Shatterfaced.com - Merely for the Sake of Future Nostalgia

Yes, But EXACTLY How Much Has the 'Sex and the City' Franchise Set Back Women?

nickblake5@gmail.com (The Fictional Ninja) — Wed, 26 May 2010 17:08:00 GMT

(For those totally unfamiliar with the entire Sex and the City franchise, a sincere congratulations. Stop reading. Seriously, enough. Get off of this page. Click here instead. You'll thank me.)

          Faster than Cynthia Nixon's agent can say "Cynthia's free for a third go-around if anyone else is, by the way" returns the Hindenburg that is the Sex and the City film franchise. Indeed, today marks the debut of Sex and the City's cleverly-titled sequel, Sex and the City 2, starring four women who are good at nothing except making everyone with the slightest bit of depth angry at their continued and unfathomable pop-culture relevance.

          Sure, it's become somewhat trite and definitely easy to take shots at the ladies - particularly Sarah Jessica Parker, who looks like what Alec Baldwin turns into at the end of "Beetlejuice".


(That WAS easy!)

         But listen - there was a day where I actually sat and watched the first movie on HBO. I did. All the way through. Mind you, this was during a phase of my life where I was extremely unemployed and my day took on some chronological form of food consumption, midday naps, masturbation, "looking for jobs" and playing with my dog. When I woke up before 10am, that was considered an accomplishment on par with some form of company promotion. If I put on anything other than sweatpants, my parents (whom I lived with sans paying rent) assumed that meant I had big plans for that day. Here's the point: It wouldn't have taken much to entertain me for three hours on a Tuesday afternoon.

         Put it this way - it's very difficult to make me angry; after those three hours, I made this kid look like a little girl getting a puppy on Christmas morning:



   So yeah, the movie was bad. But was it bad enough to directly affect the societal progress women as a whole have made in the last 200 years? In his essay The Hurt Knockers: Feminine Origami Folding Under the Pressures of Everyday Life, Associate Assistant to the Deputy Vice President of the Ancillary Studies of Women at The University of El Paso Online, Sir Dr. Ryan A. Walls argues,

         While most historians and current members of the neo-fem movement would argue that this movie endorses women's rights and promotes the empowerment of women, I would have to say that not since November 1988 when Senator Harlan Chubbsby (D-LA) attempted to pass legislation to enforce women to ride sidesaddle on all moving objects (bicycles, cars, trains, skis, etc) has the women's movement been so threatened. By elevating an individual like Sarah Jessica Parker to the level of spokesperson for this new generation of free thinking women, the mainstream media and everyone who buys a ticket might as well be paving the glass ceiling over with broken glass -infused cement; hell, you might as well feed Hillary Clinton Susan B. Anthony's ashes, then toss her IN the wet cement. Anyone who sees this movie has blood on their hands. Women everywhere should use their right to choose (While they still have it! Watch your back Alito!) to go see something else instead, or maybe just stay at home and after you've cooked dinner, rent 'Confessions of a Shopaholic'.

        Sir Ryan's arguments hit home on many levels. But EXACTLY how much have women been set back by the four horse-faces of the apocalypse? Scientists have been baffled for generations asking this question; here at Shatterfaced, we're not so confused. By creating an easily quantifiable mathematical equation, it quickly becomes quite simple:

(Domestic Gross of the first Sex and the City film) x (Number of seasons for the Sex and the City television series)

((Amelia Earhart's speed record) X (Billie Jean King's margin of victory over Bobby Riggs) X (The length, in seconds, of the Kim Kardashian sex tape) X (Diane Lane's Age)), penalized - 30 million points for Sarah Palin's rise to prominence

or...

152,647,258 x 6
                                               = 13.205 years
(((184) (8) (1500) (45)) - 30,000,000)

Yep, thanks to Sex and the City, women have traveled back to the dark, dark ages of March of 1997. Look in the mirror, Sarah Jessica Parker. You did this. You.

SOURCE - WALLS: The Hurt Knockers: Feminine Origami Folding Under the Pressures of Everyday Life (2007, Highlights for Kids). All rights reserved.

Wiz Khalifa: Man of Prose - by Tom - DPA

tpleane@gmail.com (Tom - Disgruntled Pre-Attorney) — Sat, 27 Feb 2010 19:56:00 GMT

There is no other way to begin this article other than to declare "Say Yeah!" a modern masterpiece, the likes of which would certainly make William Faulkner blush and shake Brian Eno to his very core. It is a song that echoes in the halls of eternity, only matched possibly by Rich Boy's "Throw Some D's" or Three 6 Mafia's "Stay Fly" as a perennial party song. It is, in a word, genius. And the man behind this pristine shining example of musical perfection is none other than Pittsburgh's own Wiz Khalifa.

Some of you may not be aware of this song. For this I declare you the equivalency of an inbred neanderthal. For all I know, sir or madame, you might well consider rhythmically beating your head against a brick wall to be a passable form of musical consumption. You sicken me.

But I take pity and I will now allow your ears to be graced with perfection:
Your life is certainly changed at this point. Several of you may have to go clean yourselves off.

What many don't know about this opus is that it is actually a cover. Well... not a cover, but an adaptation of the 1566 poem "An Exuberant Declaration of Purpose," written by the Dutch poet Dichter Gerhardt Oosterhuis. While studying the renaissance during his time at Oxford University, Wiz found this delicate composition while writing his thesis on Joost van den Vondel.

Dichter Gerhardt Oosterhuis

Wiz Khalifa

The similarities in demeanor are striking; both simply exude grace and talent.

Printed below is a copy of the original poem as well as Wiz's adapted lyrics. Enjoy.

Say Yeah
By Wiz Khalifa

It's say yeah
One night in town
My niggas round
Throwin money
Them bitches hit the ground
Then bring it back up
She bringin backup
Put em in that black truck
So many hoes they lapped up

My niggas leanin
Diddy boppin
Let's get it poppin
I said let's get it poppin

Just look at how she drop it
Lil mama a certified pro
She need her own show
Slide on down that pole and grind slow

Hell no I ain't countin my dough
I came to blow it all

And get some brains trynna find miss know it all

And I got my cup filled you see how them bucks peel
Young pimp see how grab me up and chicken just chill

In the back of the club
With a stack full a dubs
Drop it low like a pro
Bring it back that's what's up
All my dogs up in here
Plus there's hoes everywhere
Niggas stunt like you don't care

Throw that money in the air and say yeah

I'm high and drunk doin my same dance
They call it pocahontas doin that rain dance
Talkin dough I got it so make it rain man
Cause tha flow retarded sorta like that rain man
Borderline insane man

Look at all these dames damn
When a nigga gettin money
And I'm a changed man

You smell that haze scent
Know my gameplan
Trynna get it smackin
I ain't with dat gameplan

Lil momma work for every dollar she drop it low
Pop it slow stop and go
Lots of smoke we keep em rollin up

Shorty mad she came with you
She wanna roll with us

And say yeah

Throw that money in the air

I said listen here
I do it broad day
All day
Smokin on that bomb hay
And I got my cup filled you see how them bucks peel
Young pimp see how grab me up and chicken just chill

And I got my cup filled you see how them bucks peel
Young pimp see how grab me up and chicken just chill

An Exuberant Declaration of Purpose

By Dietrich Gerhardt Oosterhuis

Proclaim an affirmation! I only have one evening in this hamlet; thankfully all of my acquaintances are in the vicinity. I'm currently in possession of a surplus of coinage and I plan on recklessly making expenditures until my coffers have been laid bare. Such a spree is guaranteed to attract a large group of females who will undoubtedly plan on entering our carriage. There will be such a gathering that many will be required to place their posteriors into the haunches of another.

It appears as though my accompanying party is in a spirited mood, celebrating the atmosphere with calculated and careful gyrations. I, however, feel that we should increase our tempo to an allegro. In fact, I order that it is increased to an allegro.

Behold that wench's dancing ability! It is as though she is a lady of the evening, paid for her performance. Provide this saucy mistress with a strapping post for the purpose of sliding hither and yon.

There will be little to no time to quantify my treasury this evening. And besides, the purpose would be for naught as the plan, as previously mentioned, calls for returning bereft of my vast wealth.

What, may you ask, is the meaning of such wild indiscretion? I am devoted to the effort of finding a fair dame who will engage in oral pleasures. However, this is not solely my rationale. I qualify that this maiden must seem as though she has partaken of the tree of knowledge!

My goblet is brimming and I intend to display my masculinity in front of God and all present witnesses. My sexual veracity is that of an untamed steed. Now observe as I hold court!

The evening’s festivities will most likely take place in the rear of an ale hall, surrounded by piles of ornately decorated spokes for my vehicle. I will make movements as if it were my profession, these actions will be brisk and flirtatious in nature. Thus is the plan. Did I mention all the people I enjoy the company of are here, including several loose women? That’s right friends; behave as if tomorrow is the rapture!

Throw thy riches towards the azure sky!

Exclaim exuberance and agreement!

I am besotted, engaged in a familiar jig. The shimmy in question recalls the name of a barbaric princess; it is said that it opens the heavens. Whilst I do not believe in such pagan idolatry, I theatrically simulate the rain with a deluge of monetary notes. They flutter in a slow manner, similar to the thought process of one afflicted with the demons of retardation. Some would consider this use of money to be of unsound mind and principles.

I am beholden to once again remind the dear audience of the sheer number of females. Perhaps the amount of money I have recently acquired has transformed me into the sort that generates more interest in the fairer sex.

Has that redolence caught your attention? If it has, I believe you are aware of this evening’s course and, ultimately, my intentions. If not, I shall qualify. While some might only wish to end the night with necking, I seek otherwise, if one were to understand the implication.

At last, here is a young lady who gives her all! She will earn every penny for her abilities. She would be advised to perform her acrobatics at a tempered pace. After all, my entourage is not quite sated with herb yet and we plan on continuing its use.

The other females appear envious towards the newly found focus of our attention. Some are rather chagrined to have accompanied us on this jaunt at all. Fret not my compatriots, our lascivious new consort wishes to join our merry adventure.

A hearty agreement!

Propel your money towards the heaven!

And thus ends my tale, but not before a quick aside; so take notice. What has occurred was done for all to see. I feel no shame and would repeat these actions perpetually in much the same manner.

I would credit much of the events success to my penchant for inhaling superior vapors.

Heed these words:

My goblet is brimming and I plan to show off my masculinity in front of God and all present witnesses. My sexual veracity is that of an untamed steed. Now observe as I hold court!

An Addendum to the Statement Laid Heretofore by the Landman - by Joe "The Event" Santuccio, Jr.

boulangd@bc.edu (Joe The Event Santuccio Jr) — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 23:28:00 GMT

Landon "The LandMan" Parker's boy from home Joe "The Event" Santuccio wanted a bite of shatterfaced. By now, you have to be wondering why I have so many friends like these people. That would be valid to ask.

SUP, BITCHES? It’s ya boy, ya favorite Sicilian-American-born poon-destroyer, Joe “the Event” Santuccio Jr. Now I know my boyee the Landman has been throwin down mad real knowledge on how it is to be the fuckin’ tits at fuckin’ tits (right before getting’ that pussy nailed down, NO DOUBT) and that’s cool ‘n’ shit, but I need to let you know how it RALLY goes down for an Italian stallion stone-cold stunna like yours truly.

Now peep this: I love the Landman like my own fuckin’ brotha. If some punk bouncer ever tried to stop my boyee Landman from giving himself a beer shower during an off-the-hook DJ AM set (can you say AUTOMATIC?), I’d be liable to shout “WHAT YOU WANNA DO, BRAH?” at least 20 muthafuckin’ times WAY before 2 yuge black brothas tried to tame THIS beast while bitches were holding me back. But LAX, BRAH? I’m liable to slice you like fresh mozz (don’t worry Grandma, definitely not without a little Tuscan olive oil) if I find you playing that ball-in -a -mini-hammock feather-Indian shit. (No hate, but it is what it is, am I right?) The REALEST brahs don’t play games when they could be working on their REAL Game at the gym, funneling Muscle Milk and benching the same weight as YA FUCKIN’ WHORE MOTHA (no disrespect). And for the reckid, if you think being a card-carrying Guido is anything like that shit on MTV, let ME tell YOU that you need to check yaself QUICK, fa real.

First off, no one has a fairy-ass, “I-like-ellipticals-better-than-frees” name like “the Situation” on the REAL Jersey shore. NA Ah, SON . On the REAL Jersey Shore, you get passed down your name like Jesus (bless da name) got passed down the Ten Commandments on Mount fuckin’ Cyanide – shit is the fuckin’ realest. What I’m sayin is they don’t call me Joe “the Event” Santuccio Jr. just because one night out with the boyees I drank a Big-Gulp and Smirnoff (bless da name) cocktail and got so jacked on Tiesto and Rockstar that I had to give myself a fuckin’ gay- ass comic book super-hero name for my (impeccable) abs like “the Situation.” Nah son, I’m Joe “the Event” Santuccio Jr. because when I roll into the club/Piccadilly Pub Bar and Grill, EVERYONE FUCKIN’ KNOWS IT AND LOVES IT, BRAH. I don’t like braggin, but hey – it is what it is, am I right?

When I roll up, it’s not even like people instinctively flock to me like flies to shit (which they DO, might I add). Nah son, this is a muthafuckin’ CORONATION. Peep this: it’s like fuckin’ Pope Benny (bless da name) himself rolling up with his boys to St. Pete’s square on a bumpin’ Saturday night when the robed bitches are begging for it, except when I roll up, they aren’t pourin’ holy water and blowin’ horns - they’re pourin’ RedBull and vodka shots and bitches are blowin’ YOURS MUTHAFUCKIN’ TRULY (WHAT). I can’t believe it either - fuckin’ unreal.

I’m tellin’ you, me rollin’ up gets EVERYONE so fuckin’ lifted. I’m not even five feet into the airport bar when I have some slut hangin all over my nuts and putting her hands up my lights-out, tiger-in-the-grass Ed Hardy tee to feel my can’t-handle-it lats. And fuckin’ riddle me this, Batman: If the The Event wasn’t such a fuckin’ hot-ticket, than why is it that horny-ass, Franzia-pounding bitches tell me on the reg that I’m even better looking than their half-grandsons?? YOU. DON”T. EVEN. KNOW.

Irregardless of my no-joke skills for knocking down grade-A talent, you gotta know that I am above all a fuckin’ REAL man who loves his fuckin’ family and Jesus more than all the certified DTF pussy in Seaside Heights COMBINED. I’m a REAL Catholic, so I know all about being a no-bullshit, straight shooter who never contradicts shit. YEAH, I might slip E and roofies to half the Paramus High sophomore color-guard team, but you can bet ten bottles of LA Looks that the mutherfuckin’ likeness of our Lord is dangling in little Hannah Montana’s face as I show her the REAL fuckin’ meaning of “watching a movie at my ma’s place.” SPPPREADD THAT SHITTTT, BOYEEEE!

Alright pussies, I'm out like my dick at Spring Break. Til then, follow the most important phrase in any REAL man's life: HIT THAT SHIT AND QUIT IT, BRAH!!

Goodbye Port-au-Prince, Hello Rose Bowl - by the Reverend Roy Pentecost

rwalls2@gmail.com (The Reverend Roy Pentecost) — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 15:55:00 GMT

In his first piece for shatterfaced, ouramericangod.com's Reverend Roy Pentecost makes the case for the imprisoned American missionaries in Haiti.

PORT-AU-PRINCE(Reuters) - A Haitian judge made no decision at a hearing on Monday whether tofree or prosecute 10 U.S. missionaries accused of kidnapping children, andtheir leader said she trusted in God they would be cleared and released.

The missionaries, mostof whom belong to an Idaho-based Baptist church, were arrested last monthtrying to take 33 Haitian children across the border to the Dominican Republic17 days after a magnitude 7 earthquake that killed more than 200,000 people inthe impoverished Caribbean nation.

Friends and Fellow Pilgrims, let us give thanks and let usgive unending praise to our Lord and Savior, Lamb of Lambs, the Alpha and theOmega, the messiah Jesus Christ. Amen! Let us thank the Lord for taking up thecase of these brave missionaries.

When I awoke the other morning and my valet Dan Dan handedme the latest SAVED TODAY! Newsletter(a collection of articles from the news pool not written by liberals,Hollywood-types or Presbyterians) I was so filled with the Lord to read this:

"I am trusting God to reveal all truth and that we will be released andexonerated of charges, and we are just waiting for the Haitian process, legalprocess, to complete," the group's leader, Laura Silsby, said afterMonday's hearing.

If you thought the DMV in your lower real estate communitieswas bad, you should get a load of the legal system in Haiti. But let me beat thejudicial system to the punch and reveal to you the truth. Our American God loves football and he will see these faithfulfollowers freed to carry out his divine plan.

When interrogated by Haitian authorities Ms. Silsbyresponded, "We simply wanted to help the children. We did not understandall your rules." Help the children to say the least! Sure - you might say,‘hey you stupid, stupid bitch you cannot go in to a country and abduct children,those are the rules EVERYWHERE.’ And you might say, ‘you fanatical whack jobscannot force-convert children in order to stroke your salvation hard-ons.’ Butyou say these things for two reasons: 1)you went to a leftist college, and 2) you’re going to Hell.

Hasn’t the Lord made it crystal clear? Don’t you know whoelse was force-fed Christianity by missionaries? Why only the first college football player toboth rushand pass for 20 touchdowns in a season. That’s right: Heisman trophy recipient and pro-hymen spokesperson Tim Tebow.

By following the footsteps of Bob and Pam Tebow we canpotentially raise 33 Haitian-American (citizenship-contingent on athletic abilityof course) All-American football players. When asked how he raised his childrenso well, Bob Tebow responded, "We are just ordinary people that trustGod." Amen Brother Bob! It’ll be easy, first thing we have to do is homeschool these children, preventing them from developing a social identity and allowingfor more time to practice. Second, we have to install in them a fear of God sostrong they await the lightning at the slightest human urging (cue the Chastityrings). Thirdly we withhold dinner and kill a small animal every time they failto complete a pass. Good-bye Port-au-Prince and hello Rose Bowl!

Sure you might say, ‘but wait a hoot Reverend Roy, some ofthese kids still have family on the island!’ and I’ll remind you that when theday of judgment comes I’ll be up in Heaven eating snacks with Christ and you’llbe busy being eaten alive by crowds of deviants in a pit of chlamydia and brokenglass. Why would you want these kids to stay in the third world when they couldbecome celebrity athletes? Not only could they fulfill the American dream ofbecoming professional millionaires, but they could also star in a Super Bowl adsupporting an evangelical Christian group that contends that ‘tolerance’ and ‘diversity’are buzzwords that support a ‘part of a hidden agenda to promotehomosexuality.’ I think the decision is pretty clear.

So I implore the Haitian authorities, all fourteen of you, tofree these missionaries. These people saw the devastation that happened to yourisland, the death and the destruction, and were they all grossed out?Nope! They got up, paused their live-TV,and decided to go down there to do what we evangelicals know how to do best: Offersuffering brown people water, so long as we can baptize them with it first.

God Bless Us All

Reverend Roy Pentecost

The Flawed Logic of Steve Phillips, and the Coulier Effect

nickblake5@gmail.com (The Fictional Ninja) — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 02:49:00 GMT

This morning, disgraced former ESPN baseball analyst and New York Mets General Manager Steve Phillips appeared on the Today Show to discuss with Matt Lauer his firing from ESPN - specifically his affair with a 22 year-old production assistant which resulted in the termination of his contract with the worldwide leader.

In watching excerpts from the interview this morning, what struck me most was the manner in which he was discussing his own personal character flaws - namely his alleged "sex addiction." He couldn't have been happier to talk about it.

That's right, Matt - I have a sex addiction. (nodding and grinning at the camera) Yeah. Addicted to sex. That's it. Receiving treatment and everything.

Seriously, the man was positively giddy. It was like he was being offered Rick Helling for the rights to Jose Reyes and David Wright. Couldn't have been more thrilled to talk about it.

In discussing the interview with Shatterfaced.com Associate Editor Tom-DPA, the notion and legitimacy of "sex addiction" was parsed. Tom's take is a common one - you aren't addicted to sex, you're merely an asshole. He even cited a 1997 Gallup poll which allegedly concluded that "98% of all men are addicted to boobies", Tom paraphrased. Noted. During our inevitable discussion of Tiger Woods's recent behavior, I defended the idea of "sex addiction", arguing that if you're worth nine figures and every female wishes to be your fornication partner, it isn't inconceivable that one might not want to stop having sex with everything. Tom maintained it was a bail-out card as opposed to being publicly labeled a dickhead. We're probably both right.

And hey, that might have been EXACTLY why Phillips in particular was indeed so giddy to tell the world he had a sex addiction - he's all of a sudden sympathetic instead of a cockbag, and he knew it. That's right, America - let me cry on your shoulder. My poor wife. What have I done. etc.

Here's the thing though - you are quite simply ineligible to claim a sex addiction if the partner in question looks like former Full House star Dave Coulier:

Phillips wasn't giddy because of the idea of increased public sympathy -- it was because now he had a diagnosable, physiological reason for maintaining an erection around Female Dave Coulier (above, left). He wasn't nodding and smiling at America - he was nodding and smiling at his friends. "Told you guys! Sex addiction, fuckfaces! What could I do?"

Think about it - how much sillier was Alanis Morrissette's "You Oughta Know" when it was gradually made aware that the song was about Dave Coulier? It went very quickly from...
(the Coulier Effect)
Hateful, Vengeance-Drenched Female-Empowering 90s Anthem ----------------------->*** A Song About Digging One's Nails into Dave Coulier's Back During Intercourse

Sorry, Steve - if poor Alanis suffered through the Coulier effect, then so must you. And even if the Coulier Effect didn't obviously apply to your situation, you still traded Scott Kazmir for Victor Zambrano. Nice one.

*** This line represents what Harvard scientists have deemed "The Coulier Effect"; it's also what is likely the actual girth of Dave Coulier's penis.

College Football Tailgating as Seen Through the Eyes of the LandMan - by Landon "The Landman" Parker III

griffithsbc@gmail.com (Landon TheLandMan Parker III) — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 21:19:00 GMT

"Fuck the Candyman. The Land(y)Man is back." - Landon "the LandMan" Parker III

Let’s get one fuckin’ thing straight. When the Land Man writes something on this gay website, you read it. And the Land Man only writes for this site when it narrates what the Land Man does best. And that’s day drinking. And I’m not talking about having a few casual beers at your boys’ bbq. That’s pussy shit. I’m talking about getting rip shit wasted by 4pm and then knockin’ off some drunk sluts. That’s not pussy shit. That shit is pussy. Giftwrapped for the Land Man.

Do I have your attention yet? Good.

One of the best opportunities to engage in hardcore day drinking is game day baby. Last week, BC had a 3:30pm game against some gay team. Probably Notre Dame. I forget. You know what that means? That means the Land Man is rippin shots, bong hits, and Stacey’s clothes off by kickoff. 3:30pm is also premium real estate for a game, because it provides plenty of pre-game tailgating and since I usually leave the game early to hit up Mr. Giggles, I have a full night of bar hoppin’ and pussy poppin’ ahead of me. Sit back, grab a brewski, fart, and let the Land Man fuck you up while he recalls his Saturday. Holler.

There are two types of ways college students approach game day. There’s the type that don’t go out Friday night or at least go out for a little while and don’t’ get wasted. And there’s the type who go out Friday all night, wake up with crusty mustard on their face, a passed out chick in their bed, and a burning desire to carpe deez nuts and keep the party going. I’ll let you take a wild guess which category the Land Man falls under.

It all starts with six words: Black. Eyed. Peas. I. Gotta. Feeling. Bump that shit to 11 and watch the hunnies flock to your dorm room. So I got my beats bumpin’ and ready to rock out with my cock out. Literally. Like I’m so fuckin pumped and comfortable with my body image, that I would literally walk around all day with my dick hanging out of my pants. But that would be gay, cause some of the BC faggots might get excited. And that shit’s just not goin down. So I’ll keep my dick in my pants. Until Stacey’s room that is. I digress.

So we got some frosty brews, a solid contingent of bros and hunnies minglin, gettin pumped for game day, and we gotta feelin, that tonight’s gonnna be a goooood night. Or day I should say. God, this song gets me so jacked it makes my head want to explode. And my dick. Let’s live it up.

So its time to separate the men from the boys and the sluts from the prudes. A few of my roommates are still asleep, struggling from last night. So we cut them like a bad habit, pick up the girlz and head to the Modz mufucka. We all got our Superfan shirts on (well in my case, my SuperDrunk shirt because that’s just how I roll) and we’re ready to go. I throw a couple of brewskis in my back pocket, rip a shot of Jaeger and head to the door. I just know that today is going to be epic. Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-a-alcohol. Or just the fact that I’m the Land Man.

Commence the Bronado (Brody thought of that term to describe when a day gets so crazy that it just spins wildly out of control, destroying every ounce of alcohol and pussy in its path.) Before we head to some of my bros’ tailgating spots, we play a little Spin the Bottle with Brody and Trip (not sure if you know him, but he’s really fat and awesome at drinking. Also good to have when you wanna talk shit to pussies at bars and threaten to fight them by yelling ‘whaddya gonna do about it, tough guy’ and then not actually do anything about it. Annnnnnyway, this is how Spin the Bottle works: We fill up a wiffle ball bat with beer, chug it, spin around with the bat on our foreheads, and then point the bat ahead of us. Whatever house the bat points to is where we go to hit up some free booze and intimidate strangers.

I’m up for Spin the Bottle, so naturally I destroy the beer, spin around and end up pointing to a house where six girls live. Unreal. It’s almost like when I play Spin the Bottle, the wiffle bat acts an extension of my dick, guided by a pussy radar built in me that just naturally gravitates to women. I love Spin the Bottle.

Still feelin a little woozy, I stumble into the house and we are shot some weird looks. No worries, though. Within minutes, those looks will quickly turn from “Who is this guy and why is he here?” to “Who isn’t this guy and why I am not blowing him right now?” Just the way it goes. The first step to causing that transformation is locating the speakers in the house, and throwing my playlist on there.

To get the party poppin’ I usually like to start it out with these dudes called Girls Talk. Nobody knows them, but they are so sick, they mash shit up. Once the hunnies hear Girls Talk, they’ll be so smitten by my good looks, confidence (I mean I just took over their speakers and they don’t even know me) and hella-sick musical taste, that they won’t be able to control themselves. The sickest part about Girls Talk is that they use a lot of ridiculous rap lyrics, which in turn, encourages the girls to rap out lines like 'come girl I’m tryna get dat pussy wet’, which in turn, makes them feel reckless and horny, which in TURN, makes them vulnerable to the infectiously sick-ass charm of the Land Man. I. Gotta. Feeling.

I’m working the dance floor. I mean I am getting DOWN. It’s a tall task to get the dance floor poppin' when there’s nobody on it, and its 9am, and nobody knows you, but I’m up for the challenge. I throw the chicks some winks and smiles and realize that this subtle shit is just not cutting it. Thankfully my favorite Girls Talk part comes in for the rescue and I go in for the kill. I go up to the fat chick and start dancing. My logic, though blurry from boozing and dancing, is that she will be so surprised that I chose to dance with her that she’ll be flattered and start dancing. The dance floor slowly grows. THEN, her hot friends (LandMan’s end goal) will be 1) pissed off that I didn’t choose them and 2) impressed by how I’m such a nice guy to make the fat girl feel special, that they will start getting down on the floor and suddenly…what’s going on?, why is the room shaking?, why are my clothes falling off?, why is the ceiling ripping off the house????

Because a Bronado has arrived.

Now the key to keeping the Bronado in full force is switching up tracks. After Girls Talk, you gotta go to some old school shit like Real McCoy’s ‘Another Night’ or this gem. Chicks love that shit and they’ll think I’m so fun and ironic once I get those middle school panty droppin’ tracks going. Plus, the LandMan’s sexual journey started with a French kiss on the dance floor at Camp Lackawanna the summer of 1995. What song was playing? Real McCoy’s “Run Away.” The song comes full circle, in college, at the peak of my sexual prowess.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t work out quite that way. After attempting to grind on Ms. Piggy while lip-synching, “Wait till you see my dick. Hey bitch. Wait to you see my dick. You will never get enough” she is somehow not turned on and runs away. Probably to eat another burger. Whatevz. It’s almost like God won’t allow the LandMan to hook up with ugly chicks. It’s truly a blessing.

I would have kept working the room but they didn’t have any beer. Well, actually I never went to the fridge, but they probably didn’t have any. Because they’re lame. Fuck it. Moving on….

We bump into some of my boys in the MODS, the tailgating spot for BC games. The Chadster thinks it stands for Mecca Of Drunk Sluts, but that’s neither here nor there. I approach the group, while giving double shockers to my boys. I like to announce my presence with authority. To really announce my presen-sizzle, I give Chad an exploding pound, throw my warm beer in Tobey’s face and slap Colton in the face. Mostly cause he’s a fag. And when Greg comes by, there’s only one way to greet each other. We both do a running chest pump, then follow with an imaginary jump shot, and yell BALLLLLLLIN!!!!! God I’m fucking cool. Feeling amazing and ready to bang, we call up the chicas to meet up with them before the game.

We make our way through the stadium, and find an open patch where we can see the game. Naturally, we find ourselves surrounded by faggot freshmen. You can tell them from a mile away. They all awkwardly stand around, barely interacting with each other. They don’t know the chants, they don’t know what to do after touchdowns, and when they finally learn that you are supposed to lift up a girl and toss her up in the air after a touchdown, they NEVER go cop a titty or ass grab while the girl is bouncing helplessly in the air. Freshmen. Thankfully they learn, that is, if they study under the master, Yours Truly.

Naturally, the game is gay, and nobody seems impressed that I was recruited by BC hardcore. Just didn’t want to play, as I’ve discussed before. I’m telling you right now, I could step on that field 18 beers deep and drop bombs. But you think I’m gonna let 5am lifting sessions and 3 hour practices take a serious bite into my quest for pussy? Nope. Not a chance. I decided I’ve had enough this shit. I leave the game.

I walk over to Stacey, slide my fingers down her stretchy black pants and seduce the shit out of her by giving her a romantic massage on her ass cheeks. She loves it, but she won’t admit it because she fires back, “Landon, get your hands off of me.” I’ve heard that before. No biggie. I tell Stacey I’m leaving and that she should too, because well, I think we would both agree that me banging her during halftime is way sweeter than sitting on a cold stadium bench for 15 minutes while your buzz melts away.

“Landon, I’m watching the game, we’re beating ND…like this is amazing!”

“No Stacey, what is amazing is me and you back at my dorm room, watching the Real World while you heat me up some EZ Mac and suck my dick.

“Landon, first of all, we are DONE, and that is not fucking happening…my roommate ate all my EZ Mac. Besides, why the fuck are you like so obsessed with the Real World?”

I am at loss for words, not only for her blatant rejection of my forward sexual advances, but more so, for her hating on the Real World. Stacey loves the Real World, she was just trying to piss me off. And she succeeded. Fucking slut.

I walk away from the stadium. Alone. Time to hit up Mr. Giggles, take a quick nap, and get back at it. I get back to my room, load up the bong, and smoke myself retarded. Obviously.

I wake up, the lights are off and I’m the only one in the room. The clock reads 1:38am. My pants are by my ankles and True Life: I’m a Crystal Method Addict is on TV. Fuck. I figure it’s too late to go out and meet my boys. Plus, Stacey McSlut is probably banging some other dude. Fuck it, I’ll go back to sleep and start raging tomorrow. Fuck yeah, raging on a Sunday afternoon. Like only the Landman can. Tomorrow, I’m gonna nut on Sunday’s face. And Stacey’s. Fuck. Yes.

A Nymphoid Barbarian in Dinosaur Hell

nickblake5@gmail.com (The Fictional Ninja) — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 05:56:00 GMT

Fun fact: the only "memorable quote" from this movie, according to its imdb page, is as follows:

Lea: "Sometimes my juices start to flow and I feel like a nymphoid barbarian in dinosaur hell."

www.fetishbank.com - for Japanese Visitors

akc1400@gmail.com (The Good Doctor) — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 19:38:00 GMT

In an effort to appeal to shatterfaced.com's hefty number of Japanese readers, here is the same ad as below in Japanese.

www.fetishbank.com

akc1400@gmail.com (The Good Doctor) — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 19:35:00 GMT

Here is an ad for "fetishbank.com", which has graciously paid me a fitting stipend for allowing its one minute audio ad on the site. Enjoy.