Halloween Pumpkin Carving: Gateway to Mass Murder

By Roode

Kids love Halloween. It's the one time of year they can get free candy that doesn't involve creepy old men in bathrobes. Adults love it, because it's the one time of they year that dressing up like Tyra Banks isn't exclusively for drag queens.

Remember when Jamie Fox was funny? Of course you don't.

I don't dress up. I don't trick or treat. I don't have kids so I'm not forced to pretend I give a shit. This may surprise some of you, but I'm not a happy go lucky holiday celebrating person. I wouldn't put up that fucking Christmas tree if I didn't get a guilt trip from the wife each and every "have to buy new strings of lights because the ones from last Christmas never fucking work" year. I suggested we just forgo the tree one year. It was like I proposed we put on cleats and go kitten stomping.

My bags are always packed for the latest guilt trip provided by The Wife Travel Agency.

Last weekend I hung out with Ren. I was bored and sober. I knew that belligerent Irish drunk had booze. I had wifey in tow for a low key Saturday evening. Adel was out of town making plans for her wedding (that's right kids- more on that another time) and who the hell knows what Tresckow was doing. Maybe storming Poland?

Tank rental is surprising affordable.

I was quite happy to sit there, watch TV, and suck down Guinness. The hens were yapping in another room and Commando was on TV. Awesome! Beer, violence, and HDTV. I defy you to come up with a better combination. Defy you, I say!

Somewhere around the part when Schwarzenegger is slaughtering the island army lead by Nick Tortelli Ren had the most horrible idea since CNN's coverage of the Michael Jackson funeral. "Hey! Let's make Jack O'Lanterns." Bitch.


Sure, I protested. You married guys out there know resistance is futile. Over the years my "Fuck it! Whatever!" switch developed a hair trigger. I learned about three years into married bliss that it's the path of least resistance that gets you laid. So, when someone has a fucktarded idea like this and the wife is into it, fuck it. I'm as powerless as Valtrex is on Tila Tequila.

This fucker is pretty much always set to "on."

I knew I was in for a rocket ship to a ball taggingly painful night when it took the girls 30 minutes to find the right pumpkins. It was the like the Goldilocks of pumpkin searching. This one is too small. This one has too many bumps. This one has a funny looking stem... damn it! At this point I didn't give a shit if the son-of-a-bitch was oozing blood while demonic voices chanted an ode to Satan. Why the fuck can't women find ANYTHING in under half an hour? Holy yeti piss, the fucker's going to end up a rotting corpse on the stoop anyway.

Pictured: Good investment.

After buying four medium sized pumpkins (four, because the odds of fucking up are excellent when you've been drinking since 3) we carted the orange bastards back to the house. First off, let me say it's completely fucking ridiculous the amount of goddamn work you have to put in just to cut the top off. Then, there's a shitload of stringy, gag reflex slapping innards that have to be scooped out. This shit looks, feels, and acts wrong. Not only does it feel like goopy, stringy shit from a camel with diarrhea, it's nye impossible to keep it in one place. If you're lucky, it just falls on the floor like so much spaghetti of the damned. If you're not so lucky, it can find its way into your pants. Don't fucking give me that look. It happens.

Look at this putrid, stringy mess and tell me you don't want to blow chunks.

It's not over yet. Oh no, there's more labor intensive bullshit waiting to play ping pong with your dangly parts. Now you have to scrape the meat of the friggin thing. There's nothing remotely appealing about that phrase. Scrape the meat? That conjures up all sorts of fucked up Donner Party images.

Delish.

Hold on! Before you start scraping chunks of pumpkin meat, you need to know two things; 1) No kitchen utensil in the known world is built for this and 2) if you take too much out the whole fucking thing will collapse. Who knew this was a science?

I don't know, Bill. Maybe there is no cure for Jack O'Lantern carving rage.

Of course, my wife is a friggin genius with this shit. She's the artsy crafty one. I'm the one that gets pissed off and dynamites random things in nature. Ren, the dumbass that came up with the idea, redefined suck. She bought one of those stencils that is supposed to help you carve designs. That fucker was too complicated for a drunken Mick. It didn't end well.

After giving up on ever stenciling this thing right, she decided to carve the fucker with a hammer.

Well, that gourd was out of commission. Mine, on the other hand, was still in the race. Sure, it frustrated me a little...

The fucker had it coming.

This sucks! Who started this butt fucking tradition anyway? Liquored up, pissed off people shouldn't be asked to hack the almighty shit out of produce. That's how Bundy got started.

Bundy.

After another (4) beer, I went back to the taunting, round poop stain. OK, I just stabbed it a few times. It's fixable. I'll just get to work cutting out the nose and smile. This shit has to be getting me brownie points with the wife, right? RIGHT? Besides, I know I can do better than Ren's second attempt.

I've never seen a Jack O'Lantern with Downs Syndrome before.

I decided, then and there, that I would not be defeated by a piece of fruit... or vegetable... whatever. With each slip of the knife and fucked up tooth, I started to fantasize about setting fire to all it's smug ass brethren. All of a sudden I understood punkin chunkin. Its not a bunch of drooling momma's boys who smell like a mix of body odor and Red Bull (not exclusively, anyway). It was mankind's way of getting back at those sack lickers.

This may have cost more money and time than any sane person would invest,
but, it must be therapeutic to see that mother launched into the air and disintegrate on impact.

When the dust settled, there were three Jack O'Lanterns. Mine looked like it was married to Ike Turner. Ren's did an amazing Sling Blade impersonation. My wife's... that's not important. Shut up!

One of these days she's going to fuck SOMETHING up and I'll be there to see it.

If the night wasn't rage inducing enough, this Jack O'Cock Knocker saved the best for last. As soon as I picked it up to carry outside the asshole started to cave in. Remember that whole don't scrape too much of the meat off thing? Well, guess what? I didn't fucking pay attention to that at all. The face started collapsing faster than Michael Jackson's cosmetic surgery (yes, two MJ references in one article. I'm not proud).

Stick a candle in his skull and it's the spitting image of my imploding Jack O'Lantern.

It was over. The damn thing didn't even stay together long enough for me to make it out the door. I snapped. To quote a great philosopher, "That's all I can stands and I can't stands no more!"

Wise beyond his years.

I bellowed "Fuck you gourd!" OK, so it was a bit loud and I'm pretty sure someone called the cops, but I didn't give a shit. This sadistic orange fuck has toyed with me for too long! I let it drop to the ground and I nailed the mocking tea bagger in the mouth. That's right, pumpkins everywhere can eat me. It's on now. Every assclown pumpkin I find will die. I hereby declare my plan for pumpkin cleansing! Pumpkins, watch your backs (wherever the fuck your "backs" are). It's war now!

He was, but the first to fall!

Sincerely,
Roode

Sing Songy Commercials That Inflict Ear Syphilis

By, Roode

Thank fuck for digital recording technology. Otherwise, we would actually have to watch shitty commercials like animals. I don't need some hairy sacked douche bag yelling about his low, LOW priced car inventory. The last thing I needs is an asshole "casually" having a conversation with some other asshole about the side effects of the newest birth control pill or cholesterol miracle drug. By the way, shit stains, even the deaf can tell your commercials are painfully and unskillfully dubbed.

Even Helen- fucking- Keller would notice your shitty voice overs.

Sometimes you can't or don't want to record a show before you watch its prime time goodness. Maybe I want to watch TNA Impact or Hell's Kitchen in real time. A man can't wait to see Sons of Anarchy. We have to see that shit as soon as it's on. There's no way I can watch that show after Tuesday without that rowdy drunken Mick, Ren, fucking up the entire story line the next day.

This is MY America's Next Top Model, bitches.

To spell it out, there are times we have to watch the commercials. Sure, we can get up and grab a beer, take a piss, or punch a midget in the face, but that shit always takes longer than you expect. That fucking midget starts running around, you have to corner him, hit him at least 20 times with a sawed off pool cue... it's fucking time consuming. "But, Roode, if you have a DVR you can just rewind to the beginning of the scene." I hear you. Fuck off. I don't roll that way. It fucks up the timing of whatever is set to record next and it will cut the episode off with 2 minutes to go. I can't go through that shit anymore. I'm running out of money to buy replacements for the TV's I shoot, Elvis style.

My wife isn't a big fan of gun play in the house for some reason.

During those times we're forced to watch the commercials, one type, above all others will make your ears bleed. These commercials will burrow their way into your cerebral cortex and drive you batshit, banana sandwich insane. I'm talking about those fucking sing-songy commercials some of these wondertard companies use to subject us to aural rape. Festering piles of giraffe shit like:

Subway and their "Five Dollar Footlongs" crimes against humanity

Ever have a song stuck in your head for hours? How about for days? Sucks, doesn't it? It's bad enough when it's just the chorus of Great White's "Once Bitten Twice Shy" train wreck of a song. It reaches suicidal proportions when the song stuck in your head ceaselessly rants about shitty subs with room temperature meat at the nut busting price of $5.

The jingle never ends. It stays with you long after the boob tube throws us another shameless, sewer rat sucking sales pitch. That's their plan. They want to reduce the viewer into a drooling, shit flinging mess. We need it to stop. We'll do anything for it to stop! I'll buy a fucking crate of fecal-tastic footlongs if you just give me my mind back!



What the fuck are the people in this commercial doing? Why is a cop stopping some chick on the street to show her the size of his schlong? Tell me what a $5 footlong has to do with the weather? Why the fuck is the weather lady interrupting the forecast for this shit? I can't get a flight attendant to get me a fucking can of Coke, but sure as balls the one in this commercial is spontaneously demonstrating a Subway footlong with her hands. Hands that should be showing the passengers where the emergency exits are. Nice job, bitch. No one is going to know where the fucking exits are when that plane crash lands in the Andies. Happy? You've killed them all!

We're pretty sure this Asian chick is asking the rampaging
Godzilla- type monster about the size of his radioactive wang.

Keep in mind that a "foot" to him is half a football field long,
before you do any sort of interspecies boot knocking.

This commercial is multiplying like rabbits on Spanish fly. First, there was one annoying ass bit where the loser (and presumably smelly) band is hanging out at the lead singer's shitty house. He's bitching and moaning about not getting a pre-nup or some shit. He's an asshole, that's all you really need to know. Later, another commercial shows these yeasty fucks jammed into a little hatchback, where... the lead singer is bitching about his inability to purchase something better; like a Volarie or a Yugo. Next thing you know, these asshats are singing in a Long John Silvers, then at the goddamn Renaissance Faire. The motherfucking RENAISSANCE FAIRE!

Oh, how I hate these fuckers.

I'm not the only one that wants to ship these piss stains to a Turkish prison. There's a website devoted to hating these leaky sphincters, appropriately named, I Hate the Free Credit Report Guys. The writer brings up a very interesting point. In the "bitching about my wife and all her bad credit" commercial the singer's old lady can be plainly seen throughout this musical holocaust. Then, POOF, no more. We don't see her again in the subsequent commercials. What happened to her? Did her bad credit make the fucker snap? Did the band bludgeon her to death with bricks? Is she in the drummer's freezer? That son-of-a-bitch has the look of a fucknut that would cram a woman in his chest freezer and feast on her gooey gooey insides over the winter months.

Ignore the muffled screams. They'll stop eventually. Then we'll have chili!

The RENAISSANCE FAIRE!

If ever there was a musical commercial that should get the death penalty, it's this bastard. In the same vein as the Free Credit Report.com commercials, the Safe Auto people follow the same mantra:
1) Come up with a jingle that will make people want to set their heads on fire. 2) Hire a corny, talentless, overly (and impossibly) enthusiastic group to mutilate music in its past, present and future forms. 3) Hammer the fuck out of it! It's the same theory Soviet re-education camps followed in the cold war.

Just like the Soviet re-education camp in Red Dawn, but without the charm and value of human life.

*Note* Don't think I don't know about Hollywood's latest plan to slash and burn Red Dawn with a remake in 2010. Another classic from my youth pissed all over by jackasses who wouldn't know an original idea if it bit their dicks off. Good job!

Just mentioning Safe Auto fills my head with their shit grinning theme song. NO ONE is that fucking happy about the prospect of buying auto insurance. The commercials always depict some window licker who either forgets to get car insurance or just lets it lapse and hopes for the best. We shouldn't be helping these jackholes. We should be stoning them. These are the nutless wonders that hit my truck. No insurance? Fuck you!

If a happy-go-lucky a cappella group or thrown together "band" isn't bad enough, these monsters are airing commercials with your average Joe and Jill six pack singing the tune. That's even worse. Why are the cops in this commercial just taking this? If there was ever a case for a justifiable beating, it's when some prick starts singing the Safe Auto jingle while waving around his insurance card like a pretentious cock.


Take out the night sticks, guys! Taser the fuckers until you smell bacon!

Hey, assholes. I'm only going to buy my car insurance from one company.

That's right. I'm still stuck on the whole animated chick banging thing. That shit doesn't go away.

Sincerely,
Roode

Billy Mays - The Auto-tune Infomercial Ballad

By Tresckow

No, I haven't gotten off my ass to post another Tresckow masterpiece. But, we at the FWTC feel the need to pass along some pant-pissingly awesome YouTube tribute to the Great Bearded One in the sky (not God, the one in the blue shirt and khakis).

Congratulations, melodysheep. You have achieved the unachievable; a tribute worthy of the Church of Billy Mays.

(Keep an eye out for Scatman John kids)