So I was driving today and I notice a hole-in-the-wall, shitty looking Chinese Restaurant. I mean, the type of place that just looks like it would give you diarrhea. One of those places jammed into a bad shopping mall in a bad part of town. And what was it called? Not “Happy Wok” or “Yummy Time”…It was called “Point Doom”.

Yes, this shitty looking place that served shitty food was called Point Doom. And I have to ask the question: Really? Is that the best you could come up with Mr. Store Owner? I mean, the last thing you should do if your selling potentially fatal Grade-F dog meat is ADVERTISE the impending doom that a customer may face after eating at your establishment.

You might as well call the place “the Runs” or “Deadly Wok”…although those might honestly be better names. As that restaurant owner: Is it neccessary to tell the customer that they are going to die at the hand of your food? That this doomsday-meal is the point at which they may never return? – that this greasy bite of Kung Pao may indeed cause your stomach to implode upon itself? I’m normally terrified when trying a new Chinese restaurant, but I guess with a place like this, I can throw my caution to the wind, write a suicide note, and order the PooPoo Platter. (more…)

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In the wake of April Fools Day, I thought it would be only proper to dig into the vault of Pranks Gone Wrong. This is an old classic–In fact, this is my favorite internet video of all time. Bar none.

When I first saw this, I laughed so hard, I farted. Then I watched it about 30 more times in a row. It never gets old.

Basically, this is what happens when you try to prank a kid with an itchy trigger…

It never gets old. Man, that “monster” gets punched SO HARD in the face. I love how he just crumples back down into the trash can, lifeless. Get a job, Grouch.

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I was forced to valet my car today. It’s one thing to make the choice to valet a car, but to be forced!! It’s the equivalent of rape. Well, in some states (I’m looking at you Maine). Anyway, it was some bullshit about all the regular parking lots on our studio being full. So I “had” to park there. I know, you think it sounds cool. “Valet” Rich, luxurious—the shit we dream about.

But no. This is crap. Some overcrowded parking lot that forces YOU to park your own car, then fork up the keys to some illegal—so that he can drive your car around all day, moving it from spot to spot, and then take it to pick up a few tacos at the stand down the road. Plus, add in the bonus of him dirtying up my ride—my pristine Subaru ’98 Wagon. Hey, esse, that shit is mint!

Anyway, I’m leaving work…I go to get my car back from the valet. I’m in a rush. I have to get this package to a FedEx before 5PM, and that’s like 15 minutes from now. The Valet’s have this little shack where they keep all the keys, and they hang out. A place where they can take a much deserved siesta, get a break from the sun and their labor-intensive job. After all, moving cars a few yards at a clip is exhausting labor.

So I briskly walk up to this booth…and am shocked to see… the Valet with his pants half down his ass and his cock in his hands. I shit you not–I swear on all that’s holy–this guy had his Johnson in his kung-fu grip. El pepe in los manos. Thankfully, (more…)

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Can I tell you a secret? I bought a tuxedo tshirt and it changed my life. For the better. Sure, we’ve all seen those redneck, hillbilly-types sporting a dirty, scuffed-up tuxedo tshirts and rocking a mullet. Prior to my purchase, I would have scorned these squirrel-banging yokels, hated on them even—putting them in the same category as those douchebags that wear the “hot-girl-Bikini-Body tshirts” (for the record, those people are still douchebags).

But all those ill words, all that scorn towards you, almighty tuxedo tshirt wearer–I take it all back. I apologize. You were right, I was wrong.

Now this revelation all started as a joke. Even with all my scorn, I’ve always secretly wanted a tuxedo tshirt. (more…)

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There are a few deep, philosophic questions that have been burning a hole in my mind. One’s that you wake up in the morning and say, “Why do I have wood?” These are basic life questions–applicable to all, pondered by the masses. Maybe you’ve had them, maybe your brain exploded because you just couldn’t wrap your mind around them.

Well, call me Buddah, and rub my belly, because I’m about to unleash them…

1) Are the sizes of people’s shits proportionate to their body size? In other words, does an morbidly obese person take morbidly obese-sized dumps? Because, I’ll be honest with you, I have let some snakes loose that nearly filled up the bowl. We’ve all been there. They are the shits we’re proud of. But does a person twice my size take a dump twice as big? I was pondering this over Thanksgiving dinner, as my quite large Uncle was stuffing his face next to me. I think we’re going to need more TP…

2) In the movie King Kong, where the hell is this enormous Gorilla’s balls? Now, I’m not asking to see them–honestly, I can do without. But come on. It’s a 5 story-tall male gorilla with enough testosterone-driven rage to destroy the city, and grundel is as smooth as a porcelain doll. Plus, you got that chick running in between his legs, hiding in between his legs, making a nest in there. Let’s be honest, she would have gotten the biggest pair of Arabian Goggles in the history of nuts. (more…)

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I play ice hockey; have since I was 10. And I’m a goalie. People are always surprised when I tell them this. “You play hockey? …Like on the ice?” No. Like in space. I play on the moon. Anyway, it’s probably just because I look like—and play sports like—a gorilla…so I understand why I don’t seem like I belong on the ice. I forgive you.

But this particular game was special. … I’m on a Sub List at a local rink; people call me when they need subs to fill in when they’re goalie’s out of town. I do it all the time.

I should have known I was in for trouble when the guy from their team called me. He tried five times to say my name before he got it right “Jarmz?, Jinty? Andry? Jartnnee? Jam?” Sure, buddy. Call me Jartnee. I couldn’t understand a fucking word the guy said. I thought he was a telemarketer.

But I wound up at the rink. I walk into the locker room and…Everyone’s Russian. Speaking Russian. Not like, “Oh snap! You’re of the slight Russian heritage too?” This was full-blown, straight off the boat shit. No one was speaking English. Hell, a few guys on the team DIDN’T speak English. And there’s me. Whitey McWonderBread. I didn’t even know at first…I had to ask them what language they were speaking. I thought it was like Armenian or Spanish….or Ebonics.

Again, the red “trouble” light should have gone off when I actually met the man that called me. (his name was either “Lean”, “Gene”, or “Ween”. I have no clue. I couldn’t understand him. But let’s just call him Weenie.). And Weenie told me that they had to kick their last goalie off—and I swear this is true—because he showed up to games too drunk. They said “Now, it’s OK for us to be drunk. Goalie need to be not as drunk.” I guess this last guy guy (more…)

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Now, many of you may have heard “you can’t get a good slice of pizza in L.A.” I’m here to tell you that this is, without a doubt, absolutely true. For those of you that have never been to Los Angeles or have never tried a slice out here (smart move), you must be wondering: How is that possible? I mean, it’s fucking pizza. Any moron could make it. Dough, sauce, cheese. Oven.

Yes. This is true. But yet—the pizza remains shit. Soggy, tasteless, hot piles of shit. And I think I figured out why. I’m pretty sure that instead of taking time to perfect their recipes and taste-ify their pizza pies, most restaurant owners just spent all of their time inbreeding and banging horses.

I mean, how else could the pizza be so genuinely bad? It’s not possible. People will tell you, “oh, it’s the water. The water in LA is just not right for pizza dough.” And I say, bullshit. You can still get good bread. You can still make good dough. Wait—why am I even entertaining this idea? It’s WATER. Fucking H20. It’s the same. Like I said, it’s bad because of the inbreeding. And the horse fucking. (more…)

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