How far would you go for fashion? About one-eighth of micro-centimeter, right, because who the fuck even says that? Well, how far would you go just for the sake of taking stupid photos with your friends?
It’s come to my attention that Disney just bought Marvel Comics, whole company and the characters and everything. I am sure that many folks are freaking out because they think Marvel will change. “Oh no,” dumbasses everywhere are probably crying. “Oh no, they’re going to dumb down the Punisher. There’s a sophistication to a psycho with a skull on his shirt, running around and killing people who he doesn’t like! And Wolverine, oh Wolverine, he’s an unstoppable rage-filled asshole who murders people with razors that pop out of his hands. There’s a delicate poetry to him. On the one hand he wants to kill people and on the other hand he does kill people.”
Sometimes I might pull together the perfect outfit, successfully swaddle my funky trunk butt/blimpy beer sac into a slim aerodynamic illusion of cuteness, only to be defeated by the reality of my stupid face. My big dumb head ruins all my fashion efforts like perching a drippy bag of sausage and marbles atop the old Xmas tree. Mysterious bumps and crusty pimps are ever-present, and sometimes scary black hairs will grow overnight. A single one of those fucks are as creepy as a spider pincer.
If you're a Swedish girl or a gap year student, Barcelona might well be the best place on earth. It's like Cancun, Bermuda, and Neverland rolled into one. Eighty percent of the people you'll interact with will be exactly the same as you, but with slightly dumber tattoo stories. The nightlife is just retarded enough to remind you of what people were listening to at home six months ago so you'll never get homesick, and everybody speaks English. Barcelona? RADcelona more like.
Our Toronto intern Katie keeps blabbing on about competitive eating and how stoked she would be to try it and get recognized by the IFOCE. This week we decided to get her started by holding an impromptu time trial in the office, partially because we wanted to help her realize her dream but mostly because we were bored and wanted to see someone throw up.
Great, guess the summer's ending the same way it started. You're not going to the beach today, you've already given up on your seasonal reading list, and you can't handle another second of rehashed festival footage--but buck up because the second issue of Smoke Signal, Desert Island's free comics broadsheet, comes out today. This one's got 36 pieces, including a color cover by Dash Shaw and center spread by Frank Santoro. "Anybody can submit work for Smoke Signal, so we see a lot of weird shit," says big cheese Gabe Fowler. "Local neighborhood guy Jose Medina submitted a full-page, which is now his first published comic. He's in his late-40s and self-taught, so it's great to
see his work right next to a guy like Marc Bell." All you have to do to get it is go have fun watching Antimagic, Skeleton Warrior, Driphouse, and Cat Chow at Death By Audio tonight (it only costs like $5, and there's a raffle too if you like softcore gambling), and then you can shuffle back to your pile of hamster shavings and read it for the rest of the weekend. Click below for three whole pages of preview.
When you’re going to hit a correctional officer during a routine search, first stun him with a blast from the assed. In a rare inside look at new gang fight tactics, NYC Crips member Kareem Haskins showed his crew's secret weapon when being patted down by his CO, Mathew Knowles. Haskins then spun around and slapped him. Knowles completed the grade-school regression by getting an ice pack from the nurse and then telling on Haskins. Since this case broke wind, reports are coming in of drive-by fartings across the country, better known as “crop dusting.” No wonder they wear those scarves on their faces.
Hey, remember that trip to Oslo I keep on talking about? (Here, here, here.) It was fucking great so you're going to hear more. Let's go through some images, just like how your grandma did the first time she went back to the mother country and took a shitload of snapshots of nothing and hijacked entire dinner one night showing you pictures from different angles of the statue in front of the hotel she stayed in.
Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly distraught, I fantasize about quitting my job and organizing a group of individuals who will assist me in destroying all social-networking entities. And I'm not talking about 4chan-like pranks or some other nerd hacking shit. I want to physically and simultaneously storm the offices and data centers of Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, and whatever other online garbage people like to waste their lives on and bolt the doors shut before igniting chemical fires around their buildings' perimeters. It will be tough, but through rigorous coordination and preparation my comrades will be certain to torch every last backup and redundancy so all user data will be lost forever.