Spotted On A Neighbor's Roof

It looks like they're Run The Jewels fans.

Are You Shitting Me?

An actual ad on Facebook uses footage of climbing Jan. 6 rioters to advertise some shitty grip trainers. Fuck you Facebook, and fuck you Gripzilla!

UAG

UAG

A Very Disturbing Find At Pathmark

So I had to take a George while at Pathmark the other week (don't ask), and I spotted a stray butcher sticker inside the stall:


Now, I don't need to tell you this is disgusting on a couple of levels here:

• that somebody saw fit to bring unpaid merchandise into a bathroom stall
• that the item they saw fit to bring into the poop stall was apparently RAW MEAT
• that the sticker itself doesn't specify anything beyond "MEAT" with "ALL THE INGREDIENTS"

R.I.P. George Steinbrenner

July 4, 1930 – July 13, 2010

You were a cranky, rash, unpleasant son of a bitch. But goddamn, you were a hell of a baseball owner. And the Yankees' continued dominance in baseball and American culture is your legacy. Rest well, George.


Perfect. Just when we're feeling down, the pewter harbinger of suck shows up. Worse than a salt in the wound, you're like a splintery shoe tree forced into someone's dry asshole. And what the hell is a shoe tree again?


It was a RHETORICAL QUESTION, you overhelpful turdstain of a suckup. Just shut the fuck up, Pewter Bear, you sniveling, shiny venereal scab. I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF A EULOGY. And you show up after a long break (which we all fucking LOVED) and impose your intolerable horribleness in the middle of a tender moment? And didn't you show up when Michael Jackson/Farrah Fawcett died last year? Your timing is impeccable, you ass-eating shartsucker. Why are you so unbelievably murderable?

Now I've lost my train of thought. All I can think about are shoe trees. GODDAMN YOUR SOUL TO HELL, PEWTER BEAR! BURN FOR ALL ETERNITY AND NEVER MELT DOWN!

Postcards From Whoretown!

On pretty much every square of sidewalk in Vegas, there's a guy sullenly handing out flyers for escort services. Over the weekend, Joel and I grabbed as many as we could, just for yuks. They're kind of like Pokemon trading cards, except they're really expensive to fuck.


When I came home, I shared the cards with J'Net. She spent a lot of time reading and organizing(?) them.


The piece de resistance, however, was one that Joel happily captioned himself:



Sidenote: I just recently tried to give these smutcards to Tom Weingard as souvenirs, but he politely declined.