Marriage? Sacred? Please...

Gather around children, Ellen Degeneres got married last week…to another woman. There’s so many things wrong with this picture...

First off, Ellen is 50 years old. This just might be my youth speaking but: who cares when the elderly get married anyway? Personally, I hate the Cha-Cha Slide, cougar cleavage is only sexy when seen on women adamantly AGAINST marriage, and everyone at the reception are either married or little children. So maybe I'm simply against elderly wedding ceremonies in general. However, I do believe that for females, once you hit that number 45 it should be a wrap for contemplating walking (or wheeling) down the aisle. You should have made moves when you were younger. I mean what’s the point? I feel like getting married anytime after the age of 45 is just for show. Basically, you have decided that you no longer want a name plate on your desk that reads the “Ms.” in front of your last name, because being an elderly "Ms." truly blows. Especially when you're not hot.  Oh, you don't think so? Remember back to your elementary school days: Ms. Capinigro at age 26 or 27 was the cool teacher you wanted to befriend outside of the classroom. Ms. Fiori at age 40 or 45 was the gym teacher with the sweatpants with no drawstring whose gender was god damn impossible to determine. Ms. Capinigro at age 26 stayed after school to support the drama club's spring production or painted her face in school colors to cheer on the soccer team during the night game against  rival school (and, secretly, we all played a little better for it); Ms. Fiori at age 45 carries a duffle bag full of dulled pencils and loose leaf paper and ultimately teaches health class because she/he? has ALL the sexual organs.

So Ellen, at the age of 50 you have decided to marry a 35 year old woman. Let’s further analyze this. She’s 35, meaning that you have in some way pulled a Michael Jackson and bribed this younger woman with magic, toys, and candy. What boggles me is trying to understand why this woman would want to marry Ellen Degeneres. She's actually pretty attractive and I know men and women who would romantically pursue her. The only reason I see this woman marrying Ellen is for that cash. Face it. Ellen, you married a bitch named Portia. This obviously means she’s going to divorce you, take half, go buy a real Porsche, and then look for a man who can give her some children (because she is still relatively young). I give your marriage three months tops...

However, Ellen your actions have gotten me to think about this topic of gay marriage. Some are really against it, and some are for it. I do not see the point in it and not because it's a partnership of two people of the same gender. I couldn't care less about that.  I just really don’t see the point of traditional marriage (whatever that means in 2008) to be absolutely honest. For the most part, today's marriage in America is a joke. The United States has the highest divorce rate in the world. Perhaps we should petition the Olympic Committee to get rid of rhythmic gymnastics and add divorce to the Summer Olympics so America can tally another gold medal.  Gotta beat China by any means, right? Many say that marriage is that special time where you get to finally cross over into adulthood and start having “intimate relations” with the one person you love (insert the rollingest of eye rolls here). Let’s be real: We all started getting nasty right after our junior prom in high school. For those late-bloomers or ones who just didn’t play their cards right that prom night, it went down the first week (or at some point) of your college career. Now in the event that you have gone through an entire collegiate career without achieving any Mclovin', then the movie 40 Year Old Virgin is actually your biography, and I honestly hope an elderly Indian man takes you under his wing and aids you in your desperate search for some poon. Anyway for the rest of you normal people, once you have first accomplished intercourse (such a nasty word), you have successfully stepped into the breezeway of the building that is adulthood. And in adulthood, time tells us that you get married. Yet, times change! What marriage used to be defined as has completely changed. With advances in technology, health, human rights, etc. over the centuries, I don't even think we need the institution of marriage anymore as it historically existed.

Women are no longer considered property due to women's suffrage. Life expectancy is at an all time high due to health advances. Children can be born out of wedlock due to misreading the directions on the package of the Nuva Ring. Let's face it, everything we used to need marriage as a prerequisite for is no longer necessary. Now marriage is just a relic that we hold on to for some reason. Marriage is sacred? How sacred is marriage when Divorce Court comes on FOX? Does anyone watch the Bachelor, Bachelorette, Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire, or Bride-Zillas? Shit, why hasn't "MTV's True Life: I Fuck a Bitch Who Wears the Same Ring As Me" been filmed and aired yet? Don't get me wrong, I do not want to get rid of marriage all together just yet. I enjoy a reason to button the top button of my collared shirt, the themed weddings, free alcohol at the reception, and replacing the flower girl's flowers with poison sumac. However, I would prefer that everyone stop putting this "sacrament" on such a high pedestal. Has anyone ever stopped and thought about marriage? A man who is contractually obligated by the Lord to never TOUCH a woman has the power to "grant" another man permission to marry a woman. I'm actually scratching my head on that one. If you ask me, when someone gives me a real reason to believe that marriage is actually some serious event, then I will be able to formulate an opinion of whether I agree or disagree with gay marriage. Until then, I could care less that these homos are going around the LIFE board with two little pink tokens in their car. Still, I remain firmly against anyone getting married after age 50, unless you're Oprah Winfrey. It's time to marry Steadman, O; this on and off courtship charade has gone along far enough. (LIGHT BULB)...maybe Oprah's gay...

Mail for a Mr. Michael Phelps...

Dear Mr. Michael Phelps,

May I call you Mikey? That was a rhetorical question, Fival; you do not answer. You sir, have successfully and utterly baffled me. Just where did you come from? How is it that in the span of two weeks you were able to grasp the hearts and minds of every single female in the United States of America? Some could argue that I am a hater but I think it needs to be said: you play in water. You swim. First and foremost, why is swimming even considered an Olympic sport? Actually, we might as well take a look at today's Summer Games overall: Archery. Come on Olympics Committee. Why are you still legitimizing this as a sport? There's nothing athletic about a man murdering a bull's-eye with an arrow from 100 paces. You think I care that this man has heat seeking arrows or that his bow has a scope and infrared lasers attached to it? Yes, Olympic archers purchase their equipment from the same stores highly trained assassins frequent. Fantastic. The archer has successfully proven that he can spend his money to transform his arm into a Swiss army knife rather than starting a college fund for his children. Bravo. Your kids can't go to college but they can say pop was William Tell. Christ. Fencing? Understand this: I will shoot any idiot that approaches me with a sword. Period. I win ALL the gold medals for the independent country of Dashtoria (don't try to pronounce it; it's impossible). And badminton? This would be the "sport" where you are required to hit a "birdie" over a net and no matter how hard you swing, the birdie will just gently float downward. I think the ONLY way one who plays badminton should ever qualify for an Olympic medal is if they play with a live grenade. Even still, tin should be the highest medal awarded. Synchronized diving? My disdain for this event is only equaled by that I have for those smug son a bitch announcers doing the event's commentary. First, it's clearly evident that these two grown men spend 16 hours a day jumping off of a diving board together. I don't approve of this message. Second, as they attempt to perform the exact same dive simultaneously, these announcers suck their teeth and groan as they point out on national television when one diver points his toe as opposed to the other curling his. If it's synchronization you seek, I'll make sure to have my fist perfectly clenched so you announcers and divers can all have synchronized blackened eyes and matching missing teeth.

Finally, I am led to your event, Mr. Phelps. This would be the event referred to as "swimming back and forth"...a lot.

Seriously, I really do not care how fast you can swim across a pool. I do not care how many times you can swim the length of the thing either. You want to impress Team Dashy? Swim the god dammed Atlantic. Better yet, just swim from Atlantic City to Bejing. I'll be waiting on a dock in Bejing and gladly toss your gold medal into your mouth like it's feeding time at Sea World. You want to be Aquaman, then prove it. Forget the pool baby. Race a dolphin. What kind of pussy tries to validate his craft by challenging those who are simply mediocre? When I'm feeling rowdy, I don't stand out front of the local gym and pick fights with guys who just bench and squat. Oh no Mr. Phelps; unlike you, I am a man. When I'm feeling the need for a good fight, I fly to Africa and kick a lion while he's having sex. Yes, mid stroke...I don't give a fuck. I do this because a lion is a seasoned fighter and why prove myself to man when it is obvious that animal is vastly superior in this craft of whooping ass? You know why else I refuse to justify your success in the pool? Swimming will not help you in a real life dire situation. Despite how well you perform in a chlorine saturated pool, I honestly doubt you can escape an angry shark (we can test this theory later if you like...it's always Shark Week somewhere). A real Olympic sport like track helps you in real life situations. Answer me this Phelps: do you see any Kenyans in jail? NO. Do you know why? Because the police can't catch these bare foot niggas. They will run for days, head bobbing back and forth, until they reach safety. You go ahead and try to swim away from the cops, Michael Phelps. They won't even chase you. They'll just send Shaq the Sheriff to the opposite end of the pool...and wait. Despite what everyone thinks, you will have to come up for air eventually, Michael.  Can't out-swim science, jackass.

But back to how you have somehow brainwashed all the females of America. This shit is crazy. Oh, I'm hating.  Really. I recently heard a female openly admit, "I don't care how his ears look, I just want him to dangle his 11 gold medals over my bed and fuck me." WHAT? Alright Tila Tequila, if it's the noise you desire, I have wind chimes and such; I could even hang some red and blue pots and pans over the bed if it's the sound you seek. I hope you fully understand how much I hate you, Mikey. My hatred for you has surpassed that of which I have for T-pain and Ronald McDonald combined. Normally, this would be the point where I decide to enlighten you on how I would take your life or in some way sabotage any of your further efforts to make history in accomplishing the most Olympic Gold medals ever. No. Not today. I am simply bewildered at the fact that people are deeming you the world's greatest athlete because you have a couple Gold medals. You, Michael Phelps, are not the world's best athlete ever. If some hysterical little girl runs up to you screaming, "Michael Phelps, world's greatest athlete of all time, have sex with my under-aged body!" you must (either before or after you sex her down) swiftly jab her in the kidney and make her understand you are not the world's greatest athlete of all time. I will say that attaining an Olympic Gold Medal is very difficult for the common man. To achieve 9, is damn near impossible. Moreover, to swim (to swim well) is also not an easy task. However, for you to be deemed as the world's greatest athlete of all time, don't you think you should be able to do a little more than simply...swim? I mean shit. What happens if some Russian comes to the Olympics in 2012 and gets 13 medals in fencing? Do you think he's just taken your title? Michael Phelps, along with continuing to successfully swim better than anyone else in the world, this is what you must do to maintain this "greatest athlete ever" moniker:

1. get a medal (gold, silver, magenta...I don't fucking care) in the poll volt while wearing a peg leg
2. simply make the roster of the Angolan national basketball team
3. win a 100m dash but run next to runners who are actually competing; and when you're interviewed afterward just calmly state, "I thought we were running from something."

You know what? Despite even completing this list, you still will never be the world's best athlete ever. I reserve that title for anyone who has ever donned a New York Yankees uniform. These guys are a fraternity of athletes who not only excelled in success among their peers; still many of them were fat, womanizing alcoholics. You have trained every day for an entire lifetime. Babe Ruth looked like a bowling ball. Mickey Mantle came to the plate wreaking of pussy and perfume.  Why should you deserve the title of best athlete ever when a professional baseball player can crank out homer after homer while hung over? Furthermore, have you ever tried to steal 2nd with a bad case of the crabs? I think not Michael Phelps. I think not...

Sleep well,

The Dash

(P.S. You look like Sloth from the Goonies...)

Old People: You Don't get off the Hook That Easy...

Ah, but the old people. Yes, you get the spotlight also. Where shall I begin?

How about I start with LL Cool J? Yes, we'll start with this shiny bald headed jacked up midget that has been lingering around the Hip-Hop world for over two decades now. Jesus, has anyone took the time to realize that his first name is comprised of the same letter twice? (sigh) Sincerely, from me to you LL (and I actually pronounce that as "La-La"): how about you go do the running man around the mouth of a volcano, promptly. Who do you think you are? Please, ENLIGHTEN me. LL Cool J means "Ladies Love Cool James"? Maybe back in the 80's buddy. Today perhaps it should mean "Little Laxatives Calm James". You are an old fart. And stop lifting weights! Didn't you get the memo: niggas use guns in the new millennium. I hope you know that I'm plotting on hunting you like deer, James. When I find you, I first plan to tie you up and repeatedly peg sandwich bags full of marbles at you. Then I'm going to steal thousands of Barbie dolls from little girls all across the nation; I will strip them naked and cut off their hair and then leave these hairless plastic dolls on the ground all around your tied up body. I will then reveal your location to thousands of angry little 8 year old girls. We will see how much these Ladies Love you then, Cool James. I wonder how cool you actually will be when you are found shirtless in a warehouse getting ATL stomped by tall toddlers in Payless heals. Another thing: how did you build up the audacity to make a song where the chorus is "I'm Your Baby" when you are clearly old enough to be a grandfather? Supposedly you were born in 1968 meaning that you are currently 40 years old. This would explain your recently excessive need to shave your face and head entirely. Going for that wet seal look, eh? Nonetheless, you are still too damn old to be attempting to make music (unless you decide to take up jazz flute) that requires you to be overtly sexual or gully. Remind me but don't you have a mortgage? You know what, I would rather listen to DJ Khaled hum over this track rather than listen to your horrible "flow" tarnish this record as well as The Dream's rising career. Do you understand that you said that your wife (and it has to be your wife you're talking about or your wife is as dumb as you) "makes her booty clap on the floor of the kitchen?" Talking about how she "plays Bingo" and "rides Mandingo." I assure you that no one wants to picture this. You know who really doesn't want to picture this: your god damn kids, James. Have you forgotten that you have 4 children? You think THEY want to hear about mommy's bootyclappin' superpowers (sidenote: yes everyone, booyclappin' is indeed a superpower worthy of the Key to the City)? Let's not mention that they go to school with children that sadly listen to your music ONLY to ridicule your kids during lunch hour. Fantastic, James. Your children are scarred for life because you just can't let go of the game. Give it up. You are no longer the object of females' affection. Women don't care about your slow and sensual rap ballads anymore...or you licking your lips for that matter. Reality check: Lil Wayne has a track out called Pussy Monster, and these bitches like it...

Another old one that needs to just give up: Kid Rock. You were born in '71. Guess what? You are no longer a KID and emu is the new ROCK in this millennium. GROW UP PETER PAN. Now don't get me wrong; I do like alternative music. It's a very close second to my appreciation for Hip-Hop. However, I never liked you Kid Rock. Jesus, I hate saying your name. I shall call you by your birth name Robert Ritchie. I hate you. Let's sit back and take a look at some of your music starting with that horrible song in which you yell out random syllables like you have turrets syndrome. "Bawitdaba da-bang-ga-dang diggy-diggy" WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU ATTEMPTING TO TELL ME? I should slap you with a dictionary AND thesaurus (and no, Robert Ritchie, a thesaurus is not a dinosaur). Learn some real words. You're a grown ass man; you have no excuse. If Mush Mouth from Fat Albert can do it so can you. And then there is "Cowboy" which I feel is the real reason that Brokeback Mountain was indeed produced. How this song did not make the soundtrack is beyond me. This song came out in '99. There are no cowboys anymore. I am certain of this. Do yourself a favor Robert Richie, go get LL Cool J so you can hang out with someone your own age. I'm sure Ice Cube has a family barbecue coming up soon. If you're lucky, maybe he'll give you two cameos in the next Barbershop movie.

If You Were Born In or After 1992, You're a Pussy...

You know, I don’t normally like to generalize. Personally, I prefer to single people out on their faults rather than create a tragic norm out of a couple rotten apples. Yet, there are always outliers. For example, I don’t hate Asians. In fact, I thoroughly enjoy General Tso’s chicken and Dragonball-Z reruns. However, that Asian chick that rolls her books around campus in LUGGAGE makes me sick and has successfully captured my hatred. Why does she feel the need to scurry around campus like a squirrel while wheeling every book she needs for the semester? STOP ROLLING THAT BAG OVER MY FEET! I swear if I didn’t know that she was rolling around books (because that‘s what Asians do other than win America's Best Dance Crew), I would think that the bag was full of Pokemon balls. I hate her. You hate her. I vote, for the betterment of campus life everywhere, she be destroyed. I don’t particularly care for clowns, either. I am actually the chief manufacturer of Ronald McDonald Kidnapping Kits. However, in light of the Dark Knight…I may want to grow up to be the Joker now. Yes children, I would like to make a living in the future by wearing face paint and purple pinstriped pants. Don’t judge me. Does anyone realize that this grown man was able to make other grown men wear masks of HIS face while they robbed a bank? If you can’t understand my amazement, I have a task for you. Go to your group project meeting and say, “alright everyone, so for tomorrow I think we should all wear (insert your name here) masks while we give our presentation.” I guarantee the Asian chick in the group transforms into a Pokemon and either zaps you with lightning or stuffs you into her luggage. Either situation ends with you never being seen again.

Anyway, as you can see, sometimes I do formulate my opinions of people based on the demographic they belong. This leads me to my point of the day: I hate today’s youth. If you were born in 1992, today you are 16; thus you are a pussy. So America, when you see Emu boy riding a skateboard down the sidewalk, politely stop him and ask him what year was he born. If he says anything after or including 1992, you have my permission to feed him a knuckle sandwich and throw his skateboard into oncoming traffic. I came to this conclusion the other day after watching a lot of television and realizing the sorry state that our country is now submerged. These kids today are groomed to be vaginas with arms and feet. Can someone explain to me why the Nintendo Wii has become the equivalent to…OUTDOORS? I own a Wii. Do you know why? Because as a child, when mother wasn’t home I wasn’t allowed to go outside. So during the 3 hours between getting home from school and when my mother came home from work, I sat in the house and played Mario. NO…not Mario Paint or Mario Sunshine or Mario Tennis. I played real Super Mario Bros for Nintendo. Now as an adult, the Wii allows me to appreciate how Mario has evolved from a 2D plumber jumping over barrels on Donkey Kong into Mario Galaxy on Nintendo Wii. So yes I own a Wii, but I don’t substitute going outside and playing pick up basketball for Dancing With the Stars with Wii nunchucks. When I was younger, I rode my bike, climbed trees, etc. Today, video game companies are scrambling to invent interactive pedals so you can go play Wii Tour de France. Fuck you Wii. If I ever see a Wii Tag or Wii Manhunt (or ultimately worse: Wii Catch the Girl Freak the Girl) I will dress up like Luigi and pour gallons of water on the Nintendo building in an attempt to short out its every single circuit. Yes, I will dress up like Luigi, and all you young 92ers will read about this on your Wii News and say to yourselves, “that looks like a green Mario costume.” Son of a bitch…

Can someone please explain to me when it became cool to pretend you are in a Rock Band instead of actually learning how to play the guitar? There is no reason why kids in the school marching band are STILL considered geeks while the “cool kids” can now sit in the basement and battle each other on Guitar Hero. I can solve this enigma. I’m going to infiltrate one of these basements where children surround themselves with Doritos and root beer and spend hours trying to “play” Walk This Way by hitting red, blue, green, and yellow buttons on a controller (or better yet, a controller that looks like and is the actual size of real guitar). I plan to pepper spray the entire room and then bludgeon these preteens to death with these stupid guitars. Then I’ll pour some root beer out for our dead homies. And since when did beating this game indeed constitute you a guitar "hero"? I don’t care if you can play Welcome to the Jungle on level 8…you will never sleep with a girl.

Ah, and my request for the day: STOP DANCING. Soulja Boi, I have so many words for you but I won’t waste any in this post. I got something for you later. Just understand when I do the Marco Polo, a gun is involved. However, all you little shits who thought it would be cool to crank that batman, spiderman, iron man, aqua man, blank man, sandman, and whatever else ends in “man” are indeed true examples of wasted semen. Instead of going to a party and actually dancing with a girl, apparently you and your core group of friends found it genius to create and record “Crank Dat Finding Nemo” in an empty  Target parking lot and post it on youtube last Friday evening. I have a new dance too and it’s call “Crank Dat Get Kicked In the Chest and Into a Bottomless Pit” and it’s really easy. I’ll be more than happy to travel to middle schools around the nation and conduct afternoon assemblies showing how it’s done. Ladies (and I use that term loosely), you aren’t off the hook either. Listen, it’s little bitches like Patti Mayo (youtube her NOW before continuing reading any further...NOW ASSHOLE) that make it possible to have shows like To Catch a Predator on the air. The female 92er doesn’t baby-sit the neighbors’ kids on a Friday or Saturday night. No, no, no, she’s in her dad’s home office dancing to Rihanna in booty shorts and a bra for her web cam for all of the nation’s perverts to view (for free). You know bitches born in 84 actually get paid for this same shit (thus making it OK). So not only do you get comments from males posted under your video saying, “slut”, “whore”, “shake it baby“, and “that bitch got rabies”, but from females too saying, “that aint how you wind it up…broke bitch.”

I just don’t get it anymore. You know Sesame Street doesn’t even come on anymore. If it does, my Comcast Cable tells me that number doesn't exist. How do you grow up without Sesame Street though? I just don’t understand. Learning numbers by counting bats with The Count in the morning has been sadly replaced with adding up all the bitches from all the seasons of Flavor of Love in the evenings. Isn’t that a bitch? You bastards born in 92 ACTUALLY think Transformers was just a creative movie. Keenan and Kel have been replaced with...Drake and Josh? You know what was the shit? E.T. A child told me yesterday that Wall-E is the new E.T. I poisoned his lunchable. Those of you born in 92 or after, you are indeed pussies. Your Razor scooters and colorful trendy helmets that make wearing helmets cool sicken me. I hate you as much as I hate the sandwiches your mother cut into triangles for your lunch. You are all fat and sick because you lock yourselves in your bedrooms sipping Capri Suns and eating Cheez-Its as you deprive yourselves of fresh air and sunlight because you found a new friend to talk to on X-Box360 as you play Halo. You all truly think Lil Wayne is the best rapper of all time because 2pac and Biggie have become just as mythical as Hercules and Leprechauns to you. And finally, what the hell is Go-Gurt? Children…does anyone realize that someone invented and promoted yogurt in a motha fucking tube and these sorry bastards of the 90s now love this shit like crack in the 80s? I’m moving to Canada…

I Hate New Jersey...

There are few states in which I hate in their entirety. (1) Montana, which I refer to as the Shawn Bradley of all states due to the fact that it is big for no real reason and has nothing to contribute to the others, (2) Rhode Island, the dangling turd of the United States, (3 & 4) The Dakotas, which are the Siamese twins of the nation joined in ass to forehead manner, and of course (5) New Jersey, the typical bitch ass middle child influenced and consumed by all types of peer pressure...

BITCH ASS NEW JERSEY...
The fact that it is called the "Garden State" when there are clearly no real gardens around is asinine. In actuality, this ho ass state has more landfills than gardens, thus I vote we change the name to the "Smells like Giraffe Ass State." Every time that I am forced to enter this wretched state there is always some kind of construction going on where trees are being demolished and mini malls are being put up. I see no flowers. Just weeds. Daffodils. What type of struggle-garden is this? You know we could just call Jersey the Turnpike State. Because that's all people really need to use it for. New Jersey is just a state that needs to be passed through while on a road trip to your REAL destination. And what's worse is that you always have to pay a toll to get OUT of New Jersey...never to get in. It's like they're trying to trap you. Fury ensues every time I pay three cash plus the cost of gas just to get across the bridge to get to Philadelphia. I wonder if anyone has ended up stranded in New Jersey because they didn't have the three singles to cross the bridge. I've decided that I need to build an arc. Yes, I said it...AN ARC: to rescue all that are stuck in bitch ass New Jersey and are sick and tired of paying the toll for the bridge. Another thing: people from Jersey are not tough. I'm sick of people from Jersey bragging that they harbor the most dangerous city in America. Yes, Camden may have been ranked the most dangerous city in America in both 2004 and 2005. However in 2005, Money magazine ranked Moorestown (a city located only 10 miles away from Camden) as the number one place to live in America. HOW THE FUCK DOES THAT WORK? The best place to live in America is a 19 minute drive from the worst place to live in America. Unbelievable. It's like Mr. Rogers living next door to Oscar the Grouch and he doesn't give two steaming shits that Oscar lives in a trashcan. He just continues to sing as he laces up his Chucks so he can take the trash out and pour last nights leftovers upon Oscar's face.  "Eh...you live in a trash can.  You tryna tell me you're not hungry?"  Damn you Rogers...keep pouring.
Some say that Jersey should be divided into North and South Jersey. For what? Because they can't make up their mind on which sports team to like? No, we will not divide New Jersey in half because it's bitch ass cannot make up it's mind. They have the New Jersey Nets, why are they not satisfied? Why must they become fans of other state's teams? OWN YOUR BITCH ASS STATE. If it's that serious we could simply cut it in half and add South Jersey to Pennsylvania and North Jersey to New York. Then the residents of North Jersey will actually have a legitimate reason to be happy the Giants won the Super Bowl and the residents of South Jersey can fully experience the agitation caused by the 76ers' lack of talent and horrendous management...



STORY TIME:
I have a friend who lives in this state of bitch-ass-ness. Chaulky. On one random night while on summer vacation, I receive a phone call from Chalky who asks me why I never come home to visit. There are numerous reasons: (1) Dash does not drive a hybrid vehicle and having a man tell me that I owe $43 to fill up my tank may force me to wrap my arm around his neck and quickly peel off at 62 mph. (2) There is absolutely nothing to do in New Jersey besides go to Atlantic City or "go down the shore" (PS...grammatically, it should be "go down to the shore"), and (3) There are absolutely no competitive pick-up basketball games due to the fact that old sweaty men storm the local gyms immediately after work just to yank off their button down sweatpants revealing every support brace one can possibly have on his body, and rub their old wrinkly, slimy bodies against you as they attempt to play effective defense (no homo).

Well, on this night I happen to have nothing to do with my life and Chaulky suggested that I come down to this party that his friend is throwing. So I figure I might as well go down there, chill for a little bit, throw back some beers, knock down a female, and pass out for a little bit before I return to Philadelphia. So I make this trip down to Chaulky's humble suburban abode.

I get there around 10 o'clock and Chaulky answers the door fully dressed with keys in hand, and states, "Let's go, we're late". Red flag numeral uno... It's 10 o'clock; this would be the time where I'm usually just rolling out of bed to get ready for a party (unless of course I have already arrived at the party early to consume all of the alcohol in the building). But apparently this party started at 8 o' clock (...smh...) and it should be "popping" by now. I say whatever and we drive to the party. Upon arrival there is a group of about 15 dudes standing outside. Red flag number 2... It's 10:30 and there is a group of 15 males standing outside of a supposedly "popping" party. This would only mean that there must be a very small amount of females in attendance. Despite this red flag, I enter the house and instantly hear a Baltimore Club track flowing out of speakers in the basement. This deems one of two things: (1) There are females actually getting it in and working out downstairs, or (2) there's a circle with niggas Wu-Tang battling in the center. I go to investigate...

I enter the hottest basement in the nation and observe the party scene. Red flag number 3. Females are standing around and there is a circle of niggas (males, boys, etc) in the center of the basement. Needless to say, I have become the Incredible Hulk. I came all the way to New Jersey to witness these retards jump around like orangutans as the DJ puts on a sped up Spongebob track? I'm sick of it. I COULDN'T CARE LESS HOW FAST A SINGLE NIGGA'S FEET CAN MOVE. A thousand other children crowd him with their cell phones out giving him a sense that he's in the spotlight. FAGS... boys chanting "Get your light feet goin'..." Tragic. I'm coming out with a track called "Get your slave feet going" and making a video of Harriet Tubman and Sojourner Truth doing the toe-wop and the chicken noodle soup dance then putting it on YouTube. 6 million views in the first 12 hours. And if I get Samuel L. Jackson to two step and then pop and lock in a full Adidas sweatsuit with a fur hat and push a broom like Turbo in the background, it will be featured as the "new joint" on BET's 106 & Park and then instantly move to the number one spot; consequently, Soulja Boy will later announce this to be named "Best Video" at the BET Awards.

FUCK YOU NEW JERSEY!! (Except for you Joe Budden... You, my friend, have my stamp of approval.) I really am ashamed of my home state some times...

"Aight, Just Gimme a Whopper..."

College (also see University)
col·lege
Pronounced: \ˈkä-lij\(noun)

1. A wonderous place made for attaining large quantities of sexual encounters
2. An institution designed for higher learning that is commonly used as an excuse for adolescents to move as far away from their parents as financially possible
3. The number one cause of debt in America (because of Sallie Mae mainly)
4. An environment where there is a common agreement that it is mandatory to go out every Thursday through Saturday night (length may increase according to which campus one attends) and drink as many alcoholic beverages as possible while trying to accomplish sexual achievements with the opposite sex. Those that do not follow this common agreement are dubbed "gay, pussies, nerds, geeks, losers, lovers of bitch-ass-ness, etc."
5. A setting where fast food chains can commonly be confused with one another due to late night menus and the effects of previously consumed tasty beverages...
Cited from Dashy's Dictionary 2008. Page 563.

Yes, each of these definitions correctly illustrates a different aspect of what college is all about. Originally, there were only 4 corresponding definitions to this word. However, after one recent night's turn of events, I felt like it was absolutely necessary to include the last definition mentioned...

Storytime:
It was a Friday night. This means that it was mandatory Dash to go out, find a house, drink all of the alcohol in the building, and stumble off into the night. On this particular night, I was accompanied by one of my close friends, Twister and another friend of his, Squid. We ventured out 9 blocks to a house party that we heard about via the social deathtrap known as "The Facebook." Upon arrival we were overwhelmed by the appalling scene of this "party." Male to female ratio is 4:1...but it's alright. Why? Because there are 3 coolers located in the kitchen filled to the brim with tasty beverage. I look at Twister and he does the nonverbal head nod and corresponding facial expression letting me know that it's another one of those nights where we ride it out and deplete any amount of alcohol that enters those coolers. Well played Twister. Well played indeed.

About an hour or so later, after going through a couple of cooler refills and attempted drunken dances with random fat bitches, Twister, Squid, and I decided it was time to depart this hot, dimly lit venue and return to the dorm for some intense rounds of Mario Kart on the N64. On the way out we run into one of our female friends who is obviously concerned about our safety and decides to walk with us on our way back home (also I think she just wanted to be the 4th Mario Kart competitor). Drunk to sober ratio is now 3:1 and these are not very good odds. So along the way, 3 of the 4 get lost. I honestly cannot tell you where they went or how they got lost together but now it's just me. But I can always find my way home. I simply use fast food restaurants as landmarks. Why? Because it's quite impossible to remember what street leads where, let alone attempt to read street signs in the dark while you are intoxicated. Look, in North Philadelphia, squinting your eyes while looking up to read street signs on street corners is a clear indicator that you're looking to get robbed.  So after wandering aimlessly for a good 5 to 10 minutes, I see those beautiful Golden Arches and I am instantly relieved because I am home free. It's a cakewalk from here because I know exactly where I am. However, I was extremely famished, so I decided to go inside...

Prepare yourself; this next section is vulgar and unedited. It is the conversation I had with this bitch behind the register, along with the thoughts that went through my head. The things you are about to read may be disturbing.---

I get to the counter...

Cashier bitch - Welcome to McDonald's what would you like?
Dash's Thought Bubble - (I'm a fucking college student. I'm broke bitch... what do you think I want?)
Dash - Lemme get 3 double cheeseburgers in my life.
-I'm sorry it's after 12 o'clock. We're only doing our late night menu - numbers 2 though 10.
-(AHH!! This the bullshit! I'm certain this bitch can assemble a double cheeseburger after 12 o'clock. This makes no sense! Fuck this bitch...Now I gotta get one sandwich for the same price I could have gotten 3. Might as well just get the biggest sandwich they have to compensate.)
-Aight, just gimme a whopper.
-Sir, you are at McDonald's...
-(BITCH DO I LOOK LIKE I'M BLIND? UNLIKE THAT NIGGA OVER THERE, I AM NOT WEARING SUNGLASSES AT NIGHT...)
-Yea... Ok... I know where I am. Just let me get my whopper.
-I'm sorry but we can't make you a whopper.
-(STOP... Did this bitch just REFUSE my service?--------------SPAZZ ON THIS BITCH RIGHT NOW)
-FUCK YOU MEAN YOU CAN'T MAKE ME A WHOPPER?!?! PUT THE SHIT ON THE GRILL RIGHT NOW... COOK IT AND THEN PLACE IT RIGHT HERE IN MY HAND!! I DON'T NEED WRAPPING PAPER EITHER. IT'S NOT GONNA BE A SURPRISE!
-But sir, this is McDonald's. We don't make...
-(This bitch's visor has to go. Fuck is she wearing that shit for? Does she plan to audit my meal as well? It's gotta go into the fry cooker...)
-GET ME A FUCKING WHOPPER! I DON'T WANNA HEAR NONE OF THAT 'THIS IS MCDONALD'S BULLSHIT'. THE RECIPE FOR A WHOPPER IS NOT A FUCKING SECRET! THERE IS NO SPECIAL SAUCE. NO SECRET INGREDIENTS... JUST A BURGER WITH LETTUCE, TOMATOES, ONIONS AND KETCHUP. AND FUCK ALL THAT SESAME SEED BUN SHIT!

The employees are dumbfounded. Terrified, the girl looks at her chunky ass 56-year-old manager whose back-of-the-neck area eerily resembles a pack of hot dogs (making my appetite grow larger) and he slowly hands her a sandwich.

-Here you go, sir.
-(Jesus... This bitch just handed me a little cardboard box that CLEARLY states "Quarter Pounder w/ Cheese"...)

Just as I am about to hop over the counter, slap that ridiculous visor off of her head, and slam her face upon the mechanism that imprints the little "M" on McGriddle sandwiches, Twister bursts through McDonald's doors.  Twister comes in screaming and yelling things that I cannot possibly understand. Partially because I'm drunk and incoherent and partially because he's speaking Spanish! When the fuck did he learn Spanish?  Why the fuck is he speaking Spanish? I quit. I pick up my little cardboard box as stumble to a table where I sit down and eat the worst Quarter Pounder of my life. Absolutely terrible. They simply could have placed a sandwich in my hand that consisted of only ketchup and sugar inserted into a single bun folded over and told me it was a whopper. And it would have been the best whopper I ever tasted. Ignorance is bliss. However, awareness gets you pissed. I don't even remember paying for it. And I'm glad I didn't because I was thoroughly dissatisfied. McDonald's is a fraud. McDonald's, home of the happy meal, did not put a smile upon my miserable face. And I absolutely DESPISE their commercials. NEVER have I felt the urge to get up and pop and lock like Sisqo in the middle of the restaurant after biting into a sandwich, nor have I ever seen any little white children eating their McNuggets to the beat of the Cha-Cha slide.  If you never saw that commercial, consider yourself lucky.

I'm sick of it. If I ever see Ronald McDonald with his fake ass Zorro companion and that bitch ass purple Pokemon on the street, I'm calling the troops. My boy BK, the Taco Bell Chihuahua, Lil' Wendy (she's tougher than she looks on the cup), Colonel Sanders, Popeye, and the Geico Lizard, and I are all putting on Jack-in-the-Box masks (just so we all look like Joker) and Arby's cowboy hats and then initiating a group stomp upon anyone MCD affiliated. Word to motha.  And then afterwards when they are unable to move because of the pain we've inflicted, I will look down at a crippled Ronald McDonald and ask, "WHY SO SERIOUS?" I will then proceed in shoving thousands of "America's Favorite Fries" into his mouth until he forms somewhat of a grin. Once this is achieved I'll simply state, "We love to see you smile...bitch."

A Necessary Movie Remake...

Today, I sat down and reread my previous post regarding movies of the summer season. I feel as though regardless of the season, despite technological advances in making movies way more aesthetically pleasing, creativity is being sacrificed in the process. It seems rather than sitting down and blueprinting something new and revolutionary, Hollywood prefers to remake every graphic novel lining the shelves of Comic Book Kingdom. Does anyone realize that there were two (2) Incredible Hulk pictures made in the new millennium? No, it’s not a series. They are two different movies on the subject of the same story. This must have been how the meeting went with the board of the production company at the helm of this second Incredible Hulk movie:

Movie exec 1: “Let’s make another Marvel movie. Any suggestions?”
Movie exec 2: “How about The Incredible Hulk?”
Movie exec 3: “…wait. Didn’t that movie come out 3 years ago?”
Movie exec 1 pushes the red button on his chair’s armrest. Movie exec 3’s chair drops through a trap door beneath him.
Movie exec 1: (slowly turning in his swivel chair) “Hulk it is.”

Hollywood, just because you take my favorite relics from childhood, pump it full of CGI, and throw it on a big screen does not mean you have just created anything. Shit in a pan never tastes like mom’s brownies. Do you douchebags really think anyone wants to see Speedracer in 3D? Congratulations, your “creation” has successfully given my father a seizure. Did you ever stop to think that those who watched Speedracer as children enjoyed the basic animation and voiceovers? Putting your own creative spin on this classic only pissed off the Old School and gave the New School 2 hours to catch up on old text messages.

Anyway, since Hollywood is so hell bent on making blasts from the past, why don’t you use this gem I came up with while I was in the bathroom this afternoon (I do some of my best thinking while pinching off a loaf):
We need a remake of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The cartoon was great. Everyone bought the toys and video games. The first movie was a classic (everything to follow, not so great). Nevertheless, we need a creative spin to make this new movie relevant to the times. So we cast Turtles as people. We create the fantastic four as we cast Randy Jackson, Jack Black, Young Jeezy, and Dick Cheyney as the Turtles. Randy is the brains (because he wears glasses, duh) so he’s Donatello. Jack Black provides comic relief as Michaelangelo. Young Jeezy is Leonardo. I pick Jeezy to lead not because he exemplifies leadership qualities, but because I doubt any of the other three can fight and Jeezy would just thug his way into power. Finally, Dick Cheyney’s smart mouth and attitude makes him obviously qualified to play Rafael. Yes, you guessed it: Samuel Jackson will play the role of Splinter. Britney Spears will play April O’Neal. Personally, I dislike how the media chastises Spears for everything she does. Yet, I just want her to squeeze into that yellow jumpsuit. She’ll look like one of the Bananas in Pajamas and I (along with the entire theater) will laugh uncontrollably at any scene she is placed. The Shredder ONLY works if he’s played by Christopher Walken. Frank White wearing a purple cape and a silver helmet? WHAT?!?! That alone is worth my $12.50. When the Turtles have to fight the Foot Clan, the Foot will be cast by everyone from MTV’s America’s Best Dance Crew. Dance battles will ensue. Now I was thinking, what if Dick Cheyney pulls a Heath Leger and can’t finish the film? We just recast Danny DeVito as Rafael. The only stipulation being that he must grow a ponytail like Tommy from the Mighty Morphing Power Rangers. This formula is clearly bulletproof people. Now someone go out there and get themselves a little gold man.