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Thanks for Ruining It, Asshole

July 16, 2008

I like to do a lot of things with my life. This is partially because there are so many things in life to do. The other part is that there are so many things in life I want to do. The other part is that, while being unemployed and just out of high school, waiting for college courses to start, I have all the time in the world to do nothing. This was an interesting notion at first, but it quickly faded, somewhere between the seventh all-nighter, and the twelfth day without a shower, all spent glued to a computer monitor, playing internet roullette with Firefox’s StumbleUpon plugin. So I began looking for some other things to do, and found enough to keep me occupied, at least when I want to be occupied, and one of these things was bound to be movies.

Now, I like movies. Comedy films particularly, but that’s not to say I don’t enjoy a good thriller, superhero movie, etc. Naturally, I like to approach a movie, maybe knowing a little bit of what it’s about, but basically in the dark in general as to the goings-on. So would somebody please tell me, for the love of God, why the hell does every movie trailer spoil the ENTIRE movie for me!?

Reading that last passage, you may not fully understand my gripe with the movie trailer industry. I’m not quite sure if there’s an industry in particular that deals with just trailers specifically, or if it’s all blanketed into the movie industry itself, but my point stands. And my point is this. I don’t mind the trailer telling me what’s going to happen. Hell, that even helps sometimes. What I do mind is movie trailers essentially breaking my favorite wall, the fourth wall, the best, albeit least sturdy wall of all, in order to tell me something I wasn’t supposed to know. Forget the fact that I am supposed to know some things for the progression of the movie, I don’t want to be told these things by the characters themselves. Now let me explain with example.

I’m watching the trailer for Spiderman (I’m not really, but let’s pretend), and after that cool “wooshing” noise you hear that intros the trailer, I hear Peter Parker come on. Peter isn’t talking to Mary Jane, or Doctor Octopus, or somebody from the Justice League, or anything like that. He’s not saving a fucking civilian and advising them with a smirk beneath his spidey mask, “you should be more careful next time,” before placing them back down on the railroad tracks and swinging away. He’s talking to me. Peter Parker is talking to me. And that pisses me off. Why? I dunno, maybe it’s the fourth wall break, maybe it’s the fact that I am not a character in the Spiderman movie, but it’s more than likely because, for some reason, Peter approaches me, sitting there in my recliner with my bag of Nacho Doritos, as though I were some kind of wise man or guru. He spills his guts to me. He tells me “I am Peter Parker…(more wooshing sounds and a few screams)…also known as….Spiderman…”

…WELL WHAT THE HELL?! Thanks a lot, asshole! You just obliterated the immersive experience I was expecting to have at the theatre…and I wasn’t even at the theatre yet! Parker then goes into telling me that “nobody can know about my secret….not even the ones I love most.” Well if you can’t tell your secret to the ones you love most, why in the fuck would you tell it to ME! I’m a fucking spectator. I’m an unemployed student who writes for a blog on wordpress that nobody reads! I have long, knotted hair, and a goatee! Do I look like your fucking Sensai or something?!

How do you expect me, Peter, to immerse myself within the movie, to “feel like I’m right there,” to be one with the fucking cinematic zen, if I know your untellable secret? If you couldn’t tell anybody, and you just fucking told me, you’re obviously perfectly aware that I am not in your stupid little radioactively enhanced dimension, and that it’s OK to tell me your secret because I’m not a threat, me being a real person, and you being the figment of another real person’s imagination. That pisses me off. I was all set to “feel like I’m there,” and then you, Peter Parker, the fucking HERO for Christ’s sake, had to go and spoil it all.

It’s not like we all don’t know superhero identities. It’s not like you don’t know that Bruce Wayne is Batman, Clark Kent is Superman, Peter Parker, obviously, is Spiderman. But that’s the thing. You didn’t need to tell me and go spoiling things – I ALREADY FUCKING KNEW! I would have been able to follow the film perfectly fine, without you having to directly tell me what your fucking identity is. Hell, I’d be more satisfied with Stan Lee opening the movie with the “Peter is Spiderman” monologue, than have Spiderman himself revealing his deepest, darkest, fucking secrets to the entire world! Fuck Stan Lee, you could go completely out of context and pull in Sam Elliot to narrate the opening as a cowboy who’s “been everywhere, man,” as the song goes. Sam Elliot could intro a movie about Space Robots in the year 3000, and it would still kick ass! You know what? Add that to my list of gripes with the movie industry: Gripe Number 759) Sam Elliot has not introduced the plot for every movie in existence.

“Well maybe Spidey is talking to his conscience, or to himself, and we’re just like flies on the wall, witnessing it all.” Well fucking hell man. Spidey’s gotta be more careful! I mean look at it. He was bitten by a radioactive spider, and turned into a superhuman. He fights half-humans based on every conceivable element, insect, and cephalopod, and yet it’s never occured to him that somewhere in that big radiocative mess of a city, there could be a FLY MAN?! If I was Spiderman and saw a fly on the wall while I was vocalizing my inner monologue, I would fucking smash that fly. I can’t risk the fly gliding back across the air to his fly buddies across the city to tell them that I am Spiderman. That would fucking blow. Granted, I guess flies’ natural enemy is the spider, and normal spiders that are barely the size of the fly in the first place do a pretty good job of owning them. Hell, flies are probably afraid of Spiderman. But they aren’t afraid of Peter Parker. And to my knowledge, Peter is the one talking, Spiderman is just a fucking suit.

My last thought on this subject is another “what if” scenario. Think about it Spiderman. If Stan Lee could create you, create your big, fucked up world, and create all those villains, couldn’t he, or anyone else, just as easily come and kill Peter Parker when he isn’t looking? Are you sure you’re safe telling the audience who you are? I mean, what if I, knowing that Peter Parker is Spiderman, decided to sneak into the comic printing room, and just draw a big fat sucker punch right around the corner as Peter is walking down the sidewalk. He TOTALLY would not expect that! Because he’s dressed as Peter Parker. Nobody knows who the hell he is. Except me. You know why? I’ll tell you why. It was your own fault Spidey. You’re the one who blabbed on that commercial. You’re the one who blabbed at the opening of the movie. You’re the one who spoiled it for me. And because you spoiled it for me, I decided to use the information you gave me to spoil you back. Thanks for ruining it, asshole.

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Fat Pimp

June 7, 2008

Seriously? Fat Pimp? Seriously. Are you fucking serious? You cannot possibly be serious, and yet you stand there, looking innocently and confused into my eyes, assuring me that you certainly, without a doubt, are serious. Hold on a second and let me make sure. I have to be completely positive that you are completely positive. Answer me one more time: Are. You. Motherfucking. Serious?… I was afraid of that.

One year ago, if I had signed on to Myspace and seen the name Fat Pimp as the featured musical artist, I can’t say I would have been particularly surprised. I would, however, have dismissed it as a tasteless, yet slightly amusing joke. Think about it. What immediately comes to your mind when you’re stereotyping the races and religions of the world? Blacks walk slow with saggy pants and talk gangsta talk. Whites say “dude” more on its own than all other words of the English language combined. Mexicans riding bikes are most certainly not riding a bike that they legally own. Jews scour the ground meticulously all day in search of loose change. And hip hop artists are called one of a few choice generic names: “Lil’ Gangsta,” “Outta Dis Wurld,” or “Fat Pimp.”

Now, I’d immediately like to point out that there is one possibly valid reason why Fat Pimp may have gotten his name. The only possible reason I would have allowed for Fat Pimp to exist under the moniker he currently possesses is if he was indeed a Fat Pimp. The image should be clear enough in your head, but for your convenience, I’ve drawn up a composite sketch of exactly what this type of person should look like:

Notice the big tits and purple suit, and the fact that he’s playfully sticking his tongue out.

If Fat Pimp the rapper was in fact a large (preferably 360 pounds or more) black man who literally dealt business with hookers, and had a badass “yeah, I’m a criminal and a rapper, but I’m also a human fucking being” kind of full-mouthed toothy smile, then I would totally be into him. The problem is that Fat Pimp absolutely does not live up to his name:

Notice the LIFE money, indie kid t-shirt, slut glasses, lack of obesity, and the fact that he is the living embodiment of a sack of douche.

Fuck man, my shitty MS Paint drawing looks more genuine than this guy. When a half-assed mash-up of shitty MS Paint and a 100 KB image of an obese black guy in an alley that I found on google look more believable than your sorry ass publicity photo, it is time to retire from whatever business it is you claim to conduct in your life; of which Fat Pimp most certainly does not actually conduct, being that his songs take about 50 seconds to write, since they are based solely on the generic industry standard for a hit hip hop single. Fat Pimp does not conduct actual pimp business. But he also does not conduct actual musician business. He conducts “get high as fuck legally, and stand in front of a camera making stupid poses for millions of dollars” business.

Not to knock Pimpo for that, being that I’m sure any human being would be utterly satisfied with living that way. At least until they realized that they were perfectly useless to society, and had been aiding in the progressive dumbing down of humanity all this time. Even worse, they’d soon realize that they weren’t actually a Fat Pimp. One day Fat Pimp (whose real name I’m going to assume is Charles Xavier Edwards III, or something similar) is going to be sitting in his home, drinking some nice herbal tea and watching ESPNews, when it hits him. “What the hell,” he’ll say. “I’m…I’m not really a Fat Pimp.” In his final moments he will have lost all sense of self and soul, knowing perfectly well that he is not a Fat Pimp. The news outlets will not be surprised that he died, because coming to the sudden realization that you are definitely not an awesome, obese prostitute dealer is enough to shock anyone into suicidal thoughts. At least Fat Pimp will be good enough to pull the trigger.

Oh wait. He probably doesn’t actually own a gun or know how to use one. Well. He’ll be good enough to drink a gallon of pure heroin then. And who wouldn’t want to die that way? I’m sure even the real Fat Pimp would be envious.

Rod Jenson; Registered Gynocologist

Traffic

April 16, 2008

The fact that you are reading this means that I have already called the police. I notified them that there was an incident of child molestation I have knowledge about, and that something should be done. I only wrote this article before actually calling the police because…well, you see, this intro was not originally a part of this article. In fact, when I began writing this article, I had no intentions of calling the police. I had no reason to call the police. That’s because I didn’t know then what I know now. But by the time I finished this article, I knew. Now, why would I take the time to type this intro then, if I in fact had perfect knowledge of the heinous crimes that were being committed? Well, I’m merely reassuring myself that this is in fact the case. But now that I’ve read over this several times, given it a week to mull over, and typed out this intro, I’m definitely about 99% certain that after writing this intro and making this post, I should pick up the phone and call the police (after I have a short shower, and maybe some Cheese Nips) to let them know that the entire population of Korea are in fact a lousy bunch of child molesters.

Perhaps I should explain. I’ll start from the beginning. Or rather, I started from the beginning. Seeing as I wrote this before this intro (seriously, I totally wrote it beforehand). Anyways, here you go:

Today, I was driving home from Orange County to Corona. If you know what that means in terms of driving on a Friday afternoon (editorial note: I wrote this on a Friday, I swear), then you know exactly what this article is going to be about. If you don’t know, well you probably could have figured it out from the blatant implication made in that last sentence. Provided you are an idiot (which you probably are) and you still don’t know what I’m talking about, what I’m trying to say is, there was a fucking lot of traffic. Far too much traffic. Enough traffic to make you scream. Enough traffic to drive a man off the deep end. Enough traffic to force a man to take the prescription pills sitting in his glove compartment in order to put himself out of his misery. Don’t worry, I didn’t. Well, I did, but there were only four pills left in the bottle (I was on my way to refill my prescription ironically), so all it seemed to do was make me rather drowsy. This normally would have some effect on my driving, but on a day like today, it didn’t matter. As I inched along I-91, losing confidence in my ability to reach my destination before nightfall with every second, I realized something. I had been following the same exact delivery truck for one hour. Through the haze in my vision caused by the pills, mixed with the fact the air conditioner was blowing my hair all around my face (it was 110 degrees out, which didn’t make things any better), I made out the name of the company on the back of the truck, as if I hadn’t memorized it by heart at this point: Hankook Performance Tires.

I know nothing about Hankook Performance Tires. My initial thought was that it could be some small company exclusive to the west coast. Conveniently, my ten year old laptop computer was sitting right next to me in the passenger seat. Taking my hands off the wheel (I’d already turned on the parking break 3 minutes prior), I booted up the laptop. Once the 256 megahertz processor finally finished booting, I removed the parking break so that I could scoot up about an inch on the road, not wanting to inadvertently lose my place in line. Back to the laptop, I opened up firefox, and searched for “Hankook” in the convenient wikipedia search bar on the upper right hand corner of the browser. I was taken to the Hankook Tire page. Apparently Hankook is “the seventh largest tire company in the world” and is based in Seoul, South Korea. Skimming the page, I was trying to find something having to do with their credibility, namely that it was bad, as by this point the haze of drowsiness mixed with my utter hatred for whatever happened to be in my way for all this time had completely convinced me that there has never been a form of evil more malicious than that of Hankook Performance Tires. “Eh, blah blah blah, exports to US, uh huh, blah blah, increasing notoriety, mmhmm, bias-ply protection, ok ok, hmmmm……AH HA!” I had found it! The section entitled “Hankook Controversy In Hungaria” did it. I was most certain these foul men were none other than war-mongers, genocidal maniacs operating in secret to destroy the Hungarian people. Assholes.

Now, despite the fact that Hungary really seems to contribute nothing to the world in general, and that it’s a relatively small, insignificant country, if a bit well known, mass genocide is still just not right. Closing the laptop, I could only shake my fist at the Hankook truck driver, though he was unable to see me. At least I could assume so, since “if you can’t see me I can’t see you” was written on his mirror. For all I knew though, I might not have been able to see his face all that way in the mirror through the hairy, hazy, mess in my eyes. Though looking back, he probably couldn’t see me, since I was actually able to read that writing on the mirror, but could not see him. Anyways, that’s when a thought dawned on me. “Oh my God,” I thought. “This truck driver must not know what he’s supporting. They wouldn’t just throw the main proprietors of this international genocide into the roads of America to do their dirty work.” Of course, by this point it was international, and definitely not limited to simply Hungary. Hungary was just a start. They were building their way up. You’ve got to start small, but once you get a taste of it, you can’t stop. You’ve got to kill more and more until everyone around you is dead, or you’re dead. And even if you’re dead, you may have a slight chance at becoming reanimated, and if I had so much as five seconds as a fucking zombie in this world, oh man, I’d kill every last human, I swear. Oh, fuck. Anyways.

I was now determined to tell this man exactly what he was completely unaware of. He was working for an international crime syndicate, bent on world domination and the destruction of the human species. The poor fucking tool. He had no clue. In the traffic, it was possible to get out of your car for a few minutes, perhaps if you needed a smoke, or maybe a bong hit, or perhaps a bottle of gin. Hell, I saw a guy sitting on his roof shooting up. Anyways, after I’d finished the bottle of gin, I hobbled drunkenly over to the high-rised truck and pounded on the door. I shouted at the driver that he had to listen to me, and that what I had to say was very important. I told him about his affiliation with the crime syndicate. Very clearly, I several times repeated “MAAAN, you gotta get OUT of this maaaaan….you’re killing people maaaaan!” He never responded. It was just as I feared. The man did not speak a word of English. Curses, foiled. I was determined though. I went back to my car and pulled the laptop out again. The browser was still on the Hankook page. I glanced at the top, where it said they were based in Korea. “Of course,” I thought. “Fucking Il Kong Jim and those fucking Koreans. They deliberately employed people who don’t speak my language so I couldn’t tell them about the unspeakable evils I found on the internet. It must suck to be a Mexican living in Korea. You’re not allowed to use the internet to find out how your country is killing everybody off, and you’re not allowed to learn English. Hell, they probably teach you Japanese or some shit. Fucking assholes” It went just like that. With the quotes and everything.

By this point, I had forgotten that my original intent on going to the car was in fact to find an online translator, so that I could give this man a rough description of what I was trying to say. Instead, I absentmindedly clicked my favorites toolbar, immediately hovered my mouse over to my favorite porn site (which at the time is Tube8, for all those interested), and sitting there in the middle of traffic (in my car at least), I jerked off to a 30-something woman pleasuring herself with a cucumber. It was not my most dignified moment. Then again, it was not my most level-minded moment. If I had had more fucking pills with me, it wouldn’t have even been a moment of any kind for me. Fucking ay…..God dammit! I just remembered, I never did refill my prescription. Fuck! Well, I’ll stop by the store on the way home from Orange County tomorrow and do it.

So now I sit here. Utterly pissed off at Jim Long Dong Kil and the Korean Mafia crime syndicate, bent on universal genocide and a world of tears. Well, metaphorically a world of tears. There won’t actually be any real tears, since everyone will be dead. Last time I checked, corpses don’t cry, and trust me on this, I’ve seen Dawn Of The Dead 54 times. Man, those God damn Communists. Shit, they’re probably Communists too, yeah. Wait a minute…..waaaiiiit a minute! I never saw that man. Holy shit. I know exactly what’s going on now! (editorial note: you see? This is where I peace it all together; I really am a fucking genius) That man in the truck wasn’t a fucking man! I couldn’t see him through that raised up window because he was too SHORT to be a man! He was…..he was a kid! OH MY GOD! Those fucking Korean Communist, anarchist, fucking anti-Christ Mafia members are employing MEXICAN CHILDREN to drive their tires to their malicious, vile, havock-causing destinations! Why didn’t I see it before! But wait. Children can’t deliver tires in a delivery truck…..they have no job experience. So….they must be….oh my God….oh my God, oh my God. Shit! They’re sending these kids in these trucks to places all over the US, thinking they’re going to fucking Disneyland or something (those poor, underprivileged, Mexican kids. We Californians are the only ones in the world who get to enjoy Disneyland. And they don’t let you in if you speak Japanese). When in reality, they’re being sent to their death! Not just their death, but to MOLESTATION! OH MY GOD! THOSE FILTHY KOREANS ARE MOLESTING CHILDREN!

FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! I’ve gotta call the police on this. Shit. Shit. Shit. Ok, I’m gonna think it over for a bit, finish this post, and then I’m going to call the police! God damn filthy Korean assholes!

Ah man, maybe I’ll take a shower or something and get some cheese nips beforehand actually. Fucking Koreans. Making me all stressed out and shit. I need to relax for a bit man. Fuckin…..fuckin shit man.

The Gang’s All Here

March 17, 2008

Alright, look. If you, the reader, and I, the writer, of this “blog” are in fact going to “get along,” it is imperative that you know something about me. Something deeply telling of my personality and my life, that could literally make or break our reader-to-writer relationship. I, Rod Jenson, absolutely love Chinese food.

I don’t even love authentic, straight-from-China, Chinese food. I mean, that stuff is good too. I’ve had some here and there and let me tell you, it is some good food. Try some the next time you find yourself in a position to do so, because it’s not very often you get that chance, unless you happen to live in China. And who the fuck wants to live in China? I mean, this blog is probably already blocked by their government by now. Shit, all of WordPress is probably blocked by now.

But no, the Chinese food that I love so dearly is in fact the type of Chinese food you get from those little half fast-food, half legitimate “restaurant” style places, that are in the corner of the food court, next to the Togo’s and the Mongolian grill. One in particular, called Golden Chopsticks, has always tickled my taste buds, and is probably responsible for about one third of my body weight today. I go in there at least once a week, usually on Saturday’s, and lemme tell you, it’s fucking good food. Alas, there is one small problem with this restaurant. Well, not so much a problem, as it is a peculiarity. The place is fucking weird.

The inside of the store itself is actually very nice. Well organized, clean, and simple, it is the epitome of easy “get in, get out” fast food. It is for these and many more reasons that I have to wonder why, whenever I walk into this restaurant, be it noon, 5 in the morning, 8 at night, any time of the day, the place is fucking empty! Everybody I know, knows that Golden Chopsticks is a marvelous eating establishment, and yet to this day I have never seen one of them ever set foot into that fucking restaurant. I’ve never seen anybody in that restaurant before I get there. Sometimes I walk in and the employees aren’t even there. The money I’ve taken from the register in such situations is also probably responsible for about a third of the aforementioned weight that the restaurant accounts for in my overall body mass.

Now, the restaurant does not stay empty, not by any means. Usually right after I have placed my order and, as is the custom in this place, immediately received my meal, people start to walk in. Slowly at first, eventually building up to a rate the store can barely accommodate. Initially, an old, forty-something, born again Christian woman will walk into the store, and after very slowly and agonizingly ordering a plate of fat-free food (from a place that specializes in individually frying every grain of rice by hand), she sits down to her meal. Oddly enough, she then grabs the chili sauce bottle on the edge of the table, and begins dousing her food in what is essentially a liquefied heart attack. This is exactly what is weird about this place. The people.

Walking into a McDonald’s, you may find a screaming child or two; you may find a redneck, or even something very out of the ordinary like a firefighter or an astronaut. Meanwhile, at the Chinese place, a pirate with two wooden legs has just stumbled in the door, and is using the support of the tables to move him along the tile floor without slipping. As he struggles to keep his balance, the parrot on his shoulder lets out a squawk and flies over to peck at the forty-something woman’s head. Rather than become annoyed, she takes no notice, instead realizing that the nozzle on her chili sauce bottle is hindering the progress of the chili sauce mountain currently residing atop her side of kung pao chicken. She unscrews the nozzle and continues to pour chili sauce, now through the well-sized hole in the top of the bottle that the nozzle formerly sat upon.

While your adventures at Jack-in-the-Box (or Sonic Burger, for those of you unfortunate east-coasters who don’t possess the privilege of having your very own neighborhood Jack-in-the-Box) have amounted to Bimbo the Clown walking in, squeaky shoes and all, and calmly ordering a Bacon Ultimate Cheeseburger with a side salad, I’m sitting over at the Golden Chopsticks, surrounded by the entire fucking rest of the circus, who apparently decided to kick Bimbo out of the clown car a few blocks down the road because he was making racist jokes. As the pirate sits down, ever so carefully due to his wooden appendages, a circus man sits across from him, asking him to pick a card. Glancing past their dull game of solitaire, I notice that the woman in the corner of the restaurant has abandoned her kung pao chicken altogether, and has taken to pouring the chili sauce on her face and body, savoring every last drop of the scalding liquid spices. That is weird. Bimbo’s preference for a delicious sandwich at a famous west-coast restaurant is not.

So the next time you’re sitting in your cozy, normal, fast-food place, and take note at the peculiarity of the sweaty construction worker team that strolled so calmly in, think of me, sitting in the Chinese food place. Because, unknown to you, the same construction workers forgot to put the parking break on their dumptruck, and it is now rolling down the hill, about to crash into the Golden Chopsticks. Peaking through the rubble of the collision, I can see that the pirate, severely weirded out by this point, is crawling back to the parking lot, terrified. It also looks like he’s going to need a wooden right arm to replace the one he just lost in the dumptruck accident. He’ll be back next week.

By this point, fire woman over here is naked, rolling around in a puddle of fucking chili sauce created by all of the bottles having broken during the crash. It was only a matter of time before she would have done it herself. The circus people are busy trying to find a way to all fit into the dumptruck (you’d think they’d be able to, having just come out of that toy car that the truck flattened upon entry). At a time like this, the only thing left to do is to casually step by and snatch sauce-girl’s untouched plate of Chinese food, and walk out the door. Next time, I’m going to fucking Jack-in-the-Box.

The Best…Around

February 27, 2008

This article is about the most badass individual to ever grace existence with his overwhelming awesomeness. He first existed and was popularized in an era that had no internet. No Myspace, or text messages, before internet memes, and before internet humor blogs. He rose to prominence in the mid 1990’s, and as the internet became available, became even more popularized, despite his lack of ass-kicking endeavors at the time. Nowadays, he’s making a comeback, and I couldn’t be any happier for him. The man is well known for kicking ass on a regular basis, for being a babe magnet, for the ability to take any enemy and turn him into a crying little baby sissy boy, by his mere presence alone. I am of course talking about, Duke Nukem.

That’s right. Duke motherfucking Nukem. If you read the above description and thought “Chuck Norris LOL,” I will call upon Duke to freeze you with his freezethrower (that’s right, Duke is so badass, he launches solidified water from the barrel of a gun that closely resembles a miniature version of a John Deere tractor. Who needs a fucking flamethrower when you’ve got a god damn John Deere Ice Tractor?), and kick you while you’re frozen (and not with just any foot, but his patented “mighty foot”), somehow breaking you into several mere shards of what was formerly your existence. That’s right, fuck the laws of physics, and fuck your internal organs, bodily fluids, and physiology as a whole. You are frozen, and now you are shattered. Live with it. Or more accurately, die with it. Or….be dead….with it.

What makes Duke Nukem so badass? Well, other than the above paragraph, he’s a video game character. Now why should that lend any merit to his awesomeness, if not take away from it? It’s because despite being a video game character, he could still kick Chuck Norris’s ass, and without the use of any of this wimpy martial arts, “mind over body” bullshit. Duke Nukem kills with pure testosterone, and guns the size of a Harley Davidson motorcycle. Duke Nukem also actually kills. Chuck Norris doesn’t kill. He lets the bad guy live. He rarely even shoots the bad guy. Chuck Norris nails some pressure points and puts you in a cell. Well you know what? Duke Nukem uses bullets, traveling at a velocity that breaks the speed of light, throwing the perimeter of the area around you into a multi-dimensional chasm, completely disassembling the particles of your very being. As quickly as that would happen, the chasm is closed, and if you haven’t already died from a collapsed lung, or your brain exploding or something, that speed-of-light bullet is coming right at your head. Yeah. Try escaping the exploding brain now. You won’t. It’s gonna happen. That’s right, one way or another, Duke Nukem will make your brain explode.

Duke Nukem is so awesome, that, in addition to his frozen tractor contraption, he carries not one, not two, not even three, but FOUR explosive devices with him at all times. An RPG, a “Devastator” (two rocket launchers coming out of nowhere, that he can apparently carry in his back pocket or something), some trip-bomb laser deals, and some pipe bombs. As I’ve stated before. One way or another, Duke Nukem is going to splatter your god damn brains all over the fucking walls. You can count on it. Hell, if he doesn’t have a weapon on him at the time, what does he do? Kicks the shit out of you (in the cases of those raptor/dog hybrid fuckers, he literally kicks the shit out of you), until you give up your god damn gun. After he’s finished raping your ass with his size 20 steel-toed boot, he cocks the shotgun he just stole from you, and utters an absolutely badass phrase, such as “I use bigger guys than you as toothpicks…and I’m not in the mood to floss my teeth.” See? The previous sentence is inferring that you are so wimpy, that you’re only useful as dental floss to him. But he doesn’t want to floss his teeth. So you’re going to be thrown into the garbage can of life that is the receiving end of a Duke Nukem bullet. Sweet dreams, Rip van Winkle.

But you know what the most badass thing about Duke Nukem is? I’ll tell you. It’s that he doesn’t endorse Mike Huckabee. Because he’s a fucking video game character.

Long Live Duke Nukem (and his frosty freeze tractor beam) ,

Rod Jenson
Duke for President

Fuck Milk

February 13, 2008

I wanna know what the deal is with the “Got Milk?” campaign. First of all, when exactly did “Got Milk?” become the official slogan, and who the fuck authorized such a half-assed marketing idea to become the basis of recognition for one of the most widely produced food products in the world? Well, I guess that’s better than Coca Cola’s “Enjoy Coca Cola.” And on a side note, no I will not “Enjoy Coca Cola.” I am rendered incapable of enjoying Coca Cola, by the Coca Cola company’s inability to produce something that does not taste like bullshit. That’s what it tastes like. Watered down bullshit. Think about that, parents of the world. Not only is purchasing Coca Cola bad for your kids because of all the sugar and caffeine you’re pumping into their veins, but you are in fact wasting your money on liquefied bovine fecal matter, and then giving it to your kids. What kind of parent does that? …Assholes.

I remember “back in my day,” when milk used to “[do] a body good.” Remember that? None of this taunting me and my dry, cookie-filled mouth and throat, with that sweet, white cow nectar: milk. Guess what. Milk doesn’t do my body good anymore. It doesn’t even fucking do it pretty well. Milk does my body bad. It does my body hard. It does my body like three well endowed black men, equipped with metal condoms, having a go at gangbanging my vital internal organs. For you see, despite the fact that milk supplies my body with much-needed nutrients, such as calcium (for strong bones, unlike that neighbor whose arms fell off while pushing his wheelbarrow), it also supplies my body with much-unneeded fat. Fat that I can’t work off. Fat that I will not work off. You know why? Because there’s FUCKING MILK INSIDE ME! Have you ever tried working out with milk sloshing around in your stomach?! No, you haven’t, because if you had, you would have wound up in the hospital, with several large metal tools sticking in every orifice of your body, all because you tried to work out while milk was in your system, and as such you would have run away in utter terror from this article at the mere mention of the word “milk,” making it impossible for you to be reading the sentence that I’m typing to you right now. Yeah. You fucking pussy.

“Well Rod,” you may say, “you could just buy non-fat milk to solve that problem.” Well you know what. I can, and I will, from now on. Thanks for the suggestion. But alas, fat is not my only concern. Do you know what those “Got Milk?” ads can do to a young, impressionable mind, such as my own? Two words: Psychological Addiction. Come seven o’clock, when I turn on the television, you can bet I’ll end up seeing a few of those “Got Milk?” ads. Hell, that shit’s plastered all over the billboards in LA like a fucking Camel logo. Fuck man, I kicked the habit of cigarettes. It’s a little known fact I kicked the cocaine habit (that’s a lie), but lemme tell you, you CAN’T kick a milk habit. Cocaine withdrawals are fucking peanuts compared to milk. And the mass media does not fucking help. I’ve got a god damn addiction, so what do they do? PLASTER THAT SHIT ALL OVER! Thanks for reminding me about it, ASSHOLES! What if I don’t have any of the good stuff on me, huh? What then? You just contributed to the terrible withdrawals of a psychologically tormented milk addict. Eat my middle finger, fuckers!

Who the fuck runs the “Got Milk?” campaign anyways? Have you ever seen the guys behind it? No, you haven’t, because if you had seen them by now, they’d be dead. If I wouldn’t have killed them by now, somebody else would. And if they killed them….well, I’d have to kill them again. You’d just have these former “Got Milk?” campaign runners, dead hundreds of times over, laying around……dead….assholes. They know what would happen if they exposed themselves. They don’t want to take the responsibility for taking milk and turning it from a nutritious, delicious snack-drink, into a lethally addictive drug. They don’t want to take the responsibility for MILLIONS OF MILK ADDICTS ALL OVER THE WORLD!

But seriously, who runs it? Is it all just one company? How many milk companies are there even? Are there more than one? I’ve never seen advertisements from “Got Milk?” competitors on my TV. It’s not like there’s a fucking opposition to “Got Milk?”. I mean, when the guy says “Got Milk?”, it’s not like another company comes in and goes, “WE DO!” Maybe there really are a bunch of milk companies, that all work together. They’re all working together to get me addicted to their bastardized dairy products, through their two-word ad campaigns. They split between them the neverending, perpetual milk profit attained from all us milk addicts! Think about this. It’s not like we’re getting un-addicted. It’s not like there’s a fucking Milk Addicts Anonymous or anything. It’s all a part of their grand money-making scheme! ASSHOLES!

Maybe it’s just that one guy. The guy who does the “Got Milk?” voiceover at the end of every fucking commercial. Shit, that makes sense. All he ever had to do was say two fucking words. One time (maybe a couple if he fucked it up the first time). Boom! You’ve just hypnotized every weak-spirited, impressionable, milk lover in the world. You’ve got them doing everything for you, giving you their money, drinking your poorly advertised product, writing articles on a little known blog about it! It’s BRILLIANT! Brilliant….and evil.

Maybe it’s all just in my imagination. Can it be? Perhaps…the milk is a lie! Even better yet: maybe the milk commercials are a cruel hallucination brought on by the withdrawal symptoms I’m having, which were caused by my psychological dependence on the milk itself, which was caused by the milk commercials! WHAT THE FUCK! ASSHOLES!!!

I have to go lay down…

Rod Jenson

In Addition: My Introduction

February 9, 2008

I’d like to add to my friend Thinker’s post by saying that our goal at Forklifts unlimited, as he so humorously stated, is in fact to make you, the reader, laugh. Read that man’s writings, as 99% of the time, the outcome will be the violent laughtergasm he so described in his introduction.

But alas, we here at FU (or FUn for the more family oriented of our readers) take part in this for much more reason than simply your entertainment. No, our latent motives behind this site are much more disturbing than that, and there is absolutely nothing metaphorical about them. The truth is, us FUnseekers at Forklifts Unlimited don’t just post a blog and then leave you to your own interpretations and reactions. We stick around for a while. In fact, we sit at our blog stats page for a while, and repeatedly click the refresh button, much as you lonely souls may click the Myspace.com refresh button, in anticipation that someone has read our post since the last time we checked.

The truth is, we get off to it. It makes us feel good, sexually and otherwise, to know that people we’ve never met and likely never will meet are reading our daily spew of self-satisfying comedy. The more amused you become, the more aroused I become. As such, on days when Thinker posts, I become thoroughly aroused by your immense amusement. Combined with the initial laughtergasm I have in reaction to his metaphorically sexual post, you can imagine how pleasant and disgustingly sexual those days can be for me. I try not to leave the house on those days.

What I’m trying to say here is, that no matter what you do, laugh. It means something to me. So much so that on days when you don’t laugh, I don’t laugh. I can’t laugh. I fall into a pit of despair, unprecedented within the frame of reference that your every day life provides for you. I become a lifeless shell of a man, devoid of all stimulations, all sensation, and sympathy, all will to exist. My heart blackens and hardens, until it closely resembles a chunk of obsidian rock, without the shiny. I try not to leave the house on those days either.

In retrospect, I don’t leave the house very often.

Enjoy Forklifts Unlimited (like you have a choice),

Rod Jenson
Forklifts Unlimited Official Stagnator and Co-founder