Wednesday, January 31, 2007

OH OK HOMAGE







Yeah, I was in my mother's garage last Saturday. We were in there doing all sorts of organizing and reorganizing.

I saw this desk in the dark corner by my father's workbench. It was a metal desk that I hadn't seen in years. I stepped up to it and opened one of the metal drawers. I blindly thrust my hand in. Suddenly, pain shot up my arm like a flash-flood. There was a trap-like contraption at the bottom of the drawer. It whirred and clicked as I pulled away from it. The desk was bolted to the cement floor of the garage, so I couldn't drag the whole thing into the light. I leaned in and saw that somehow, a noose was holding my wrist in place. The more I pulled, the more a series of what looked like ice picks and razor points worked their way into my palm and the back of my hand. My skin wasn't entirely broken. I was more or less in shock from the fact that my hand was in this trap. I was trying to comprehend how it worked. I must have put my hand through the noose. When I hit the bottom of the drawer, I must have triggered the mechanism. All I could tell about the mechanism was that it was well built, and it was engulfing my hand. Furthermore, I was wrestling with a serious form of deja vu. I remembered this thing somehow. I was actually thinking that maybe I had made the thing.

I pulled against the noose again. it tightened and the picks went into my hand, sandwiching it and puncturing between my fingers. I let out a grunt. I looked into the drawer further. Suddenly something squirted. I recognized that smell. It was that Rosinol lighter fluid that I used to feed to my Zippo. The fluid went into my recently torn wounds and now I howled. that stuff hurt. I pulled back again and the picks went in deeper. Somehow, I had one working its way under my fingernail. Working its way? Was there some sort of mechanical intelligence at work here? There was a whirring that I could hear underneath it all. The pain all seemed to be "puncture-pain" rather than the "paper-cut/razor-cut" pain that I was expecting.
I remembered that razors wouldn't hurt me unless I moved against the blade. For it to go straight at me, that wasn't going to be too much of a problem. The rest of it hurt though. I could feel my blood dripping into the base of my palm and then to the bottom of the drawer. There was another squirt of lighter fluid and I recoiled. I recoiled wrong and the razors began to slash. There was another squirt of lighter fuid, another recoil and another slash. All of the little pricks and pains in my hand were turning into one big worried wound. I still heard whirring. I could see that the lighter fluid was clearing the blood away, just in time for more to weep.

I looked around for some help. Dave and Thurston had gone out for burritos and Veronica and Mom were at the neighbor's house. I needed to handle this myself.

But the whirring was bothering me. I leaned in closer. In the darkness, I could see an old egg-timer in the corner of the drawer. The whirring wasn't a whirring at all, but the steady ticking of a plastic timer from somewhere in my childhood. I squinted and looked in more. I had one minute. I had no idea what was coming, but I needed to stop it. I looked wildly about, for an exacto knife or a blade to cut the rope that had now dug into my skin. No blade in sight. I had to improvise. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my VW key. I began furiously sawing at the rope. I was pulling as I did and I felt all of my flesh serated in directions I couldn't comprehend. What I did know was that I'd lost an incredible amount of blood in a short time. One of my arteries must hanve been punctured in the process. Blood was now dripping out of the drawer and onto the floor.

My boot slipped in my blood causing me to fall back, further shredding my right hand and forearm in this contraption. I was now pissed. I re-footed and began to saw like a maniac.

*ding*

The timer went. There was a flash somewhere within the drawer. It was too close to my face. I was scorched. My left eye took the flame and I muscled it shut involuntarily. My hand caught on fire. Rosinol, goddammit. The whole drawer exploded and blew me back again. More tearing and severing. This time, I could feel the ligaments near my thimb beginning to give.

A lower drawer in the desk suddenly popped open. Popped and slid open with a sloshing sound. My upper body was covered in flames now, and I leaned forward to see what was in there. The whole drawer looked like it was full of water. I reached in with my free hand to douse the flames. Then, mid-splash, I realized that it was gasoline.

The following explosion blew me into the front yard. The force put me through the wall. I felt the plaster and drywall give around me. I must have flown for ten or fifteen feet before I landed. My solar plexus spasmed on me and I was short of breath. I could no longer feel my right arm. I was on my back. I lifted my right arm to look and saw a frayed smoking stump where my right hand had been. Blood still rolled casually out of any number of wounds in the general area. The explosion hadn't cauterized shit. I rolled onto my left side to get up. My legs were on fire. It was at this moment that I saw the picture at the top of this post lying in the burnt grass next to me. It is a picture of Casson and myself in much more innocent times.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

The World is Mine


I have a Scarface chip in my brain. I think it rivals the Star Wars chip. I know my Scarface. Scarface is where I am at. The stuff is brilliant. Pacino delivered a character to us via an Oliver Stone script that makes a hell of a lot of sense to me. DePalma directed a film that rivals his entire syllabus. The film was supposed to be rated X but they made the MPAA step back, because why? BALLS, MANG.

The thing about Tony Montana is that he just doesn't care. I have romanticized this to a point, but there is no way that someone could actually live their life this way without eventually taking a shotgun blast to the back. Tony didn't care and he swooped his boss' woman. He didn't care and he shot Mel the cop in the gut. He didn't care and he blasted his homeboy after he realized that homie had married his sister. He didn't care and inhaled a catastrophic amount of cocaine before taking on an entire army. It is a beautiful thing, this not caring stuff. It is all about doing it your way. Frank Sinatra was a pansy BTW.

I have the DVD. I have the soundtrack. I have 3 different Scarface t-shirts. I throw S-face movie quotes into conversations with people who have no idea what I am talking about. I have soaked myself in the Scarface lore, and if you know anything about me, you should know that much.

Furthermore, if you have listened to any rap music in the past 20 years, you must realize the effect it has had on the hip-hop community. As a hip-hop community member who is currently boycotting the hip-hop community, I still feel Scarface. Scarface is not the reason why the hip-hop community sucks. Some serious Scarface meditation by the community might actually bring me back into their commercialized sold-out, unoriginal fold. But hey, that is a different rant for a different blog. A blog I will entitle "FOK HIP-HOP." Look for it.

So imagine my fear and trepidation when the video game was announced. Imagine how quickly I dismissed it when I read that Pacino wanted nothing to do with the project. Imagine how I chortled to myself when I read the rumour that it was Pacino's driver who was bringing the Montana vocal pipery to the project. There was no way in hell that I was going to play this game.
Remember Monopoly? Remember "Bank error in your favor, collect ten bucks?" Well, the next paragraph is going to demonstrate my change of heart.

I bought an MP3 player at Circuit City 3 years ago. I got the protection warranty on it. Every year the thing craps out and I mail it back to Circuit City and they send me a gift card for about a hundred bucks. I turn around and buy a new MP3 player with it, and I get another protection warranty. Then the thing exhales its pathetic spirit after about 9 months of hard livin'. I send it back. I have done this same thing with these people 3 times now. So basically, they are holding my 100 dollars and I am paying a 14 dollar a year rental fee. This year they messed up like Mel though. They sent me a cheque and a gift card. The cheque was for a hundred bucks. The gift card was for a hundred-thirty. The cheque went straight to the MP3 player. The 130 went right back into Circuit City. It was throwaway cash. I walked up the DVD aisle. I saw nothing that I want to own. I've got my Snakes on a Plane, I mean really...wassap? I walked up the CD aisles. There isn't a new CD out there that I can justify spending 10-15 dollars of free money on. Then I went up the video game aisle. Scarface was there. $49.99. Throwaway money is what it was, and I threw it at the video game. Bank error in my favor, collect Scarface.

So, I went home and fired up the PS2. This is what I saw:



This intro right here has been done by people who actually give a damn. It is obvious that the people behind this thing respect the film as much if not more than I do. I almost cried at the sheer beauty and loving, painstaking translation of the key scenes in this new intro. These are people who get the picture.

And now I am lost.

Yeah, the standard review online for the game says that Tommy Vercetti is pissed that he has been ripped off so hard. Gameplay does resemble the modern GTA franchise. However, there is something that Tommy needs to get into his thick head: He wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Tony Montana. Tony Montana is the only character in the pop culture lexicon with the balls to step to Vercetti and to step as blatantly as he has. Tony>Tommy. This is a cold fact. I challenge the hardest GTA fan on this subject. The GTA landscape is built on Tony's blood-soaked streets. Back in Vice City, I thought it was dope that my save house was the hotel where Tony shoots that fool in the face on the street. Sheeeit, I thought it was cool that you could roll around in a jacked car listening to the Scarface OST. But hey, that was an homage. Why not put Tony on that street? Why not listen to the OST because you are TONY FOKKING MONTANA? Peeaaace, fool. Tommy Vercetti can step off.

This game has balls and teeth. Tony is now taking Miami back, by force. The more cocky he takes down his enemies, the more balls he has. The more balls he has, the sooner you can trigger the all out BLIND RAGE which is basically going into DOOM VIEW (1st player) and blowing the hell out of everything. Blind rage is where you found Tony at the end of the original movie. Indestructable and talking mad shit.

Ok, I know you are saying "But Tony took a shotgun blast at the end of the movie! Fok this notion!" Good call Padawan. There is a piece of artistic lisence used here. You have the opportunity to turn around and blow the sunglasses off of the shotgun wielding punk who hung Omar from the helicopter. YOu do this and then you get to work. You lose it all, and you have to work hard to get it back. You have to grease cops. You have to step to Gaspar Gomez and the Diaz brothers. You have to follow a new script. It is a genius little ditty. It is work. It is fun. The quotes that this Pacino impersonator drops are on-point. He references being sick of octopus. He references ice-cream. He uses the entire arsenal and he uses it well.

The cheats for the game (similar to GTA again) make some of the missions easier to do. Who came up with the word "cheats" anyway? This is a crime game. This is what you have to do to get to the top. First I have to make the money. Then I will get the power. But I still have to make that money. I have to kill and threaten and extort. If I can't make it that way, then I will type in the FPATCH and get my balls meter to the top and go sell sperm at the lend-a-sperm bank. I have to claw my way to the top of Miami, and I will use the weaponry that the game gives me to do it. I will exploit any other angles that are there to exploit. This is a game about crime. This isn't about being a rule-following gamer. I was walking through this store the other night and started talking shit to this guy who told me to calm down. he had the nerve to tell me that I should try yoga. I pushed his ass over right then and there. Why? Because Tony has balls, mang. This is the next level. Tommy Vercetti had balls, and Ray Liotta talked a lot of shit to get him there but he was always missing somehow. With Tony, you know what you have to do. You know how ugly it is going to be, and you know you want to do it.

I'm selling cocaine. I am beating drug dealers. I am talking mad shit every time I hit the circle button. I am in the middle of a turf war right now that is going to require that I punch in cheat after cheat after cheat just to make it to the bank and launder my cash. If I don't get there in time, I will die and the words YOU FUCKED UP will drip across the screen. I am having fun. I am hearing more profanity than I hear and conjur on any Merlot-soaked evening with Matt.

The world is mine, and I am taking it down. The game is brilliant, just like the movie before it.

Friday, January 19, 2007

Infestation

Yeah, so my Mom calls me a bit ago. Tells me it is an emergency. Tells me that there was some candy on the mantle in her living room. Tells me that it has all of these teeth marks in it. I knew right then and there that it was rodent-tyme.

Then she called me a few days later, told me that she could hear them in the house. Asked me to come spend the night. That was a no -an-do. Veronica, my wonderful sister went in and set up camp. I guess they were both sleeping in my Mom's room last Saturday night and they heard scraping somewhere in the room. That was at about 5AM. My cellie proceeded to explode from that point on.

My boy Matt was scheduled to be in town that morning at 8. His girlfriend had traffic school, and he needed somewhere to chill. Plus Doug and Miranda were going to be in town. I had a day laid out for me already. The pressure was on for me to drop it all and go kill yonder rodent. There was a lot of drama in my saying that I couldn't go out at the time. I unveiled a lot of deep down ugly familial history. So did my mother. In it all, I claimed that we are completely dysfunctional as a family. She offered that we go to counseling. She told me that if I were in a similar situation, she would drop everything and come and help me. Then I really started to bring up the history. It seems that when the drama (in this case, some form of hairy pestilence) comes, all of the shit boils to the surface. There were tears and there was anger. Veronica later left a dainty message on the machine that I am going to have to make into a .wav file and go hella public with later. Its that good. She makes me out for a real dick. I suppose I was. But it takes one to know one.

Later in my entertaining, we all went to the Mystery Spot in the Santa Cruz mountains. You don't know what I'm talking about?

http://www.mysteryspot.com/

It was dope. 5$ goes a loooonnng way in the Santa Cruz mountains. Plus, our guide had me convinced that we were in the middle of a vortex. But hey, if I built a cabin as fokked up as that one and charged you five bones to tell you that we were in the center of a vortex, you might just buy into it, seeing as your equilibrium would be completely jacked up.

Matt bought a Zippo. I showed him how to pop it open with a squeezing snap. I remember how it took me about a day to master that little trick. I remember marveling to myself that my fingers hadn't been that sore since those days at the Edgewater Packing Company when I used to blow my entire life savings on Defender. Matt figured it out in about an hour. Kids these days. We discussed the Tom Sizemore porno. We checked out perezhilton.com. We talked a lot of shit. Gabby's driving school instructor got a "no-seat-belt" ticket on her way in to teach class. There was pizza. There was a hike at the Wilder Ranch. There was a discussion about where we need to invest our money. Lots and lots of activity. I cooked a mean-ass roast beef that night. We all tore into a serious bottle of Yellow Tail. But the rodents in the back of my mind festered. I was going to have to handle them.

I went out to my Mother's house on Monday I think. Maybe Tuesday. Remember: INFESTATION.

Also understand that my father is in the hospital and my mother is never home anymore. She is always in the hospital, hanging out with my father. My father is better by the way. I thought I had lost him. He is back and coherent and...here. It is surreal. If you read those other posts, you can see that I was making my peace with his passing. Well, he is not passing right now. The leukemia is still there. He still is on his countdown...but aren't we all? He had 2 rounds of chemo that didn't take the cancer down. He went into some sort of head-injury inspired coma, and came to on Christmas day. He is scheduled to go back home next month. I am completely shell-shocked by this turn of events. I know his time is short, but I have been cut a little more time to spend with him. I just wish that my van could make it over Highway 17 and not give me a heart-attack. I just wish that the Mustang wasn't so overpowered. I just wish that there wasn't a Highway 17. Then I would see him more. On Sunday, I am going to jack his car, and use it to get up there more. This is ridiculous. When I die and go to hell, Highway 17 will be the road that I drive. FOR ETERNITY.

What the hell am I yammering on about? The point is that my mother is never home. So it makes sense that mice would move in while she is gone. There is no activity in the house to make them slow their roll. Let's get on with the infestation.

Let me tell you something about these little housemice: They didn't have a chance. I was so pissed that so much familial garbage and history had been cooked to the top over them that I was looking forward to grinding their little heartlights out.. They needed to take all of their filth out of the house, and they needed to do this in such a symbolic way that the familial filth that had been brewing would go too.

I got into the house. An exterminator had left sticky-paper out. There was a little fella twitching on it in my Mom's room. You know I had to fold that sucker over and stomp the hell out of him. I looked at him, between the 2 sides of the sticky paper post-stomp. His intestines had blown through his yellow teeth. It wasn't good enough though. I had a vendetta.

I swear these mice must have only been as big as...maybe their bodies themselves had the density and size of the cork in the Yellow Tail from a few nights previous. I found another twitcher in my mother's office. It was a foldover and a pulverizer with the pliers. These little mice were cute, but they also had to pay. There was another stressed out mouse stuck elsewhere and he got the gardening shovel. The only little furry bastard that had a chance was the guy that I saw out of the corner of my eye in the den. I watched him darting around for a bit. I put a couch up on its end. I went to tell my mother what was up. She really doesn't like the mice at all, so she went out front. I went back into the den and started moving pillows and stuff out of the way, so I could line up the Harley-Davidson bootstomp for the finisher. As I picked up one of the pillows, the little punk launched off of it, away from me.

I realized that I too, was creeped out by the idea of some dirty little warm piece of vermin crawling and scrabbling around near me. I knew that it was scared of me, but I had this angst, this loathing for him too.

Bastard.

I pulled it together. I went and grabbed a piece of the sticky paper. Let me tell you that this sticky paper isn't just sticky paper. It is some industrial stuff. It is about the size of the fat envelope that tells you you haven't paid on your student loans in years. It has a thick layer of some honey looking plastic stuff on it. That stuff is some of the stickiest trash I have ever tangled with. It stuck to my foot. Then it stuck to my hand. Currently, there is one in the house that is stuck to the television wire. I am thinking that I am going to have to cut that wire and splice it, because this glue isn't about to let go.

I pulled it together and stood on the stairs, watching this furry little prick do his thing. He was a cocky bastard. He knew I was there, and he knew I wasn't able to get my size 12 steel-toe on his back. Oh, but I would. And I did. I walked down to where he was darting around and put the sticky paper down. The paper had chocolate in the center, and I knew that this little prick had been living hungry on book binding glue for the past bit.

I stood on the stairs, and kept a flashlight down in the vicinity of the sticky paper. I saw him come out, sniff the paper and go back. I saw him come out and sniff longer and go back. Caution was his lover. However, the chocolate tested that relationship. He put one forward paw onto the paper. He stuck. He placed his other down for leverage. He was done. He started squeaking that cute little mouse squeak. I was giddy. Then, through some sort of strange feat of vermin gymnastics, he wound out sideways on the paper, twitching and squeaking. Oh, I was happy. I folded the glue in on him and proceeded to give him THE STOMP.

The stomp that paid him for the stress my mother has been going through (she hasn't slept in the house since).
The stomp that paid him for the 5AM phonecall and the ugliness that proceeded afterward.
The stomp that paid him for that rude-ass call my sister left later.

That little mouse became my sacrificial lamb. All of the sins of the Demmons went through my boot into that fragile, dirty hairball. All of the frustration of the previous several days were dispelled as the house shook from my boot's impact. That broken, misshapen, furry body went to the Marina Dump yesterday.

I think that THE STOMP sent echoes of fear and terror into the field mice surrounding the house. Imagine impact so hard and fast that you don't even hear your bones break. Imagine impact that blows your life the hell out of you. No last breath. No exhalation of spirit. Just am exquisite, precision snuff-job. You are dead before your bowels blow out of your rectum. Before your innards flail out of your mouth. No final twitch, just DONE. That is what I delivered. It was totally humane and satisfying as fuck.

I have been at the house every day this week, checking the traps. Nothing. They are done. So am I.

I hugged my mother shortly after THE STOMP. I told her that I love her. I told her that she should never think that I don't. She told me that hearing me say such a thing was music to her ears. Then she told me that she loved me, and that I should never think otherwise.

I would stomp mice all day for a shot at another moment like that one.

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

LENNY DYKSTRA>BILL BRASKY

If you haven't heard or seen the old BILL BRASKY skits on SNL, I need to prep you just a bit. The Bill Brasky skit is a bunch of drunken fellows talking about this larger than life asshole named Bill Brasky. It is usually coupled with strange drunken asides like, "I masturbate to the teletubbies" and "I crap the bed at night". Most of the skits are about Bill Brasky's larger than life experiences. I have some vids on my HD. When I find out how to link them to this site, then wassap. I did the cursory youtube search and got nada. I'll keep it in the back of my head though and when I find some of that stuff I'll post it.

HOLD THE PHONE.
I just hit the jackpot at Wikipedia. Here are some choice Braskyisms:

"Bill Brasky is the father of every kid in this town!"

"His poop is considered currency in Argentina."

"I once saw him scissor-kick Angela Lansbury."

"Did I ever tell you about the time Brasky took me out to go get a drink with him? We go off looking for a bar and we can't find one. Finally Brasky takes me to a vacant lot and says, 'Here we are.' We sat there for a year and a half — until sure enough, someone constructs a bar around us. Well, the day they opened we ordered a shot, drank it, and then burned the place to the ground. Brasky yelled over the roar of the flames, 'Always leave things the way you found 'em!'"

"He once punched a hole in a cow just to see who was coming up the road."

"He hated Mexicans! And he was half-Mexican! ...And he hated irony!"

"The story of Johnny Appleseed is based on Brasky... except for the part about planting apple trees... and not raping men."

"He did all the makeup on the Planet of the Apes movies."

"He drives an ice cream truck covered in human skulls."

"He orchestrated the merger between UNICEF and Smith & Wesson."

"Did I ever tell you about the time Brasky went hunting? Brasky decides he's going to hunt down all four of the Banana Splits. He stalks and kills every one of them with a machete. They all begged for their lives...except Fleegle."

"We once had a bachelor party for Brasky. He ate the entire cake before we could tell him there was a stripper in it."

"Brasky's family crest is a picture of a barracuda eating Neil Armstrong."

"Brasky named the group Sha Na Na. They did not want to be called that."

"If you drop a phonograph needle on Brasky's nipple, it plays the Beach Boys' Pet Sounds."

"Did I ever tell you about the time he taught his son how to drive? He did it by entering him in
the Indy 500. The kid wrecked and died. Brasky said it would've happened sometime."

"He breastfeeds John Madden!"

"He killed Wolfman Jack with a trident."

"Did I ever tell you about the time Brasky and I were in a production of The King and I? Anyway, on opening night, Brasky chloroforms the entire cast, and slowly eats them in front of the audience for two hours. The production got pretty good reviews."

"He sleeps eight hours a night! Well, he was pretty normal when it came to that."

Ok, you get the notion. Here is the blog:

There is this guy I have been doing Braskyesque posturing with online. I will just refer to him as JK. I again, will be referred to as Muphukka. The character is of JK's own twisted imagination-cum-reality. JK is from Minnesota BTW. One of the sharpest cats i have come across with this intarnet thingee. The character in question is this baseball player from the late 80s and early 90s named Lenny Dykstra. I had to do a little research before I could play this game. Before that, all I knew was John Dykstra, the FX wizard who put Episode IV and Battlestar Galactica together. I am not going to get into how we started doing this whole thing, that is another story of epic proportions. I am just going to transcribe the gross hyperbole. There is some raunch, so brace that ass. This has been going back and forth for over a year now. These are the most recent additions, I find them rather funny:

JK: i heard that LD2k made mount rushmore by hitting a homerun from atlanta that landed in shitty ass south dakotait was at that point he decided to only hit homeruns towards possible invading planets

Muphukka:Yeah, back when I read in somewhere (Sports Illustrated I think) that LD was benching Scrooge McDuck's safe, I knew that the world as I know it was no longer safe.FOK STEROIDS. LOOK AT THE LD.

JK:funny you mention roids-i heard every steroid ever created came from LD tobacco spit residuemark mcgwire was seen drinking a glass of it in the famous photo before he hit his record breaking homer...to this day its never been repeated with positive results

Muphukka: My understanding is that the CA Governator himself said that his quadruple bypass surgery could have been staved off for a few years if he hadn't injected the LD Beech-Nut brand of roid juice that was available through the Sharper Image catalogues in the mid-eighties.

Muphukka: Fok a dentist. Fok Plaque control. Fok flossing. Fok tobacco stains.
LD has been using a jackhammer every night on his pearly whites before bed.

Muphukka: LD's dick generates so much heat when he has wood that there are mosses and other shrubbery around his house that are indiginous in only the severest of tropical climates.

JK: LD killed all the unicorns in the world back in 1983 because he thought stick headed horses were gay

Muphukka:The 1991 report of LD driving drunk is all wrong.
The party that LD had been attending was out of whiskey, and LD decided to transport four gallons of his own Jack Daniels special reserve to the party in his stomach.
The police let LD go with a mere warning when they saw the stomach pump and whiskey keg in the trunk of the vehicle.

JK: its not a coincedenceeveryone was so happy when it happened they all screwed like mad

Muphukka: I have heard that a woman has to merely look LD in the eye and her clitoris will do backflips until the gaze is broken.

JK:rain was invented during the 2nd inning of a game between the mets and the expos when lenny dykstra hit a homerun into the sky so hard it criedthat was also the first game called on account of rain, obviously

Muphukka: Pete Rose and Lenny Dykstra faced off only a few times in actual professional play.
Lenny shoulder-checked Rose in 1986 while rounding the bases and sent Rose violently skidding and ultimately, through a mishap of physics and slick astroturf, into the upper-deck. Hence, the term "The Pete Rose".
Unfortunately, Mr. Rose woke up from the three-quarter-mile-gravel-skid with a serious drinking and gambling problem.
The effects of the Dykstra shoulder check were studied by the top physicians in the country at an emergency meeting at Stanford Hospital in Palo Alto CA. Pete Rose's entire personality had been completely perverted by a mere shoulder check. Neurosurgeons now refer to this anomoly as the "Dykstra Effect".

JK: back in the day mankind was seperated by the 2 genders only by having vagina's on women and a 3rd leg on men and babies were created when both members snapped their fingers at the same time
then one day in '81 lenny stuffed his 3rd leg up a woman and while he did so he grabbed her chest so hard it it pulled some skin out to make breasts and god remade history by giving men smaller parts and gearing everything to facilitate the process
when it came to remaking everyone though he got to lenny who slap-boxed god in the ear until god left lenny the same
basically lenny invented sex, penis', useable vagina's and breasts, and thats why snapping your fingers went out in the early 80's
contrary to popular belief lenny did not invent cuddling, some other pussy did that, he DID however invent the 1 night stand

Muphukka: During the 1986 World Series, Dykstra hit a homerun that has yet to be found.
Collectors such as Todd McFarlane have been scouring the earth for this one lost baseball.
Saddam Hussein himself felt that he had located the ball buried in the oil fields of Kuwait.
He invaded the country and lit the fields on fire to locate the priceless collectors item.

George Bush heard of Saddam's possible securing of such a national treasure and declared war upon Iraq. The battle still rages on, and the baseball hasn't been found.

Saddam was tortured and grilled at Guantanamo Bay for close to a year before being turned over for execution. Saddam never did tell where that ball lies, and you can see in the hanging video the faint smile on his face; because he took to the secret to the grave.



Oh, it will go on, but I thought that the stuff was too priceless to just keep within a select crowd. The stuff is gold.