merry nickmas!

This is kind of a fake update, but thank you to everyone who wished me a Merry Nickmas today! It's kinda tough being the central figure of your very own religion, but I get by.

As a form of thanks, please accept this hastily drawn picture of a birthday cake robot, lovingly rendered in MS Paint.

That robot actually conceptually works, FYI. Don't ask me what all the different parts do; it's very technical. But all the asymmetry and superfluous-looking red ports -- they're there for a reason.

Merry Nickmas, one and all!

rerun: the ultimate zombie movie; my gift to you.

originally posted on January 9th, 2009:

I've tossed around an idea or two for my own ideal version of a zombie flick. I would really love to turn one of them into another stick figure zombie comic, but I lack the drive, the time, and the motivation. So I am throwing my babies into the wild, leaving them to fend for themselves, and hoping that they find a good home with a rich Hollywood movie producer with bad taste and a love of zombie holocaust movies. Here's the pitch; do with it what you will:

We all know the story of Lucifer's fall from Heaven, and how he came to earth and tempted Eve with the apple, and how he's the Father of Lies and responsible for all life's pain and suffering, et cetera. Imagine that, when Lucifer fell, he created a world of his own in retaliation, just to piss off God, and we all live in that world. That's why bad things happen to good people. God has no power here.

Jesus, ergo, would be the son of Satan, which is why he rose from the dead in a vile perversion of life (and why we celebrate that act on Zombiemas! Don't forget, people! Don't commercialize Zombiemas!), and ate the brains of the living (an act which was conveniently left out of most copies of the Bible, save for the one I have right here and I'm totally looking at right now. Trust me).

The movie takes place during the Second Coming of Christ, where he comes back in Zombie form (should that be capitalized? We still do the Him and He thing, right?), and starts turning his disciples into zombies, thus making this a true Zombie Apocalypse movie.

Along the course of the movie, a group of socially diverse people will be bound together by this set of events, and eventually find out the truth about Jesus and Satan's role in the development of the world. They will then decide that the only thing that can be done to stop this madness is to appeal to the Vatican, who will then fund the assembly of a crack team of commandos and special agents to drill to the center of the earth and take out Satan himself.

I imagine it being ridiculous in the Army of Darkness kind of way, but less Three Stooges and more Chainsaw-for-an-arm craziness, and totally un-tongue-in-cheek. It'd be totally straight forward and awesome.

I want to see this movie made. Somebody do this for me? Plz?

this would make the most boring action movie known to man.

I just murdered the shit out of some adware, in cold fucking blood.

Just like Arnold in the '80s classic Commando, I tracked the bastard down and fucking executed it for it's transgressions.

I don't even know how I got it in the first place, but it doesn't even matter. It was there, a new toolbar under the address bar in Firefox called My Web Search, advertising flowery mouse pointers and packs of 100+ emoticons, and I had to deal with it, because that's what real men do. I immediately started scouring the internet, gathering intel on it's possible whereabouts on my computer. Did it have a sizable army protecting it? Would I have to roll in, guns blazing, like Arnold in The Terminator? Or would a more stealthy approach suit the situation better? Like when Arnold came up from the ice and snuck into the party at the beginning of True Lies?

Turns out it was right there in the "Uninstall Programs" section, hiding in plain sight. You think you're so fucking clever, don't you My Web Search? Well, I've got news for you pal. You ain't leadin' but two things right now: Jack and Shit... and Jack left town.

I clicked the "uninstall" button, and this dialogue box popped up:

Was it really begging for it's life? In saying "click here to disable toolbar instead", it was really saying "look pal, I'll give you anything you want! I've got money! You want this watch? Have it, it's yours! You want power? I can make you the most powerful man in the world! Look, I'll disappear! I'll leave town! You'll never see me again! Oh god, just let me live!" Just like Richard Dawson tried pleading with Arnold at the end of The Running Man. You know how that turned out for him? He got a bobsled ride into oblivion.

This is a message to all adware trying to hid out on my computer and encroach on my internet space with their garish toolbars that replicate search functions that my browser already fucking possesses: you better watch your damn back. Because when you see me next, I'm not going to be like Arnold in Junior. I'm gonna come at you like Arnold in Conan the Barbarian, and you're going to be playing the part of Thulsa motherfucking Doom.*

*That is to say, I'm going to kill you. In case you've never seen Conan the Barbarian. Sorry.

rerun: girls - the eighth wonder of the world.

note: I've been with the same girl for going on seven years now; six of those years spent living together. I've completely reversed my position on the subject.

originally posted on February 10th, 2003:

There's a large misconception had by the world right now, and I feel it is my responsibility to rid the world of it. It's strange, because this misconception is even held by some of the people whom it directly affects, and they don't seem to think twice about it. In fact, most of them propegate it, and seem to run with it and become rather stubborn when faced with the truth.

I'll just get it out right now, right here, at the beginning. Girls don't poop. Girls don't fart, girls don't "piss", girls are incapable of any such bodily function, unless it is a toned down, cuter version thereof.

You may ask how this is physically possible, and I'll tell you a straight answer: I don't know. It defies all logic, really. I mean, where does it go? Does it even exist in the first place? There's so many unanswered questions regarding the entire thing, and this is why I think girls are the Eighth Wonder of the World. 'Tis truly a special creature which can take in a substance, retain the good portions, and poof!, make the rest defy science and vanish into thin air.

I've sat down with some like-minded individuals, and we've tried to think this out. We've drawn out a couple diagrams, a couple flow-charts, and really, it's just led to more speculation and further questions. There's a couple interesting theories we've uncovered though. I won't get into them all here, but one of them is what we like to call the "Trash Compactor" theory. It's where there's a special organ in the female body which compacts the would-be excrement into virtually nothing. After that, we don't know. It's all speculation at this point.

Another interesting theory is that, much like birds, all the waste that the female body produces comes out in one form. This is not the goopy white slop that birds produce, oh no. It comes out as what we have scientifically labled "wee-wee", or "tinkle" in some circles. Also, for a yet-unknown reason, the female will cover her mouth with a single hand and giggle 99.9% of the time. We don't know if this is because of an unpainful irritation somewhere along the urethra during tinkling, or if the tinkling releases some sort of chemical or something into the bloodstream, resulting in a temporary case of "the giggles." Once again.. all speculation.

This does not apply to all women neccesarily. For example, there are the girls you see on daytime talk shows, or the girls you see shopping at The Rave in the mall, or a wide variety of trailer park girls and girls from the south. These girls poop, these girls fart, these girls flat-out piss. I'm sure there's girls down there that have blasted dookies that would make a truck driver blush. I, myself, have hypothesized that, because of inbreeding and drug abuse while still in the womb, these women are not as high along on the evolutionary ladder, and therefore do not possess the required organs essential for fecal eradication. They can still go on and lead normal lives, no doubt, just with the added tasks of passing gas and "dropping the kids off at the pool."

With that said, the next time a girl approaches you and tells you "holy jeez I gotta pinch a loaf!", you look them straight in the eyes and call them on their shit.. or.. lack of. Wait, inappropriate wording. Just call them lying bitches, and present them with these facts. If they leave for the bathroom, just press your ear against the door and wait for the giggling to start. Trust me, it'll come. The door will open, and it will smell like rose petals, and you can say "a-HA! I knew Nick could never steer me wrong!"

Because I'm only here to educate.

my treatise on zombie biology.

In case you can't tell by the entries written in this journal thus far (and I'm sure this won't be the last tome written on the subject), I'm something of a Zombie Connoisseur. As such, it bothers me when people who have seen a few zombie movies start speaking on the matter as experts when, in reality, they couldn't tell a Romero zombie from a Return of the Living Dead zombie. Please, allow me to drop a knowledge bomb on you:

It's widely accepted that, when referring to zombies, the Romero variety are de facto. That is to say, the zombies that are sluggish, unintelligent (if you're discounting Romero's later zombie movies, which you rightfully should), and dangerous in groups. Contrary to popular belief, you become a zombie if your brain is intact when you die (regardless of if you were killed by one), and they can only be killed by destroying the brain.

Return of the Living Dead-style zombies are the ones that run fast and can maybe utter a sentence or two. They confront you head-on with their zombieness. These are the zombies that don't fuck around about being zombies. The zombie plague spreads via infection with the chemical 2-4-5 Trioxin. In the first few Return of the Living Dead movies, the only way to kill them was via electrocution; a fact which wasn't even learned until the second movie in the series. I think they only managed to kill one zombie in the first movie, and that was by dismembering him and putting all the parts into a cremation oven, and even that only served to form some crazy zombie-cloud that rained onto a graveyard and created even more zombies. Seriously, if confronted by a horde of Return of the Living Dead zombies in the Zombie Apocalypse, just put a shotgun in your mouth.

Now, here's what irks me: the Return of the Living Dead zombies are the only ones who eat brains. They say that eating brains is the only thing to numb the pain of being dead. Romero zombies are strictly flesh-eaters. I mean, they may eventually get around to eating your brains, but only incidentally. Each movie has it's own set of rules, and they're internally consistent, but they end up getting mixed up when brought up in conversation by novices in the field of Zombie Biology.

Let's set up a scenario. Stay with me now, I'm about to drop some science on your plebeian ass.

The common perception of the zombie plague is that it's spread via bite. So, you get bitten by a zombie, you die, then you return to un-life in your new zombie form.

 You immediately hunger for... brains?

 Alright, fine, brains. 

You saunter out to a safehouse and, with a little elbow grease, get in through a previously boarded-up window, perhaps with the help of some of your zombie brethren.

 You make your way to the first ripe melon you see, and then, after a brief struggle, om nom nom nom, brains!

 Satiated, you slump into a corner and groan to yourself, joined by your newly-created zombie friend, but not for long because uh-oh, here comes the redneck militia! You take a few shotgun blasts to the chest before finally being ended by a clean shot to the brain.

  fin.

Here's the problem with the above scenario: this is the way that you would think zombies work if you were to listen to dudes and ladies speaking of them in casual conversation, and you would all be wrong, because it makes no sense from a Darwinian standpoint. If zombies had a hunger for brains, but could only become zombies if their brains remained intact, then the Zombie Apocalypse would be more like a Minor Zombie Inconvenience. How would the zombie plague spread if all potential candidates were rendered unzombifiable in the process of conversion? George Romero thought this shit out. He's a smart dude.

So, in closing, leave the zombie talk to the guy with the PhD in Zombie Biology. Who's that? This guy right here.

if i were an ER doctor.

CHIEF COMPLAINT: Patient, 35 year old Caucasian male, presents to the ER at 3:15am complaining of pain in his right toe. Patient reports that he was trying to make it to the bathroom in the middle of the night with the lights out, and jammed his toe on the coffee table. Can only assume that patient was going to the bathroom to change his tampon, or to shave his vagina. Patient wheeled to emergency room by hospital staff.

PHYSICAL EXAMINATION: Patient has labored breathing, is sweaty and clammy to the touch, and appears to be in distress. Patient appears to calm down some after multiple slaps to the face, and the threat of one solid closed-fist punch to the nose. I inform the patient that he needs to stop being such a little bitch. Patient agrees with the assessment.

Patient's toe looks to be bruised, possibly broken. X-rays to confirm or deny this were contemplated, but really, what the fuck. Decided to just laugh at patient instead.

DIAGNOSIS: Fucking stubbed toe, are you serious? Patient discharged at 3:25am. I wrote a prescription and gave it to the patient, telling him to go to the nearest 24-hour CVS to get it filled right away. I look forward to getting a phone call from the pharmacist asking why the prescription only said to "grow a pair of testicles". Also, second prescription sheet given to patient in the form of "giant pussy" sign taped to his back without his knowledge or consent.

________

CHIEF COMPLAINT: Patient, 27 year old Hispanic female, presents to the ER at 5:00am with, and this is a quote from her, "a case of the sniffles". Patient is also bringing in her two children, male and female, for the same.

PHYSICAL EXAMINATION: Patient has literally not sniffed or sneezed or blown her nose once since arriving in the department. Patient's son may or may not have lightly coughed once, but could have just been clearing his throat. When shown the pain scale and asked to rate their pain from 0 to 10, all patients unanimously rate their pain as a 10, and describe the sensation of mucous lightly dripping from their nose as akin to feeling the icy grip of Death around their necks. Patient's son colorfully describes the pain as feeling like a velociraptor is eating him alive, and then that other dinosaur from Jurassic Park ("the one that spits that black shit") is spitting it's acid into his abdominal cavity, followed immediately by a brontosaurus anally violating him. Patient appears to be in no distress. Patient's daughter is texting on her cell phone. Side note: I want to smack the shit out of them so bad.

DIAGNOSIS: Acute viral rhinopharyngitis, which is just doctor-talk for "you have the fucking cold, man the fuck up." I briefly contemplate filling a Super Soaker with NyQuil, kicking down the door, and spraying them all while screaming obscenities, but then talk myself down. Then I do it anyway, just because I make a ton of money and I can do that kind of shit. Patients all discharged at 5:30am, sticky and smelling of cough syrup. They threaten a lawsuit, to which I respond by running out to the parking lot and punching the daughter in the back of the head.

________

CHIEF COMPLAINT: Patient, 30 year old African American male midget, presents to the ER at 2:15am via EMS with head trauma. The paramedics bringing him in indicate that it was caused by a bowling ball, and that he was the first "pin" in a game of Bowling for Midgets. I laugh so hard that I render myself incapable of treating the patient.

Patient leaves without being seen. Really, I can't blame him. I can only hope that he's accepted back into the Lollipop Guild with his new physical deformities.

rerun: a meditation on screamo.

note: I'm not even entirely sure if this entry is even relevant anymore, but I thought it was funny. Are we still doing the screamo thing? Scratch that, I don't even want to know. Moving forward...

originally posted on October 9th, 2005:

If there's one thing that bothers me about modern punk / emo / et cetera bands (yes, et cetera is a genre. no, not really, it's just fun to type with one hand.), it's the overuse of the screamer. Actually, this isn't even really a modern thing, as there's always been bands who've used screaming as a crutch for a poor vocalist. Before though, these screamers were predominantly featured in hardcore and metal acts, so I could just write it off to a case of testosterone poisoning and leave it at that. But now, there's a million pop-punk bands from Long Island who have a designated screamer in the band for no reason.

Screaming, to me, is used to convey thematic intensity, much like swearing. Also, much like swearing, both can be overused and lose their effect, which reduces both to a fashion choice. But why are they screaming? What's the purpose? I've heard the poppiest pop-punk songs being screamed over, so I know it's not because it's a particularly intense part of the song. It's just because these bands went out of their way to designate one dude in the band as "the screamer", and now they have to fill a space for him. I look at The Screamer like how I look at The Bosstone, basically.

I imagine, as a sort of genesis, there was once a man who felt emasculated by his own singing voice, but who still wanted to sing in a band. Being there no screamers at the time, it was necessary to invent such a thing. So it was with this thought in mind that this man went to find the old wise man in his town and approach him with this query:

Dude: I want to sing in a band, but I don't want to sing! I need something really intense to do all the time, so as not to have the audience interpret my stage presence as having even a hint of estrogen!
Old Wise Man: I see your problem. Singing and melody in themselves are art, but art implies beauty, and beauty has no place in your music!
Dude: Yes, you see my issue then!
Old Wise Man: Well then, as I see it, you've gotta do something that's the antithesis of singing, like... you could maybe talk the entire time?
Dude: What, talk the entire time? That's kinda lame and boring.
Old Wise Man: You're right, what was I thinking? Well, keeping with the talking idea, you could maybe get this look on your face like a dad might when his kid does something bad, like you're really super pissed all the time, and just talk about how disappointed you are in the audience's actions.
Dude: Yeeeeeaaah, we're getting there, but that's still not intense enough!
Old Wise Man: I hear you brother, I hear you. Alright, I'm just throwing this out there, but how about you cry on stage, because you're just so manly that you can't take it anymore?
Dude: No! You're moving in the other direction! We were so close to breaking through, I felt it!
Old Wise Man: You're right, you're right. So, angry dad, pissed off, ki--.. wait a second. Hold on a second. Listen to this: just scream your balls off the entire fucking time.
Dude: YOU ARE SO WISE.

..and that man, was... actually, I don't know who that man was. That story was going nowhere, and fast!

In conclusion, fuck screamo. Thank you.

rerun: zombpocalypse now!

I've been around the interwebs for nigh on a decade and a half now, and in that time, I've gone through my fair share of online journals. Now, being a giant narcissist, I can't stand to lose anything that I've written that I'm proud of. So if you know me and have followed my magnificent blogging career over the years, you may notice some repeats here over the course of the next month or two. Don't panic, or I will slap you in your face. HARD. I'm just copying some stuff on here for posterity, and also because this will all be new to the throngs of fans that I have yet to accumulate.

originally posted on September 17th, 2008:

I gotta be honest here, I'm a little disappointed. In the past year or so, we have had a few opportunities to experience some life-changing events, only to be robbed by the flip of a coin. Most would say for the better, but I can't be so sure. See, there have been at least two major events that could have resulted in the world succumbing to the inevitable zombie apocalypse, but we somehow managed to dodge the bullet each time. WTF, world?

Firstly, remember that spy satellite that had to be shot down months ago? Believe what you want about the reasons, but I'll go ahead and say you're wrong and just believe the official story about the possibility of the rocket fuel turning into extremely lethal poisonous gas and raining down on the world, because it's just a way cooler story. What would happen if we lived in a world where every window of opportunity to intercept the satellite with our missiles was missed, and that noxious gas did indeed rain down upon us like so much Furious Wrath of God? My guess is that people would die, only to have their corpses reanimated in a vile perversion of nature for the sole purpose of forever roaming the land in the pursuit of warm human flesh to consume. Granted, most of my knowledge on what happens to you after you die from poison gas comes from Return of the Living Dead, parts one and two, but that's really neither here nor there. What happened instead was that we nailed the satellite on the first try, everyone went home, and nobody had their brains eaten. If this was a movie, it would end fifteen minutes after the setup, the credits would roll, and everyone would want their seven bucks back. Now you know how I feel, people.

Secondly, there's this whole ongoing Large Hadron Collider thing over in Switzerland. We're not quite out of harm's way with this one, but we're pretty fucking far. The chances of us being sucked into a black hole created by this giant multi-billion dollar science experiment are getting smaller and smaller each day. Since nobody really knows what happens when you get within a certain distance of a black hole since time and space distort so much, what would happen if we were all just harmlessly sucked through this rip in the fabric of space, and came out the other end in a world so very much like our own, but so very, very different? A world that, I would reasonably presume, would be populated by the undead (and perhaps dinosaurs, if Land of the Lost has taught me anything). Life as we know it would change forever, that's what would happen. For the sake of scientific argument, let's just say that this alternate reality is indeed populated by both zombies and dinosaurs. Would it not be possible for there to also be zombie dinosaurs? I really don't see why not. Therefore, this world is too awesome not to exist in some alternate dimension. I mean, zombie dinosaurs? C'mon. You would spend your days riding around on your brontosaurus, chasing down zombies, all the while evading those zombie velociraptors that cause you so much trouble. If this was a movie and it only lasted fifteen minutes past the setup like that other fake movie about the spy satellite I was talking about, I would be fine, because fifteen minutes of that awesomeness is probably all my body can handle. But we missed out on this alternate reality as well. Instead of zombie dinosaurs, we get the possibility of maybe discovering the Higgs Boson particle and unraveling the mysteries of the universe, yadda yadda yadda. Unless those mysteries involve zombie dinosaurs, you can count me among the bored.

Are zombies really too much to ask for? I mean, I am really prepared here. I know that destroying the brain is the only way to kill a zombie, and I'm mentally prepared to kill any loved one that turns into one of the walking dead. You won't be hearing "but that thing is still my mom!" from me, because I've seen enough movies to know that somebody is going to die once you start thinking like that. I know my shit, and I've been waiting so long for an opportunity to prove myself! Just throw me a fucking bone here.

not to toot my own horn, but my renditions of stick-folk are second to none.

"the internet"

Watch out, New Yorker! Here comes Nick Thornton, replete with his own brand of dry wit and social commentary!

this is how i deal with tough philosophical questions.

I'm having trouble reconciling my lack of belief in a supreme deity with the belief that an invisible hand is pushing me towards awesome things. I'm not even talking about things that are awesome in the sense of, "hey, this great job just kinda fell into my lap! Thanks, Jesus!" I'm talking about things that are more like... well, here:

Right by my house, there's a road that runs alongside an airport. There are a few small businesses dotting the length of it, one of which is an establishment that sells swimming pools. To advertise, they have a giant fiberglass swimming pool propped upright against some supports. If it were possible to steal a pool in the same way that one might steal some Pogs from a comic book retailer, then I would be tempted. Which, incidentally, furthers this narrative and brings us to our next point.

Now, right next to this place is... I don't even know what this building is, because I've never bothered to read the sign out front. The reason that I've never bothered to read the sign is because of what they have out front to advertise for them: a fucking helicopter. Really, unless they sell helicopters, this is a pretty shoddy form of advertising, because I wouldn't think to go there unless I was looking to buy a helicopter, but that is entirely beside the point. There's a helicopter (henceforth referred to as "a fucking helicopter"), just hanging out on the side of the road.

Say you're a man who believes in God. Not a god, but God, with a capital G; an anthropomorphic, all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful figure who lives in the sky and wants the best for you. He sees you working your dead-end job, he hears your silent cries at night, and he sits in his giant Sky Castle, plotting and scheming on how to increase the levels of Awesome in your life exponentially. That's the guy's job, after all. I'm pretty sure it's in the Bible somewhere. He molded Man out of clay, made Woman out of some delicious spare ribs, breathed life into both of them, and then was all, "I PROMISE, AS YOUR SKY-FATHER IN HEAVEN, TO MAKE YOUR LIFE AS BITCHIN AS IS WITHIN MY POWER, WHICH IS INFINITE IN CASE YOU HAVEN'T HEARD". [Genesis 2:25] Assuming that this is an idea that you can get behind, wouldn't you think that God would do something awesome like put a fucking helicopter right next door to a fiberglass swimming pool, already propped upright and ready for airlift?

click to enlarge

As a man lacking faith, I'm torn. This is like an awesome version of the watchmaker analogy. Did an external force intelligently design this stretch of road to be as badass as possible? You can't just throw a bunch of disparate elements into a box, shake it around, and come out with a motorcycle jump next to fifteen flaming school buses. Things like that don't just happen by chance.

That's my dilemma. Do I steal the helicopter and airlift the swimming pool to my backyard, even if that means acknowledging a Divine Presence? Or do I appeal to logic and reason, and turn a blind eye to the wonders around me? These are the kinds of tests that were the Bible's bread and butter. Do I go on faith and not eat from the Tree of Knowledge? Do I sacrifice my son to God, even though it would pain me to do so? Do I live out my James Bond fantasies and steal a swimming pool with a fucking helicopter?

Everyone must come to their own conclusions about their spirituality. Me, I think I'll just steal the swimming pool and remain an atheist. I mean, fuckit, right?

my eighth grade zombie epic.

So back in 1995, my parents bought their budding artist son a blank hardcover sketch book. I didn't know (and still really don't) whether or not you're supposed to just sketch in a sketch book that nice, so I felt guilty just doodling. I wasn't really an artist-artist, seeing as how most of my sketches involved stick figures being murdered in one horrible fashion or another, or cartoon people missing limbs with anime-proportioned geysers of blood shooting out of their mangled stumps (all of this before I saw Ninja Scroll, even. I was ahead of my time). So I thought, "what can I do with this beautiful book so as not to waste it on my stupid doodles?"

Thus, the Zombie Comic was wrought on this world, and here it is, uploaded for your viewing pleasure.

A little forewarning: the following comic is extremely violent, a little stupid, and if there was a plot to speak of, it'd be full of holes.

Also, it's about 21 pages long, so if you don't wanna wait for all those images to load, then don't bother. Although you'll kick yourself for missing out on the triple-threat of zombies, dinosaurs, and Satan!... and Santa Claus!

Prepare yourself, epic zombie violence lies after the break.

when i said "inevitably", i really wasn't kidding.

KFC, you win.

It's a bitter pill to swallow, but there you have it. If you're a restaurant and you come about the decision that one (1) Nicholas Thornton is your target demographic, then all you have to do is market a ridiculous looking sandwich that looks like it belongs on This Is Why You're Fat, and I will heed it's siren song, even after having talked shit not a day beforehand.

With that said, the Double Down wasn't as horrifying as it's own description made it sound. I'll go into it more later, but first, here's a report from our very own Senior Fatty Food Correspondent, Chris Lopez:

 The KFC Double Down. The claim is deliciousness, the fear is certain death... let's push caution into the wind and take the Double Down for a test drive. May I ask what your opinion of bacon is? Delicious you say? What about cheese? Mystery sauce? What about flaky golden brown chicken filets? I've come to the conclusion that the KFC Double Down is delicious to the 5th power. Warning, KFC Dubdown must be eaten before it eats you. This product is known to the state of California to cause cancer. Brought to you by your Senior Fatty Food Correspondent. enjoy!

Could do worse, right? Thanks, Chris!

Press onward, young scribe, for my near-death experience with the Dubdown, after the break.

one about shitty food, to prime the pump.

The KFC Double Down debuted here this past week, and it looks to be possibly the most artery-hardening thing to come out of any restaurant in a while. Honestly, I want to go to the bathroom and then take a nap after so much as just visiting the website briefly to get the address to link to in this post. It's this kind of Meaty Monolith that I would have been so excited about as short a time as just five years ago, but... maybe I'm getting older? Maybe all my shitty eating is catching up with me? Either way, it just looks awful to me now.

Say I inevitably get curious enough to give it a shot. After the short drive to the KFC / A&W down the road, I'd return home with a brown paper bag, the grease and liquid fat that is constantly oozing out of the Double Down having already soaked through. I'd slosh the bag down on my dining room table, put on some Andrew Zimmern to set the mood (even though this is something he'd never touch, it's bizarre enough to deem his overseeing my consumption of it appropriate), and take a few deep breaths to prepare myself for the horror to follow. Bringing it to my mouth, I'd bite down, slicking my beard with horrible chicken juices. I'd scream and then explode like Tetsuo in Akira.

Don't ask me why. That's just what would happen. I'd come home with KFC, take forever examining the bag and sandwich so I could overly detail them in my blog journal, and then explode like a ridiculous anime character for no reason. That's just how things work at my house.

Seriously, I don't even know if my days of eating horrible shit are necessarily behind me, because something like the Bacon Hamburger Fatty Melt is enough to fill me with the sort of lust that only those who appreciate the wonders of shitty food will ever truly know. How many of you would ever eat a hamburger with a glazed donut for the bun? Willingly? How about Bacon Chocolate Chip Cookies? That kind of shit is for the truly elite among us.

To finish my thought here, I just think the Double Down looks like a shitty Cordon Bleu with some sauce slathered in the middle. I appreciate it's audaciousness, but it does nothing for me. So thank you, KFC, for trying to appeal to my demographic (being the closet fatties in their mid-twenties), but I'll have to file this under "Fast Food Failures".

one promise though, f'real: this will be the only entry where i actually use the term "blog".

There are few things more self-indulgent and masturbatory than a blog. Among the items on the short list:

• indulging in one's self.
• masturbating.
• being in a progressive-rock band; or alternately:
• being the guy at Guitar Center going widdly-widdly-widdly on some expensive guitar, just loud enough so that people can hear how awesome you are at scales.

 However, one would be correct to assume that my views are important enough to warrant a blog, and so here we are. There was talk of a mass exodus from The Facebook to return to The Livejournal, but really... that's so Web 1.0. I'm practically Web 3.0 up in this bitch.

So, as sort of a mission statement, I'd just like to say that you can expect the following from this blog: comics, zombies, zombie comics, music, rants and raves (or, as I like to call them, sociopolitical critiques), and lots and lots of pictures of bacon and things bacon-related. I also retain the option to renege on any and all of these promises, and just dedicate this blog to pictures of cats with funny captions.