“Are you unemployed or stuck in a dead end job?
Are you homeless or living in a bad neighborhood?
If the American Dream broke its promise to you, don’t worry, we have an answer.
Let me help you help yourself.”
Thus begins the DIY home instruction video “How To Make Money Selling Drugs”.
Come on. Click the link. It’s Super Fun. Click it.
The gloomy voice over then goes on explaining that well known experts have cooperated in making this training guide to help you make millions. The training guide follows the basic steps that any DIY video would:
Level 0: Getting Started.
Level 1: Pawn.
Level 2: Corner Hustler.
Level 3: Private Retailer.
Level 4: Domestic Distributor.
Level 5: International Smuggler.
Level 6: Kingpin.
Level 7: Drug Lord.
Nothing new here, this is all basic information. I think they even teach this on Sesame Street.
No, the real reason you should watch this documentary is the characters showing up. Let me introduce some of them to you:
Bobby Carlton (Highest Level Achieved: 7) looks like a blend of Howard Stern and Eddie Van Halen and spews his wisdom into the camera with ultra confidence. Bobby started smoking and dealing marihuana at age 14 (we see an adorable picture of a 14 year old cute blond kid). He then moved on to become a top guy, which is hard to believe because when I see him and his funny hat on my screen, the only images in my head are referrals to Miami Vice or New Kids On The Block.
Pepe (Highest Level Achieved: 6) is a retired Southern California drug dealer with the typical Mexican gangster trades: the smile, the sunglasses and the accent. You need to watch this documentary just for this guy, he’s uplifting.
An anonymous lawyer (probably currently at level 6) looks like Brandt from The Big Lebowski. Or like the unidentified baby of Al Capone and Mister Magoo. Or like a close relative of Donald Rumsfeld who is having a stroke. At the end of the movie he actually turns out to be a good guy. Or a hell of an actor.
Then the mood of the film starts to turn. We meet Barry Cooper. Barry used to be a NARC at the Texas Rangers. When Barry worked at the Texas Rangers, he used to look like Frankenstein’s little nephew with a tooth missing. Now he looks like a crazy french painter who took too many shots of absinth at the Montmartre. Including the funny hat. Barry soon discovered the well known benefits of marihuana smoking, quit the Texas Rangers and married Candy, his pot dealer. Realizing he could tap directly into his brain and use the info there hidden for ideological purposes, he launched the video series “How Not To Get Busted”. It became an instant hit.
Now Barry is busting crooked cops who plant drugs on innocent people, just to get their quota for the War on Drugs.
Because that’s what this film is really about. The absolute failure of the War on Drugs.
In the 1920′s, marihuana was prohibited to prevent “white women and Negroes having sexual relations”. Supposedly, marihuana was smoked by “Hispanics, Filipinos, entertainers, and people making satanic music like jazz and swing”. A few years later, alcohol was prohibited. We all know how that turned out.
And then Richard Nixon invented the War on Drugs. Mainly to get rid of his own enemies. Since that time, billions of tax payers dollars have been spent on the War on Drugs without any result. Anyone can get up to 50 years of imprisonment for selling drugs. Only in the USA, alcohol is freely available and takes 47.000 lives a year. A pack of tobacco will throw you back for 75 cents and is the biggest killer in western society.
Of course this information is already lodged somewhere in your brain, this documentary just releases it at your convenience.
To top it off we see Susan Sarandon, who is fighting to reduce prison sentences for non violent drug crimes, Woody Harrelson, smiling as ever and ensuring us that “in America, we have the freedom to take drugs!” and Eminem, trying to explain that he really thought stuffing 20 Xanax a day down your hole had nothing to do with an addiction because his MD told him it was okay.
Oh yeah, throughout the film we see short bits where 50 Cent is lustily mumbling away in a language still to be invented, although I think if you put some Dr. Dre beats on top of it, you have gold in your hands.
Still not convinced? Read these Five Reasons Cops Want to Legalize Marijuana.
Are you a drug lord? Send your email to Raunchy Contacts and my personal assistant Deirdre will send you her panties. She’s very clean.
What the fuck is wrong with these people?! What is it with the American obsession to bear fire arms?
Well, at least the kids are safe from these hyperactive Navy Seal wannabe types who love to gather with a group of equally retarded villagers somewhere in the outback of Kentucky to play war and run around with military armor.
No, they are not.
Behold the website of the criminal organization Keystone (although marketed as “Quality firearms for America’s youth – Made in the USA”), selling guns for children under the name “My First Rifle”.
Let’s analyze this, what do we see here exactly?
Ah look, a young boy with a Labrador, backed by an amazing Kentucky sunrise (Or sunset? I don’t know. What is the best time to go and kill an animal?). Oh yeah, the young boy is aiming a rifle at the beautiful sunrise. The young boy probably hates sunrises. Maybe he is a vampire.
What else? Aaaooowww… look at that funny cricket! Over there, right next to the American flag! He’s so cute, holding that rifle! What’s he gonna do with it? Kill a human? Naaaah, of course not. Maybe he’ll just shoot a fellow cricket in the nuts for being too crickety.
But hey, what’s that on the bottom of the web page? Chipmunk rifles! They’re even cuter than those fucking crickets! Let’s click it! Holy guacamole, they have 44 GUNS!!! I repeat: 44 Chipmunk rifles are awaiting your kids. What are you waiting for?!
If you’re still not convinced, watch the ad here. I love the way they are shooting it out with the whole family, probably right after going to church on a beautiful glorious morning. Mom is blasting away with her yellow rifle, her pink rifle bearing daughter next to her, while the voice over explains in a jolly tone that “Girls and even mom will love the way they can pick one to their own taste”.
Land of the free, home of the brave! And dead children of course.
The last in the list of many random victims of gun violence is a two-year-old girl from Kentucky who was shot by her five-year-old brother with a Crickett .22-caliber rifle, marketed with the slogan “My First Rifle,” from Keystone Sporting Arms in Milton, Pa. The single-shot rifle uses the smallest caliber available and is sold by major retailers, including Wal-Mart, Cabela’s and Gander Mountain.
Are you a lawyer volunteering to sue the shit out of these companies? Send your email to Raunchy Contacts and my personal assistant Deirdre will send you her panties. She’s very clean.
Our world is doomed.
Oscar Wilde wrote about anti-mimesis in his book “The Decay of Lying” as early as 1889. Now it’s 2013 and we are living it. Thanks to John de Mol, Satan´s adopted son, who created “Big Brother” in 1999.
Your children will never know what it’s like to be normal. Normality has been recycled for 14 years now, leaving nothing but a meaningless, tasteless, empty soul-burger for them to chew on.
You see, I know why you die. First of all, because you fucking suck. Also, because every new cell in your body is a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy… Every copy loses a bit of quality, until you end up with a cell even less recognizable than Kim Kardashian without make-up. And when you arrive at the very last copy, too damaged to sustain your sack of bones that we call body, you exhale for the very last time.
In the first series of Big Brother, “normal” people were being observed by the cameras 24/7. These people were actually quite normal. So normal, it became an agony to watch them sitting there, spilling their knowledge about absolutely nothing onto your way-too-big TV without HDMI sockets and 3D. But at least it was reality TV.
Nothing has been the same after that. Every new “reality” show stars a pack of new assholes trying to copy and eventually out-do the previous series of whatever filth show they are on. A copy of a copy of a copy… Until we arrive at the very Last Copy.
It will be a great week. For seven days in a row, this new and last reality show “Recycled Hate Machine” will be aired 24 hours a day on absolutely every network in the world. The Last Copy will be locked naked into a single room of 23.8 square feet equipped with 3,481 cameras. The walls (60 feet high) will be covered with dead zebra eyes and the floor will be covered in chloral acid. Instead of a ceiling there will be an opening from where Endemol employees will throw dead babies, Justin Bieber cd’s, buckets of worm vomit, remote controls without batteries and other paraphernalia into the Recycled Hate Machine.
Think about that while you’re drowning a baby in a bucket of piss.
On a brighter note: I pooped really well today! Four big brown chunks, no smell or nothing, I checked!
Did you poop well too and do you have visual proof of that (I mean photos)? Send your email to Raunchy Contacts and my personal assistant Deirdre will send you her panties. She’s very clean.
I have one.
Send your hate-mail to Raunchy Contacts and my personal assistant Deirdre will send you her panties. She’s very clean.
Happy New Year Motherfuckers! I hope you all die of gonorrhea!
On a brighter note: Lily Allen is about to give birth!
Yes, a second creature will pop out of the womb of the only woman who, at least in terms of humor and creativity, has been able to keep up with lyrical gods like Eminem, Busta Rhymes and Britney Spears (the latter due to an exotic mix of dyslexia and the IQ of a squashed tomato).
I thought that Lily would have some experience by now, after giving birth to her first born Ethal Mary in November 2011. But one of her latest tweets was “I thought I was in labor but I just needed to fart.” There goes your maternal security.
What I found more interesting was another tweet: “My husband is currently making me a Pantera mix CD to take to the birthing suite.”
Nothing beats a woman banging her fetus out of her womb to the sound of Pantera. Except Chris Brown maybe.
Here are some playlist tips for Sam, her husband who has taken this responsibility upon himself:
- “Message in Blood”. While you’re bleeding from your cunt, make it useful.
- “5 Minutes Alone”. I’m sure Sam will need it.
- “I’m Broken”. A song about a broken cunt.
- “Floods”. A song about Amniotic fluid.
- “Slaughtered”. Another song about a broken cunt after the birth giving and all.
I think I love her.
Are you dyslectic? Send your email to Raunchy Contacts and my personal assistant Deirdre will send you her panties. She’s very clean.
Hail to Metal, Hail to Pantera, and Hail to Dimebag Darrell (August 20, 1966 – December 8, 2004).
Let the Black Tooth Grin flow tonight.
There you go. I did it again.
I watched X Factor again. The US version. Because it makes me hate.
The judges of these second series are L.A. Reid (responsible for suicidal shit like Avril Lavigne, Mariah Carey, Justin Bieber, Kanye West, Toni Braxton, Kerli, TLC, Usher, Ne-Yo, Rick Ross, Young Jeezy, Ciara, OutKast, and Dido), Demi Lovato (does ANYONE know who she is??!!), Britney Spears (no comment) and, of course, Simon Cowell, the man who just won’t cease to exist.
Here’s a report on the first gruesome episode. I’d like to point out that the comments ranged from “You’re totally a superstar”, You are flawless” and “I think you’re special” (bbuuuuuueeerrrggghhh!!!) to “It sounded like you were dying”, You sang like a dog trying to lay an egg” and “I’m sorry, but you are quite annoying, so I’ll say no”.
Contestant number one is a single mom, 20 years old. She sings alright but should be shot for abusing her 4 year old girl by using her as some kind of emotional glue between herself and the judges. So you couldn’t hold your legs together when you were 16, could you? Piss off.
Meanwhile, Britney pulls a face that triggers my most subliminal Cro Magnon instincts to slaughter and murder and torture and kill and skull-crush her very inner being. It makes me want to buy the most advanced Israeli sniper rifle with a 60 mile range, put it straight to her forehead and pull the trigger.
I could do this with a sawed off shotgun of course, but the dynamics of a long range bullet are far more different. When shooting someone in the face with a sawed off shotgun, the victim (although I wouldn’t want to call Britney Spears a victim, more a vicious enemy of mankind) will usually end up with a body with a bloody pulp on the top side of it.
If you do the same with a long range Israeli sniper rifle, the vicious enemy of mankind will stay alive for 3.6 more minutes, screaming and writhing and bleeding from a very tiny hole in their head.
Contestant number two is an old guy. Well, he’s only 50, but in X Factor world that’s like having died 13 times and reincarnated back into your own sad shriveled sack of a body.
He can’t sing, so it’s no wonder he doesn’t get through. But when that girl, eehhrrmmm… what’s her name again… Demi, yes, thank you, Demi tells him that “It’s not meant for everybody”, the guy gets pissed. Personally I would’ve ripped the flesh off her face with my claw-like nails, but the guy brilliantly recovers and utters the only true statement in the whole show: “That’s why you use Auto-tune and I don’t”.
The third contestant is a 13 year old Justin Bieber lookalike. Everybody loves him for being “so cute”. I want to murder him. Luckily, he turns out to be an absolute shit when it comes to singing.
His mother (the only thing lacking on her is Sioux war paint) screams so terrifyingly that the judges give the little fuck another chance, but to no avail. Piss off.
After these first 3 contestants I lost track. Either I fell asleep, or I entered a preventive coma, it could be either way.
Key points to take away from this session:
- Britney claps like a seal.
- Pepsi cans.
- The judges are chewing on food (I hope it’s food and not the remains of an unlucky contestant) half of the time. Are they aware the show is being televised?
- Americans, imitating famous Americans on TV, on TV. Read that sentence at least 5 times to really understand what I’m trying to say.
- Fucking morons automatically cheering for all contestants out of the 18 – 50 years range. Let me put this very clear: ALL children and ALL old people are filthy scum. Is that clear?
- Also, as a finishing statement, I would like to point out that all people wearing glasses only as a fashion statement should be tortured and executed on public TV.
Watch out for series 3 of the X Factor US. I will be participating as Josef Mengele & The Zyklon B’s.
Do you know who the fuck Demi Lovato is? Send your email to Raunchy Contacts and my personal assistant Deirdre will send you her panties. She’s very clean.
Charlie Brooker is back.
After his extremely profane (so extremely funny) books “Screen Burn”, “Dawn Of The Dumb” and “The Hell Of It All”, I am now enjoying his new read “I Can Make You Hate”. Read it. Hating was never this much fun.
And what I almost missed was the 2011 Channel 4 TV Mini-Series “Black Mirror”, written and co-produced by Charlie Brooker.
Go see it. It will hammer your unwilling mind into places you thought and hoped you’d never see.
Episode 1 features the British Prime Minister with a dilemma: A woman has been kidnapped and the villains have just one demand for her release: that the PM fuck a pig on national TV. No spoilers here, you will know this in the first 5 minutes of the episode. Go see the remaining 40 minutes if you dare.
In episode 2 we follow Bing in a bleak, automated future Britain where people have to pedal exercise bikes to create energy as a living. No problem there, until Bing falls in love. What shall he do with his tokens…?
Episode 3 shows us a different kind of future, where people have hard drives implanted that record your history. Cool stuff, especially if you get so hammered that you can’t even remember the gallons of gin tonics you gulped down your pie-hole the night before, let alone remember the place where you left your phone. But what if jealousy rears its ugly head? Do you really want to remember everything? DO YOU??
New episodes are on their way next year. What will they be about? Killer cows spraying humanity to dust with aids infected blood from their volcanic udders? Autistic midgets turning themselves inside out as a new and revolutionary enema? Simon Cowell turning human?
I can’t wait.
Do your butt cheeks smell like genocide? Send your email to Raunchy Contacts and my personal assistant Deirdre will send you her panties. She’s very clean.
This unbiased, independent and romantic website is celebrating its first anniversary this month, fuck yeah!
So far we have been able to avoid any lawsuits or suicide attacks, so enough reason to launch a contest!
Answer the below mentioned multiple choice question and WIN a FUCKING EGG*)!!!
It’s a real egg*)! From a chicken’s anus! With yolk and all!
WHAT IS THE OPPOSITE OF UNDERDOG?
C. ANAL TYPHUS
Send your answer to Raunchy Contacts. My personal assistant Deirdre will randomly pick a name out of all the correct answers and send you a FUCKING EGG*)!
It’s MADNESS!!! MADNESS I TELL YOU!!!
*) No animals were harmed in the process of creating the egg. It just came out of the chicken’s ass like that, no finger poking or other funny stuff involved. The egg may only be used for exposition purposes. If used for other purposes, your left foot will rot off and your children will die. Raunchy Mike cannot be held responsible for a broken egg. If you think you can sue him for that, go fuck yourself with a harpoon in your ear.