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Pimp Junta My Thoughts on Feet January 4th, 2006 by John Brownlee I’ve often heard girls say that they judge men by their shoes. That women pay so much attention to the feet of a man has never made much sense to me. This is like judging a man by his armpit. Actually, it’s worse – I’ve seen the attractive armpit or two in my time. But what are feet if not mottled, misshapen clumps of flesh crammed into reeking coffins of leather? Feet are what your hands would look like if all the bones in them were repeatedly broken every six weeks with a brick. Disgusting. Such is my loathing of the foot that there’s only two types of girls I would never date. One: fatties. Two: those who paint their toenails. Girls - painting your toenails is like applying lipstick to your anus. Don’t do it. The Chinese, with their foot binding, had the right idea – minimize these revolting appendages to offset evolution’s blind, ignorant fondness for them. Because of my revulsion, I try to pay as little attention to my feet as possible and so, over the years, I have developed a rather hardy set myself. Whether it was walking barefoot through a foot of snow to my neighbor’s house as a youth, or shrugging off the spray of gore resulting from stepping on a piece of jagged ceramic – the end result is a steady regime of consistent abuse has resulted in their near nigh-invulnerability. To me, shoes are a social nicety which I resent. Coming home in the evening, my greatest joy is to kick off the sweaty foot coffins and give the boys some air. Like my future wife, I am happiest both barefoot and in my kitchen. The other day, I was walking home in what was once a chic pair of black leather loafers when I passed a shoe cobbler. This caused me to ruminate and look down at the poor puppies below my ankles. The left shoe had a large gash in the side. In the hollowed heels of both, numerous trapped pebbles and tiny glass shards rattled. The soles, partially disconnected from the shoe proper, made exasperating farting-like noises when I walked. Unlike underpants, I tend to wear shoes until decomposition. But I decided to go in and see if all these pedimentary traumas could be repaired anyway. The cobbler assured me that they could be if only I were to leave my shoes with him. So I made what I thought was a common-sense decision: I took off my shoes, handed them to him, and began walking the five minutes back to my house in my socks. Within fifty yards, I’d already been stopped by the Gardai. “Ey! Wud’s oll dis den?” the copper ejaculated, pointing down with his walkie talkie at my shoeless feet. I scowled up at him defiantly. Recently, I’ve felt the Dublin police have been getting too big for their britches. I blame the uniform change: previously, every member of the Dublin Gardai wore a uniform comprised of khaki and puke green, overlaid with a fluorescent traffic vest. True, it was attire more appropriate for a parking garage attendant than a metropolitan enforcer of law and order, but the police at least walked around looking suitably abashed by the trouble they were causing you , the criminal. That’s the way it should be. Now, though, they have imported all their police uniforms straight from Paris and walk around with a pompous and lugubrious impugnity. This has caused the members of the seedy Dublin underworld to christen them “Potato-humping frog bacon”. “What, it’s illegal to walk around without shoes in this ridiculous Mickey Mouse country?” I exclaimed. He scowled and started jabbing me with his thumb. “Led’s see yer passport.” I didn’t have my passport on me, so I was dragged away to Gardai headquarters, yelping Rodney king quotes and the phrase “Five-Oh, yote!” over my shoulder the entire journey. These utterings failed to find cultural resonance. Anyway, it’s a long story, but the slippery slope, one thing led to another, and several savage beatings in the Rathmines Gardai station’s basement later, it turns out that, as an Irish citizen, you can come within a hair’s breadth of being deported for not wearing shoes over here. So next time The Economist lists Ireland as “the best country in the world to live in”, I hope you all remember this little anecdote. Posted in Personal | 4 Comments » -- Guest-Blogging at the Consumerist January 3rd, 2006 by John Brownlee In case any of my readers (mostly comprised of my relatives, some Boston friends, three ex-girlfriends, a couple of anonymous AOL IM acquaintances who believe my profile-stated interest in pipe-smoking to be underworld slang for homoerotic fellatio, and Dr. Derek Smart, PhD) are interested in paparazzing my Internet fame: I’m (paid!) guest-blogging over at The Consumerist this week. I haven’t really read it yet, but it’s some sort of anti-corporate, pro-consumer website from the Gawker guys, who also do the (much nicer looking) blogs Gizmodo , Lifehacker , Fleshbot and others. My stint posting snarky news criticizing major corporations will be especially amusing to those close friends who have ever listened to me drunkenly defend major corporate hegemonies. You can tell my posts because they are the ones overusing adverbs. As an added note, my first day blogging over there netted me my first quote ever in the New York Times . The only problem? They attributed it to the totally wrong guy. The italicized part is what John Brownlee actually wrote : Mr. Johnson, who previously edited Gizmodo, another Gawker site, also highlights consumer-oriented news nuggets, funny pictures and shopping tips - all with the same snarky tone that characterizes Gawker properties like Wonkette and Defamer. This week, he posted an impassioned plea for more imaginative advertising because “the loud, braying ubiquity of advertising pretty much invalidates it without any effort on my part.” He added, “I don’t notice advertising anymore, unless it is advertising that somehow makes my life a little more surreal, or stupid, or silly, or magical.” So update your future editions of “Notable Quotables” accordingly, guys. Posted in Personal , Internet | No Comments » -- Metro Must Die! January 3rd, 2006 by John Brownlee Years back, I had a feud with the Boston Metro, a free daily newspaper that alternately constipated then squirted out of bowels of the Boston subway system. I hated this paper, not just for its abominable journalistic qualities, but also because it transformed what had once been a pleasant morning commute into an Indian gauntlet. Daily, I was battered by the greasy, rolled up rags clenched in the flailing fists of the thousands of oddly shuffling pimps, hobos and hustlers that formed the Metro’s sleazy newsie constabulary. Within a month of the Metro’s inception, there wasn’t a single bus station restroom not using the Metro for toilet paper; not a single gutter unstuffed with the Metro’s soggy literary discharge. Every bum, every brown-toothed transient, every deinstitutionalized lunatic soon found employment in the Metro armada harassing innocent commuters with the circumcised foreskin of journalism proper. I once paid one of these bums fifty dollars never to try to hand me a Metro again. He took my money, then gave me two the next day. If you were riding the Orange Line on December 2nd, 2001 and wondered what the wet lurch you felt between the State Street and Downtown Crossing stops was… mystery solved! The violence I wanted to inflict upon the Metro soon took a literary turn. I wish I had a copy of the letter I once wrote to the Boston Metro, but it wasn’t safe to keep lying around. If a single atom of brain whizzes around the inside of your skull, reading this letter would cause that atom to split, like a cerebral Hiroshima. The only place safely expose its radiation was in the ntellectual siberia of a Metro staff writer’s mind. But could even the leaden brainpan of a Metro staff writer contain the explosion? I copied every email address I could find off the Metro’s website, then I took my laptop to a cafe across from their headquarters. From the vantage of a window seat, I pressed “Send”. Imagine putting a thousand water balloons filled with cow’s blood in the microwave, then turning it on. That was what I thought was going to happen. I expected to hear a series of dull pops from across the street, quickly followed by a tidal wave of blood washing down the oscillating waterfalls of the front steps anemone-like brains, squidy eyeballs and small barques made of skull shrapnel. Needless to say, that didn’t happen. Luckily for them, the lack of that single atom which would have allowed my wit to start the necessary nuclear chain reaction was missing from the vacuum of their minds. Employees of the Metro: mentally retarded Supermen, hovering far above the earth by dint of their helium-filled heads, and when they drool, it rains. It wasn’t a total loss though. The letter soon became immortalized amongst my friends and acquaintances, all of whom hated the Boston Metro as much as me and amongst whom I privately railed for years about the cheap no-brow rag. In response to their imploring, I distributed the letter to a select few, but only every fourth word. Even so, these friends began reporting nose bleeds, detached retinas or the sudden ability to smell colors. One friend who accidentally pieced the entire letter together by joining his copy with those of three others suddenly found himself in a Cthulhu-like dimension where strange chthonic fish made of ectoplasm tormented him for eternity. It seems to me that the Infinite Monkey Typewriter project should be concerned less with reproducing the works of Shakespeare and worry more about accidentally reproducing a certain letter from Mr. John Brownlee to the Boston Metro, dated April, 2002. Because here’s what’s going to happen to the monkey who accidentally manages to type it up, in rapid succession following the first millisecond of the letter’s recreation. First, the monkey will turn sentient; second, it will be able to speak English; third, it will scream “Oh my god!” as it starts pulling ropes of its own intestines out of its ears. Jane Goodall meets Lucio Fulci, man. But that’s incidental to my main point. Eventually, I realized my intellectual duel to the death with the Boston Metro wasn’t going anywhere. Sure, the wit of my letter was pretty powerful. It had even killed a few people. But not the people it intended. It was like trying to shoot a ghost with a bazooka. Whoosh, and then the Catholic orphanage behind the ghost suddenly explodes. Only innocents were being hurt. So I did the only thing I could do to stop the conflict - I fled the country and moved to Ireland. It’s been a good four years. But today, as I was walking into town, a filthy hobo in a crisp blue blazer approached me, hacking madly. I tried to avoid him, as I imagined that he would soon begin blowing a large black bubble from his mouth, which would actually turn out to be one of his lungs. But he veered in my direction. The glaucoma of one of his eyes began shivering like the undercooked white of a fried egg; the other rolled crazily. I tend to get a little panicky when I’m trying to avoid someone fast approaching me. In my confusion, I rigidly pressed my arms up against my ribs and began effetely fluttering my hands next to my hips. I also squealed and spun in a circle a bit. This didn’t work: next thing I knew, the hideous transient was upon me and (using a mottled paw with a tell-tale brown streak across the blade of the palm) had pressed something gray and soggy between my hands, like a sheath of rotting flesh. I knew what it was before I even looked down. “Dublin Metro, read oll abood ib…” he croaked, then walked off, hysterically screaming his laughter into the sunrise he rigidly fixed with his one dead eye. Some brief highlights of today’s issue of the Dublin Metro: * * * 22 stone (that’s 308 pounds, or 140 kilograms) 12 year old congratulated by the Metro for dropping 42 pounds. The Metro is relieved he will not have to staple his stomach. * * * A serious page long interview between the Metro and a professional astrologer. Here are some tasty quotes: “Lots of big companies use financial astrologers.” “I got my qualification [as an astrologer] from the Faculty of Astrological Studies. I did a basic certificate, then a two-year diploma.” When asked how astrology works: “… it’s a mystery.” On quantum physics: “Quantum physics is all about things making patterns - fractals you can draw.” Her explanation concerning incorrect predictions: “When I get it wrong - and this is true of every astrologer - it’s often due to people’s interpretation.” In other words, she’s not wrong, you are. * * * An ad starting with the question “Got drunk again?” * * * That was as far as I got before I thought that last one was less a question and more good advice. Posted in Personal | 1 Comment » -- Radio Psyence Belated Christmas January 2nd, 2006 by John Brownlee If Nat King Cole were still alive, I like to think many of us would pull apart his Christmas-crooning lips and perform King Kong’s infamous jaw-snapping fatality on him. But he’s a raisin of a crooner in the grave now, and frankly can not be blamed for being so timeless that he has become a nauseating holiday cliche. Anyway, now that we are about as far away from a reflux of Christmas music as one can chronologically be… hey, Radio Psyence phoned in a Christmas show two weeks ago! Posted in Music , Personal , Internet | No Comments » -- « Previous Entries Search Pimp Junta Author A little something about you, the author. Nothing lengthy, just an overview. -- Archives January 2006 December 2005 November 2005 October 2005 September 2005 August 2005 July 2005 June 2005 May 2005 April 2005 March 2005 February 2005 Categories Books (11) Double Posts (3) Films (17) Flotsam (31) Games (10) General (12) Internet (25) Music (13) Personal (47) Photos (5) Login Valid XHTML XFN WordPress -- Recent Updates My Thoughts on Feet Guest-Blogging at the Consumerist Metro Must Die! Radio Psyence Belated Christmas Kong!.. sucks Surprising Appearances in American Literature Being A Paid Escort for Christmas: Part Five Okay. I’m back. Disestablishmentarianist Thought Of The Day Breastless Pelvises RSS Entries Comments Enter your e-mail address to receive notifications when there are new posts
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Banned XBox Commercial Funny Video / MySpace Video Codes Home | Memberspace | Submit Content | Contact | Privacy Policy Your source for funny videos , funny pictures and more updated daily. Be sure to bookmark us by clicking here. NEW!! We now provide you the video, game and picture codes to place any of our content on your MySpace or other blog! Search BoFunk Username Password ( Register | Lost Password ) Navigation Home Pictures Flash Games Soundboards Register Submit Content Memberspace Contact Categories Awesome Chicks Crazy Cute Fights Funny Interactive Nasty Other Painful Ridiculous Signs Stupid Ideas WTH Sponsor Banned XBox Commercial Next Click here to add this video to your MySpace! IM to a Friend | Send to a Friend | Add to Favorites | Save to Computer | Comments We added another video server to hopefully speed up the videos, if you have any trouble, please contact us by clicking here and let us know and please include the link to the video. -- Random Videos Please link to: More related videos you may like Beer Belly Bottle Opener Chain Reaction Bill Clinton Spoof Eyes Front Dad Lets 1 2 step Powder Puff Hit in the balls Yoda Shakin it Chronicles of Narnia MR2 Crash MySpace / Xanga / Blog Video Code Options Video Embed Codes Add Directly to MySpace Thats right!! You can now insert the video directly into your MySpace profile without having to copy the code! Open another web browser (leaving this window open) and login to your MySpace account. Then simply select where you want the video to go from the dropdown below and click "Add to MySpace" ! -SELECT FROM BELOW- Music General Movies Television Books Heroes or Copy and paste the code where you want it (This works on MySpace, Xanga, etc.) Video and Code Provided by BoFunk.com Copy to clipboard Video Link Codes MySpace Codes to Link to the Video With Thumbnail Image (example) Watch Video Here Banned XBox Commercial Copy to clipboard MySpace Codes to Link to the Video (Text only) Watch Video: Banned XBox Commercial Copy to clipboard Read and Post Comments on this Video No comments have been posted yet Please login to post a comment or register here Buddies MySpace Picture Codes Funny Stuff MySpace Image Codes Time Killer Kontraband WTF People Top Humor Sites Insane Videos Link Partners Free Downloads Need For Fun Funny Video Clips Clip Dump Ringtone Dump Funny Videos Unoriginal Funny Videos Hans-Wurst Entertainment Crazy Babysitter Priceless Funny Pictures Humor Guide!! Funny Videos Crazy Fun madsalmon.net Humor4You Funny Web Zone! Hawt Priceless Funny Videos Twisted Gaia Flush The Web Doshur Raw Meat Funnymovies.net First-Ward Play Music AchterIn I am Bored mpam.gr Free Ringtones More Sites Add Your Site All Rights Reserved - Design BoFunk 2004 - Images & content their respective owners Page took 0.510187 seconds to load.
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The Tech Zone Computer Hardware Reviews Main Forums Register About Us News Gallery Reviews Articles Price Index Hot Deals Links Advertise Sponsored Links Ultra Products Photo Upload wife's close up..hoping she didn't fall out..lol by Cruz from Cali 2005 International CES Show Car by Moto My space is your space: Myspace.com Updated: 12-09-2005 Written by: Jesse Somer Summary: You know, I've been writing articles on the Internet for over 2 years now and it never seems to amaze me how slow I am to pick up on new phenomena that keep springing up on the World Wide Web. Well, this time I feel like a total recluse. You know, I've been writing articles on the Internet for over 2 years now and it never seems to amaze me how slow I am to pick up on new phenomena that keep springing up on the World Wide Web. Just as I hear about some really cool website/web concept, I am then told about a new one that everyone else already knows about. Well, this time I feel like a total recluse. I've been walking around in my own head-space not realizing that one of the most popular sites in the world, Myspace.com is where much of the human community is getting together to share 'space', or if you want to look at it another way, to share life. People are connecting with each other on the Internet for many different reasons, and most of them can be done here. Myspace.com is currently receiving more page views than the popular Google search engine, around 10 billion per month. It is essentially a social networking base-station, a place to meet and connect with other people for any and every reason imaginable. At first it looks a little like a dating site, which is definitely a huge aspect of its existence, as romantic and intimate interaction is such a massive priority in the lives' of humanity. Where it goes a few large steps further is with its integration of communication mediums and networking tools. You can have your own blog, record your own MP3 music files, and even make videos for all of your 'friends' to check out. (If you want your movie or song to get out there, make as many friends as you can!) Each person's web pages can be creatively original in their own right which brings out the uniqueness of each personality. Friendship is the main driving force behind this postmodern 'movement'. On-line groups of friends who have connected because of similar interests (there are many different categories) get to choose who they want to share their information with, so in essence, you choose who you want to meet. It is working well, as is testified by over 20 million users currently joining every month. One obvious impact that this site has had on social and economic structures is in the music industry. If you go to the 'music' category (thousands of groups of people into similar music are listed) you will find that many bands have put up pages offering a few of their songs to download for free. I'm not talking about famous bands that you hear on radio or see on TV (although they too are joining in- and getting better sales than ever before). I'm talking about no-name groups that we never would have gotten an opportunity to hear before. Without the aid of heavy marketing, airplay, and record label support, some bands are selling millions of records. This is totally knocking out the concept of the 'middleman'. Production and promotion costs are low, and revenue that used to be obtained from CD sales is now being made by merchandise that devoted fans are ready and willing to buy. To put it bluntly, these bands are giving up their day jobs and making a healthy living without the help of the mass-market and its Top 40 hit lists. Pages (2): [1] 2 ... 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