Some scientists, Al Gore, and the always stupid general public blame the output of modern industrial plants, car emissions, and the relatively rapid increase in the number of farm animals, such as cows, because when cows fart a fairy loses its wings. According to this cockamamie B.S., our awesome dominance of the planet’s resources are leading to the destruction of Gaia, the mother nature spirit. Gaia can lick my jigglies, then, because humans didn’t cause this “climate change” thing – I did.

Everyone’s so upset about how the accumulation of greenhouse gases is causing the planet to retain more of the sun’s heat, melting polar ice caps and on and on. Let me take this opportunity, then, to maybe kind of apologize, but not really. Back in the 1930′s, I met this hot little piece of tail named Margherita Alvarez. Margie, as I called her, was my favorite rooster garage for the better part of a year. She was a helluva cook, and would always make me a roasted cow or large pig wrapped in delicious bacon for dinner, depending on how hungry I was at the time.

One night, because I wanted to convince her to let me try that thing she did with her one leg wrapped around her head and the leftover bacon grease slathered on the pieces, and the double-bladed thunder axe (WOW, was THAT a good time…), I let her choose what to cook me for dinner. She brought me enchiladas smothered in homemade salsa, made from an ancient Alvarez family recipe using Rage Peppers. Grown in the still-warm corpse of a half-eaten Stormeleon (if you’ve never seen one, you’re lucky – basically a lion-sized chameleon with seven rows of razor-sharp teeth, with the ability to shoot lightning from its mouth – pretty kickass, really), Rage Peppers are now forbidden on Earth, and you rarely see them anywhere else. Anyway, I finished that meal, accomplished the sexy bacon grease loving with ‘Ol Margie, and passed out naked on top of her.

Apparently, Rage Peppers are prohibited on Earth for good reason. Sometime during the night, a buildup of intestinal gases forced its way from my colon, and the resulting detonation created what scientists today call the Chicxulub Crater in Northern Mexico. Most of the offending butt steam was shot deep into the earth’s crust, and has slowly worked its way to the surface in recent years, leaking into the atmosphere and hanging onto the sun’s heat. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of this, and I’m sure that condescending a-hole Gore is going to show up any minute at my castle, wagging his finger about “flatulent irresponsibility” or some crap, but I was sleeping so therefore it’s really not my fault. Blame Margie’s great-grandmother Lilia, the discoverer of the Rage Pepper, and therefore the architect of the climate change occurring today. You could ask Margie to confirm this story, but she was vaporized upon buttsplosion. I sure do miss that woman, and those enchiladas sure were delicious.

So I guess in conclusion, if you want to stop the “global warming” or whatever, throw a giant tarp over Mexico and trap the gases leaking out of that place. Any other ideas you have could be worth a shot too, but I’m going to go make a sandwich. Anyway, I guess I’m sorry about destroying the globe in the last 80 years or so.

Piss off. See you next week – if this $H!thole planet makes it that long…

Picking up your friend’s trash is an art. I have no firsthand knowledge of how to be the guy who distracts the other ladies, but from what I’ve seen here’s a few key pointers for you prancing poonhounds.

Most importantly, pick out the girl/mother/ugly behemoth bitch-monster most likely to foul up your buddies’ chance to take home the hot 21st birthday girl, who also happens to be eye-screwing your boy. The fact that she literally swallowed her longneck beer bottle in an attempt to impress the man-crowd surrounding her vaheena is all the more reason to make sure her “friends” (cock blockers) are too preoccupied to notice your friend slipping her out to his Geo Metro for a little parking lot nookie. You’ll get to hear the story later, and if you’ve picked the right target group, you might even get a chance to mold your ‘shape’ into her impressionable young body. Think modeling clay, but with more chance of catching chlamydia.

First and foremost, be funny. If you can’t be funny, you’re going to be an utter failure in life anyway. You should try eating a bullet. That’d make me laugh. Keep the fat chicks’ eyes on your hilarious stand-up routine while your buddy tries to get his pointer finger somewhere that smells like a wet dog. They should make a cologne out of that stuff.

If you really can’t be distractingly humorous, try the sugar daddy approach. Buy the ugly broad(s) some drinks. The one with a mustache is probably drinking White Zinfandel to look like she’s classy so send one her way. The chick wearing overalls and flannel is probably a man-hating lesbian. Send her a shot of whiskey, and pray she doesn’t beat your sissy ass. If you don’t have any money, put it on your friends’ tab. He owes you for taking care of his dyke infestation anyway. On second thought, you should always try to put it on his tab, whether you’re helping him out or not. He probably still owes you from the last bet you two made on who can unsnap a bra faster. Just for reference, my record is 0.005 seconds. Using only my mind. Beat that, homos.

When all else fails, and only if your buddy has the target’s full attention, try the anger method. Since you’re probably not funny, and you and your group rolled into the bar with $17 to split, remember that you can always pick a fight with the she-hags. Bring up their unibrow, or ask how many kids she’s pushed out of her used up body. Mention her stretchmarks. That’ll not only get her undivided attention, you’ll likely attract some other females to the hubbub you’ve created. Play it cool with the new chicks while continuing to insult the women intent on denying your friend some much needed alone time with the harlot of the hour. It’s not foolproof, but it’s sometimes necessary.

Now that you’ve got the basics down, I might let you come out with me, if for no other reason than to give me an opportunity to laugh at your ridiculous attempts to make women notice you. When I’ve worn out my women for the night, I may kick one or two your way. Your loyalty will probably be repaid, if not, it’s because you don’t deserve it since you’re a giant douche. See you next week.

If you have a girl in your life who has decided that a tree is in order for the holidays, consider this your chance to express your true manitude. Decorating anything is inherently feminine, but the birth of the most famous man in history and the celebration of his man-life is cause enough for me to throw some shinies on a plant. The first step is picking a tree that expresses your manness. Those plastic, pre-lit pieces of crap aren’t going to cut it here. You’ll need an axe and a few days in the freezing wild to find the perfect tree.

Your tree should be an enormous, thorny wildebeest of a tree. It should be bigger, tougher, and more intimidating than your neighbors’. This is the chance that your pansy ass has needed for years to show the neighborhood who’s running the show. Don’t hide your tree indoors – if you picked the proper tree, it shouldn’t fit inside anyway. Chop that monster down with the axe you brought, or if you prefer the soothing hum of power tools, it is also acceptable to utilize a chainsaw, which coinidentally is what I use to butter my bread.

Carry the tree out on your back, punching any hippies who get in your way. They may try to stop you, because they believe that every life is sacred, or some such crap. Every life is sacred until I want to hang some $#!t on it and stand it up in my front yard as a statement/warning to the neighbors, so suck on THAT you wiener-loving homo. Don’t be subtle about your placement of the tree. Consider dragging that leafy behemoth through the yards of your more rebellious neighbors. After today, they will submit to your authority. Slam it firmly (hehe…slam it firmly…) into your front yard, where it can tower over the insignificant dwellings of your rivals/neighbors. Now that you have your tree upright, it’s time for the decoration.

You have a few options when it comes to Christmas tree decor. On one hand the standard beer can ornaments, while humorous, don’t necessarily strike fear and awe in the hearts of your unruly neighbors. If you want to recycle, you can always hang old tires from the limbs. You can burn them after the holiday season. I generally choose to go with the fishing method. I like to maintain a nice selection of bears and other predatory animals to wrestle when I get bored, and the holiday season is the perfect time to lure them out of hibernation, all while scaring tiny rabbit turds from the cornholes of your stupid fellow citizens.

It’s called the fishing method, because it’s similar to fishing, dumbass. Run down a herd of deer, and hang them alive from the limbs of your tree. It’s easiest if you hook them right around the spine, so they can kick and generally cause a ruckus. If no deer are available, any mid-sized or large animals should work. Finally, climb the monstrous tree in your yard, and perch yourself right on top, where the star or angel generally rests on the trees of the tame people. Suddenly, your tree is completely decorated with an ornament on top, plus you have a good view of the neighborhood from your perch and can keep an eye out for any of the bear prey that you might lure to your fishing tree. Functional AND stylish, your tree will be the talk of the town.

Don’t forget to throw a few presents at the base of your tree. Not presents for anyone else, but things you’ve bought/earned for yourself. A broadsword, a few single moms, and possibly an offroad vehicle of some sort make wonderful presents, because they’re so badass. Have a great Christmas, or don’t. I honestly don’t give a fat dump. See you next week.

Despite all of that, or maybe because of it, we live in the greatest country in the world. When did that all start? When we decided to figure out the current residents’ strategies (Native Americans), and learn their weaknesses before crushing them. I know everyone always thinks the Indians got a raw deal, but let’s be real. I’ll take a cut of the profits from your casino, and you can come work your balls off every day to get paid. You can chalk all that gamblin’ cash up to the first settlers sizing you up with a party “in your honor”. You’re welcome.

Check out some of the foods on the menu that first meal: wild turkey, venison, squash, lobster, fruits, nuts, and seal. Effing SEAL? Count me in. I, for one, want to eat every type of animal. Kangaroo, check. Elephant, check. Tiger, check and check. Doesn’t matter what it is, I want to feast on the flesh of every animal, just like the Good Lord intended. I’m really looking forward to some platypus, while you sissies can eat your ham like the bitches you are.

Anyway, I’ll be stuck with your mother’s family this year, eating the same boring turkey and ham that we had last year. I have to have eat somewhere, and I may as well have dinner where I can slip up to the bathroom for a little pre-(and post-) turkey nookie. and while I’ll probably bring some fresh, hand-killed wild bear meat to liven the place up, but I’m still going to have to deal with that damn bird. If you find yourself stuck giving thanks over a giant, over-fed turkey on Thursday, here’s how you take care of business, man-style.

The turkey is traditionally carved by the alpha male in the family. Chances are, that’s not you. This is your year to knock the grizzled old veteran off his perch, and take what’s yours. If it comes to blows (and hopefully it does-nothing asserts your dominance like standing over the bloodied, unconscious body of your predecessor), you’ll need to read How To: Win a Barfight to know how to prevail, because those old bastards are crafty. With that said, you can choose one of two ways to slice up the bird.

Method 1: Biggest effing knife ever. Don’t settle for that little “cleaver” in the knife block. You want something that shows your absolute mastery of all that is badass. If you have a sword (not a Lord of the Rings movie replica, you pimply-faced douche), use that. If not, a chainsaw will also do the trick. Try to find the biggest, meanest cutting utensil in the house or garage. An axe is pretty badass. A circular saw is really badass. Have fun with it, but don’t forget that the ultimate goal is total family dominance. While slicing, make eye-contact with every member of the brood. Hold the eye contact just a little too long. If your brother brought an uncharacteristically hot broad to the holiday dinner, hold her gaze the longest. She might be dessert. It doesn’t matter how you carve the turkey, just make sure the hunks are man-sized. The average 30-lb. turkey can feed about 3-4 men. I like the common quartering method, that way noone feels cheated.

Method 2: No knife at all. Tear that bitch apart with your bare hands. Snap bones, rip gristle, and generally make a scene. Throw the meat hunks in the general direction of anyone who is dumb enough to ask for some. Picture yourself as William Wallace with no utensils. Still operating from above your unconscious former patriarch, this will secure your position as head of the assembled households. Feel free to eat your portion first, while the other members wait for you to finish. That’s how it’s done in the wild, and you want them to fear and respect your man-ness. Don’t be a pussy, and this could be your chance to finally get the respect you obviously don’t deserve.

Sieze your chance to get your first, king-sized portion, and make sure Grandpa sees your physical and mental dominance of the family(ies). He’s going to be the first to die, and likely has the most money. You probably aren’t even in the will at this point, so give him a reason to pass his hard-earned cash to you. Now is the time for you to stop being “Little Billy”, and get your family to use your full name, and associated titles. If you have no titles, make some up. I’m partial to “Lord of the Four Realms”, “Big Cock Master”, and “Destroyer of Worlds”. Those are some of my titles, you earn your own (and “Pretty Good Guy” is not a title, it’s a Chris Knight song). See you next week.

As I write this delightful piece of tongue-in-cheek literary crap, I can’t help but notice the ease with which I can strike the spacebar. IfIhadnothumbs,everythingIwrotewouldbeanextensive,meaninglessjumbleoflettersthat
peoplewouldhatereadingevenmorethantheyhatethiscrapnow.I’dbesurprisedifanyone
madeitthisfarintothisridiculousrunonsentence.Thewordofthedayiscornucopia. Thank you thumbs, you make my compositions slightly less convoluted.

Thumbs, you make my life livable. The ability to use tools is what makes primates the dominant group on the planet. Tool usage, and our awesome ability to think and reason. Suck it, apes! Even with an opposable thumb and the ability to use tools, those stupid animals don’t use their God-given appendage to wipe themselves with toilet paper instead of traipsing around with dingleberries danglin’. Gross.

Gestures would make no sense without these delightful phalanges of mine. The only usable action I could throw up with no thumbs would be the Finger. That beastie is overdone, and don’t even get me started on the Super Finger. Every positive signal I can make with my hands involves my wonderful thumbs, from the “A-OK” to everyone’s favorite standby, the “Thumbs Up”. Thumbs (and especially my wonderful opposable thumbs), I simply adore you.

Let our cleverly coordinated wardrobe of reds, grays, blacks and whites seep into your subconscious. Be enthralled by our strategically mussed and offbeat, yet trendy hair. We will have your total attention. Maybe you didn’t know, but we will soon release a movie. It will be number one for a reason, inferior ones-embedded messages in the screenplay urging your complete cooperation in our quest for world domination.

My brothers and I are one, and indistinguishable from each other. This is no coincidence, as we were hatched from the same egg. Our mother told us as she put us into our craft to come to your highly impressionable planet that your minds were weak and RIPE for our manipulation.

Our powers of levitation are innate, and give us yet another way to blow. your. mind. To those of you who claim our homosexuality: Rubbish! We are asexual, existing only for power, and to prolong our lives for a thousand years more by feeding on your love and emotions. Direct your love to me. Feed my need for acceptance.

You will love me and cower at my feet. I realize this is contradictory, but we are strong! WE ARE JONAS, and you will do as we ask.

Now normally, I’m a proponent of the Brutal Breakup (BB) as a means to convince my stalkers that I’m REALLY not interested in their body any longer.  The BB is a series of words, phrases, and actions that will reduce or eliminate a woman’s interest in Yours Truly.  If you’ve gone through the steps of the Brutal Breakup, and she still continues to try to get in your pants, then by all means, nail her until you’re tired of it.  After that, run through the BB one more time to try to scrape her off, then get ready to start a new life somewhere else.

The trick to faking your own death isn’t to make it seem like a commonplace or everyday death.  Nobody wants to be remembered as that guy who died in a car accident or wasted away from some incurable disease.  Your fake death should be as awesome as your life.  Don’t be content letting your former friends and your trail of assorted lovers be content thinking that you died in a skydiving accident or through any fault of your own.  It’s just not a good fake last impression to leave.

There’s not really a step-by-step process for faking your own death, but I do have a few suggestions:

• Complexity.  The circumstances of your phony passing should be so intricate that they boggle the mind and leave your past acquaintances with a sense of their own futility.  My just-in-case planning has concluded, and I will die in a sham consisting of two adult tigers, a cobra-headed mongoose bear, the perfect storm made up of no less than eight simultaneous tornadoes and/or hurricanes, a left-handed assassin from the Republic of Congo, an ancient Chinese curse that targets the greatest hero of every generation, and a garden hose.  I can’t share any more details, but if you try to steal my idea I’ll seek bloody revenge on you from beyond my sham grave.
• Shock and Awe.  Former President G.W. stole my idea around introducing events that are so overwhelming and incredible that they cause the human mind to shut down.  Whether he was successful or not, I don’t care, but if your neighbors can describe on paper the circumstances leading up to your fraudulent death then you obviously didn’t do it right.  There’s a fair chance when I have to pretend that I’ve gone to meet my Maker, the pansy accountant next door will need therapy to help him process the awesomeness that was my life and death.
• Hilarity.  Let’s face it:  you’re pretty much an a-hole.  Let your parting gift to those who knew you be a solid chuckle once they’ve recovered their senses from the shock and awe.  I can’t tell you much else about my counterfeit last breath, but I will tell you a little bit more.  If you finally recover and can function normally in public once more after I pretend to leave, you will very likely find yourself doubled over in laughter when you think about how in the Hell the one-legged midget learned to tap dance, where did the pregnant buffalo come from, which of the identical twin supermodels farted when the elephant stampede destroyed downtown LA, and why is Larry King wearing a full beard and denim skirt held up by barbed wire suspenders?

If those basic foundations of a good fake death can’t get your brain working effectively, drop me an email.  I won’t answer, but at least I’ll be aware when you bumble through a horrible death-faking and end up on the nightly news.  That’ll be good for a laugh.  See you next week.

You self-absorbed, rooster-loving, douche bag, do you really not see me RIGHT HERE?! Yeah, I understand your effing turn signal was on, but that doesn’t mean that you can now defy all known laws of physics and merge into the EXACT SAME SPACE I CURRENTLY OCCUPY! It’s physically impossible, but maybe your overpriced Lexus allows you to phase shift between different dimensions. I don’t know. I drive a Civic.

And to the a-hole right in front of me, there’s a reason your crappy 1982 Ford Fiesta is smoking. IT’S USED UP! The smoke screen you’re throwing up onto the cars behind you has reduced visibility for over 300 other drivers. Nice. Pull that piece of garbage onto the shoulder so those of us who drive faster than thirty miles an hour can get past your broken down turd. Nice trash bag on the window, by the way, is it really more effective than buying a car that doesn’t look like a stained glass window? Your schizophrenic vehicle can’t decide whether it wants to be blue, red, green, or the good ol’ gray primer. In case nobody’s ever cared to tell you before, that stupid ass red tape over your taillight doesn’t mean that you’re not driving a death trap. I hope for your stupid sake that you don’t hit a bump in the road, because your car is going to rattle apart, leaving you sitting in a broken pile of scrap metal on the interstate. Wait, I meant to say I hope you get hit by that semi. Honest mistake.

Speaking of that tractor-trailer, how do you think that passing your other redneck buddy in the semi driving in the right lane at the EXACT SAME SPEED is any help to your cause of getting your load of decorative soaps to Arizona on time. You evidently can’t see anything in your rearview mirror or you would notice the two mile long line of cars waiting for you to execute your pass sometime today. I realize you can’t possibly have any conscious thought running through your tiny, cross-eyed head, but why don’t you get off your CB and drive the truck like you’re supposed to. Candy Cane is not a real woman, and if she were, she would not be interested in your hairy, smelly ass. Drive, asshole.

As for you, grandpa, I understand that you’re trying to retain your mobility and hence, your freedom.  I get it, I really do, but your stooped-over, white-knuckled posture can’t possibly allow you to see over the dashboard. Ask your son, who’s probably also a retiree to put you in a nice home where the uncaring nurses at least allow you to stare at their asses like the dirty old man that you are. It’s not 1935. I thought you would have noticed the advances in transportation technology since you were 72. You didn’t have to crank your car to start it, and it will actually travel at more than 17 miles per hour. Here’s another great technological advance in transportation. It’s called a bus. Take it.

Thanks for being a bunch of crazy ass efftards. Thanks to you, I’m now late for work/a party/my life. I want every single one of you dicks to know how I feel, but I only have these two middle fingers. Oh, and this bottle of pee from my last road trip that I plan on throwing at the next a-hole who cuts me off.

You all really piss me off.

The men that everyone looks up to aren’t found at the Gap, buying some gay-ass jeans that hug your thighs and accentuate your cheeks. They’re men like Teddy Roosevelt, who after kicking the ass of every man that ever even thought about crossing him, decided he wanted to do something that would give him more access to chicks. He jumped on as Vice-President, and after that one guy no one remembers was assassinated, took over and ran this country man-style. 

Men like ‘Ol Theodore don’t just let things happen to them and say “thank you” when they’re slighted. They whip out their hog and two piglets, and make sure whoever made the mistake of ever underestimating them regrets that decision for the rest of their stupid life. Teddy knew how to establish dominance in any situation, from the back of a horse while shooting non-Americans to international relations with douchebag countries. Here’s how to do the same in your own insignificant life. 

1. Set your limits. Know what you’re going to take and how much you care. If you want to be the hot-headed a-hole, then by all means get pissed and react to every real or perceived slight. You’ll still carry influence, but not respect. If you go the Ghandi route and eat all the $H!t that people throw your way, you’ll end up with respect for your tolerance. But everyone’s going to know that you’re a pushover. Figure out a middle ground.
2. Know your escalation. If you flip out and start shooting every time someone tosses a condescending glance your way, everyone will probably think you’re on steroids and/or overcompensating. True badasses don’t need to kick someone’s ass every time they feel disrespected. That’s insecure highschool horse$H!t. Match the response to the instigation. For instance, if I punched people in the head every time they irritated me, I’d have no friends because they would all be laying in shallow graves with their skulls caved in. Proportional response, dummy. 
3. Don’t back down. Ever. If it matters to you, break someone’s bones until they get it. It only takes a few open fractures before someone comes to realize that they’re not getting away with insulting your saint mother. By the way, your “saint mother” loves it doggy-style.  Tell her I want her to stop calling me.

 There you go. Stop letting lesser humans get away with insulting you or whatever matters to you. Once the snivelly morons realize that free speech is what the greatest country in the world is founded on, but stupidity and arrogance generally lead to an ass kicking, we’ll all be better off. Plus, you won’t be thought of as such a little squirrel-bitch.

See you next week.

Ridiculous. Men have been soaring through the sky since the dawn of time, powered by nothing but their own badassery and a burning desire to impress and subsequently insert themselves into ‘Ol What’s Her Name from down the street.

Flight is relatively simple once you figure out that it’s relatively simple. Puzzle that over for a second, take some time to consider those words of wisdom, then read on. Instead of worrying about air currents, changing weather patterns and all that other crap, you really only need to worry about one thing: thrust. When you’re done giggling at the word “thrust”, we can continue. Get it out now.

To be the flyingest guy you know, just relax and follow these few simple steps:

- Make sure Betty Blowsalot, or whatever her name may be, is paying attention. Even Superman showed off his levitation powers to Lois Lane. Why? Because what’s the point in being able to soar through the sky with the greatest of ease if you’re sexually frustrated all the time?

- Forget about safety or caution or whatever you call it. You’re going to need total commitment to dominate the skies, so stupid doubts are only going to keep you grounded, and very likely stuck with only your hand for pleasure tonight.

- Strike a cool pose. Nobody is going to envy your ability to take wing if you’re all hunched over like a douchey turd, Do yourself a favor and make it look awesome. Some pretty kickass suggestions for sweet poses include both hands on your hips (“The Conqueror”), two hands shaped like pistols and pointed at the audience (“Double Guns”), and a solid flex with one arm with the other raised into the air with a clenched fist (“Captain Awesome”).

- Thrust. I told you this was the key to flight earlier and you probably disregarded the suggestion immediately, because you’re an idiot. Seriously, just thrust yourself into the sky. The power can come from your hips in a back and forth humping motion (just ask your mom), or from your legs as you leap hundreds of feet into the air. Make sure you leave yourself enough energy to continue thrusting yourself through the sky, stamina is as important as power (please see witty repartee from previous parentheses).

That’s it. If you can’t get airborne for more than a short hop, it’s probably because you are a fruitbag who has no testicle power. Once you get flying, though, come find me hovering in the atmosphere. I’ll be the one draped in awesomeness, with a lady on each arm. See you next week.