You just made my list!

When I first heard the term “Bros Icing Bros” I thought frat boys were finally giving in to their homosexual fantasies and jerking off all over each other. “Dude, I totally just Iced all over McGillicutty’s face while he was playing Guitar Hero, it was classic bro.”

I have to admit, when I discovered Bros Icing Bros was less about random jizz attacks and more about forced drinking I was still intrigued. In case you have an actual life outside of the internet I will explain the rules of Icing your bros. If your bro manages to put a bottle of Smirnoff Ice in your line of vision you must immediately drop to one knee and chug the entire bottle, no matter where you are or what time of day it is. If you refuse you are to be excommunicated and shunned forever and may never be considered a bro again. HOWEVER, if you present your bro with an Ice they can “Ice block” you by presenting their own bottle of Ice, at which point the original Icer must drop to a knee and drink BOTH Smirnoff Ices.

As a concept I like this little game. Nothing is more satisfying than making your friends miserable. So on the surface, bros icing bros has some merit. HOWEVER, like most things dude-types participate in, the concept is lost in poor execution. Rather than coming up with a creative way to make their friends happen upon an Ice, most of these bros simply excitedly run up to their friends and hand them a Smirnoff Ice with all the coolness of a little giggly girl freaking out at a Twilight premiere.

Come on BROS, butch it up a little! These real versions of Bros Icing Bros might actually be more gay than my original understanding of the game.

Calm down ladies, don’t get your flip-flops all tangled in a bunch.

“Get on your knees bro (giggle giggle)”

Hipsters Icing Hipsters – “I’m going to Ice Baker, I’m going to Ice the fuck out of Baker with a pineapple.” Um, look out Baker, I think you are about to be raped.

You just got Iced. Now, drink it naked while we all watch.

Bruce Willis is really a ghost. Bruce Willis and Samuel L. Jackson are really superheroes. Water kills aliens and Mel Gibson’s wife tells him to swing some dumb baseball bat on her deathbed. The village is really an experiment and the movie actually takes place in modern times. The lady in the water is, I don’t know, magic or something. Plants are making people commit suicide.

SPOILER ALERT! Whoops, I did that wrong.

Feel free to send me thank you cards and gifts for saving you from wasting several hours of your life sitting through this bullshit. I prefer vintage acoustic guitars. (No Spanish or classical guitars please and obviously pre-1970)

First of all, how did a guy named M. Night Shyamymallanam7an even find work in Hollywood? What ever happened to directors with names like JOHN FORD and COEN BROTHERS? To be honest, I don’t have the five minutes it takes to say M. Night Shyamama$llayaymama, I’ve got shit to do, pal. I have a recall on my car to repair something that might cause my car to burst into flames and it has gone ignored for over 4 years, what makes you think I’m going to have time to pronounce your fucked-up name?

Remember when we all saw The Sixth Sense for the first time? After the movie we walked to our cars excitedly talking over each other, saying things like, “I never saw it coming” and “that kid who saw dead people was sooooo good” and “I totally can’t wait to rent this at Blockbuster on VHS video tape format so I can look for clues.” Well, we were a bunch of assholes. The sooner we can admit it the sooner we can begin the healing process.

UPDATE. Watch this.

All I know is that every time I get a massage it looks nothing like the tranquil rocks-on-the-back photos I always see advertised. In fact, it’s usually midnight, I’m somewhere near the airport and I’m sitting in the parking lot of a 7-11 trying to freshen up by triggering a Glade Sense & Spray off in my pants. Sorry, I like to be presentable for the ladies, sue me.

But wait, that’s not the point of this post! I’m not attacking hot stone massages, rather I take issue with the endless parade of identical massage stock photos we are forced to suffer through. Sure, the boob squishing out from the side is a check in the plus column but is it enough? Is it enough? I’m here to ask the difficult questions.

I sincerely hope you have found yourself on this page after doing a Google search for “massage stock photos” and I hope you are now rethinking your decision to use a photo of a topless woman with “rock spine.” I understand why you want to use a photo like this but I implore you to help put an end to this epidemic. Let’s do this together, let’s think outside the box.

Maybe… just thinking off the top of my head here… maybe we can try some with the woman on her back? Maybe she’s in heels? You know, something fuckin’ classy.

Remember in the last post when I said my next post would be better? Boy did I get that wrong!

I just got my internet connection back, it’s late and I’m tired so this one will suck.

You know what else sucks? The weather in the Midwest! Take a look at that forecast, that’s what we’ve seen every day this summer. Thanks for another awesome weekend God.

Let me run down the seasons in Chicago for you…

Spring – Spring lasts about 4 minutes in Chicago, A housefly lives longer than our pathetic spring.
Summer – Three months of hot, humid, stormy bullshit peppered with the sound of every rap song ever written playing simultaneously from every car window in the city. Each summer we have a stretch that is so hot our elderly population begins to drop dead and the moon turns orange. Orange!
Fall – Admittedly fall is a nice season but it’s impossible to enjoy because it’s just foreplay for the horrible winter that is about to fuck you.
Winter – Have you ever experienced wind that is so cold it makes you cry? I don’t mean that your eyes simply water, I am talking about actual crying, crying and begging for death. Oh yeah, and it lasts approximately 16 months.

I would estimate that we have about 5 actual nice days each year. How’s a bro supposed to get his Frisbee golf on?

Goodnight, I’m the worst writer in the world. I will try to make next week better but I can’t promise anything.

I’m writing this from my phone because Comcast is shoving the internet up its own ass! I’ve been without an internet connection for over 14 hours now and it’s seriously cramping my style. How will I keep up with every single cute thing my Facebook friends’ kids say? Don’t even get me started on an ENTIRE DAY without porn! I hate you Comcast, I want my porn back!

The subject of the oil spill and the incredible greed at BP is simply too depressing to even think about, so instead I give you ten clips of deer licking other animals.

Boycott BP and BP brands:
Castrol, Arco, Aral, am/pm, Amoco, Wild Bean Cafe and, Safeway gas.

Now let the licking begin!

How the fuck did I ever figure out whether or not my beer was cold before the world’s smartest scientists at Coors figured out how to make the box tell me? Hey box, if you’re so smart why don’t you tell me why my parents got divorced?

I’m wondering if people who drink Coors Light might be mildly retarded because Coors finds it necessary to constantly invent space-age cans, bottles and boxes that attempt to explain the difference between cold and not cold to their customers.

Some of you elitists out there are probably using your East Coast liberal voice to say, “Can’t you just touch the can to see if it’s cold?” Oh yeah? Why don’t you get back on your polo horse Spencer, because the working man ain’t got no time to be touching no bottles and cans all day long. Real men are too busy chopping trees the fuck down and hauling them behind their pick-ups with chains to waste time checking the temperature of every beer they encounter. Even if they WANTED to check the temperature of a Coors Light it would be impossible thanks to their leathery man hands.

Wait, I just realized I have no idea if Coors Light is a “working-class” beer or not. Maybe it’s the kind of beer college guys in puka shell necklaces drink? Perhaps it’s the beer you are most likely to see spewing from the mouth of a 38-year-old woman in the parking lot during her 20th high school reunion as Phil Collins’ “Another Day In Paradise” can quietly be heard from inside the Holiday Inn? I have no clue because I literally don’t think I have ever seen a single person drink a Coors or Coors Light.

Isn’t it funny how, like, women want to, like, shop and get married but guys, like, totally just want to watch sports and drink beer?

Denny’s host: “Good morning, welcome to Denny’s, May I take your coat and top hat?”

You: “Please. We have a reservation for two at 8:30.”

Denny’s host: “Right this way sir.”

Denny’s waitress: “Good morning, would you like to start with the wine list?”

You: “That will not be necessary as we are in a bit of a hurry. The lady would like the chocolate chip pancakes with hash browns and bacon. I would like your Southwestern Sizzlin’ Skillet with white toast. Would you be kind enough to bring us two orange juice beverages as well?”

Denny’s waitress: “But of course sir. Can I start you off with a breakfast appetizer? The chef is offering Pancake Puppies this morning.”

You: “What exactly is a Pancake Puppy?”

Denny’s waitress: “Six deep-fried pancake balls filled with blueberries and white-chocolate chips, served with syrup for your dipping pleasure.”

You: “Well, that sounds like a lovely amuse bouche. We will gladly take two.”

Denny’s waitress: “Very good sir. And will the gentleman and lady be requiring dessert as well?”

You: “Delightful, yes. Please have your chef prepare his special pancake balls but this time served on top a mountain of ice cream and cover them with your finest chocolate sauce.”

Denny’s waitress: “Very good sir.”

I just had the weirdest dream. I was at Denny’s and they actually had appetizers and desserts FOR BREAKFAST! Ha ha ha, wouldn’t that be hilarious… What? Huh? NOOOOOOOO!