Lowest Bidder + House Construction = Crap

By Tresckow

Doing home repairs and little home improvement chores is the number three cause of rage induced killing sprees [citation needed]. There are already two strikes against me when I attempt to "fix" anything in the home. A short temper and hammer typically don't bode well together outside a Saw movie. The last thing I need is to suffer for the actions of the asshats that slapped the place together thirty years ago.

I am an advocate of putting the "mentally special-capped" or "retarded" to work, but not when it comes to building houses

Something about this isn't right.

If the majority of housing companies and associations opt for the lowest bidder, the group of monkeys that shit my house out decided to have the construction done for free. It's painfully obvious that the crew of drunken cavemen that built my house were either completely insane or just plain mentally rat-shit retarded.

Me no work now. Me on break. Talk to me union.

Would you like to hang a shelf up? Fuck you! Make one mistake and you'll have to tear down the whole wall and rebuild. Why? Because the group of ass monkeys that "built" our place used the absolute shittiest dry wall on the market. Check that... I'm not sure it was actually on the market. It may really be some concoction one of the suckos made in his bathtub. I've had saltines thicker and more stable than the walls in my house. Nice job you shit eating crotch grabbers!

Shown: Superior building material.

It's like the place was built believing that there would be NO INTENTION OF REPLACING ANYTHING!! Why simply screw in that shower head? Weld the fucker! That's right. Weld that sumabitch on. I'm sure the owners thirty years in the future will be just as jazzed about this no thrills bargain basement shower head as our drunken incompetent asses are today!

Let's see those fuckers replace this shower head NOW!

Excellent move fucknuts! This shit isn't built to last. It's built to fall apart and piss you the fuck off. I would stone you simple ass clowns if I could! I mean it! A full fledged out of the Old Testament stoning!

I got my throwing stone ready!

Oh shit, don't get me started on our front door. What kind of twisted dillweed would use the rarest, hardest to find, obsolete piece of shit door knob in existence. Why is that a problem? Because the hole used to install the knob is TOO SMALL for a conventional, NORMAL, MODERN door knob. I had to spend a damn HOUR with sandpaper and a hammer to get that pain in the ass opened enough to replace the knob. I wouldn't have had to replace it if that piece of shit didn't fall off in my hand! What kind of vomit inducing bullshit is this? You sadistic crack whores! I hope you get typhoid.

Funny thing is the Before repair picture looks exactly like the After repair picture.

Don't get me wrong. This is our first house and owning is definitely better than renting (aside from the joy of letting someone else worry about repairs, snow shoveling, and building codes). A syphilitic monkey with his eyes jammed up another monkey's ass would have built a better house. The goons that built this place recognized quality when they saw it. They recognized it and walked the widest fucking circle around it. Nice job! I wish I knew these jackholes in real life so I could seal them in a wall.

Screw it. Just tie it all in a square knot and let's hit the Hooters.

I'm sure there will be more to come of this saga. I'll have to talk about the circa 1970's goat vomit green rug in my office. Oh how I hate you contractors from hell. I want to hurt you, but I can never hurt you as badly as you hurt me!

I have a few ideas, though.

A Canadian on the 2010 Winter Olympics: AKA Televised Suck

By Roode

So there I am, sitting around drinking and giving children the finger when I get this directive from Tresckow to “Make an article about the Olympics happen.” First off, fuck off. Head writer my ass. You’re not the boss of me; throwing out writing assignments like this is a paying job. I don’t remember getting a pay check or health benefits from this column. No, the only perks from this shit-packed bLOG is that I get to tell women I’m a writer. Sure, that line falls apart either when they figure out it’s for a half assed comedy site or when my wife shows up. Come on, baby, that 70 year old Wal-Mart greeter was hitting on ME.

Secondly, I was going to write an article about the friggin Olympics, anyway. I didn’t need a directive. I’m a fucking writing genius. This brain doesn’t stop! That’s right; mother fucker is always a buzz with literary gold. When people talk about Tresckow’s writing, the conversation is peppered with words like, “hack” and “rhombus.” When the people discuss the literary masterpieces cranked out by me, they use words like “Outstanding,” “Brilliant,” and “police blotter.” I don’t know why they say that last one. I’ve never been in the police blotter. Not by name, anyway.

I never go out without putting this over my face.

Alright, fine. I’ll write an article about the Winter Olympics in Vancouver. Whatever. It’s probably because I’m the only Canadian on staff at the FWTC. I see how it is. Ren’s fucking Irish. I don’t see her writing about bullshit stereotypical Irish fucktardedry.

Shit. That’s a really bad example.

That brings up a good point. I’m Canadian, sure. But, I couldn’t give half a shit pail about the fucking Winter Olympics. Ooooooooooooooo, it’s in Vancouver! Finally, something relevant is happening in Canada. And Western Canada at that. It, obviously, has nothing to do with the CFL. No one gives a flying fuck about that.

The Canadian Football League: Redefining suck since 1903

The wife has been out of town on a “girls’ weekend trip.” I don’t even know what that means. It either has something to do with tampons or many hot, naked games of Twister. Jesus, I have to cut back on the girl on girl porn.

Yeah, that's never going to happen.

While left to my own devices, nothing ends well. I don’t know how to live by myself, anymore. More importantly, I don’t know how to cook for myself. My time alone usually consists of Dunkin Donuts, cheap pizza, and beer. So, while I’m eating a meal of jelly donut and Sam Adams stew, I’m usually in front of the TV. Like, Ren, I get bored to the point where I randomly flip around the channels. I stopped on NBC to check out the Olympics. What a clusterfuck.

I find this brand of sport a lot more entertaining. Side note: Idaho is the perfect venue for this.

How the hell is anyone supposed to fake excitement during the entire opening ceremony? That fucker is like ten hours long. Every country has to do their little “notice me” walk; no matter how small. You have athletic armies from the US, China, and Russia parading around like they just invaded British Columbia. Then, at the opposite side of the spectrum, there are the nations that had to take up a collection to send one guy to Vancouver. Some poor son-of-a-bitch from a country the size of Deadwood is wandering around holding a laser print out of his country’s flag, trying to pretend he’s a team of 100. Way to crush someone’s ego Olympic committee. You guys are sadistic fucks.

"No, man. I'm it. I'm Ed. Djibouti wants me to just stand here for them.

When the fuck did China start sending half its population to these things? Seriously, Ottawa needs to worry about this. With the centuries of abuse the Western provinces have dealt out to Chinese immigrants (like this and this), Canada's hands are dirtier than most Americans think. You think our history contains dealing with snow, having Mother England wipe our asses, and an obsession with ham.

This just may be a trap. One day the maple leaf is flying high over the Premier’s office. The next day it will be one of these mothers flapping in the breeze!

Drink it in, fellow Canadians. There's not even a hammer and sickle on this thing. There's not ONE Maple leaf, either. That's insane!

Who do you think is going to help us with that mess? The United States? No. China owns half your debt. Britain? Keep dreaming. All of a sudden the Brits will pretend to only be a friend of a friend. Hey, fuckers, we have pictures of the Queen on our money. I sure as fuck don’t like that, but it should be worth a few SAS troops.

But, this is probably all the UK would send.

I’ve come to the conclusion that winter sports suck a galactic amount of frozen shaft. Hey, look! Skiing! Look! Ice skating! Ooooo, more fucking skiing. Snowboarding? Isn’t that something the Scandinavian countries invented so they can pretend to surf? The luge? That’s skiing/skating inside a soap box racer. Wait, more skiing? Speed skating? Oh fuck, curling? God damn it! Why the fuck did we, as a country, have to bring that to the Olympic table? Now we’re synonymous with polishing ice really really fast in front of a slowly gliding rock. Fucking four square has more athleticism to it.

Pictured: Not one fucking curling broom and these kids should be proud of that!

Am I the only one tired of “uniforms” that show off waaaay too much (as in any) of the male athlete’s junk? You can see the hemispheric divide of their ass cheeks every time they bend over. Stop it! The fucking luge is basically watching some dude and his vacuumed sealed twig and berries sliding down an icy chute. Why the fuck does the camera man insist on zooming in on the junk bulge? That’s bullshit!

Stupid sexy Flanders!

On the other hand, I have no complaints, whatsoever; about the tight, streamlined uniforms the women wear. I’m thinking of getting one for my wife… and her sisters.. And with that last sentence, I have earned myself a Rochambeau. But, that won't happen until she reads this.

I'm totally OK with Lindsey Vonn wearing a snug, tight, aerodynamic suit while she competes. Material clinging to every sumptuous curve...

She can wear anything she wants.

ANYTHING!

Now, whether or not I’m watching NBC, all I see is commercials with pseudo Olympic celebrities. Hey, Vicks , your daytime shit doesn’t work. Go ahead and use Apollo Ono in an attempt to sucker us into believing DayQuil miraculously cures him before a big sliding on ice as fast as he can event. If he’s taking anything, it’s not over the counter. I’m not insinuating anything [Read: avoiding lawsuit]. I’m just citing the long and sorted accusations thrown at professional sports, everywhere (cough, cough, baseball). Besides, who the fuck names a little white kid Apollo? With a name like that, you better either be a fucking Greek god or a large black boxer from the 70’s.

Suck it, Ono.

If these fuckers are so wonderful, how come most of us never hear of them between Olympics? You’re telling me that there isn’t a call for year-round double luge events?

There's no way to watch this and not feel awkward.

Sure, figure skating can be found just about anywhere any time of the year. It doesn’t make it any less gay. If you weren’t bombarded with relentless commercials and news about these snow and ice shufflers would you be able to name three? Don’t lie. You know you couldn’t. If you can, then welcome to the sequined leotard sporting equivalent of World of Warcraft.

Sassy!

Incidentally, I have the urge to wrap my head in duct tape to prevent it from exploding every time I hear a Canadian competitor say “It’s great to be here in Canada.” Asshat, you fucking LIVE in Canada. Guess where you’re going to be after the games? Canada! “It’s great to be in Vancouver?” No it’s not, you fucking liar. Outside of Da Vinci’s Inquest, Vancouver has nothing to offer aside closed circuit television cameras to spy on the populous and a strong prostitution trade.

Yeah, I stole the "Wrap my head in duct tape" line from Glenn Beck. It's the only useful thing I’ve ever gotten from him.

Editor's Note: While searching for images of "duct taped heads" the research department kept running across pics of the cat that was duct taped in Philadelphia last September. Nothing would please FWTC more than to find the sick fucker that did this and duct tape his balls (you know it has to be a dumbshit teen aged guy). Do two wrongs make a right? Yes, yes they do.

Perhaps the most annoying thing about the Olympics is the fact that they’re being held in Canada. I don’t know if it has the same affect in other countries (haven’t noticed it in the US), but for some shit grinning reason, you people can’t pass a Canadian without saying something like, “How ‘bout those winter games?” What? Why? Oh, I get it, it’s because it’s all about skiing and hockey, right? Presumably, the Olympics are the only thing Canadians have to look forward to. OK, the second statement may be true. It’s fucking Canada. But, guess what, not every fucking Canadian gives a beaver’s ass about this shit. I’m Canadian, but I also have US citizenship. That means, I have the athletic skills to compete in snow-based sports, but I’d rather drink and watch Sons of Anarchy.

I had a bet with Ren that I could work SOA into this article, somehow. I win, you blond elf. You owe me a twenty.

I would have found a way to drop SOA into the article. I have a thing for Maggie Siff.

Sincerely,
Roode

Con Air: A Cinematic Traffic Accident I Can't Ignore

By Ren

I guess humans, as a species, have a predilection to do things that do harm unto themselves. Smoking, drugs, bull riding, and shopping cart jousting are but a few examples of this biological programming.


I bet you thought I was making this shit up.

I, too, suffer from the sucktitude that is our self destructive DNA. Sure, I've done all the shit I listed above, but none of that compares to what I found myself doing a few nights ago. It's something I'm not proud of. It's something a girl would never let her parents discover. Porn? No, dude I wish! I'd be the fucking porn queen of the Pacific Northwest! But, only the classy shit. None of that cable guy coming by to tighten my connection bullshit. Movies with real plot and soul. Movies that explore the depths of the characters' being before the 30 minute long fuckapalooza. My porn would be so good, it would go mainstream. 100 years from now, the Academy will still be talking about that Irish porn star who won every Oscar that record setting night. Somehow, I would have gotten the award for best foreign film. It doesn't matter how! Point is my shit would sweep the Academy awards and, probably, the Emmys.

Finally a bigger whore than Sean Penn will win an Oscar.

Where the fuck was I going with this? Oh yea. I found myself doing something the other night I wasn't proud of. There I was, on the couch, in the dark... watching Con Air. I'm sorry Mom and Pop! Your little girl is ashamed. Despite all you taught her as a child, she still lost her way and drifted into the shameful life of watching a movie with Nicholas Cage, John Malkovich, John Cusack, Ving Rhames, Steve Buscemi, Chief O'Brien from Next Gen/DS9, and Danny Trejo. Danny motherfucking Trejo!

Otherwise known as the MexiCAN from Once Upon a Time in Mexico.

I was channel surfing around 2 in the morning. Going through the channel guide aimlessly, I saw that Con Air was being played AGAIN. For reasons unknown, one of the premium movie channels has had a Con Air hard on for a month. The bastard is on no less than twice a day. I joke about it. I make fun of it when I notice it's on. But, before I knew it, I was pressing "ENTER" on the remote to watch it.

Above: Immediate access to damnation.

I figured I would just watch it while I continued to scroll through the program guide. Scroll, scroll, scroll... holy monkey fuck! There's nothing on! It's been so long since I've seen this movie. Hey, the entire first act is complete shit. Why am I watching a movie as lifeless as the eyes of a bored stripper?

So, Nick Cage was put in prison for defending himself and his wife? Harsh.

I forgot that, in order to get to the more important story lines, Jerry Bruckheimer raced through the entire set up. One minute Cage is wearing an Army uniform , sporting a receding hairline with short hair. The next minute he's wearing a wife beater, sporting a receding hairline with long hair.

I'm going to let the whole muddled, ear rape of a Southern accent thing Cage has going on pass. It was as annoying as sand in your ass crack, but if Keanu Reeves got away with his shit-tasticly horrific "British" accent in Bram Stoker's Dracula, Cage can slide on this one.

"Like, cheerio and pip pip. Whoa, I know Kung Fu."

I was trapped in a cinematic mind grip. I couldn't change the channel. Dave Chappelle? Oh yea, I forgot he was in this... for ten minutes. Damn. Why can't I be watching Chappelle's Show now?

With a case of Samuel Jackson.

I can't tell you exactly why I was stuck in the Con Air tractor beam. It's like a traffic accident, except you rubber-neck for an hour and a half. Maybe it's more like 2 Girls 1 Cup. The whole thing is bile swallowing terrible, but you can't stop watching it. And you can't help but make others watch it with you.

The love story sub plot between these two was the visual equivalent of eating your own shit.

Part of the magic of movies is to make you care about the characters. We want Sherlock Holmes to foil the dastardly plot while managing his own batshit crazy personality. For the first time in my relatively short history as a human being, I cared about Will Ferrell. OK, that's exaggerating a bit. I cared for Harold Crick in Stranger Than Fiction. When I watched Patriot Games I felt for the characters, deeply. OK, I sympathized with the IRA in the movie. Does it matter? The point is that I was under the movie's spell to feel for these people. Does the movie magic work for Con Air? Magic 8 Ball, guide us in our quest for truth.

I don't give a three year old yak shit about anyone in this movie. I'm not emotionally invested in this heaping pile of angry stereotypes. Well, maybe the plane. That poor thing didn't as for this. It didn't ask to be the sound stage of a movie only drunk people at 2 in the morning watch. What? Yeah, I was drunk too. You gotta issue with that? I was drunk and on the couch watching Con Air in my undies. You have a fucking problem with that?

I didn't think so.

Back to the point, I felt sorry for the plane. It sat there while cinematic gems, like these, were vomited out in front of the camera.



Run this segment at random. Go ahead. Fast forward, hit play, whatever. The fucker is 10 minutes long. I guarantee that each and every word the actors spat at each other caused rivets to pop from the plane. By the end, if you look closely, the C-123 was praying for death. Each time Ving pushed out a monotone "Grrrrr grumble grumble" the plane would cut its proverbial wrists just a little deeper. Shit, not to mention all the paint peeling body odor and, what would later be know as, the leaky bean farts of 97. I'm so sorry plane.

That'll do plane. That'll do.

Then, for some reason known only to the functionally retarded kid making script changes, the characters of DEA agent Duncan Malloy has a unprovoked, misplaced, tacked on loathing for US Marshal Vince Larkin. There's no rhyme or reason for it. As soon as they meet, Chief O'Brein starts giving shitting all over Martin Q. Blank from Grosse Pointe Blank. Why? Did Larkin sleep with Malloy's wife? Are they childhood chums gone bad? Someone tell us that there is more to this dynamic than random chest beating cock waving!

Nope. There's nothing deeper.

And then there's the whole bunny scene. I'm not sure if it was supposed to be funny or ironic. Maybe it was supposed to break up the colon clenching action. No, I'm pretty sure some fucker just tacked it on as a joke and no one noticed until the screening. I'm also pretty positive that killing people over a child's toy is common place during the holiday shopping season.


Still, somehow Cage manages to take this "funny" scene and give it the Hershey squirts.

Oh, come the fuck on! Really?

At this point in the movie, I was pretty pissed at myself for watching it. What the fuck is wrong with me? Jumping Irish Jesus now Cage is under a truck talking to himself? Exactly how the fuck did a dozen or so prisoners pull a full sized C-123 out of the sand? Does being shirtless help?

Prison must have one hell of a weight lifting program. That's what you want; convicted murderers, arsonists, and rapists getting buff.

Oh, yeah. Then Cage does the whole "I'm running from an explosion and flip through the air in a way that gives physics the finger" thing.

Because, as we all learned in school, fire is slow and can be easily outrun.

Somewhere between when Chief O'Brein's car being destroyed and the mid-air fire fight, I just accepted it. I was watching Con Air. It's too late now. I can't turn the channel, I have too much invested in it. I have to see it through. I have to see every last fudge sacking second, now. Besides, this movie makes menstrual cramps feel awesome in comparison.

Ouch, my uterus! This is STILL better than watching Con Air.

Yippie! The plane crashed and people die. Someone or another gets cut in half by an engine prop blade, someone else, I don't know, gets killed in some way. I guess the lamest part was when Nick Cage and John CuSACK jump on police motorcycles and give each other a "let's get 'em" look.


Awwww. They even finish each other's sentences.

So, in the end, the bad guys are punished, destroying the Las Vegas strip is completely OK, and Nick Cage gives his on screen daughter a soggy, dirty stuffed bunny. Way to go, Poe. You gave the daughter you've never met typhoid.

Something like this, but soggy and with the faint scent of prisoner urine and man on man rape.

I blame myself. I was drunk enough to get trapped into watching this movie, but not drunk enough to forget about it. At least it wasn't Short Circuit 2 this time.

I may have only been 3 when this was released, but even then I knew this movie sucked copious amounts of sweaty dick.