Foozeball!!!

Alright kids, here goes another bleeping fucking post.  Damn I'm good, I remembered to bleep the cuss words.

I feel like writing about the Falcons' preseason game tonight, since my soul has become revitalized with professional Atlanta football.  If you're wondering about my sobriety, I did take home a 64 ounce growler of a 9.5% IPA, perks of the job mother fucker.  Without further adieu, here are my notes from tonight's game:

First of all, if you are concerned about the Ohio Tigers beating us by 24 points in the preseason, you are a fucking idiot.

Defense:
Two second team players stood out to me, Alford and Worrilow.  These two guys made most of the tackles throughout the second and third quarters, and each of them had at least one in the backfield.  Also, like I assumed last year, Mike Nolan is a fucking genius.  That guy showed us just a tiny sliver of how he is going to mix up the defensive line of scrimmage with the first team, and it still caused the offense to make a couple of penalties.  Trufant still has to show us some shit, and Bierman can cover some tight ends much better than we did last year.  The only thing I regret is the fact that Brian Banks did not prison rape anyone after he made a tackle.  Is that wrong for me to want?  I don't think so, football is all about entertainment. 

Offense:
Our biggest concern is Lamar Holmes, and he did alright after the first series.  Also it is important to remember that we didn't have Julio or Tony, and Roddy only was targeted once by Matty Ice.  The offense is not going to be of any fucking concern this year.  SJ39 didn't do much at all, but he was basically the only focus of the defense's front seven the whole first quarter.  Just you wait bitches.  Chase Coffman was also more impressive than I expected.

Bee Tee Dubs, if any of you ESPN folk are reading this, I may consider toning down the language for a seven figure analyst contract (hint hint you fucking sluts, I look damn good in a pin-striped suit too).

Well, that was a lot of serious talk, so now its back to sodomizing a pair of scissors and a toaster oven.  Goodnight lovely readers!

Schmalentine's Day

Many of you may say that I do not like Valentine's Day because I am bitter that I do not currently have a girlfriend.  Fuck that noise.  I do not like this "holiday" because it is as stupid as sniffing poo gas in order to get high.  Let me explain.

First of all, the holiday comes from some Roman dude who married people, was beheaded, and then buried on Feb. 14th.  Hooray, time to celebrate!  Secondly, don't chicks in relationships already get enough holidays?  If a woman's birthday rolls around whilst she is in a relationship, tuck your sac between your legs, because you better do something beautiful and romatical for her then.  If you don't, expectation for penetration should be lowered immensely.  She also gets the anniversary of whatever kind of relationship you are in.  She may get you a gift on that day too, but do not for one second think that the effort, time, and money she spent on you is expected to come back to her 10 fold.  Beeteedubs, if she doesn't care about anniversaries, it better be a fucking wedding anniversary cuz that chick is a keeper. 

A counter argument to all that could be, well guys get steak and blowjob day.  Ha!  I have yet to receive a steak and or beej on this sacred day, nor is it recognized by any authority as an official holiday.  Now if grocery stores were to have specials on ribeyes and mouthwash on or around this day, then maybe it would count.  Sadly, that is not the case.

If I am in a relationship with someone and want to let her know that I appreciate her letting me use her breasts as pillows when I've had a shitty day, then dammit, I'll let her know that every day of the week.  She should be appreciative of the fact that she gets to call me her boyfriend/lover/what-the-fuck-ever, and not need a special day to be reminded of that.  If you do need a national holiday to kindle romance, then you probably should just be bang buds anyways.  Also, I don't get buying flowers for women.  They cost a lot, and they die.  Sure they smell nice, but so does pot roast.  At least you can eat pot roast.

Fin.      

Doin it to it, kids

Many of you may be surprised when I say this, but I am getting married.  I found my wife tonight, but unlike Robert, I only found her perceived in my mind.  Congratulations to you Bobby; I can only imagine what it feels like to have your wife personified.

My woman exists in my mind and hopefully in the real world, but I have yet to find her and not send her running as fast as she can in the opposite direction.  Let me describe her for you.  She:

1. Walks like Carrie Underwood in the "Remind Me" video.  sexy walk
2.  Has colorful tattoos on her arms/vaginal region/lower abdomen or all of the above.
3.  Finds my antics silly and humorous, not creepy.
4.  is a total geek, but like in the good kind (like she wants to fuck dressed up like Leia or a stormtrooper but has no interest going to dragon con.
5.  makes more money than me, but realizes that I could make soooo much more money if I put my mind to it.  In other words, she understands that I'm smart and lazy and am completely satisfied owning a bar and killing evil bitches:  but fucking seriously, if I wanted corporate shit type money, it would be fucking mine, along with gold-digging fine cunts.  But obviously, I'm posting this because I am looking for something so much more real, duhh.
6.  Have perfect genes.  Okay, I realize that this is hard to come by nowadays with all the fucking peanut allergies, awesome fake titties (they're cool and all but they do fuck up DNA after a year or two, look it up, science and shit), cell phone brain mutation, "organic" foods (you ever eaten only organic food for a week?  your poop should not be that color!), and white people fucking it all up with incest
 7.  Only wants to cuddle when I'm feeling down.
8.  Makes awesome jokes about my cock in her mouth or how well I pleasure her.
9.  She must conform to all previous posts including the ridiculous shit I've said about women.

There you go.  You all know what I am looking for now, so if you see her, fucking let me know!  Or at least if you see me with her and I'm fucking it all sideways, help me out, but don't steal my fucking thunder, unless you are a chick and are down with a threesome.  Oh yah,

10.  Must be down for a threesome (with another chick, but maybe with another dude because it's okay if it's in a three-way!)

Math for Men

Men have been plagued by one simple question over the ages; should or shouldn't I hook up with this chick? Well lucky for the men of the modern age, I have taken a concept from Barney Stinson and made it into a faultless way of answering that question.

The normal decision of whether or not to plug a woman's hole with your trouser snake can be made by utilizing this simple graph.


Those of you who remember middle school math may recognize this as a simple y = x + 7 graph. The y axis here represents the hotness of a chick on the normal 1-10 scale. The x axis represents how crazy a chick appears to be on a scale of 0 being completely sane to 3 being totally bat-shit crazy. To determine whether or not you should sleep/date a chick, you should plot her coordinates on this graph. If she is on or above the line, go ahead buddy! If she is below the line, you'll be sorry, in one way or another. Now if she is below the line, please understand that I am not telling you to not sleep with her, I am simply warning you that regret or unhappiness is sure to follow.

Now depending on you condition, the graph can be altered. We all know that being drunk radically alters your perception of a girl's attractiveness, point proven in my case. In these circumstances, it is necessary to get assistance from your friends in determining her 1-10 hotness value. Also being drunk will alter your graph to the following:


Notice here that y = x + 4.5. This is because if you hook up with a girl that is a 4.5 or 5, you can still always use the excuse that you were wasted, and still get your dick wet.

Another situation where you may need a different graph is where you are sure that you can hook up with a chick and never see her again. This may be the case if you are headed to her place in her car, and she never gets your real number. If that is so, use this graph:



Notice here, she can be as crazy as it gets, as long as she is a 6 or better. Be careful though, crazy chicks have man-hunting skills that even the federal government does not have. You may have to live in a cave in the Appalachians for a few years to avoid baby mama drama or female plagues on a biblical scale. You have been warned.

In addition to these three basic charts, there are several factors that can move a broad around on the graphs. I have listed some, but it is up to the individual man to come up with his own factors based on his preferences.

-having a star wars tattoo +1.5 hotness
-saying shit like "my dad never + 2 crazy, +1.5 hotness
danced with me like that!"
-willing to get it on in public + 1 crazy, + 2 hotness
-farting + 1.5 crazy, - 2 hotness
-telling you she has kids - 1 hotness
-telling you she has kids (drunk) + 1 hotness

Please print out these graphs, and bring them and a pencil wherever you go.

Totally unrelated, but I need votes on my next tattoo.
1. A bad ass Beer (bear snarling with antlers)
2. Darth Vader holding a lightsaber hilt, and the lightsaber blade is done in black-light ink
3. Bad ass Celtic eagle thingy that I'm gonna draw up
4. Unicorn with a rainbow

The Darth Vader thing is trademarked by me, so you better not use it or I will kick your ass after I sue you for all you have.

Story of My Life

To begin, I must apologize for not being drunk when writing this post. I am however loopy from being bored out of my mind and not getting my 14 hours of daily beauty rest for the past couple of weeks.

To understand my story, it is important to know where I came from. I derive from a long line of Irish immortals, popularly know as the "Uplanders." A couple of my notable ancestors are Fox Mcloud, and William Wallface, who fought the British to free the British from the terrible oppression of the British. We all know that story, and sadly Wallface was executed by the British for being British. You may ask yourself, how was he executed if he was immortal? Well stupid, a few generations before William, my family lost it's immortality because the gods did not appreciate having their sacrifices pooped on. Who knew? Anyways, not being immortal is not so bad, every day is more precious and all that shit, plus my legend will live on forever.

It all started one fateful day when my green eclipse with a paint job done by a retard topped out at only 140. Shit! I got Harry to hook me up with a couple of the big bottles of NOS, and I was off to the races. After standing beside my car for a few hours in a California racing alley and being called extremely racist terms like snowman, I met the big dog. His name was Ben Gasoline, and I had to throw up my pink slip to get in a race with him. He won, but I almost had him! He then schooled me by saying something about inches and miles, but winning is winning. I had to give up the car, and right at that moment, the cops busted up the party. I was instantly recognized because of my many arrest warrants out for being a fucking ninja.

I was sentenced to 459,682 consecutive life sentences for my crimes, but I soon was presented with an opportunity to clear my name. The government had detected a large alien fleet headed our way by using their fancy radar and listening to REM. They needed my help. I was to take an advanced pilot training course, and lead the attack on the extraterrestrial foes. I reluctantly agreed, and started training in the course commonly know as Top Gun. My instructor was some broad name Kelly McAverage. I know, a chick instructing an elite group of badasses sounds far fetched, but trust me, all this happened. Oh yeah, Kelly and I totally got it on to 80's music because she was turned on by my risk taking style of charisma. My attitude did not go along well with everybody, however, and it was not until graduation when my nemesis, Hal Killmenow, finally accepted me as his wingman.

The attack had been planned and we were ready to launch. The government had acquired an enemy vessel that crashed into the World Trade Center in 2001 (alien terrorists were also involved in case you don't read the news). I was to infiltrate the alien mothership, and plant a virus in its control systems to kill all those slimy fuckers. Myself, that guy from Jurassic Park and The Fly, and about 300 Spartans from the HALO games flew up to the mothership, but we crashed soon after entry. A warm breeze rolled in and made me jizz in my pants, sorry guys. We all emerged from the wreckage unharmed to see 9 billion alien warriors ready to attack. We quickly bolted for the nearest narrow canyon to defend ourselves (in case you didn't know, the inside of alien motherships looks like the landscape of ancient Greece). After weeks of sexy, slow-motion battle, enough blood and goo was shed to fill the oceans three times over. Only myself and the alien leader, Herpes, remained.

Herpes was an elite alien warrior, as he possessed a laser cannon on his shoulder, invisibility powers, and heat vision. To counter his sight advantage, I covered myself in mud. Whilst he was adjusting to not being able to see me, I constructed a trap made of hundreds of alien dicks (they're fucking sharp!). I then lured Herpes into the trap by running around and screaming, "kill me, I'm here!" in an Austrian accent. The trap worked and Herpes died a horrible death by being sodomized by his own kind many times over. I managed to find the alien control center, and located the self-destruct button (I guess a big red button really is universal for self-destruct, stupid aliens). Narrowly escaping the craft in an escape pod, I had saved the galaxy from sure destruction.

Expecting to return a hero, I was dismayed to find only two weak-minded government agents waiting at my landing sight. Like idiots, they explained the governments plan to me. I was to be killed, and all traces of the incident were to be covered up. Luckily, I knew a few Jedi mind tricks, and told the agents that I was not the droids they were looking for. I made my way to the airport at Las Eisley, where I found a renegade, smuggling pilot named Juan Solo. Juan, his first mate, Masticatie, and I became great friends blowing up Death Stars and fighting over my sister.
Nowadays, we run around murdering government agents because God told us to. Masticatie used to be a package boy for many of the agents, so he knows where they live and who they're fucking! Very advantageous. There is one FBI agent who is getting close to us. It shouldn't be a problem though, because he is a fan of our cause, and he is usually to busy screwing faggy asian dudes to actually catch us.

What lies next in my great adventure is still a mystery... Maybe one day, I will command a starship and defeat the evil race of Formulans and Dingdongs, or save the world from zombies and robots who want to use humans as batteries. Whatever may lie on the horizon, on thing surely is true, I'm fucking awesome!

High School Comparisons

To those of you who may have met me in only the past few years, this may be a surprise to you. In high school, I was that almost nameless guy with close to zero confidence, who just slept in class and did jack shit else. The funny part is, I got shitty grades in english class because I had not yet realized my awesome potential of being a clever, witty, super bomb-ass ladies man. (laugh all you want dick hats, I rule, and write like a fucking genius!)

The point of this post is, if I could do it all over again, I would truly learn the lessons taught to us by Saved by the Bell, and rock that shit. If I had to do it all over again, for lack of an even more extreme character, I would be Zach Morris. He obviously was the alpha male of the show, yet he also had a genuine caring side that made him so likable to everybody (like me!). His defining characteristic, besides his haircut and good looks, was pure confidence. His level of confidence, without generic asshole cockiness, is what totally landed him the ideal high school relationship; an on and off again with the hottest cheerleader in town, Kelly Kapowski (although she turned out to be a semi-fatty as show in White Collar.)

Now my confidence level has grown exponentially over the past few years because of several reasons. I now know that I am a sexy piece of man meat, I joined the fucking Marines, and I now know that there is no one or nothing that can hold me back from getting what I desire. Even as this confidence was still slowly developing, say 4 years ago, I had high school girls drooling over my sexy ass; and yes my ass is very sexy, especially naked. Nowadays, if I was attracted to girls over the age of 14, the local high schools would be in fucking trouble!

The point of all this rambling tipsy bullshit is, if you are a man and you want something, fucking take it! If you live by that motto, the whole world is fucking yours. You may say that Kevin, you are an average guy who hasn't taken shit for cock, so what the fuck are you talking about? Well to that I would say, 1. Fuck you, and 2. My morality and standards prevent me from having everything I desire. I will post on this as soon as I learn how to get rid of this damn conscience.

I know I set out to compare and contrast myself now and whatever the fuck I was in high school, and it turned out to be a bunch of rambling bullhonky. Shit happens. If you don't like it, then don't buy my book when it never comes out because I don't have that much patience.

I should write a fucking book. Topics for this project would be appreciated in the comments, go!

Time Travel

By time travel, I do not mean installing a flux capacitor on my Delorean. I actually am talking about that amazing phenomenon that happens when you drink too much whiskey. Now some of you naysayers may say, "Kevin, drinking that much is bad for you." I would agree if my liver didn't happen to be a fucking trooper. Since it is, fuck you in the nicest way possible.

The best way to define my kind of time traveling would be to define it as the skipping of memories and partial recognition of events that occurred in a night of binge drinking. A sane person may think of this as a bad thing, but then again, who the fuck listens to a sane person. Time traveling is truly an art. It gives you the ability to remember the good parts of a night, and subconsciously ignore the bad parts. It also makes you feel like you are a part of CSI the next morning.

For example: You may remember pulling your pants down at a club. You then ask yourself, "why would I do such a thing?" You then deduce that you must have been talking to a very hot chick with tattoos on her boobies who wanted to see if your penis was as big as you were bragging. You then realize that you were probably increasing your penis size by 400% by saying that it was 8 inches, so you instead decided to just show her the "brain." This in turn must have been the cause of the slight memory you have of a woman running away in terror and amusement.

That would seem to infer that the semen stain on your pants came from simple masturbation with tears as lubricant from the embarrassing events that occurred at the club. But wait! We forgot about the long red hair that was stuck in your zipper! Logically, there must have been some slutty redhead that was amused by your being rejected. She must have felt pity on you, and have given you an awesome and regret-filled bj. Case closed. Either that or your dick tried to strangle itself with a tiny piece of red rope. No, we're going with the one where a girl actually touched your wiener.

Now tell me that deciding to drink what society would call "too much" was a bad idea. How else would you get the satisfaction of thinking you got semi-laid and solving a fucking mystery? The way I see it, I got two choices y'all; pull over the car, or bounce on the double put the pedal to the floor. Now I ain't tryin' to see no hollywood chase with Jake, so I choose the road less traveled and decide that we got fucking laid last night!

In conclusion, if you feel me, throw your damn hands up. Word to your mother, and good will towards men (not women).