You can't handle the truth!

There are 475 replies to my post about how Scotland is not a country. I provided INCONTROVERTIBLE PROOF that Scotland doesn't even exist anymore, and you drooling, uneducated proles DARE to disagree with me??? DID YOU NOT HEAR ME SAY I HAVE A DEGREE? A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti!

You want more evidence? FINE! Go ahead, make my day!
The Encyclopedia Britannica says Scotland is "the northernmost country in the United Kingdom" which is just plain wrong. This is really the CONCISE encyclopedia. That sentence used to read, "The northernmost so-not-a-fucking-country in the United Kingdom" but the sentence was CUT DOWN to be CONCISE. I personally know that Britannica is not reliable. How do I know that? Because it disagrees with me. Also, it's published in CHICAGO! Slam dunk!PROVED!

Dictionaries that say something other than what I say are also unreliable. Why, you ask? Because once there was a mistake in one. A MISTAKE. That means none of the definitions are correct. Noam Chomsky farted near me once in an elevator, which makes me an EXPERT in linguistics as well. PROVED!

Someone DARED post a link to another PolySyfy "expert" with better credentials than I have who seems to think "country" means something other than what I say it means, but there was a typo on one of his other pages! FAIL! I'm going to make him an offer he can't refuse! PROVED!

I am an EXPERT!! DO YOU HEAR ME?? AN EXPERRRRT!!!! I am the fucking Walrus! I was just being polite! I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore! You don't understand! I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I could've been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am! You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me? Made it, Ma! Top of the world!

All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up...

Poe's Law

Children's Atlas, Page 44


Are We Having Funds Yet?

Soap, no radio
Crowdfunded projects which made more than $270:

A Motown Tribute to Nickelback: The Album - $3,294

Anti-Rape Underwear - $54,924

Lunar Aid 1985 (funding for a trip to the moon to write folk songs about it.) $8,140

Putting a toy TARDIS, with a real blinky light on top, into orbit $88,880

My personal favorite:

The World's Largest Jockstrap $854

These projects are obviously vital to the enhancement of the human condition. Or, these projects show that people will give you money if you're not a repellent, anti-charismatic dick.

Tough luck, South Philadelphia Community Radio.


Screw you guys, I'm going home

No, really...I quit.
The pub industry is a perverse burlesque, constant readers. It is most unfortunate that monkey-minded publicans are incapable of upholding my policies and meeting my demands, so I frequently get fi...resign in disgust.

These are the tragic circumstances of the latest outrage:

Offence the A:  The institution was unwilling to quell the blackguardly misdemeanings of the quiz participants who had become obstreperous upon the discovery of their rampant, unabashed cheating. My policy on cheating is absolute: since my questions are of unapproachable cleverness due to my Degree, anyone who gets any answer correct must be cheating and is immediately disqualified.

Offence the 2: Despite my protestations, the brassbound staff refused to strip the crowd and place them in a Farraday cage for the final seventy rounds of the quiz. Instead, they tazed me, forced me into an uncomfortably restrictive garment, and sent me to the Quiet Room with a snootful of Haldol. They didn't even pay me!

Offence the D: I was presented with a BILL for my pre-quiz libation! ONE simple Salvatore's Legacy is too much to ask?  A SHOCKING disaccommodation.

Mark my wordings! They shall beg for my return!


In the Land of Stuart Nodd

Hear, my friends, the tragic tale of Stuart Nodd. He was a foole, born void of brane, which left him dull of wit and lacking any skill. He tryed many trades, but alas, his demeanor rendered him noisome. He crowed small achievements as mighty, and blamed others for his shortcomyngs. He demanded ryches as his due what he had not earned. No master could bide his mediocrity for his vile temperment.

He sought his fortune in the mighty Kingdom called Amyzon. He gathered a pittance of coynes, but failed to bide the laws of the lande. Alas, his gormlessness soon caused him to be banished.

As he wept and wailed at the borders of Amyzon, a kindly Wyzard took pity upon him. The Wyzard gave him the secret spelle which would give him a disguise for which to return to Amyzon. Stuart Nodd cleansed his tooles and changed his nayme, and soon was gathering again coynes. The Wyzard but warned him, "Keep thy profyle low. Speake not loud nor complayne. Be not arrogant nor profayne. You have not the right to tread the lande of Amyzon for ye have been banished. Above all, be graytefull for thy chance to prosper."

Stuart Nodd abode the Wyzard, but for a brief tyme. Stuart believed himself deserving, for his wit was shyt, and soon resumed his odious wayes. The Wyzard chastysed him for his lack of grace, which made Stuart tantrum as though a child moste petulant. Stuart made threats upon the Wyzard of bilious ill will. The Wyzard did become disheartened at Stuart's ungrateful tantrume and did break the spelle.

The Greate Power of Amyzon saw Stuart had returned to the lande despyte had been duly banished, and was banished once more. Stuart was flung owt upon his asse to his proper playce, lesser than that of rats and myce. He screamed UNFAYRE, and with each plaint becayme smaller and smaller til he vanished as a farte in the wynd.

The moral of this sad tayle:
Know thy place, dyckwad. Don't fuck with a wyzard.


12 Tips from Uncle Blizzy on How to Make Yourself Look Like a Santorum-Smeared Asshole

Step 1. Have a snotfit over Yelp reviews. Now everyone knows that your mommy just bought you a compooter and you just found that Internet thingy. Dismiss the reviewers as "morons" because they dared call a venue a "dive,"  even though they like the place.  The owners must be "morons" as well, since businesses choose their own categories on Yelp. Just what the Internet needs: one more thin-skinned neophyte. Nice work, Snivelnoob McCrybaby.

Step 2. Show the world that you think a basement craphole with a stained coin-op pool table with warped cues and tables that look like they earned a D in woodshop is a class joint because it has paper towels in the john. Next, you can don your $5 thrift store suit and head to Red Lobster for some fine dinin'. You graduate to Trailertard McWhitetrash.

Service trois pièces
Step 3. Rave on about how caramelized onions are the hallmark of a fine dining establishment. This announces that you don't know that caramelized onions are the same fried onions you get at every cheesesteak joint and food truck in the city. Be sure to spell it "carmelized" to hammer the point home. You advance to ---> The Gallopin' Gormless

Step 4. Ditto for leeks. If you can't tell a caramelized onion from a Carmelite nun, you'll believe that leeks are Fancy 'n Exotic. To find them you have to put on a pith helmet and travel to the magical land of Superfresh. They're next to the onions...'cuz they're, y'know, like, onions. You should also try the Sweetened Caramelized Sparking Water. (Coke.) Proceed to ---> Tardgoober McVegmoron.

Step 5. Call ordinary condiments by the hipster-douche term "dipping sauces."  Deny the existence of "ketchup" especially if it's written right on the menu. Act like the America's Choice mayonnaise with garlic stirred in and renamed "aioli" for the hipster douchebags was shat out by Gordon Ramsay's pet unicorn . Everyone but you knows that these "dipping sauces" are slightly lower on the haute cuisine scale than Arby's Horsey Sauce.---> Lowbrow McOaftard.

Chauve à col roulé, pomme frites
avec immersion de sauce

6. Shine a big fat spotlight on your intellectual deficiencies by regarding the opinions of others as statements of fact, then call them "lies." Yelp is a review site, and every review ever written of anything is simply an opinion. Since the people who pay you proudly call their own place a "dive bar," your indignant yodeling is laughably pompous douchebaggery. --->Windbag McShitwit

Step 7.   Shriek with indignation that someone called the shithole's neighborhood a "ghetto," when no one actually said it.  Making stuff up after accusing people of making stuff up is truly hilarious. Make up their ages, too. And where they're from, and how long they've lived there, since you're on a roll. You graduate to ----> Mendouchious Bumblefucktard

Typical Northeastern Philadelphian

Step 8. Denounce Yelpers' opinions as invalid because they're not from the neighborhood, but fail to mention you're not from there, either. This fartbubble of illogic means that no review of Disneyland is valid because the reviewers don't live there. This shines the spotlight on the burning shame you carry at being from the blue-collar ArchieBunkerville which is the Northeast, Mr. Hicktard von Wannabe.

Your boy is different, Mrs. Gump
Step 9. Make it painfully obvious that reading for comprehension is not your strong suit. After mistaking the word "dive" as a "complaint,"  note that the "secondary complaint" is the aggressive and erratic door policy they have to protect their valuable liquor license from their criminal history and family squabbles. There are 7. This shows you didn't notice the 42 complaints about smoking. 42 is bigger than 7, Shortbus McSpazztard.

Step 11. Show bafflement at the term "sports bar" as well, despite your quiz getting cancelled repeatedly in favor of sporting events, in a bar which describes itself as a sports bar. Then...
Seriously....wall-sized. With sports on it.
...or the three other TV's in that one room. Good thing no one reads your Blog O' Blunder, because that claim alone would cause fatal gelastic seizures.  Get yourself some glasses, Cunteyes Magoo

Step 10.  A raft of complaints without linking to anything but Yelpsucks is a pitiful display of confirmation bias. Since Yelpsucks is an ad site for  an "online reputation manager" who charges $1,500 for her services, she needs Yelp to continue to suck to stay in business. (Uncle Blizzy Quick Tip: You can do what she does yourself, for free.)

 Since you just got an Internet, you don't know yet that anyone with a complaint can make a complaint site. There are thousands.

Without links, you're just another blowhard doucheblogger. Of course, you can't link to delusions that sifted into your addlebrain through holes in your tin-foil hat. Ranking: Hotwindickus von Blognozzle.

Step 12:  Accuse Yelp of "trashing" the reputation of the bar, despite its sturdy 3 1/2 star rating. 80% of the reviews are three stars and up. Since the owners of the self-described sports/hipster/dive bar link to their Yelp reviews from their Facebook page, they don't seem to have any problem with it.

Bonus points: Insert one grain of truth in your flatuous rant: Your quiz is not particularly noteworthy. Congratulations! You have achieved intellect equivalent to:
An Ivy League University Graduate


Unus caseus caro vacuus unio, haud whiz

I was poking around on the internets the other day, while the doctors weren't looking, and noticed that Joey Vento went to the Big Cheesesteak Grill in the Sky. I haven't wept such tears of joy since Ralph Nader singlehandedly defeated Darth Vader and Sauron's orc armies with a unicorn. I took precious time away from stabbing out my Manifesto and working on my Weather Control Machine to assemble a few learned thoughts about why Mr. Vento was a bad man. A very bad man.

1) Joey Vento used the First Amendment right to free speech. This is completely unacceptable. His ridiculous blatherings of "opinions" aren't even backed up by a Degree!  Only qualificated people with Degrees, like me, have the intellectualized capacitation to make a speaking.  The stuff he said with his "right" to free speech is completely contrary to what I believe, therefore it is wrong. There really ought to be laws against this kind of thing.

2) His insistence that people order his food in English was the worst kind of anti-intellectualism. A true Man of Letters, such as myself, demands that all his customers converse in Latin. He was obviously demonstrating jealousy of Higher Learnings with this vicious mocking. I, myself, devote several minutes a week of my highly valuable time to teach Latin at the Wretched Refuse Center for Assimilation and Gentrification. I used to, anyway. There was a hottie there whom I wished to engage coitally, so...

3) The best way for Lettered White People to support the cause of our inferiors is to lavish them with condescending charity. Did Mister Vento do this? I think not. I sent him an e-mail asking for a donation to the Wretched Refuse Fund, clearly stating that he was a racist asshole if he declined. A fat donation would have got me in the saddle with the bodacious bawd, but no. Millions to other charities. Mine? Zilch. This was obviously a calculated mock-blocking of Brobdingnagian malignity. The only consolation was that one e-mail allowed me to add "Civil Rights Activist" to my CV.

4) His name means "fart" in Latin.

What can I say of a man with little education who started a business with nothing, and made a tremendous success of it? A man who used the right to free speech to speak freely?

A man who....hang on. It's time for meds and group therapy. I have to get my notebook back in my rectum before the bulls find it. Again. I lost 200 pages of my Manifesto in the last cavity search.

I'm not even going to tell you where I keep the Weather Machine!


Steal This Name

It has come to my attention that my sacred Name has been taken in vain.What to do? Invite my dear, devoted readers to do the same. Make a comment on any blog, anywhere, except you-know-who's. There is but one rule: don't break any laws. All right...two rules: don't be a dick.

For he who has little to do but troll the internet all day, let's make him spend his wife's money on court orders for useless IP addresses.

If someone claims to know your identity, use the most annoying phrase in the world: "Prove it." Have fun!


Hours of Sporcle Fun

When Crackpots Go Bad

While preparing another hilarious posting, I discovered, to my chagrin, that the object of the parody is now so over-the-top, a parody is no longer possible.

It is not possible write a parody of someone who...

...sees two mislabeled items in a charity thrift shop and goes galactically apeshit.

...believes that wrongly-labeled play money is a "crime" and calls the police, but at the same time refuses to report the "crime" because it is "highly inconvenient."

...believes that mislabeled thrift shop items should be treated as emergencies, like assaults and accidents, while at the same time considers the "crime" unworthy of a couple of hours of his time to go and fill out a form.

...decries "false witness" yet posts a laundry list of lies about the thrift and its personnel. I deliberately use the word "lies" because unless he has personal knowledge that the manager abuses his family, or that the charity is misusing its funds, he's just making stuff up. That could explain his absolute lack of evidence. Where I come from, this is called libel.

...viciously abuses detractors, while accusing them of abuse. Comments that strike a nerve are censored.

...underpricing items is a good thing, because he can personally profit. Overpricing is some sort of a scam.

...accuses Christians of bigotry and hatred, in a post so thick with hatred it could pass for a Klan pamphlet with only minor editing.

Those are just the major hypocrisies. His other points cross the line into tin-foil hat territory. Like this one:

"I pointed out that the problem was actually the claim that this was "MONEY", the issue was not who issued it, but that's it's fake to begin with.  The bills are not "MONEY."
With that logic, this "money" is also "fraud":

And this not only fraud, he's an "Anonymous Coward":

Poking fun at a harmless crank is one thing. Now that he's a harmful crank, I hope the thrift store sends a lawyer after his ass.

UPDATE: In an unsurprising, cowardly move, he's deleted all his abusive comments, except one. However, Google never forgets.


Guest Writer Opines on Quizzo Bowl VII

Regyna Woodpile attended yet another of those little quiz things, Quizzo Bowl, even though my cleverness far overshadows that of Johnny Goodtimes. Regyna found last year's event to be a disappointment. What did she think of QBVII?

She gave me $1000 to allow her to post her review here.

I Always Feel Like Somebody's Watching Me

For someone as stunningly intelligent as myself, there are always going to be the jealous inferior minds who will scratch their flabby claws at my monumental achievements in a forlorn attempt to minimize my greatness. A recent cabal of critics have been spewing vitriol far and wide due to their objections to my sacred First Amendment Right to do a blogging.

Then, it occurred to me. It must be only one! A Moriarty-like nemesis obsessed who shadows my every move, with the cunning of the insane, using thousands of pseudonyms! (This is called misterfloppetry, if you're fluent, like me, in the art of webbing.) I turned every megawatt of my luminous intellect to this botherment, and formulated the following profile:
  • He must be of Scotloid descent
  • He isn't black, since stalking rarely crosses racial lines
  • He is far less accomplished than I
Those razor-like criteria and my elephantine deductive skills eliminate everyone in the world, save one: Barry O'Bama!

He's been cheesed off ever since I bested him in that crossword puzzle-eating contest in prep school!

Of course, I have irrefutable proof. Behold:

Here, I caught him stalking me on my last holiday to Antarctica , where I helped install a new government:

Here he is again, in Botswana where I was teaching Latin to little brown people:

And again, in Thailand, where there was a slight misunderstanding with the authorities over some powder-filled condoms in my rectum:

There you have it. Inarguable averment!

Barry O'Bama was born in Scotland before it ceased to exist in the 1970's, despite what his forged birth certificate says. He most definitely is not black. He became "black" around the same time Michael Jackson became "white." Coincidence?? I think not! He, unlike I, has never accomplished anything of note. As far as I know, he's pumping gas somewhere.

I am unswervingly convinced he is Hot4theBeeb who slandered me on; CrankYanker on 4chan, 14nHornee on, and millions of others. I call you by name, Barry O'Bama! Jockuse!


Eat This, Birthers

Recently, a mongoloid dissimulator made an scandalous accusation about my identity. Perhaps the same crazed zealot who stalks my every move around the internets. Revolting as it is to respond to this palsied pervert, I will provide incontrovertible proof, if only to humiliate him. Again. Choke on it, stalkerman.