop-rock label based out of Brooklyn. Back in the Mid-West I’m sitting behind my computer listening to her brag about “insider” boy-band gossip and all the social circles she’s now running with. Last Night’s Party branded photos with Myspace celebrities, MTVu award shows, the works.

I am 18, naive, and I am extremely jealous. What I am going to do about it? Fucking join them! Naturally? I’m going to do all of the necessary research and form a plan, delve real deep into this world of wonders. Originality is essential and I’m totally over Winter so I’m moving to LA. I lie to my parents and tell them I’m all serious about 4 years at USC studying Journalism. Little do they know I’m actually all about an internship at some Asian dude that looks like a chick’s record label. A good 80% of the music sucks, I can’t dance, but none of that matters. I’m already interning for my local news AM radio station. Media conglomerate owned piece of shit. They’ve got me making coffee for a bunch of grey-haired men running the joint and taking down story leads. “Rich asshole to fund Children’s Hospital”… “Local high school teens busted underage drinking on prom party buses”. “Intern” I learn in LA means underage party-girl and I would definitely much rather get into that. I confidently shoot an email to Sarah Morrison. Out of all these personalities to choose from she seems likely to take a break from photo opportunities and help an aspiring ______ (I have still yet to decide what I planned on being/you can fill in the blank) out.

Dear Sarah,

I want to be e-famous and party and have fun for a living too! I’ve already got some serious defecation smeared all over my resume I know you aren’t going to read.
Help a sister out.

That isn’t actually what the original e-mail said, and somewhere in there I’m sure there was some sort of flowery flattery. But you get the idea. Anyways, I’m right in my suspicions and she does. Hooks it up with all the proper contact info and explains what I need to do… Los Angeles here I come!

- Ambrea

Are the words “J.A.P.s in July” in any Broadway songs about how great New York is? They should be.

Hey, I didn’t know Bruce Dickinson fucked my Nana.