Rumors of My Death Are Greatly Exaggerated

This post was accidentally deleted because computers frighten and confuse me.  You should consider yourself lucky if you were able to read it.
-Mac

Think Before You Send: Part I

Some might say that I have a drinking problem, such as the State of Wisconsin, my first three wives, the Children's Museum, and that guy that I hit with my truck last night. But let me tell you, I damn near shit-a-brick when I found out that I could fill up my hip flask with a turkey baster! It was like an epiphany-as though I had just discovered masturbation with foodstuffs. No longer do I have to try to pour a Manhattan out of a shaker through a tiny funnel into a hole no wider than a common shrew's penis is long (fifth of an inch). And possibly the best part, there's a hint of gravy in whatever you put in the flask.








But as always, I digress. That has nothing to do with what I wanted to talk about in today's post. I was just excited to pass on the news that turkey basters aren't just for Thanksgiving and getting lesbians pregnant anymore. No, instead I wanted to talk about something horrible plaguing our nation, neigh, the world. People that send ridiculous forwards. Now I'm not talking about cool things like OMG Cat, Courage Wolf, or Two Girls One Cup. I'm talking about flat-out lies.Case in point, here is the text that I got in a forward last week, typos intact:

This is what life was like before man sinned...and this is what HEAVEN holds one day soon! The Bible says that the " Lion shall lay down with the Lamb' (The Bible don't lie)

The Law Of The Wild says kill only when you are hungry
Photographer Michel Denis-Huot, who captured these amazin pictures on safari in Kenya 's Masai Mara in Ocotober last yea said he was astounded by what he saw:

"...These three brothers (cheetahs) have been living together sin they left their mother at about 18 monts old, "he said. "On the morning we saw them, they seemed not to be hungry, walking quickly but stopping sometimes to play together. At one point they met a group of impala who ran away, but one youngster w not quick enough and the brothers caught it easily."

These extraordinary scenes followed.

and then they just walked away without hurting him... Life is short... What is our stay really about here on earth...?

There you have it. Nature showing us the error of our ways. We all can get along! Makes me feel warm and tingly. What is our stay really about here on Earth? Apparently its about wasting peoples' time and spreading ignorance.

My first issue, the first line about the Bible and heaven. Really? Is this, "what life was like before man sinned...and...what HEAVEN holds one day soon!" What does that even mean? That is kind of depressing to think that perfectly scientifically explainable animal behavior is what heaven holds for us. Besides, cute animal pictures can't be used to support a religion any more than dead babies can be used to refute it.

The second issue I have is that this forward isn't very believable. That should be your litmus test if you're going to send an email to a bunch of people. Check it out on Snopes.com if you have to; don't just pass on crap without checking it out.

I say it's not believable because cats are dicks. I have two of them and if they aren't crapping in their shit boxes, they're sleeping, trying to steal food, or trying to kill each other. If you knew a person like that, you'd call them a dick or at least a hobo. The two of them would shiv each other for a single piece of dry cat food. They've never had bacon but I'm pretty sure if they did and they had prehensile digits, somehow they would find a way to kill my wife and I in our sleep and put a plan in action that would not stop short of destroying the world until they get more bacon. Which is why I find it hard to believe that three wild cheetahs would chase down an impala and then just let it go.

So I did some research. In all of five minutes of intensive Googling, I found the website of Christine and Michel Denis-Huot, the French photographers who took the pictures. Turns out the true story has a much less Saturday-morning-cartoon ending. Those cats mauled the shit out of that impala like O.J. on Nicole. If you want the grisly picture of Bambi getting gang-raped, you can see it here.

Remember, if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the precipitate. Mac don't lie.

More to come...

Old People Episode III: Revenge of the Codgers

I don't know what it is about me and stadiums but I always seem to end up sitting in front of the biggest douche bag in the whole place. A few weeks ago I was at a Badger football game and the crusty britched old codger behind me kept shoving her foot in my ass. Maybe she was spastic or maybe she was really getting into the ass play; she even had a twitch to her foot like a vibrator.

She could have been playing grandma cougar and thought she was doing me a favor - but I'm not really into getting my back door prodded. I've never really been into feet either for that matter. One time at a party in college, a girl tried to give me a foot job mid-conversation while we were sitting on my front porch. It just ended up being awkward, like being groped by a blind person wearing boxing gloves. And what does a guy do to return the favor? How about I prod at your boobs with my elbows? Would that be analogous to you jamming your feet into my crotch?Anyway, one of my roommates ended up walking out onto the porch and did a classic double-take. It was like he had just accidentally seen his favorite child hood dog licking peanut butter off of the nether regions of his creepy uncle. After that he just kind of awkwardly backed his way back through the door. He never mentioned it to me and also never sat in any of the chairs on the front porch again. Luckily that also put a stop to the foot job and I was able to walk away confused and feeling slightly dirty.

Back to the Badger game. I wanted to break the ankle of this geriatric, boney, old Golden Girl like it was her hip at a limbo contest. Problem was, I couldn't tell if she was being extremely rude or if she was just senile and you do not want to get into an argument with someone that is a little 'tardy if you know what I'm saying. Now I know what you're thinking, I could have been the bigger man and just turned around and asked her to remove her metatarsals from my colon but what if she was trying to be a bitch? Then I would have had a totally awkward rest of the game with her behind me.

So that's it, anticlimactic story. I never talked to She-Wilford Brimley and found out what her deal was. Was she looking to have a stroke inducing three-way with my friend and I? Was she just plain off of her meds or bat-shit crazy? (By the way you get 25 extra Mac's Rants points if you can comment back with the etymology of bat-shit crazy.) Or maybe she was just a plain old mean person that thought I looked like the gay salesman that used to back-door her late husband. There's also the chance that she read my other two posts which chronicle my hatred for old people.

Maybe some game I'll get those seats again. You win this time gristly she-demon, but mark my words, I'll be watching for you.

The Scariest Movie Ever

I know my last post was about a movie but I just had to put this down on paper, I just watched the most scary movie I have ever seen in my life. Any of the classics like Nightmare on Elmstreet, Friday the 13th, Hellraiser, even the newer ones like Hostel and all fourteen Saw movies don't hold a candle to this. They are like the Care Bears go to Candy Land riding a kitten compared to Where the Wild Things Are.

It starts out with this hyper little fucker named Max who apparently gets fed pixie sticks and crack for breakfast every morning. In the first five minutes of the movie, he rapes the family dog, trashes his sister's room like a hair band in a hotel, bites his own mother, and then runs away from home. Right now I'm thinking that things are going to get interesting; maybe one of his disturbed but good-natured neighbors will find him and go Black Snake Moan on his ass. After all, this kid obviously needs some Adderall and a good beating.

Instead, the little prick ends up jacking a skiff and he suddenly becomes an eight-year-old Jacques Cousteau in a dinghy. Eventually his luck runs out and he ends up capsizing and washing up on shore like John Denver.
Somehow he ends up on the Island of Misfit 'Tards with a dysfunctional family of huge Muppets. I'll mention here that I never read the book on which this movie is based, so I'm not sure what the tone of that was. But the remainder of the movie is what I would expect a bad acid trip would be.

I mean look at these freaks - they're like friggen homicidal rejects from The Island of Doctor Moreau. These creatures are not something that you would want your kid to play with. One of them, Carol, seems to be all roided up and is domestically abusing all of the other furries. I shit you not, he's even hiding the bodies of the previous visitors to the island.

The others include a manic-depressive goat, a bird-like creature who literally ends up getting one of his arms ripped off by James Gandolfini, some bull-dike bitch who keeps threatening to eat Max, and K.W. who is the roaming cock-tease of the island.

Carol would probably be much cooler if K.W. would stick around more and at least give him a handy, but instead Max shows up and introduces all kinds of sexual tension. Yeah, this movie goes there. Not only does this movie look like it was directed by some dude who had dead animals and severed limbs hanging above his crib as a kid, it also has an eight-year-old "inside" of one of the creatures. Thats right, beastiality and child porn all in a movie that's rated PG.

I won't ruin the ending for you suffice to say it really pissed me off. It made me long for the simpler times when you could beat the living hell out of kids without them being able to escape by using their imagination.

Male Menstruation

I was hoping to end my long hiatus from the blog with something profound and scientific. Just the other day I was having a discussion with the wife about how interesting it would be if there was male menstruation. Just think about men expelling all of their unused sexual cells once a month. To put it more bluntly, the jizz would ooze forth uncontrollably. Anyway, you'll be happy to know that I forgot the rest of what I thought was so funny about that idea; so instead I'll be giving my review of Edward Scissorhands.

Normally I won't watch movies that don't include gratuitous violence or nudity but Edward Scissorhands was on between Hannah Montana and Full House. I'd heard it was a good show and I had always wondered how Edward managed to piss without lopping his dong off. The movie starts out with a woman who is selling Avon door-to-door in a town that can't seem to decide whether its in the 60's or 80's. The neighborhood is full of sex-starved, harpy, house wives with huge hair and just happens to also have dozens of bushes that could be sculpted into various topiary if someone should happen to show up that has cutlery for appendages. This Avon woman trespasses into the typical creepy house of the town and finds Edward.

Despite being pasty white and outfitted better than Ron Popeil with Ginsu knives, the dude dresses in a gimp suit. He's got the social skills of the kid that eats paste in middle school too. Its hard to believe that this goth albino grows up to be the Captain Jack Sparrow.

Avon lady takes Edward home and at this point I comment to the wife not to get any ideas about bringing home some deformed freak show while I'm at work. Turns out that Edward is pretty handy with "hands" if you don't count finger painting, nose picking, and masturbating. He ends up pruning the aforementioned bushes, grooming the neighborhood dogs, and giving the harpies Brazillian waxes. All the while he's carving up pot roast and accidentally stabbing people without ever running his digits through a dish washer - disgusting.

Edward ends up falling for Avon lady's daughter (Winona Ryder before her brief stint in petty theft) but shes already got a douche bag boyfriend (Anthony Michael Hall who has roided up since the Breakfast Club). By the way, douche bag boyfriend has a friend with a van straight out of a Ratt video-hot pink leopard seats, flames coming out of the hood, and he's not even Asian! I only bring up Ratt to point out that they had a former singer named Jizzy Pearl; I swear to God, look it up.

Anyway, the town turns on Edward, Winona falls in love with him, and he ends up skewering the douche bag. Edward and Winona end up having rough sex in the back of the Ratt van (what other kind of sex can you have with knives for hands) and the movie ends.

The answer to the big question that you've been waiting for: how does Edward keep from cleaving the twig from the berries when he's shaking hands with the president? It turns out that he's a friggen robot and doesn't need to pee! We find out through the movie that Edward was made by a genius inventor that apparently died before he could put proper normal person hands on Edward. That's right, the inventor made a pasty-faced, gimp, robot that could cater to his needs. The entire movie is about a sex toy!

Chicken Parts

I’ve done my share of stupid things for money or even just on a dare. Growing up, my brother and I would dare each other at the kitchen table to see who could fit more food in their mouth. I remember the bet was always for a quarter, but the real prize was the pride of being able to fit the most peas, or jello, or pot roast in your mouth. If you lost the bet you always had the satisfaction of slapping the other in the stomach and seeing food fly across the room from not only the mouth but also the nose. Sadly, one family Thanksgiving dinner, Mom put a stop to all of the chicanery. In the midst of one of our bets, my brother had just crammed most of the meat from a drumstick into his mouth along with half the contents of the nearest gravy boat. I had just forced in my second bun over the top of a quarter pound of stuffing. Then tragedy struck. Grandpa finished telling a story about his old army days which involved three of his buddies, a case of surplus army motor oil, a pineapple, and apparently the most flexible woman on Guam. At the climax of the story, the contents of my brother and I flowed forth like geysers. Relatives across from us looked like a cross between a Picasso painting and a Bukake porn star. Worse yet, we had to call the bet a draw and the competition needed to go underground indefinitely. We are no longer allowed to sit by each other at family gatherings.

Of course age hasn’t made me any smarter; rather I’ve taken on dares that are probably more threatening to my health. This bet in particular was to see who could eat fifty chicken wings at our local Quaker Steak and Lube. There were around six of us and we ended up eating the equivalent of over one hundred birds if you figure that each bird sacrificed at least two appendages.

Our server, a one hundred pound albino that could have used a few wings himself, brought heap after heap of greasy, slightly warm chicken. I stuck to my plan of drinking a minimum amount of fluid, saving that space for more bird pieces. In no time I had downed thirty pieces. That was about the time that they started to taste like slimy gritty pieces of mud sliding around my mouth. People started dropping out between 35 and 40 pieces, others trudged forward with sweat beading on their foreheads and pressure building in the bowels. One person fell off of his chair and started sobbing uncontrollably. Another shat himself while trying to make it to the bathroom. The albino smiled menacingly and spoke of the man who had eaten over a hundred wings. We decided that the albino was full of shit, probably needed to be beaten in the parking lot, and should really eat a cheeseburger or something.

The goal neared and only two of us remained. My stomach felt stretched and hot. The chicken no longer looked appetizing at all. While it was probably just a trick of the mind, it appeared that the pieces were increasingly odd parts of the chicken that had been deep fried and then tossed in more grease. I pictured an old Navajo Indian speaking to the youngsters in the tribe, “We use every part of the chicken,” he would say. “Well, except for this one. This goes to Quaker Steak for deep frying.”

Alas, I managed to down the fiftieth piece, my cohort managed fifty one. My night was far from over, however. I managed to excuse myself from the table without crying or shitting myself. The pressure in my midsection had built up and felt like some creature trying to escape me like in an Alien movie. It was difficult to slide into the driver’s seat of my truck because it meant putting pressure on the pile of undigested bird in my gut. The earlier uncomfortableness was now replaced with pain that only mildly diminished in the fully reclined position. I wondered what I would say to the police when pulled over as I drove with my seat reclined all of the way and barely able to see over the wheel. By the time I made it home, my stomach felt like it held two rabid wolverines fighting over a baby. I stumbled my way to the bed and found the pressure even worse when lying down. I contemplated forcing myself to vomit but thought that would be cheating my achievement of having downed fifty wings. Through the course of the night I found that the pain somewhat subsided when on my hands and knees. I managed to assure my wife that I was not waiting for some sort of twisted sexual tryst when she found me on all fours in bed. I finally fell asleep at around two or three in the morning when the chicken had apparently been distributed throughout my colon. It was still a restless night accompanied by the lingering pain in my abdomen and punctuated by psychedelic dreams featuring our albino waiter and Colonel Sanders.

The next day held a number of ‘hot’ bowel movements that I will spare you the details of, suffice to say that they were ‘emotional’. I promised myself that I wouldn’t take part in any more competitions to see how much I could eat. Instead, tomorrow I’ll be seeing if I can handle the hottest wings that Madison has to offer. Apparently I’ll need to sign a waiver…

USA vs. Scotland II

It appears that I may need to add a little snippet to my last post. I don't know how it happened, but I forgot to mention one of the coolest things about Scotland-their kick ass road signs. They must have an entire division of their government devoted to making signs that make people laugh their ass off.

Case in point: this is a sign that we saw near the small fishing village of Mallaig. Not being natives we could only assume that this sign means "Beware of Pedophiles." However, without any additional reference point to the two figures in the sign, perhaps we are jumping to conclusions. Maybe the sign means "Beware of freakishly large children holding hands with their normal size parents." Given the choice between the two, I'd say that the first is probably accurate. Every place has to be proud of something. Wisconsin has its dairy industry and serial killers; I guess Mallaig is proud of it's child mollesters.

Some sonuvabitch keeps letting his goddamn dog shit in my lawn. For a while there it seemed like every time I got up in the middle of the night to take a piss in my yard, I was finding a new pile of dog biscuits. Maybe I need one of these signs for my property. It says "NO FOULING" and if you lived in Scotland, maybe you'd know what the hell "fouling" is. But luckily, they also provided the picture for illiterate folks and tourists. How cool is a public sign with a dog shitting on it? Its even a Scottie dog! Notice the line isn't through the dog itself, because Scots are cool with the dogs, the line is through the big ol' pile of Polish brownies behind his turd cutter. The sign is also informative; next time you're on Jeopardy and you get asked what Scotland act 2003 Section 1 is you can answer proud to know that its the dog fouling law.

This is a sign telling you to protect your junk. There is obviously some twisted bastard running around kicking everyone in the jewels, even women in dresses and dudes in wheel chairs.

These signs make Scotland seem like a pretty shitty place, what with the pedophiles, dog poop, and crotch kickers and all. It gets worse, apparently they have signs there that warn of geriatric pick pockets. I guess you're just walking along with your cane and bam! You get your ass grabbed by an old woman. Shameless.

So getting back to the competition, has Scotland managed to tie up the score? Nay, the scoring committee has deemed the kick ass signs as half a point.

USA holds the lead 3 to 2.5. USA! USA! USA!