<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1384154180660832376</id><updated>2011-07-31T02:33:40.354-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Sunshine and Cynics.</title><subtitle type='html'>The ups and downs of growing and living as a fat awkward Gentile with Jewish hair, an overabundance of body hair, and a voice too damn loud for my own good.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://sunshineandcynics.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1384154180660832376/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://sunshineandcynics.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Tim Ross</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06743242618532985612</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SLEoUU9cVxI/AAAAAAAAAAM/rnNOJEanCgg/S220/tim.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>4</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1384154180660832376.post-2519374992183490792</id><published>2009-11-13T08:04:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2009-11-13T08:40:38.012-08:00</updated><title type='text'>You Were Othello, I Was The Telltale Heart, and My Uncle Said Ulysses Had to Meet Aslan (a.k.a I Give Taylor Swift a Lesson In English)</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="left"&gt;Taylor,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Don't worry. I'm not going for the obvious Kanye joke here; but I'm really concerned about you. I know the rigors of touring may be tough on such a young woman, but I fear that the stress has made you incapable of making any fucking sense whatsoever. You see I noticed you on MTV and I saw that you were an attractive young woman and you had a nice singing voice. That's really nice, Tay (since we're getting close here I'll abbreviate) but those things are less important if you write lyrics that sound like a chimpanzee just went apeshit (pun intended) in a library and started throwing words and books and grunts together. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 250px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 333px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://www.corrupt.org/drupal/files/images/chimp.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p align="left"&gt;&lt;em&gt;                                      Get enough of us, and we write Shakespeare, dick.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(I know you don't grunt, Tay, but it was for comedic effect.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At any rate when I heard your song "Love Story", I felt compelled to write you with a brief lesson in making literary references:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Lets take a look at the lyrics to "Love Story":&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Cause you were Romeo, I was the scarlet letter"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Alright, I get it. You are alluding the classic tale of Romeo and Juliet through your song. Your comparing some pimple-faced quarterback boy to Romeo. I mean it's probably appropriate seeing as how your song was released post-mortem after you and your guy both committed suicide and-&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh wait you're still alive and accepting awards and butchering classic plays? Oh...not cool, Tay, not cool. That's alright though, if you want to take a ridiculously trite and overplayed concept and use it in your lyrics that's fine. But what in the world is this crap about being the scarlet letter?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You do realize, Taylor, that the scarlet letter was not a person right? It was just what it sounds like: a letter. But that aside, I think I'm following you thus far. You are infatuated with a "Romeo" character who your parents dislike (probably because of his long history of date rape and drug abuse) and you have assumed your role as a member of the alphabet. Lets move on:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 402px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 487px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://s293811491.onlinehome.us/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/taylor-swift-white-dress.jpg" border="0" /&gt;                                 &lt;em&gt;   Come to think of it, she does look a bit like a lowercase "l"&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"And daddy said to stay away from Juliet"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Wait a second here, Tayzo (new nickname, trying it out, we'll see how it works.) I'm not following. You may want to make it clear who your father is addressing here. Is he talking to you, or Romeo pimple face? The phrasing here makes it sound like your daddy is trying to keep you from a lesbian relationship with Juliet, who you are apparently trying to steal from Romeo but you want him too or. What the hell is going on Taylor? This is either kinky behavior that your dad disapproves of, or you are on PCP. Here's what I've got some far:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Romeo: Pimple faced quarterback your dad hates because Romeo is likely to be an alcoholic and an abusive husband.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Scarlet Letter: I guess this is you? And you run around attaching yourself to the chests of women who have problems with fidelity? Or the PCP thing of course.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Juliet A: You.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Juliet B: Potential Lesbian lover your dad warns you about.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Alright. I think I get what's going on here. What you meant to write was:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You were Romeo and I have nothing to write here,&lt;br /&gt;But daddy told you to stay away from Juliet."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So next time lets be clear and not just throw out book references because one of your smart friends back home told you that she read one.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hope you take this advice, Taylor.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sincerly,&lt;br /&gt;Tim.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;P.S. - you got some shit in there about being a prince and a princess? If memory serves me correctly neither the Capulet and Montagues were royalty. And the closest thing to royalty was when that Paris dude who was related to a prince tried to snatch her up at 14 years old.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1384154180660832376-2519374992183490792?l=sunshineandcynics.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://sunshineandcynics.blogspot.com/feeds/2519374992183490792/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1384154180660832376&amp;postID=2519374992183490792' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1384154180660832376/posts/default/2519374992183490792'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1384154180660832376/posts/default/2519374992183490792'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://sunshineandcynics.blogspot.com/2009/11/you-were-othello-i-was-telltale-heart.html' title='You Were Othello, I Was The Telltale Heart, and My Uncle Said Ulysses Had to Meet Aslan (a.k.a I Give Taylor Swift a Lesson In English)'/><author><name>Tim Ross</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06743242618532985612</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SLEoUU9cVxI/AAAAAAAAAAM/rnNOJEanCgg/S220/tim.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1384154180660832376.post-480874346665732241</id><published>2009-08-01T12:09:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-09-03T17:56:31.109-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Stoner Philosophy 101: A Syllabus.</title><content type='html'>I haven't written on here in a long time, but I was inspired to write this post. A cascading wave of inspiration struck me like I imagine it once struck Hemingway, Twain, or Ginsberg. The human intervention of a muse came in the form of someone commenting on underwater feces. I doubt it &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;that&lt;/span&gt; ever happened to Hemingway, though.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;While I've never been a stoner myself, I've made acquaintances with them in the past and as we've all noticed: they tend to say some pretty pseudo-philosophical things. So here my giggle-fit friends, is the college course of Stoner Philosophy 101:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Stoner Philosophy 101: The, like, shit that like is in the Universe and is I think of it with my mind.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;table&gt;&lt;tbody&gt;&lt;tr&gt;&lt;td width="30%"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;OFFICE:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/td&gt; &lt;td width="70%"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;Building 2, Room 420&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/td&gt; &lt;/tr&gt;&lt;tr&gt; &lt;td valign="top"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;OFFICE HOURS:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/td&gt; &lt;td&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;4:20-5:30 MON &amp;amp; WED; 7:30-8:30 TUE &amp;amp; THR; 11:30-4:20 FRI&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/td&gt; &lt;/tr&gt;&lt;tr&gt; &lt;td valign="top"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;OFFICE PHONE:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/td&gt; &lt;td&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;420-4335 (leave a message after six rings; please speak loud enough and clearly)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/td&gt; &lt;/tr&gt;&lt;tr&gt; &lt;td valign="top"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;E-MAIL ADDRESS:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/td&gt; &lt;td&gt;Dragonfirecannabis@hotmail.com&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/td&gt; &lt;/tr&gt;&lt;tr&gt; &lt;td&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;WEB PAGE:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/td&gt; &lt;td&gt;huh?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/td&gt; &lt;/tr&gt;&lt;tr&gt; &lt;td&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;COURSE PAGE:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/td&gt; &lt;td&gt;Wait what?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/td&gt; &lt;/tr&gt;&lt;tr&gt; &lt;td&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;CLASS HOURS:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/td&gt; &lt;td&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;5:30-7:50 MON &amp;amp; WED&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;&lt;/tbody&gt;&lt;/table&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;A. Description&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This course is designed to open and free your mind to the philosophical..like..things, of like Bob Marley and stuff. It will be like an enriching experience and stuff. I forget what I was saying.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;B. Course Objectives&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The objectives of this course are as follows:&lt;br /&gt;1. Enlightenment.&lt;br /&gt;2. Discussing the creation of marijuana and the universe.&lt;br /&gt;3. George W. Bush sucks.&lt;br /&gt;4. Bill O Reilly does to.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;C. Course Topics&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. Why the munchies are an inner outcry for fulfillment in the age of fast food and instant gratification.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. Instant gratification? Mmm, that reminds me of Instant Mashed Potatoes. Why are Instant Mashed Potatoes so delicious?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3. It is weird that we only see our poop through water? I mean like, I don't poop in the woods. Why are you looking at me funny, do you poop in the woods?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4. Yarn and the innerworkings of the psychedelic universe surrounding us but not visible to our naked eyes. haha, naked.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5.  Why republicans suck. (lol they wear suits and stuff)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6. I have this blanket from when I was a kid and it's got holes in it and it reminds me of the fragility of the universe and how human live is woven into it and how we can fall through the hole at any time. By fall through the hole I mean die though it's not like earthquakes are making huge holes or people just fall into the grand canyon or anything well I'm sure people might jump in there sometimes but that's not what I'm talking about i mean like, you see, this blanket is filled with holes and life is inconsistent it doesn't make much sense sometimes I remember the coffee my grandpa used to drink before he died it smelled really strong but not the way my blanket smells but it's like holes in the universe and we all die. Or something.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7. Have you ever read how Buddhists believe like you come back as something again if you are a good person. I would like to come back as a lab rat. That tests weed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;8. Someone once told me not to walk a mile in someone else's shoes before I judged them but I feel this is inaccurate. Just like their shoes would not fit me their life would not fit mine and I would react much differently in situations then they would like for example if I got a pizza delivered and my order was late and I was in someone else's shoes I still wouldn't be a fucking asshole to me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;9. Sometimes I feel like we in the world are all attached to each other. Like an interconnecting web of yarn and string and thread. And some huge fucking asshole cat keeps swatting at it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;10. People get abused in third world countries. Man, that blows. Lets stand outside with some signs or something.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;11. Nietzsche said like "God is dead", but if God were dead wouldn't like the world be dead to. I mean think about it if someone created everything and then they died wouldn't it go with them if they were such a huge all-encompassing entity wouldn't the universe be directly tied to them? Or is it more like if I make a BLT and then I die that BLT would still be on the plate for someone else to eat.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;12. Now I want a BLT.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Text and required supplies&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;-Gravity Bong&lt;br /&gt;-Latest Issue of "High Times Magazine"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Conduct And Behavior In The Class Room&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;I forget what I was going to put here, but just show up to class. I am so fucking hungry.&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1384154180660832376-480874346665732241?l=sunshineandcynics.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://sunshineandcynics.blogspot.com/feeds/480874346665732241/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1384154180660832376&amp;postID=480874346665732241' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1384154180660832376/posts/default/480874346665732241'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1384154180660832376/posts/default/480874346665732241'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://sunshineandcynics.blogspot.com/2009/08/stoner-philosophy-101-syllabus.html' title='Stoner Philosophy 101: A Syllabus.'/><author><name>Tim Ross</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06743242618532985612</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SLEoUU9cVxI/AAAAAAAAAAM/rnNOJEanCgg/S220/tim.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1384154180660832376.post-2802749535117231533</id><published>2009-04-16T18:26:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-24T21:03:46.384-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Infiltrating Trendy Pants Part 1: A Guide To Picking Up Girls By Exploiting Their Subcultures.</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;Ah, the familiar feeling most men have experienced. You see a trendy girl who has obviously dedicated herself to being involved in a specific scene, and you don't know how to approach her. Awkwardly, you try to make conversation, but she writes you off instantly because you haven't namedropped quickly enough, or because your outfit doesn't fit the standards of her ideal mate. Oh the shame and degredation of not fitting well enough into a niche lifestyle to appeal to the young lady with the pretty smile and interesting apparel choices.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well fear no more, my sons. For I bring you the definitive guide to hooking that scene chick you've been pining for since the first time you saw her looking disinterested and jaded at a local show. You must tread lightly, and follow each instruction as if it were written in stone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At any rate, lets begin with the first subject:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;The "Emo/Scen&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;e"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt; Girl.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SeffymRIrhI/AAAAAAAAACg/L04o2u-zdlE/s1600-h/emogirl.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SeffymRIrhI/AAAAAAAAACg/L04o2u-zdlE/s320/emogirl.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325471144747773458" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Omg, you like, play the guitar?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ah, The Emo Girl&lt;span&gt;. Once an elusive creature but when Taking Back Sunday and The Plain White Tee's skyrocketed in popularity so did the sideparts,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt; the hot topic t-shirts, and the downward-angled myspace pictures. You can spot her at pop punk and emo shows, posting surveys on myspace, or taping pictures of bands to the inside of her locker. She enjoys doing her own make-up, styling and dying her hair, and taking pictures of h&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;erself until whatever arm is holding the camera high above her head grows weary. Her preference in guys includes: guys with tight jeans who play in bands, and..well that's about the sole requirement.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now, if you look anything like me, you are going to &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;hav&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;e to put in quite a bit of work. First, discontinue the consumption of food until your frame has withered away to a a bony pile of stretched skin and sharp elbows. Now, make a trip to your local Hot Topic and write down a list of the band shirts hanging on the wall. Return only after you have done proper research to purchase the T-shirt of the band with the most Myspace f&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;riends. Grab yourself a pair of genital suffocating jeans, and comb your hair in some sort of ridiculous manner. If you don't know how to play the guitar, just give up and check out some of the other girls on this list. If you do, make sure you learn some cover songs about breaking up, and some hideously cute cover songs about falling in love and stars in the sky or beach blankets or some other bullshit like that. Another great ploy is to w&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;rite stic&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;ky sweet poetry that makes her eyes light up, and everyone else's eyes roll. Be sure to include lots of references to holding hands, watching sunsets, lying beneath the stars, and road trips. Basically, if you have more sap than a full-grown redwood tree, you should be catching a glimpse of her boyshorts in a week or so.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;THE APPROACH&lt;/span&gt;: The most likely encounter is going to sta&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;rt with her immediate frustration, because you're going to have to interrupt the ongoing conversation she is having on her Sidekick at the time. Disarm her by complimenting her hair, making sure to say that each of the 15 colors perfectly accent each other. Tell her you love th&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;e band on her shirt, and then spend 15-20 minutes listening to her rave about how cute the singers dimples are and how she falls asleep to their music and is so in love with them. She'll be glad &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;you listened. While she is rambling, try to take note if she has any straight edge paraphanelia on. If not, she probably wants to get drunk with you. Invite her to a party and in the middle of it, make sure someone plays Framing Hanleys Co&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;ver of Lil Wayne's "Lollipop". She'll be all yours. Well, at least until she hooks up with the drummer of the newest local emo band.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;WARNINGS&lt;/span&gt;: This subculture has for some reason infiltrated High Schools across the nation, so it's quite likely that the 99 year old "Mandy Murder" &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;on your friends list is actually a high school freshman who can send your ass straight to an awk&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;ward encounter with Chris Hansen.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SefgyoMEJdI/AAAAAAAAACo/HtjLn_-IOzw/s1600-h/chris-hansen.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 315px; height: 268px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SefgyoMEJdI/AAAAAAAAACo/HtjLn_-IOzw/s320/chris-hansen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325472244775003602" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;So, what exactly did you say to "xXMandyMurderHeartsXx"&lt;/span&gt;?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Another thing that should be noted is that a lot of these girls masquarade as fans of hardcore and metalcore music. You should not be fooled, there really isn't much reason to be into these bands, as these girls typically only attend these shows because the boys there still wear skinny jeans and have lawnmower haircuts. It probably gets you bonus points to namedrop a few of these bands, but make sure to stick to the bands that sing primarily about relationships.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt; &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;The Indie G&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;irl. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SfKDb0dDj3I/AAAAAAAAACw/dM4pCu4tet8/s1600-h/ladyhawke-main_Full.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SfKDb0dDj3I/AAAAAAAAACw/dM4pCu4tet8/s320/ladyhawke-main_Full.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328465823092936562" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Uh, My College Professor is sooo clueless. Who needs shakespeare when you have Chuck Klosterman?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;Frequently cute, and typically w&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;ith her head in the &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;clouds. You can find the indie girl at house shows, independent coffee shops, and at the local dive bar pretending to like Pabst Blue Ribbon. You'll likely find her on a macbook reading Post Secre&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;t with&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt; a hidden tab of celebrity gossip open. She typically wears scarves and drinks 6 dollar fair-trade organic specially forumulated with bullshit coffee drinks from the local hipster joint. One crucial thing is to remember that you have very little chance with this girl unless your ow&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;n pretentious attitude surpasses hers. Some essential tools you'll need are as follows: 1 Macbook computer, several Apple stickers adorning your belongings, a scarf, and an ironic T-shirt that y&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;ou paid far too much money for. It's also a good idea to have a hipster book tucked under your arm. It's not necessary to read it, just get some cliffnotes. Don't worry- she hasn't read it anyways. She flipped through a couple pages and then listed the author as inspiring on her facebook p&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;age. She's a fickle creature, as her musical tastes bounces from one obscure b&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;and to another, abandonding them when they gain some s&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;embelance of popularity. You can catch her mumbling about the philosophical implications of &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;Catcher In The Rye while pretending to enjoy the tofu and sprout vegan wrap that sits untouched on her plate.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;APPROACH&lt;/span&gt;: A good opening line could be "Hey, nice scarf. Reminds me of the one the guitarist for M83 was wearing when I saw them at a house show. Can I buy you a soy latte? (Or a PBR)". Make sure to not seem very interested in much of a&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;nything, and the only thing you can really get excited about has to be done with pure sarcasm. For example, if you are watching a really horrible band, and acceptable phrase would be "Oh man, this band is greeaaaaaaat. Almost as good as..blink 182.". Then you can both smirk and nod your heads in agreement of the fact that your subculture is so much fucking better and more enlightened than the rest of the world. If anyone appreciates literature and art, but they d&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;on't conform to her subculture, they are still a fucking Philistine. Some conversation starters you can touch on to get her talking include: "Man, I just don't understand how people can live with themselves if they eat meat.", "Did you hear Urban Apparel is having a sale this week?", and whatever talking point the left-wing camp is focusing on lately. Oh, also ask to see her photography. Don't see a camera in her general vicinity?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt; Doesn't matter, she's got some artsy photographs tucked away somewhere, you can be just about certain.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;WARNING&lt;/span&gt;: These girls tend to hop trends like hobos hop trains, so it's likely that your current obsession was listening to kelly clarkson a year ago, watching foreign films 6 months ago, and was a political activist 3 months ago. So by the time you mold yourself in the image of her ideal man, she could be doing tabs of acid and listening to pink floyd in her new boyfriends van.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;THE JUGGA JUGG&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;ALETTE&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SfKGpG8dT0I/AAAAAAAAAC4/dfP_BABOFK0/s1600-h/450px-FatJuggalette.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SfKGpG8dT0I/AAAAAAAAAC4/dfP_BABOFK0/s320/450px-FatJuggalette.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328469349929668418" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;HACHET WARIORS RIDE ON 4 MUH FREEKS.&lt;/span&gt;.... &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I'm lonely. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ah, the Juggalette. If you are unaware, this is a girl who isn't stupid enough to devote herself to a genre of a music, no. She has instead decide to devote her clothing choices, philosophical outlook, and muscal preference all to a single musical group. A hip-hop duo of men who rap about hatchets, dark carnivals, and..dress like clowns.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No, I'm not joking. They dress like clowns. Now, pursuing a jugalette is much like a tribal hunter poised in the grass, waiting with spear in hand to pounce on the next warthog that passes by. Not because it requires patience, but because jugalettes tend to look like warthogs.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SfKH1d4oXAI/AAAAAAAAADA/jkRQ0fJAxkU/s1600-h/warthog.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 317px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SfKH1d4oXAI/AAAAAAAAADA/jkRQ0fJAxkU/s320/warthog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328470661757688834" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Hey, Fuck you bro. We don't look that bad. Also, we're smarter.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;At any rate, I'm not going to judge your preference. Maybe in somewhere in your childhood development a piano fell on your head. Whatever, I just provide the tips. What you decide to do with them, you decide at your own risk. You can find the jugalette at your local supermarket, standing in the soda aisle debating on which flavor of Faygo she wants. She also frequents the mall, anywhere that sells hatchets, and beneath most bridges where she forces young billy goats to pay a toll to cross. Her interests include backyard wrestling, drinking faygo, talking about dark carnivals, and covering all of her belongings with the stupid hatchet man graphic that serves as a "A Moron Drives This Car" symbol to alert you of the conversational abilites of the driver. (I.E. - ya twiztid bro i lyke that album shaggy 2 dope is 2 dope lol pass the bong hatchet warriors 4 lyfe)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;APPROACH&lt;/span&gt;: Well, if you can manage to make it past the barrier of stench surrounding this creature, you've gotten through the hardest part. First thing you should remember is to speaking in mostly monosyllabic phrases. If you mention anything about politics or literature you'll probably be greeted by a blank stare or a "FUCK YEAH BUSH SUCKS" before she downs a bud light in 0.5 seconds. Just talk about how much you love ICP, how much you hate everyone who doesn't love ICP, and how much you love Faygo. Don't confuse her with big words or musical references outside of pyschopathic records and you should be getting inside those size 80 Hatchet Girl panties by the end of the night, or hour.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;WARNING&lt;/span&gt;: She loves ICP, typically has half of a brain, and usually weighs as much as the truck she drives. Do you seriously need any fucking warning after that?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Part Two coming next week. Including "The Goth Girl", "The Hippie Girl", and "The Otaku (a.k.a. That Creepy Girl Who Talks Funny And Wears Skirts and Reads Those God Damn Backward Books. a.k.a they like anime).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1384154180660832376-2802749535117231533?l=sunshineandcynics.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://sunshineandcynics.blogspot.com/feeds/2802749535117231533/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1384154180660832376&amp;postID=2802749535117231533' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1384154180660832376/posts/default/2802749535117231533'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1384154180660832376/posts/default/2802749535117231533'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://sunshineandcynics.blogspot.com/2009/04/infiltrating-trendy-pants-guide-to.html' title='Infiltrating Trendy Pants Part 1: A Guide To Picking Up Girls By Exploiting Their Subcultures.'/><author><name>Tim Ross</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06743242618532985612</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SLEoUU9cVxI/AAAAAAAAAAM/rnNOJEanCgg/S220/tim.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SeffymRIrhI/AAAAAAAAACg/L04o2u-zdlE/s72-c/emogirl.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1384154180660832376.post-2394674329095854182</id><published>2009-04-16T00:50:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-02-01T09:20:54.972-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Chicken Wings Are For Cocksuckers.</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;"&gt;America The Bountiful: A num&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;"&gt;eric &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;"&gt;list of no specific order that outlines how much of a pompous asshole you are when it comes t&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;"&gt;o food. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Here in America, we have the privilege of treating food like a hobby or an activity as opposed to a means of survival and nourishment. We eat bulging bags of popcorn at the movie theater, go to restaurants out of sheer boredom, and  gorge ourselves on snack foods just because we can. Here are ten reasons why you are an absolute dick when it comes to consumption of food:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:lucida grande;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;8.&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;We Use G&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;ar&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;nish &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;"What is your beef with Garnish?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well..that it isn't beef."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How could I have a problem with Garnish? I mean, it's a leafy green substance that adds a contrasting color to the red barbecue sauce that's been slathered over the slab of pork ribs resting on my plate. It is like the oversized hoop earrings of the culinary world, not really necessary, but I'll be damned if I'm getting rid of it. It gives the illusion of vegetable without the commitment of having something green resting in front of you that you feel obligated to eat. The problem lies in the attitude of garnish. It's a piece of food that is included with our meals, but we have no intention to eat.  I imagine someone eating and being approached by a starving child...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Excuse me sir, may I have that garnish?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Are you kidding, this is a picture frame for my food! If it weren't for this disposable piece of foliage, I wouldn't realize how fucking delicious the rest of this stuff on my plate is."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SecQQWvpY9I/AAAAAAAAABg/b0nS9qprOVM/s1600-h/children_plate.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 235px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SecQQWvpY9I/AAAAAAAAABg/b0nS9qprOVM/s320/children_plate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325242957558277074" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Please sir, just a bit of yo&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;ur decorations?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;I actually like to play a game where I try to race to absorb all the saturated fats and pure gristle of my dinner before the filthy vegetable has a chance to tarnish my red meat intake with any of it's antioxidants or vitamins or any of that other shit that fat people like to talk about like they pay any attention.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;"&gt;7. We Talk About Food W&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;"&gt;hile Eating Food. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;How pompous are we at this point, when we can spend half of a meal talking about other meals we've had the pleasure of indulging ourselves with? "Man, this ham is excellent..it reminds me a bit of SOME OTHER DELICOUS MEAL THAT OTHER PEOPLE CAN'T AFFORD." We spend our whole gorging process reminiscing about our Grandmother's lasagna or the old diner that had the greatest roast beef in the world until it was closed down by the health department. Food for the third world is survival, it's just a source of nostalgia for us. We're bitching about how much we miss homecooked meals while eating enough ramen noodles to feed an impoverished family of five.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh man, this reminds me of Christmas, My aunt beth had a recipie for a potato and cheese casserole that was just amazing, like you wouldn't even believe how incredib-"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Sir, could you spare some change, I'm very hungr-"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Uh...can't you see I'm EATING here?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SecQ7X2TtXI/AAAAAAAAABo/4C5pJ5SrT7o/s1600-h/1013_rachel_ray_rexusa2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 252px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SecQ7X2TtXI/AAAAAAAAABo/4C5pJ5SrT7o/s320/1013_rachel_ray_rexusa2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325243696589026674" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;"ey' uh heargh the turkeysh greaht too"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;"&gt;6. We Have Co&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;"&gt;oking Shows. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;Hahahahahahaha, hey guess what third world countries? Not only do we have an overabundance of food in our bellies, we have an entire fucking television network devoted to the preparation of the food that you guys don't have. If you didn't think we were a bunch of pompous assholes before, this really should make you feel like Paris Fucking Hilton. We have a television network in America, that - if broadcasted in these countries (LOL LIKE THEY HAVE TELEVISIONS) would be the equivalent to showing pornography to a man who has been sexually frustrated for 5 years and recently went underwent a double amputation of both arms. It is esentially the human equivalent of waving a piece of beef in a dogs face, only to pop the morsel into your own mouth and giggling furiously as you pat the brand name clothing resting over your bloated stomach. It's like showing a special on smoking crack on the TV monitors in a rehab center.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SecSHo5vofI/AAAAAAAAABw/wz6iIiVU5AI/s1600-h/emeril.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 191px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SecSHo5vofI/AAAAAAAAABw/wz6iIiVU5AI/s320/emeril.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325245006836900338" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Oh you're hungry? I don't give a--BAM!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;"Hey Serj, did you catch that recipe on "Oh Lord How Will I Feed My Family: Cooking Sudan Style?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh yeah, it was pretty easy. Put as much white rice as you can gather into a pot and boil it until it is fairly edible."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;"&gt;5. We Have "Fast Food" Restaurants. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;Now, lets not get to overzealous with our complaints towards Americans and our attitudes regarding food. It's not like we took the whole process of cooking and eating and enjoying food and completely bastardized it and commercialized it for our own convience, right?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh, Shit.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not only are we completely complacent about the fact that people are starving, waiting days on end to scramble for scraps of food..we go so far as to expect a full meal prepared and in front of us in five minutes. I mean why the hell not, we are Americans, we shouldn't just eat, we should eat at fucking Star Trek speed. This is as close as we've gotten to those awesome transporter pod things, so we expect our poorly wrapped grease-ridden cheeseburgers to land on our plastic tray in a minute thirty flat, sir. Nevermind starvation, KFC has a fucking VALUE menu now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SecS-73c-SI/AAAAAAAAAB4/NTaJRoyjJJM/s1600-h/large_zombies.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SecS-73c-SI/AAAAAAAAAB4/NTaJRoyjJJM/s320/large_zombies.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325245956820367650" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Moments after the KFC Value Menu Was Announced&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;Not only are we assholes about it, but we've bastardized it all. You remember the roast beef your mom used to spend 8 hours cooking in a slow roaster? Fuck all that patience garbage, get that shit on a bun in the time it takes to complain about the number of sesame seeds on top of your toasted bun.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Wait, you guys get to eat food like daily? You guys have regular meals?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh would you please just shut up already, I'm trying to order and if my food isn't in front of me in 95 seconds, I am going to rage."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;"&gt;4. We A&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;"&gt;re Fat. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;In the eyes of the underprivelaged, we wear our spare tires like a rapper wears bling. It's a jiggling and unslightly expression of how much better we are than everyone else. The American stomach isn't just a pasty blob of fat and distorted bellybutton, it's a symbol of how much money we can spend on trans-fats, red meat, and little debbie's snack cakes. Every single waddling and strained step isn't something to be ashamed of, it's a source of pride. There is a reason to smile in every wheezing breath and devoured plate of bones and gravy. We are overprivelaged and we like it, all the way from the fat rolls on our necks down to our cankles. Dammit, we're American and we're- hold on, let me catch my breath. Whew, alright, what was I saying? Oh yeah, we have no reason to be upset about anything. After all, We are all much happier than the poor people in the world. We have cheesteaks and pizza and- why does my left arm feel so numb?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SecUhfO2t2I/AAAAAAAAACA/mYMBF7tttqw/s1600-h/fat_guy_moped1.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SecUhfO2t2I/AAAAAAAAACA/mYMBF7tttqw/s320/fat_guy_moped1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325247649940944738" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;The highway of prosperity, happiness, and heart disease. &lt;/span&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;"&gt;3. We Have "Wing Nights"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SecVBE1j5wI/AAAAAAAAACI/_YQRHFG5qgI/s1600-h/chickenwings.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 220px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SecVBE1j5wI/AAAAAAAAACI/_YQRHFG5qgI/s320/chickenwings.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325248192611346178" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;It's hard to fly when you're baked. Or fried. Or dead. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;"Hey man, you want me to kill a chicken for dinner tonight?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Fuck that, kill a whole flock of them and feed me just thier wings. I want to mock their silly flightless lives by munching on the worthless wings that never granted them freedom."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yes! Who the hell needs to those other ridiculous parts of the chicken? Breast, Thighs, Legs..we aren't Eskimos, we don't need to keep that useless shit around. Throw us the wings and we'll drop them in a vat of cooking oil and slather them in hot sauce.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not only are we pompous, bloated, picky assholes, but we are even selective down to the point where we can request the smallest part of a certain animal to be delivered to us in mass quantities. "But, Sir..in order to fill your order, we would have to kill forty different chickens when you could get the same amount of meat from 2 of them."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"And, your point is?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;"&gt;2. We Have Buffets&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Alright. If you are not penning a letter to the kid you sponsored and forgot to pay the monthly contribution to apologizing for being a huge asshole, maybe now is the time to break out the stationary. Buffets are the perfect example of American Excess just for the fact that they are so common. It isn't a huge diamond necklace or something that is exclusive to only the wealthiest members of our society. Buffets are a meeting ground of pride and complacency that is even open to the trailer park denizens who only venture out of the house once a month for shrimp night.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;We line up tables and tables of food, almost as a slap in the face of the third world. "Not only are we not hungry...but just look at how fucking much we have!" Our eating habits in this case are like a billionare going on television from his home and slinging millions of dollars around in his bedroom as he dances around naked and wipes his ass with hundred dollar bills. All the while reminding you that if it wasn't for your blatant exploitation, we wouldn't be able to mock you so openly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SecVfkXRt0I/AAAAAAAAACQ/DaIwEW6M5hQ/s1600-h/chinatown-buffet.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SecVfkXRt0I/AAAAAAAAACQ/DaIwEW6M5hQ/s320/chinatown-buffet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325248716470335298" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;"&gt;Na-Na Na Na-Na&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;"Oh my lord, in my country we have nothing like this, this is wonderous, a feast worthy of a king, an amazing spread of-"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Shut up and grab a plate, you're holding up the line."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;"&gt;1. We Have Competitive Eating Contests&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;We have so much fucking food that we make a game out of seeing how much of it we can possibly shove into our bodies. I seriously can't even say anything about this because if you don't already think it's completely fucking ridiculous, then I just have no idea what to say to you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SecWVvokY6I/AAAAAAAAACY/w4Wqu6965hk/s1600-h/Kobayashi.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 283px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SecWVvokY6I/AAAAAAAAACY/w4Wqu6965hk/s320/Kobayashi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325249647208588194" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Kobayashi, what's your strategy for todays competition? "Uh..eat really fucking fast."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh, if I could only get ahold of one of those hot dogs..I am so hungry.."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Hot dog? That's a piece of athletic equipment there, you'd better back the fuck off."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1384154180660832376-2394674329095854182?l=sunshineandcynics.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://sunshineandcynics.blogspot.com/feeds/2394674329095854182/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1384154180660832376&amp;postID=2394674329095854182' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1384154180660832376/posts/default/2394674329095854182'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1384154180660832376/posts/default/2394674329095854182'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://sunshineandcynics.blogspot.com/2009/04/chicken-wings-are-for-cocksuckers.html' title='Chicken Wings Are For Cocksuckers.'/><author><name>Tim Ross</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06743242618532985612</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SLEoUU9cVxI/AAAAAAAAAAM/rnNOJEanCgg/S220/tim.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_aN-NNm9oq9Q/SecQQWvpY9I/AAAAAAAAABg/b0nS9qprOVM/s72-c/children_plate.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry></feed>
