/tagged/bllix+uncut/chrono/page/2

Breaks on a Plane — My Ass Belongs In First Class

This is my first time flying in First Class. At approximately 1.5 hours into the flight, the experience has met most of my expectations of hurtling through the sky while being even better than everyone else than I already was before boarding the plane. Most; not all. Namely that not once—even ONE TIME—have any of the flight attendants asked for my advice on how to be more awesome or if I would like a gryffon-down pillow. Sure, they eagerly followed my request to be addressed as ‘Dr. Sameuel L. Danzig’ in a Frenchified Kim Jong-il accent and have refilled my coffee cup fourteen times to the 69th power, but I didn’t really appreciate the hot towel peer pressure. I’d planned to refuse it…because, well, you know, not being a street person and all, I groomed this morning, with a real sink that has real running water and everything. So why in the shit would I need to steam my face off 45 minutes into a 3.5 hour flight? Huh huh huh I said “shit” huh huh huh “steam”. Jesus Christ! Stop making dookie jokes and pay attention, Internet! This is important!* It could happen to you!** I’m serious.*** If I type any more asterisks, I’m going to have to get a permit and there’s just no time in my life for nonsense that is more nonsensical than the nonsense which consistently geisers from this erotically foaming brain of mine.

Before I digress from my initial digression, allow myself to undigress myself and make clear my stance on the hot towel thing, as it is of utmost unimportance:

  1. I had to accept it; everyone else did and I’m not going to be out-sophisticationed by some old guys and the androgynous/ladyboy/possible gymnast seated next to me. She thinks she’s hot shit because she’s reading a book. Listen, bitch/thing/male Oxana Baoul impersonator, I was reading a book back when you were a hermaphrodite in the womb of whatever creature is capable of breeding specimen with features so non-descript that they become freakishly descript,**** thus a driving force of my inner-lolologue. Just because you’re doing it on a plane doesn’t make you the queen of everybody! I’m reading AND typing on a plane. AND perpetually changing the world’s ideas of religion and sex. AND breathing. So go join King Kong in the ain’t-got-shit-on-me club. They’ve got a wicked handshake. If you like modems. HA! WOAH!!! SHIT. That was so good. And by that I mean you can’t even hack the Gibson without a 28.8 baud, which this club specifically reinforces your inability to possess, resulting in a complete lack of eliteness on your part and Angelina Jolie will never ever bang you back when she was still way hot.

  2. Stupid towel dried my hands out! If they’re going to force me into near-scalding myself with a strip of bandage-like material—which smells suspiciously like ice tea brewed from Kool cigarette butts gathered from a screened porch a few days after an epic fucking BBQ bender party with tons of chicks and weed and girls and Mountain Dew Jello and hacky sacks and sluts kissing and pot and ColdPlay—I expect hot oil or parafin treatment to follow. Get it together, Delta.

Ever flown a plane ON WEED?

Hmmm. I just reread all of this and have decided that no digressions have transgressed. I really wasn’t going anywhere with half of that crap in the beginning. Like the Holy Bible, except not like that at all. If you are still reading this, then I want you to know that I know that you are reading this. How do I know?

MINDFREAK

Just kidding. I’m no Chriss Angel! I’d never risk wearing so few thumbrings while practicing the dork arts. Nor would I ever have sex with Paris Hilton’s Valtrex bottle of a vagina. Unless we’re talking about the hotel. That’s one nice structure. If I were as powerful as Mr. Angel, I’d hit it and make sure the paparazzi snapped plenty of pictures because there’s no such thing as bad publicity when you’re a fucking mall wizard who manifests his anger with his mom and dad by becoming the embodiment of a New Agey Trent Reznor molesting Harry Potter with his own gaily-colored invisibility cloak.

MINDQUEEF

That’s more like it. Am I right?*****

Great, the cops are banging on the door of the plane to come in and bust the asterisk rave because I don’t have a permit for fifteen all of these. OR the guns otherwise known as my impressive biceps. OR a decent way to wrap this up.


* No, it isn’t.
** No, it couldn’t.
*** No, I’m not.
**** Kardashian
***** Yes, I am.

Tags: travel  first class  airlines  bllix uncut  

Posted: 2 years ago — PermaLink

Musings on a Plane — My Last Will and Testament, Ruined by the Elderly. Again.

Old people talk too much. I do not know what unit of measurement one could employ to determine such a thing, but I do know that I am good-looking enough to make some stuff up that sounds like I’m an authority on how much old people should speak. Anyway, now seems as good a time as any to write my last will and testament. Yeah, why not? Nothing like being on an airplane, surrounded by old people who are talking, to make you think of being dead.

Before I begin, does anyone know if getting older makes you psychic? The granny seated across the aisle began to stareat me a few minutes ago. AS IF THAT’S TOTALLY OKAY!

We’ve been on this damned plane for 3 hours—to my knowledge, I have had ADHD and fidgeted accordingly for the duration, so it’s not like there’s a suddenly a new reason to look at me. She’s reading my mind. That much is obvious. Maybe it’s got nothing to do with age. Maybe she can see my screen from all the way over there because she’s wearing some super crazy bad-ass technologically advanced invisible bifocals you get with Medicare or whatever. This theory is slightly more credible than that other one with the mind-reading. All right, I just gave her the you’re-totally-busted-staring move and she quickly looked away. Man, I love doing that. With one exception: Those people who don’t look away and aren’t ashamed for staring. Otherwise known as children. Curse these cultural differences.

Oh crap. Right as I was going to start on that will thing, the old lady fell down in the aisle! That’s what you get, old lady. You may be a mind-reader, but I’m a mind-faller. That’s right, I did that. I made you fall. Have respect for your juniors. Not only can we make you fall down, but only we can help you up. Well, us and methamphetamine. But! You gotta buy that from us, as I’m pretty sure old people aren’t allowed to sell speed. Somebody write that down and remind me to look it up later. I believe it is outlined in the book of STOP STARING AT ME…jeez! Caught her again! That’s it, next time I bust her, I’m screaming “YOU AIN’T HARD!!!!!!!!!” in her general direction. Because she isn’t. Somebody write that down on a different piece of paper than the old-people-selling-speed thing, and remind me to do that.

It would be super embarrassing to make such a public threat and not carry it out. Kind of like challenging her to a duel at dawn and not showing up. She’d win, anyway. Old people wake up super early by nature and are usually armed with derringers and umbrellas with bombs or swords hidden inside of them. Which makes no sense. Why would you even need to be armed, derringer or otherwise, if you don’t sell meth? Ah, but that’s just one advantage of being old. Right, there’s mind-reading, bifocals that are up on some kind of Borg trip, with cloaking and everything, and being armed with old-fashioned projectile weapons. So, what is the advantage of being young? Speedcore, and a firm bosom.

Tags: Mischief  travel  philosphies and shit  old people  bllix uncut  

Posted: 2 years ago — PermaLink

Economicon: Your Personal Grimoire To Paper Money

Have you ever tried to stretch a dollar? I have. Not only did the damned thing rip, but I didn’t end up saving money in any way. If you think I’m joking, come over to my house and check out my body pillow filled with torn George Washingtons. It took over fifteen years to save up enough money to create the filling for what is best described as one of the most awkward and oddly-scented orthopedic appliances in my possession. Just kidding, you can’t come over. Not with that kind of attitude.

Speaking of going places, I have visited Chicago a record of four times in the last twelve months. If there’s one thing I have learned about The Windy City, it’s that Abraham Lincoln was born in Illinois. Or so I have been told by the state’s license plate design. That ‘ham dude’s picture is on it, so I figure either he was born here or Illinoisians are way into five-dollar bills. Which is understandable. Twenty-dollar bills sometimes throw out an up-and-coming-Jay-Z vibe, whereas ten-dollar bills are a bit awkward, and one-dollar bills are always crumpled, rendering them completely useless for any purpose aside from stuffing material used in human-sized mildly odoriferous bedding.

Speaking of gross sleeping products that nobody would buy, I had a great idea for a pillow a few weeks ago. While it would be easy to turn this into a 3,000 word description of how the pillow “works”, it should suffice to say that it is a snoring pillow. It also has boobs. Still reading? Of course you are. The boobs are wearing a bikini top. Just kidding, that is sold separately. The pillow features several snoring types, which the consumer can select based on whatever neurosis would motivate one to purchase an aurally-irritating pillow in the first place. Snore settings include Enya’s Tampon—for those interested in a rhythmic nostrils-as-pan-flute sound—and Goblin Gangbang, which is pretty self-explanatory best described as a gentle flutter what a miniature hog brothel in a fat man’s throat would sound like.

Volume can be adjusted between Pretty Loud and Hella Loud. The cover is made of dishwasher-safe burlap and the filling has a lifetime limited warranty, valid only on the surface of the moon. You’re probably wondering, “Does this thing run on batteries or plutonium or farts or what.” while also thinking, “Both tables and books make good writing surfaces, but most college textbooks cost more than any table sold at IKEA.“, as you take another sip of Listerine-spiked decaffeinated coffee and continue reading. First of all, that is an excellent question, and I’m glad you asked. Second, I hope that you are drinking the Vanilla Mint variety of Listerine, as it goes well with Kahlua and a nice chianti. Third, the type of energy source required to power a product as inherently sinister as a scratchy pillow that promotes restlessness is a malignant force not to be toyed with or taken lightly or confused with the Death Star. Let’s just say that you can smoke it and get real happy, and that it’s sausage.

If I tell you any more than that, I might as well just give away the remaining treasure trove of my personal intellectual property. I’d never get rich in the meat-grease-for-fuel market and be able to cryogenically preserve my aura, and the terrorists Skynet wins. Nobody wants that. Skynet doesn’t even know how to use Twitter. Like, RTFM, Skynet. So, you see, it is critical that nothing shake the foundations of said financial strategy. We must work together to preserve our world, save the children, or something like that, and have cool stories to dupe our grandchildren with when gathering around the fireplace with Listerine sherbert-flavored hot cocoa on Christmas Eve.

Hold that image of sweat-stained money, cyborgs, and vomited Listerine close to your heart, and think of me the next time any of these things cross your path or sully your dreams.

And with that, I bid you l8rz.

Tags: Guides  Product Ideas  travel  bllix uncut  

Posted: 2 years ago — PermaLink   |   6 notes

Dr. bllix’s Valentine’s Day Handbook (Abridged)

Hello, Internet. I’ve decided to put together an abridged Valentine’s Day handbook for those of you who are dedicated to ensuring success in being superior to your significant other on the most romantic day of the year.

Over the next few weeks, I will post tips, tricks, gift ideas, miscellaneous shreds of my intellectual property, and loosely-related pictures that are funny to me. Now is a good time to submit questions or Paypal donations in excess of 500$ USD to my charity fund for Kids Who Aren’t Dying But Demand More Toys and to Visit the Moon or Else They’re Gonna Run Away and Never Come Back. If you don’t think that sounds like a real charity, you should center yourself and ponder how your accomplishments under my wing have the potential to be immense and unceasing. See below for guided imagery.

The wisdom imparted herein and henceforth is the result of twenty years spent observing the psychosocial nuances of interpersonal relationships, watching every single episode of Married With Children at least four times, and pursing my lips in disapproval when bitches be trippin’. I also have some formal education and several years of professional experience with the interpretation, prediction and profiling of human behavior, but who cares about that crap? Dr. Phil doesn’t have a degree in Telling People How It Is While Using a Charming Southern Accent, yet this seems to be the basis of both his practice and success. It’s either that or his mustache. I don’t have one of those, so you’ll just have to trust that I have a degree in Telling the Internet How It Is While Eating Chips and Barely Paying Attention.

Have you seen that movie about a powerful ring that causes evil to follow the bearer until he is near-dead with the weight of its wickedness? It has a troll in it or whatever? No, not the one with the ambiguously homosexual short dudes that don’t wear shoes. I think it’s called The Wedding Planner.

Anyway, this film offers a valuable life lesson that is often overlooked due to its surplus of troll close-ups and overall unwatchability: Love is unpredictable. Internet tycoon status will always lose to a big butt and a smile, even if it is a troll butt. Your first assignment is to watch this film, or lie and say that you did, and report back to me on what you have learned about Matthew McConaughey’s preference for former Fly Girls.

Now that you’ve been schooled, let’s put this knowledge to work in the coming weeks and formulate a plan to secure success on the one day out of the year that determines how many times you will get laid before breaking up in early Summer. I look forward to enriching the quality of your lovers’ quarrels and Internet boners.

Tags: guides  valentine's day  wisdom  love doctoring  bllix uncut  

Posted: 2 years ago — PermaLink

When this initially materialized on screen, I immediately called for a time-out and consulted with my sensai. Being wise in the ways of loud fabrics and the ancient art of trying to blend in with your surroundings by closing your eyes and posing like a tyrannosaurus rex, he quickly assured me that this dude was not getting ready to crane kick my ass to the ground. He explained the concept of whacky white hip-hop dancing, then said a bunch of other things that sounded important and inserted the barrel of a gun into his mouth. Before I could pause Bejeweled to tell him that he’s kind of being an attention whore, a shot rang out. To my utter astonishment, Mr. Fly Girl here didn’t even flinch when I began to beat him mercilessly with a spindle of CD-Rs after losing my game.

When this initially materialized on screen, I immediately called for a time-out and consulted with my sensai. Being wise in the ways of loud fabrics and the ancient art of trying to blend in with your surroundings by closing your eyes and posing like a tyrannosaurus rex, he quickly assured me that this dude was not getting ready to crane kick my ass to the ground. He explained the concept of whacky white hip-hop dancing, then said a bunch of other things that sounded important and inserted the barrel of a gun into his mouth. Before I could pause Bejeweled to tell him that he’s kind of being an attention whore, a shot rang out. To my utter astonishment, Mr. Fly Girl here didn’t even flinch when I began to beat him mercilessly with a spindle of CD-Rs after losing my game.

Tags: WTF  Karate  Internet Thuggery  lol white people  bllix uncut  

Posted: 2 years ago — PermaLink

Chicks, MAN.

What in the hell is with women getting themselves as grimy-looking as possible to participate in traditionally masculine activities, with the aim of preaching female empowerment? I thought the point was to be “proud” of not being like a man.

Just one fruit plucked from a Google Image Search for “female empowerment”:

Feminist

Tags: female empowerment  chicks  dudes  what  bllix uncut  

Posted: 2 years ago — PermaLink   |   5 notes

It’s a sweltering 61 degrees with occasional sunbreaks here in downtown Portland; prime conditions for douchery. In Oregon, this is one thing for which you needn’t harbor fear of disappointment. These gentleman answered the call of duty by removing their shirts. Because hacky-sacking in a costume of Dockers paired with awkward tennis shoes and a wired mobile phone headset just wasn’t fucking creepy and repellent enough. Yes, we need to see your tattoos; your fleshly belt shelf; your seashell necklace. “Bring it”, you say? It has been broughten.

It’s a sweltering 61 degrees with occasional sunbreaks here in downtown Portland; prime conditions for douchery. In Oregon, this is one thing for which you needn’t harbor fear of disappointment. These gentleman answered the call of duty by removing their shirts. Because hacky-sacking in a costume of Dockers paired with awkward tennis shoes and a wired mobile phone headset just wasn’t fucking creepy and repellent enough. Yes, we need to see your tattoos; your fleshly belt shelf; your seashell necklace. “Bring it”, you say? It has been broughten.

Tags: Downtown PDX  Pioneer Square  hacky sack  oregonians  photos  shitty tattoos  tools  topless  urban douchery  Portland  Oregon  bllix uncut  Copyright bllix  

Posted: 2 years ago — PermaLink   |   19 notes

Who cares what a real Alesis Ion ad looks like, my design is indisputably more effective in terms of brand identity and shouting.

Who cares what a real Alesis Ion ad looks like, my design is indisputably
more effective in terms of brand identity and shouting.

Tags: Alesis  EXTREME ADVERTISING  Synthesizer  bllix uncut  gear talk  synthesizers  synths  I MEAN COME ON  Copyright bllix  

Posted: 1 year ago — PermaLink   |   110 notes

Yes, these are Portland’s finest topless hacky-sackers from May 27th’s post. This follow-up post is dedicated to implanting comfort and optimism in EverydayDude, whom I have to thank for much of my current health and happiness. The sack master on the far left seems to be staring directly into the sun, as if its rays contain Rogaine—but he’s actually just having a moment of inspiration. Of hope. Of caustic realization. That he’s become the third item in a topless toolbelt. Or that it’s only 61° and his nipples are outshining his back hair.  If I were a guy, this would be sounding pretty ‘might be into packing his fudge’ right about now. Lucky for him, I’m just a girl. Women love chocolate too much to pack it away. I read that on WebMD. Anyway, what? > Related Post

Yes, these are Portland’s finest topless hacky-sackers from May 27th’s post. This follow-up post is dedicated to implanting comfort and optimism in EverydayDude, whom I have to thank for much of my current health and happiness. The sack master on the far left seems to be staring directly into the sun, as if its rays contain Rogaine—but he’s actually just having a moment of inspiration. Of hope. Of caustic realization. That he’s become the third item in a topless toolbelt. Or that it’s only 61° and his nipples are outshining his back hair. 

If I were a guy, this would be sounding pretty ‘might be into packing his fudge’ right about now. Lucky for him, I’m just a girl. Women love chocolate too much to pack it away. I read that on WebMD. Anyway, what?

> Related Post

Tags: Pioneer Square  Downtown PDX  Oregonians  hacky sack  tools  urban douchery  topless  photos  Portland  Oregon  bllix uncut  Copyright bllix  

Posted: 1 year ago — PermaLink   |   2 notes

Breaks on a Plane — My Ass Belongs In First Class

This is my first time flying in First Class. At approximately 1.5 hours into the flight, the experience has met most of my expectations of hurtling through the sky while being even better than everyone else than I already was before boarding the plane. Most; not all. Namely that not once—even ONE TIME—have any of the flight attendants asked for my advice on how to be more awesome or if I would like a gryffon-down pillow. Sure, they eagerly followed my request to be addressed as ‘Dr. Sameuel L. Danzig’ in a Frenchified Kim Jong-il accent and have refilled my coffee cup fourteen times to the 69th power, but I didn’t really appreciate the hot towel peer pressure. I’d planned to refuse it…because, well, you know, not being a street person and all, I groomed this morning, with a real sink that has real running water and everything. So why in the shit would I need to steam my face off 45 minutes into a 3.5 hour flight? Huh huh huh I said “shit” huh huh huh “steam”. Jesus Christ! Stop making dookie jokes and pay attention, Internet! This is important!* It could happen to you!** I’m serious.*** If I type any more asterisks, I’m going to have to get a permit and there’s just no time in my life for nonsense that is more nonsensical than the nonsense which consistently geisers from this erotically foaming brain of mine.

Before I digress from my initial digression, allow myself to undigress myself and make clear my stance on the hot towel thing, as it is of utmost unimportance:

  1. I had to accept it; everyone else did and I’m not going to be out-sophisticationed by some old guys and the androgynous/ladyboy/possible gymnast seated next to me. She thinks she’s hot shit because she’s reading a book. Listen, bitch/thing/male Oxana Baoul impersonator, I was reading a book back when you were a hermaphrodite in the womb of whatever creature is capable of breeding specimen with features so non-descript that they become freakishly descript,**** thus a driving force of my inner-lolologue. Just because you’re doing it on a plane doesn’t make you the queen of everybody! I’m reading AND typing on a plane. AND perpetually changing the world’s ideas of religion and sex. AND breathing. So go join King Kong in the ain’t-got-shit-on-me club. They’ve got a wicked handshake. If you like modems. HA! WOAH!!! SHIT. That was so good. And by that I mean you can’t even hack the Gibson without a 28.8 baud, which this club specifically reinforces your inability to possess, resulting in a complete lack of eliteness on your part and Angelina Jolie will never ever bang you back when she was still way hot.

  2. Stupid towel dried my hands out! If they’re going to force me into near-scalding myself with a strip of bandage-like material—which smells suspiciously like ice tea brewed from Kool cigarette butts gathered from a screened porch a few days after an epic fucking BBQ bender party with tons of chicks and weed and girls and Mountain Dew Jello and hacky sacks and sluts kissing and pot and ColdPlay—I expect hot oil or parafin treatment to follow. Get it together, Delta.

Ever flown a plane ON WEED?

Hmmm. I just reread all of this and have decided that no digressions have transgressed. I really wasn’t going anywhere with half of that crap in the beginning. Like the Holy Bible, except not like that at all. If you are still reading this, then I want you to know that I know that you are reading this. How do I know?

MINDFREAK

Just kidding. I’m no Chriss Angel! I’d never risk wearing so few thumbrings while practicing the dork arts. Nor would I ever have sex with Paris Hilton’s Valtrex bottle of a vagina. Unless we’re talking about the hotel. That’s one nice structure. If I were as powerful as Mr. Angel, I’d hit it and make sure the paparazzi snapped plenty of pictures because there’s no such thing as bad publicity when you’re a fucking mall wizard who manifests his anger with his mom and dad by becoming the embodiment of a New Agey Trent Reznor molesting Harry Potter with his own gaily-colored invisibility cloak.

MINDQUEEF

That’s more like it. Am I right?*****

Great, the cops are banging on the door of the plane to come in and bust the asterisk rave because I don’t have a permit for fifteen all of these. OR the guns otherwise known as my impressive biceps. OR a decent way to wrap this up.


* No, it isn’t.
** No, it couldn’t.
*** No, I’m not.
**** Kardashian
***** Yes, I am.

Musings on a Plane — My Last Will and Testament, Ruined by the Elderly. Again.

Old people talk too much. I do not know what unit of measurement one could employ to determine such a thing, but I do know that I am good-looking enough to make some stuff up that sounds like I’m an authority on how much old people should speak. Anyway, now seems as good a time as any to write my last will and testament. Yeah, why not? Nothing like being on an airplane, surrounded by old people who are talking, to make you think of being dead.

Before I begin, does anyone know if getting older makes you psychic? The granny seated across the aisle began to stareat me a few minutes ago. AS IF THAT’S TOTALLY OKAY!

We’ve been on this damned plane for 3 hours—to my knowledge, I have had ADHD and fidgeted accordingly for the duration, so it’s not like there’s a suddenly a new reason to look at me. She’s reading my mind. That much is obvious. Maybe it’s got nothing to do with age. Maybe she can see my screen from all the way over there because she’s wearing some super crazy bad-ass technologically advanced invisible bifocals you get with Medicare or whatever. This theory is slightly more credible than that other one with the mind-reading. All right, I just gave her the you’re-totally-busted-staring move and she quickly looked away. Man, I love doing that. With one exception: Those people who don’t look away and aren’t ashamed for staring. Otherwise known as children. Curse these cultural differences.

Oh crap. Right as I was going to start on that will thing, the old lady fell down in the aisle! That’s what you get, old lady. You may be a mind-reader, but I’m a mind-faller. That’s right, I did that. I made you fall. Have respect for your juniors. Not only can we make you fall down, but only we can help you up. Well, us and methamphetamine. But! You gotta buy that from us, as I’m pretty sure old people aren’t allowed to sell speed. Somebody write that down and remind me to look it up later. I believe it is outlined in the book of STOP STARING AT ME…jeez! Caught her again! That’s it, next time I bust her, I’m screaming “YOU AIN’T HARD!!!!!!!!!” in her general direction. Because she isn’t. Somebody write that down on a different piece of paper than the old-people-selling-speed thing, and remind me to do that.

It would be super embarrassing to make such a public threat and not carry it out. Kind of like challenging her to a duel at dawn and not showing up. She’d win, anyway. Old people wake up super early by nature and are usually armed with derringers and umbrellas with bombs or swords hidden inside of them. Which makes no sense. Why would you even need to be armed, derringer or otherwise, if you don’t sell meth? Ah, but that’s just one advantage of being old. Right, there’s mind-reading, bifocals that are up on some kind of Borg trip, with cloaking and everything, and being armed with old-fashioned projectile weapons. So, what is the advantage of being young? Speedcore, and a firm bosom.

Economicon: Your Personal Grimoire To Paper Money

Have you ever tried to stretch a dollar? I have. Not only did the damned thing rip, but I didn’t end up saving money in any way. If you think I’m joking, come over to my house and check out my body pillow filled with torn George Washingtons. It took over fifteen years to save up enough money to create the filling for what is best described as one of the most awkward and oddly-scented orthopedic appliances in my possession. Just kidding, you can’t come over. Not with that kind of attitude.

Speaking of going places, I have visited Chicago a record of four times in the last twelve months. If there’s one thing I have learned about The Windy City, it’s that Abraham Lincoln was born in Illinois. Or so I have been told by the state’s license plate design. That ‘ham dude’s picture is on it, so I figure either he was born here or Illinoisians are way into five-dollar bills. Which is understandable. Twenty-dollar bills sometimes throw out an up-and-coming-Jay-Z vibe, whereas ten-dollar bills are a bit awkward, and one-dollar bills are always crumpled, rendering them completely useless for any purpose aside from stuffing material used in human-sized mildly odoriferous bedding.

Speaking of gross sleeping products that nobody would buy, I had a great idea for a pillow a few weeks ago. While it would be easy to turn this into a 3,000 word description of how the pillow “works”, it should suffice to say that it is a snoring pillow. It also has boobs. Still reading? Of course you are. The boobs are wearing a bikini top. Just kidding, that is sold separately. The pillow features several snoring types, which the consumer can select based on whatever neurosis would motivate one to purchase an aurally-irritating pillow in the first place. Snore settings include Enya’s Tampon—for those interested in a rhythmic nostrils-as-pan-flute sound—and Goblin Gangbang, which is pretty self-explanatory best described as a gentle flutter what a miniature hog brothel in a fat man’s throat would sound like.

Volume can be adjusted between Pretty Loud and Hella Loud. The cover is made of dishwasher-safe burlap and the filling has a lifetime limited warranty, valid only on the surface of the moon. You’re probably wondering, “Does this thing run on batteries or plutonium or farts or what.” while also thinking, “Both tables and books make good writing surfaces, but most college textbooks cost more than any table sold at IKEA.“, as you take another sip of Listerine-spiked decaffeinated coffee and continue reading. First of all, that is an excellent question, and I’m glad you asked. Second, I hope that you are drinking the Vanilla Mint variety of Listerine, as it goes well with Kahlua and a nice chianti. Third, the type of energy source required to power a product as inherently sinister as a scratchy pillow that promotes restlessness is a malignant force not to be toyed with or taken lightly or confused with the Death Star. Let’s just say that you can smoke it and get real happy, and that it’s sausage.

If I tell you any more than that, I might as well just give away the remaining treasure trove of my personal intellectual property. I’d never get rich in the meat-grease-for-fuel market and be able to cryogenically preserve my aura, and the terrorists Skynet wins. Nobody wants that. Skynet doesn’t even know how to use Twitter. Like, RTFM, Skynet. So, you see, it is critical that nothing shake the foundations of said financial strategy. We must work together to preserve our world, save the children, or something like that, and have cool stories to dupe our grandchildren with when gathering around the fireplace with Listerine sherbert-flavored hot cocoa on Christmas Eve.

Hold that image of sweat-stained money, cyborgs, and vomited Listerine close to your heart, and think of me the next time any of these things cross your path or sully your dreams.

And with that, I bid you l8rz.

Dr. bllix’s Valentine’s Day Handbook (Abridged)

Hello, Internet. I’ve decided to put together an abridged Valentine’s Day handbook for those of you who are dedicated to ensuring success in being superior to your significant other on the most romantic day of the year.

Over the next few weeks, I will post tips, tricks, gift ideas, miscellaneous shreds of my intellectual property, and loosely-related pictures that are funny to me. Now is a good time to submit questions or Paypal donations in excess of 500$ USD to my charity fund for Kids Who Aren’t Dying But Demand More Toys and to Visit the Moon or Else They’re Gonna Run Away and Never Come Back. If you don’t think that sounds like a real charity, you should center yourself and ponder how your accomplishments under my wing have the potential to be immense and unceasing. See below for guided imagery.

The wisdom imparted herein and henceforth is the result of twenty years spent observing the psychosocial nuances of interpersonal relationships, watching every single episode of Married With Children at least four times, and pursing my lips in disapproval when bitches be trippin’. I also have some formal education and several years of professional experience with the interpretation, prediction and profiling of human behavior, but who cares about that crap? Dr. Phil doesn’t have a degree in Telling People How It Is While Using a Charming Southern Accent, yet this seems to be the basis of both his practice and success. It’s either that or his mustache. I don’t have one of those, so you’ll just have to trust that I have a degree in Telling the Internet How It Is While Eating Chips and Barely Paying Attention.

Have you seen that movie about a powerful ring that causes evil to follow the bearer until he is near-dead with the weight of its wickedness? It has a troll in it or whatever? No, not the one with the ambiguously homosexual short dudes that don’t wear shoes. I think it’s called The Wedding Planner.

Anyway, this film offers a valuable life lesson that is often overlooked due to its surplus of troll close-ups and overall unwatchability: Love is unpredictable. Internet tycoon status will always lose to a big butt and a smile, even if it is a troll butt. Your first assignment is to watch this film, or lie and say that you did, and report back to me on what you have learned about Matthew McConaughey’s preference for former Fly Girls.

Now that you’ve been schooled, let’s put this knowledge to work in the coming weeks and formulate a plan to secure success on the one day out of the year that determines how many times you will get laid before breaking up in early Summer. I look forward to enriching the quality of your lovers’ quarrels and Internet boners.

When this initially materialized on screen, I immediately called for a time-out and consulted with my sensai. Being wise in the ways of loud fabrics and the ancient art of trying to blend in with your surroundings by closing your eyes and posing like a tyrannosaurus rex, he quickly assured me that this dude was not getting ready to crane kick my ass to the ground. He explained the concept of whacky white hip-hop dancing, then said a bunch of other things that sounded important and inserted the barrel of a gun into his mouth. Before I could pause Bejeweled to tell him that he’s kind of being an attention whore, a shot rang out. To my utter astonishment, Mr. Fly Girl here didn’t even flinch when I began to beat him mercilessly with a spindle of CD-Rs after losing my game.

When this initially materialized on screen, I immediately called for a time-out and consulted with my sensai. Being wise in the ways of loud fabrics and the ancient art of trying to blend in with your surroundings by closing your eyes and posing like a tyrannosaurus rex, he quickly assured me that this dude was not getting ready to crane kick my ass to the ground. He explained the concept of whacky white hip-hop dancing, then said a bunch of other things that sounded important and inserted the barrel of a gun into his mouth. Before I could pause Bejeweled to tell him that he’s kind of being an attention whore, a shot rang out. To my utter astonishment, Mr. Fly Girl here didn’t even flinch when I began to beat him mercilessly with a spindle of CD-Rs after losing my game.

Chicks, MAN.

What in the hell is with women getting themselves as grimy-looking as possible to participate in traditionally masculine activities, with the aim of preaching female empowerment? I thought the point was to be “proud” of not being like a man.

Just one fruit plucked from a Google Image Search for “female empowerment”:

Feminist

It’s a sweltering 61 degrees with occasional sunbreaks here in downtown Portland; prime conditions for douchery. In Oregon, this is one thing for which you needn’t harbor fear of disappointment. These gentleman answered the call of duty by removing their shirts. Because hacky-sacking in a costume of Dockers paired with awkward tennis shoes and a wired mobile phone headset just wasn’t fucking creepy and repellent enough. Yes, we need to see your tattoos; your fleshly belt shelf; your seashell necklace. “Bring it”, you say? It has been broughten.

It’s a sweltering 61 degrees with occasional sunbreaks here in downtown Portland; prime conditions for douchery. In Oregon, this is one thing for which you needn’t harbor fear of disappointment. These gentleman answered the call of duty by removing their shirts. Because hacky-sacking in a costume of Dockers paired with awkward tennis shoes and a wired mobile phone headset just wasn’t fucking creepy and repellent enough. Yes, we need to see your tattoos; your fleshly belt shelf; your seashell necklace. “Bring it”, you say? It has been broughten.

Who cares what a real Alesis Ion ad looks like, my design is indisputably more effective in terms of brand identity and shouting.

Who cares what a real Alesis Ion ad looks like, my design is indisputably
more effective in terms of brand identity and shouting.

Yes, these are Portland’s finest topless hacky-sackers from May 27th’s post. This follow-up post is dedicated to implanting comfort and optimism in EverydayDude, whom I have to thank for much of my current health and happiness. The sack master on the far left seems to be staring directly into the sun, as if its rays contain Rogaine—but he’s actually just having a moment of inspiration. Of hope. Of caustic realization. That he’s become the third item in a topless toolbelt. Or that it’s only 61° and his nipples are outshining his back hair.  If I were a guy, this would be sounding pretty ‘might be into packing his fudge’ right about now. Lucky for him, I’m just a girl. Women love chocolate too much to pack it away. I read that on WebMD. Anyway, what? > Related Post

Yes, these are Portland’s finest topless hacky-sackers from May 27th’s post. This follow-up post is dedicated to implanting comfort and optimism in EverydayDude, whom I have to thank for much of my current health and happiness. The sack master on the far left seems to be staring directly into the sun, as if its rays contain Rogaine—but he’s actually just having a moment of inspiration. Of hope. Of caustic realization. That he’s become the third item in a topless toolbelt. Or that it’s only 61° and his nipples are outshining his back hair. 

If I were a guy, this would be sounding pretty ‘might be into packing his fudge’ right about now. Lucky for him, I’m just a girl. Women love chocolate too much to pack it away. I read that on WebMD. Anyway, what?

> Related Post

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Dr. bllix’s Valentine’s Day Handbook (Abridged)
Friends Don’t Let Friends “Suggest To Friends” A Whole Bunch of Times Until They Get Their Ass Kicked
Chicks, MAN.
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