Civic Nation

Posted in Motorism with tags , , , , , on January 16, 2008 by Ruko the Wonder Dog

I drive a 1993 Civic Hatchback. It wasn’t my first choice; I needed a car and this was available. My previous truck violated nearly all of the DOT rules and tended to really piss off the local law enforcement. I like to stay out of the eyes of law enforcement…the Meth lab in my basement is now netting me a hefty profit and I don’t need any ociffers fucking that up.

When I purchased the car, the motor and transmission were blown, there were some serious electrical issues, and some other parts of the car were missing completely. For a price of $500 with a new motor, it was right in my price range. I was a full time student finishing my BS degree with no help from mommy and daddy. My job paid for my coke and prostitute addiction, leaving little money for other things. As the saying goes, desperate times call for cheap car purchases. I was sick of walking to work and school, and trading blowjobs for a ride really wasn’t my cup of tea.

I embarked on a mystical journey with this car, pulling the old motor, building and dropping in the new motor, performing an automatic to manual transmission conversion, and fixing the various problems with the car, only after I had attended classes and work each day. Having only some self taught mechanical experience, putting this thing back together was what some might call “a learning experience”. I call working in a poorly lit unheated garage in the middle of winter with little car knowledge “a fucking nightmare”. Either way, I finished the car after several weeks, a little bit at a time.

The car is not ricey. No 17″ chrome rims…just the stock 14″ steelies. I don’t have a vomit inducing body kit or flashy paint job. No annoying wings, no loud fart can, no performance stickers, no neon lights. The car is quick…if you consider a flat 15 in the quarter quick. It’s a Civic, not a performance vehicle. Next to a 4G63, or a SR20DE, or a 3SGTE, ANY inline Honda motor (with maybe the exception of a Type-R B series) is a far cry from a performance motor. But, like the saying goes, “when in Rome, you can lead a horse to water”.

Driving a Civic automatically makes people around you assholes. It’s true. Seeing a Civic on the road triggers a release of pheromones in the brain of males between the ages of 16 and 34. This pheromone makes us do stupid shit like street racing, fighting with other males, or going home from the bar with ugly/fat/ugly & fat women. These pheromones travel at light speed through glass and metal, and can subsequently trigger the same effect in surrounding males in other cars. I hate asshole drivers. Now that I drive a Civic, they come in droves, waiting for their chance to line up at a red light.

I’m sick of racing on the street. I know my car isn’t fast. I like the 36 mpg I get, but I have no disillusions about what my car is capable of. Instead of street racing, I’ve begun to play a new game. When a challenge has been initiated at a stop light, I bug my eyes out really crazy like, and then back up so the rear license plate is in view. On a pad of paper I write the plate number in big letters, then pull back up next to the adjacent car.

The next step is to display the plate number against the driver window so it is in view of the neighboring car. Just to top things off, I also like to lick the glass a bit.

It’s a bit unsettling, as is evident by the look on the faces. My only hope is that said driver worries that I will get his personal information using his plate. I am an ugly bastard, and I sure as shit wouldn’t want to see me on my doorstep.

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My Dyslexia Truobles Me

Posted in Health with tags , , , , on January 15, 2008 by Ruko the Wonder Dog

I am not a master of the English language. Not by a long shot. I can speak eloquently when needed, my vocabulary exceeds that of the average college graduate, and I can usually convey my point on paper. I know that in itself isn’t impressive; it does separate me from many of you. Your comments and hate mail are often so unintelligible that I consult my 2 year old nephew to help make sense of them. I am not speaking of just deplorable grammar either…the butchering of the English language includes poor syntax and inexcusable spelling mistakes. Have you ever heard of spell check? Thesaurus? A dictionary? Fuck, I don’t care, next time your mother is wiping your ass, ask her to proofread the comment you are about to post. I don’t understand how many of you function in society. Hurray for the US education system.

While learning ASL I discovered that my trouble fingerspelling and/or verbally spelling words was most likely a result of some learning disability. Testing showed that I “probably” suffer from dyslexia in some form (doctors love the word “probably”…it helps prevent litigation). No wonder Cyrillic really screws with me. As a result, some words are exceptionally difficult for me to spell. I spell about as well as the French military strikes fear into the other countries of the world. Oui Oui.

The words listed below on the left look correct to me but in reality are all kinds of fucked up. The correct spellings are on the right, caught and corrected by spell check.

becuase – (because)
strait – I use this in place of “straight” all the time.
Egnland – (England)
maintainence – (maintenance)
Buhdda – (Buddha)
tounge – (tongue)
gaurantee – (guarantee)
recieve – (receive)
tiolet – (toilet)
recipeint – (recipient)
lotoin – (lotion)
scheduel – (schedule)

You get the gist. I swap letters like semen at a snowball party. Vowels are the most difficult…especially that fucking “U” letter. Do we even really need it? I mean, if we had a nice 25 letters instead of 26, would it really matter? We already have W, which is really just two “U”s glued together. True story.

I recently played (and lost) a game of Letterpillar with my young nephew. Please click here to see a picture of the cover of the game. Scary eh? I think they should rename this game “bad acid trip with letters everywhere”. Christ, it’s downright disturbing. Either way, I could not effectively play this game even if I really had to.

So what is my point? The point is, when the guy with dyslexia writes better than the majority of you turds without dyslexia, then we have a serious fucking problem. If you take a minute to add a comment, take an additional second to re-read it for simple mistakes.

kthx. glad we had this talk.

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Time Warner – Worst ISP Ever!!

Posted in Technology with tags , , , on January 12, 2008 by Rob

Greetings all, I hope you are having a better Saturday than I am. I woke up this morning free and clear of any responsibilities. No work, no pressing errands, and no Angry Romanian related deadlines or duties. Not a worry in the world. Until, that is, Time Warner ruined my day.

You see, Ruko was scheduled to post a Pulitzer Prize worthy article today on the quality of discourse in today’s global village as it relates to the social phenomenon called the internet. Unfortunately that discourse was silenced by Time Warner’s inability to reliably provide internet connectivity to the entire eastern half of a metropolitan area of one million (say this with pinkie to corner of mouth) people. ETA for recovery of service – unknown. Ability to speak to a real human being at Time Warner – fat fucking chance. Desire to send army of sharks with frickin’ laser beams to destroy Time Warner headquarters – overwhelming.

Ruko couldn’t post his article this morning and is now stuck at work. So here I am, lurking around my place of work, the only place I know that uses the crappy DSL service offered by the crappy local phone company, posting this message. So enjoy these two videos featuring a few of the best unscripted/embarrassing moments in the history of college football commentary, and look for Ruko’s post whenever Time Warner pulls that fucking road runner out of it’s ass and my router starts blinking green again in that oh so reassuring way.

Credit to Ruko for providing the videos

Thats a little gay

Britney Spears

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New York State Definitely Blows

Posted in Culture with tags , , , on January 11, 2008 by Ruko the Wonder Dog

What is the worst thing about NY? Well, that is a tricky question. To help illustrate why this is such a difficult question, here is a simple scenario.

You walk into a room. On a very long table sit equal sized piles of shit from every breed of dog on the planet. Pretend each pile of shit represents one aspect of life in New York State. All of the piles are all fresh and still warm. Now, you have to eat one of the piles of shit. Which do you pick?

Early Wednesday this week, winds hitting 60+ mph and hurricane like torrential downpour battered Western NY with such a fury that power has still not been restored to certain parts of the area. On Tuesday, temperatures hit 69 degrees, shattering a record high of 56 degrees set in 1942. Four days before that, the temperature dropped to 12 degrees Fahrenheit with a 20 mph wind chill about -5. One week prior to that, we received 2 feet of snow in an hour. With that being said, I think the weather here might take the cake.

The weather in western NY might be the worst on the planet. No joke. It is classified as a “Humid Continental Climate” which is really just a fancy of way of saying “really fucking erratic weather all year round”. It isn’t even that uncommon to see weather like we have had this past week. It isn’t the worst by a long shot either. We get snow in June on occasion, summer like conditions in the middle of winter, and the wind here blows more than Jasmine St. Claire on the set of “The Worlds Biggest Gang Bang”. Temperature extremes in the summer and winter kill off the elderly faster than a good old fashion influenza pandemic. Have you ever seen a flash flood? I have. We get them about 3 times a year. Tornados? Yup, we get those too. Par for the course.

I guess the positive aspect of our shit climate is that we get sick all the time. The ranging temperatures really fuck with your immune system, and all that water in the form of rain, sleet, golf ball sized hail, or several feet of snow provides a breeding ground for disease not unlike that of Pamela Anderson’s crusty vagina. New York residents get the cold and/or flu an average of 2.6 times per year. But how is that a positive aspect you ask? Being sick is inevitable. Once you get sick though, you can share it with all of your close friends, roommates, and co-workers! Like the old saying says, “if you can’t beat ‘em, sneeze in their face so they get sick too”. I don’t know who said that, but I am sure they were wise beyond their years.

Moral of the story? Fuck you guys, I’m moving back to Atlanta.

The End.

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Lotto, Beer and Cigarettes – Who Needs to Pay the Rent?

Posted in Stories with tags , , on January 9, 2008 by Rob

If I was carrying a firearm today you would have heard about me on the national news tonight. I like to think of myself as a laid back, non aggressive sort. Kind of the yin to Ruko’s yang. But today I had a David Banner moment. Only a few things really push me over the edge. I’m not a grammar freak. I don’t road rage all that often. I don’t even mix it up that much with my wife. (Probably because I know I’d lose) But today I totally lost it.

I was standing in line to purchase a Mountain Dew Code Red at Wilson Farms. Wilson Farms is a chain of convenience stores that shelve anything you need, as long as what you need is cigarettes, Philly Blunts, beer, beef jerky, soda, Red Bull, and/or lottery tickets. It is the final item on this list that almost sent me into a homicidal rage.

First, let me say that I don’t think all people that play lotto are complete morons. I must admit I play the occasional scratch off, but nothing that would actually require me to choose numbers and check them later. If I play a scratch off I assume I will lose, and I am pleasantly surprised when I win. As for the people that play constantly, with the assumption that they will someday be sipping margaritas on their own private island, these people are retards and should be systematically thinned from the herd.

Several excellent heard thinning candidates stood between me and paying for my Code Red at Wilson Farms this afternoon. The guy at the counter was holding a telephone book thick stack of lotto tickets for the clerk to scan, handing them to him one by one. At this point I was mildly annoyed, but not pissed off by any estimate. My heart began to beat a little faster and my face reddened just a shade when the clerk called to the back for help and the reply was, “yo son, I’m talkin’ to my girl.” But still I kept my calm; it was my day off and I wasn’t in a rush.

Next came the straw that broke the camel’s back. The homeless Vietnam veteran look alike at the counter apparently was short a few bucks. Seems the easiest option, canceling the last few tickets, was unacceptable to Mr. no teeth, camouflage jacket, lotto addict. From his back pocket came a tattered, filthy piece of paper that looked like an archaeologist had pulled it out of King Tut’s mummified asshole. Thus began the labored process of selecting the numbers he wanted to cancel. Apparently this mathematical genius had a system.

I couldn’t hold my tongue any longer. So I say to the guy in front of me, loud enough for everyone, even the 75 pound little Puerto Rican ferret on the phone with his hood rat girlfriend, to hear, “Maybe he should kill the whole deal and put a down payment on a haircut and a stick of old spice.” To which I added, “Fuck, I hate these lotto assholes.”

Now I should have guessed, by the fact that the guy I was addressing was wearing a Buffalo Bills coat (dirty as a prostitute’s ass, may I add), that he was in possession of no common sense, and therefore a prime candidate to play the lotto. Not to mention the stack of lotto tickets in his right hand. Long story short – he was pissed, but at that point I did not give a flying fuck. I yelled to Rico fucking Suave in the back, “How ‘bout ringing up some customers who aren’t pissing away their rent money on lotto. “

“You betta check yoself son”, came the reply.

At this point everyone was staring at me. The Bills guy was talking shit about me to the loser at the counter. The wannabe thug on the phone was telling his girl he was about to go out and kick my ass, and the clerk at the counter looked like a deer about five seconds from becoming one with the grill of an oncoming Freightliner. So I did the most mature and level headed thing possible; I shook the piss out of my Code Red, tore off the cap, and lobbed it over the counter like I was Chuck Norris killing zipperheads in Missing In Action. (I, II, or III) I then stormed out of the place, got in my car, and drove off, not forgetting to flip the bird to the crowd of idiots pouring out of the store to watch me leave.

My next move was crucial; instead of heading to a gun shop to apply for a handgun permit I swung by the wholesale club to buy a case of Code Red. I certainly wasn’t going to pick them up at my friendly neighborhood Wilson Farms store anytime soon.

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The Ultimate Revenge

Posted in Stories with tags on January 8, 2008 by Ruko the Wonder Dog

I am a firm believer that conflict with people should be settled in an adult, face to face manner. Getting revenge by means of damaging personal property has always seemed cheap and cowardly. When I discovered the identity of the person responsible for a key mark all the way down my car door, I could not understand how a person could be such a gutless invertebrate. I retaliated with strait up brute force; I beat his ass bloody, as would any self respecting man. No cheap shots, no hits below the belt, just strait up knuckles breaking face. After he healed up, I saw him out and I did it again, re-breaking his freshly healed nose. Hopefully he wets himself when he hears my name. What I can promise is that it is very unlikely that he will key somebody’s car again.

That being said, there are times when a stealthier revenge must be committed. Many years ago, a friend of a friend (who happened to be the son of a Deputy Sherriff) accosted me in a manner that still fires me up to this day. A physical beating was deserved, but I wasn’t interested in a “get your cracker-ass beaten daily in county jail for assaulting the deputy’s sissy son” sentence. Instead, I sealed a whole 1 pound mackerel in the door of his car.

One pound of rotting fish is potent enough to be smelled by a human from 40+ feet away. Contained within the confines of a car, this odor will turn a vehicle into a fucking toxic disaster. Rotting fish causes a human to uncontrollably vomit, and the pungent smell will attract flies and other animals to the car. In my experience, hundreds of flies found their way inside the car to get some of the good stuff. But the fun doesn’t stop there. Oh no.

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What Happened to Hip Hop?

Posted in Culture, Music with tags , , , , , , on January 7, 2008 by Ruko the Wonder Dog

This is just a strait up angry rant. There is nothing funny about it. If you aren’t interested in reading my complaints, go and fuck yourself and come back tomorrow when I am not so heated.

During my early to mid teens, rap and hip hop music became somewhat of a phenomenon. This genre was not entirely new; its roots could be traced back to the 1970’s and arguably before that. None the less, it was good.

I’m not playing that “when I was your age…” card. I never had to walk 50 miles in waist high snow, uphill both ways anywhere. I had a tape deck when I was a kid, and we all swapped bootlegged copies of NWA, Digital Underground, Ice T, and of course, the ever popular Run DMC. We liked the music, but had to keep the audible levels down so our parents wouldn’t hear the occasional talk of “hoes” and “niggas”. I got my first CD player shortly after I lost my virginity to my best friend’s mom (I was about 13 at the time). On the way out the door, I made sure to steal it and then threatened “statutory rape!” if she called the cops. Compact Discs really opened up a whole new world to me.

Tapes were out, and the new music was on CDs. The hip hop/rap of the time consisted of groups like Biggie, Tupac, Warren, Snoop, Dre, Method and the Wu-tang, Mobb Deep, Bone Thugs, and all that other classic shit of the early to mid 1990’s. It was fucking solid music and is often still played on radio and found on movie soundtracks. These guys were angry motherfuckers for sure. They smoked weed, fucked with hoes and tricks, and 187’d the fucking pigs down in Compton, ATL, and NYC. It’s no wonder half of them are now dead.

I realized that I was old when I no longer liked the new hip hop released by modern artists. The younger kids I work with love this new shit, and I definitely do not fucking understand. Every time I hear Sean Kingston’s “Beautiful Girl”, I am tempted to buy airfare to his home and give him a hand with the suicidal problem he seems to have. Soulja Boy? He needs to take a superman flying leap off of a very tall building. I am praying for the demise of Kanye West. I am so sure of his impending dirt nap that I have added him to my list of 12 celebrities most likely to die this year. The only thing more puzzling than the #1 Billboard hit “Low” are the 100’s of youtube videos of pasty as fuck, wanna be ghetto kids shaking their asses (off beat as fuck I may add) to this song. More disturbing is the fact that the lyrics “apple bottom jeans, boots with the furr, tha whole club was lookin at hurr” has spawned an entire fashion statement. I have seen asses in Apple Bottom Jeans with furry boots that should never be viewed by a man. I lost my ability to maintain an erection for about 24 hours afterwards, but it’s okay because T-Pain said so.

Bah. Whats the point. It makes very little sense to me, just like the reason why my urine was neon green and smelled like Oreo cookies this morning. I’ve tossed out my love for the Hip Hop, and now focus on Metal and angry music of Europe.

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My Misunderstandings with Officials of Socialist Services

Posted in Stories with tags , , , on January 6, 2008 by Kunty Tankatrucks

Editor’s note: This article is the third by Mr. Tankatrucks and it is our recommendation to read the first two for background info. Hello America, Dearest Officials of Immigrations…

Hello, It has been many months since I last write to you. I spend much time in confines of Attica prisons. Little does simple man know that to get pensions from government under many name is crime. And to think walking home from bar after losing trousers to Matilda in poker would prompt officer of law to take me to precinct for processing. At local holding camp many indignities I was suffered. First, many dark men with tribal tattoo play football with head, as guards take betting on my life. Next, high judge accuse me of fraudulenting state of money from pensions. Skinny man at my table tell me not worry. Next thing I am in orange suit strapped to very angry black man on bus. I am very scared now. I thought they take me to Africa to search diamonds.
Now my story take nice turn. Two hours later I arrive not in Congo but Attica prison to serve 18 month for misunderstandings with officials of socialist services. America prison not like work camps in old country. No dentist to take gold teeth and no prison brand was left on neck. As I walk to cell new comrades cheer my coming with whistles and promise of brother like love. My cell comrade very friendly man offering share of body heat in cold cage but soon move to own bunk from smell of old Romanian man. Next day I find very promising job in prison. Guards no care about old man like me, Mr. Kunty Tankatrucks, so I carry bags of powder under man sack for bald man with iron cross and sign of Hitler on his arm. Soon I carry much respect in prison. Very angry little man from Mexico push me down stair one day is found with 47 holes in belly next day. All this enjoyment and at same time government pay for food and bunk. Sad to say I am back after only nine month because I act well.

So please enjoy writings of old man while you can. I try very hard soon to go back to see friends at prison.

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Retail Sales – Fast Track to Eternal Damnation

Posted in Audio with tags , , , , on January 5, 2008 by The Romanian

There is only one thing worse than working in retail, and that is talking about it with friends and family. We have to deal with the unwashed masses all day. We deal with all sorts of abuse from flat faced trailer trash, know it all Asians, “lets make a deal” Indians, and, a computer salesperson’s nightmare, old people.

So getting back to my point; retail workers are masochists. After eight hours fighting the urge to choke slam the next redneck that insists on buying an RCA 32″ tube over a Samsung 32″ LCD because, “that there screen looks bigger”, we promptly head to a bar or the home of a coworker, and spend hours rehashing all the negative encounters of the day, week or year. We then stumble home at three in the morning to catch four hours of sleep before doing it all over again.

Although these little get-togethers are generally bad for our health, both mentally and physically, they occasionally yield positive results. The other night we were talking about selling extended warranties. It’s bad enough we have to humor the retards who darken out big box doorways, but we also have to try to sell them a warranty on the landfill fodder they are purchasing. Some buy it, most don’t. There are a million-and-one reasons customers will give for not buying a warranty. Here is a sampling of few of the most frequent/humorous we have heard over the years. This was recorded at a late night bitch fest, so any slurring, stutrettering, or excessive laughter can be blamed on Captain Morgan.

Listen Now:

If you are in the industry I’m sure you can relate, if not, please consider brushing up on your warranty refusal rhetoric. And remember, there is a direct correlation between how you treat your salesperson and how Ruko and the rest of the warehouse staff treat that $2400 TV you just refused to buy a warranty on.

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Guitar Hero: Cool Like Adult Incontinence

Posted in Games with tags , , , , , , , , on January 4, 2008 by Ruko the Wonder Dog

This post has nothing to do with Depend Ungergarmets, but has a whole lot to do with Guitar Hero. Guitar Hero is the worst game ever created. This is not a matter of opinion. By liking this game, you have forfeited your right to an opinion.

I made a reference about the sheer failure of Guitar Hero before and received an inbox full of hate mail. Before anymore of you dickwads email me saying something along the lines of “how can it suck if it sold 4 million copies?”, let me remind you that Will Ferrell’s movies are guaranteed top box office hits, Nickleback’s last album went platinum, and George W. Bush was elected president. Twice. If you see nothing wrong with that, then you obviously won’t understand my point and are in dire need of about 4 feet of rope and a rickety chair. Email me your address and I will mail out a care-package right away.

Playing a real guitar can be your ticket to getting laid like carpet. Chicks love all types of guitar players; acoustic hippy guitarists, long haired metal bad boy guitarists, emo-as-fuck-slicing-their-wrist guitarist, etc…they all get more ass than a toilet seat. But not Guitar Hero. Playing this game causes a male’s sperm to eat it own tail so that it won’t infect future generations of human beings. The body then endures a transformation so grotesque that no human on earth would ever sleep with you. You don’t believe me? Listed below are pictures of Guitar Hero fans. This many virgins haven’t assembled in masses this great since Star Wars: Episode III hit the theaters.

This guy is just too cool.
Yup. He’s a flamer.
Someone didn’t pull out in time.
My Little Pony-tastic.
As close to an “Oh face” as he will ever have.
Chick or Dude?
Nobody in this room will EVER get laid. Look.

The game play itself is what really makes this game horrible. After six different versions of the game, you would think they would make an improvement someplace, but this is not so. Each release comes with a variety of new and horribly botched cover songs for your enjoyment . The cover songs performed are as pleasing to the ears as the sound of 978 screaming infants, amplified to 140 decibels. Furthermore, the quality of the sound is exceptionally poor.

Lamb of God’s “Laid to Rest” was nothing short of an abomination, as were the covers of “Killing in the Name Of” and “Heart Shaped Box”. Kurt Cobain is not only rolling in his grave; he has assembled an army of zombies and is planning an attack on the Activision headquarters, where he will forcefully insert a Guitar Hero Wireless controller into the colon of every employee in the company. Then Cobain and his army of zombies might nibble on their brains too, but that’s not really important.

Secondly, watching the game play is exciting as spackling your neighbor’s den for free. As colored dots representing notes slide down the neck of a guitar, a CGI band “plays” the song in the background. The graphics are reminiscent of games of the late 1990′s; awkward, jerky, and 2 dimensional (Good job Activision!). The artist renditions of the band members are anime-like; disproportionate and strongly exaggerated. I mean this not in the cool way like a silicone enhanced porn star, rather in the unsettling, not so cool Dora the Explorer way. After watching Guitar Hero for about 20 seconds, my eyes start to pack their shit and threaten to leave. I like my eyes, but Christ, they don’t put up with any shit.

So. Next time you are at a party/shindig/cross burning/gathering of some sort and some asshole busts out the Guitar Hero, do the right thing and asphyxiate him/her with the cord. If they are using a wireless controller, try the “strike repeatedly until unconscious” move.

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