Obama Wins Nobel Peace Prize – BULLSHIT.

Source (Huffington Post)

I’m pissed. So, Obama, who we all know has done absolutely NOTHING, wins the Nobel Peace Prize. Why? Because he’s promising – not doing – promising America (and the world) all of this shit he hasn’t even touched yet. It’s ridiculous. Oh, also, it was awarded because he’s attempting to remove the world of nuclear weapons and ease tension between Muslim radicals. AKA he’s hiding bombs and not doing anything with the Muslims (leave it to the Red Cross, asshole). Moron intellectuals are building a monument for Obama as part of the award.

This isn’t an expositional essay: who does this asshole think he is? He’s done absolutely nothing to initiate peace with anyone. He’s all talk and no show. He reminds me of President Palmer from 24: always not doing anything and worrying about one little thing. In this case, it isn’t an immediate inter-American terrorist threat; it’s the press. Obama is an attention whore that basks in media and nothing more. He’s a joke and a fraud.

In fact, some of the White House reps thought it was a joke at first. Why? Because they know Obama is a joke. What an asshole.

God Bless America.

How to argue like Angry Baker: a guide.

I’m tired of seeing shitty arguments where both sides have no idea what they are talking about and look like whiny, illogical little babies. They look as dumb as politicians; always trying to interject with some idiotic remark that deals no blows. My argumentative style changes that. My argumentative style is full proof and does all of the right punches. I know what it does because I’ve built it on years of telling “intellectuals” who the boss is in countless communities and have never, not once, lost one of these arguments. That is because my style, called the ABFC (Angry Baker Fighting Chance), is invincible.

So let’s get started:

Rule number one: I’m right;  you’re wrong. Since I know I’m right (because I’m never wrong), my alliance towards my argument gives me loyalty. I won’t be pulling those “oh, yeah, but…” cards like the morons that have no idea what they’re talking about. Instead, I’ll be saying “Bullshit.”

Rule number two: If you’re stuck, pull the irrelevant card. This has saved my ass so many times in a debate. If I am on a subject where I have the argumentee by the balls, I’ll stick with it and deal a bunch of below-the-belt hits. If they try to change the subject suddenly, say “BULLSHIT. THAT’S IRRELEVANT” and punch them in the face.

Rule number three: Be offensive. Don’t be Mr. Nice Guy. Don’t be ridiculously obscene by calling them faggots (but they probably are); usually naming them off as idiots, mentally impaired, etc. deals enough to their morale to make them either A: become incomprehensibly angered and, at that point, their argument becomes invalid as a whole or B: run away.

Rule number four: Grammar doesn’t matter. I’ve won so many arguments with people that claim to be intellectuals just by typing in internet tongue – no periods. In fact, I recommend that you don’t use capital letters nor periods at the end of a paragraph because it flips the argumentee’s lid and they’ll call you out on it because they know they’ve lost. That’s when you grab them by the balls.

Rule number 5: I’m always right – you’re always wrong. Same as rule number one. This is IMPORTANT.

SUMMARY: You don’t need to know shit about the argument and you can still win. Focus in on one small area and keep punching the argumentee and they’ll have a breakdown once they realize that you aren’t capable of arguing at all (but it’s a subconscious thing. They won’t call you out on it) and they will either snap or stop arguing because they know they’ve lost. You look like a hero and nobody else wants to fuck with you. That, dear reader, is the glory of the Angry Baker Fighting Chance argumentative style.

Note: Most likely, this post will continually be updated to prevent loopholes and to be more comprehensive. We both know that you are dyslexic and have no idea what you’ve just read. Don’t even kid yourself.

Seriously, another plane crash?

Who cares any more? What a joke. Plane crashes are so common any more that it could possibly become as common as cell phones.

This time it was Iran, which is hilarious. Nobody important died (obviously, because important people don’t take aircraft that they know is going to blow up in mid-air like the Challenger spacecraft), so instead of the toll of one important person, it takes the lives of 150 nobodies. Another slapstick incident in the news, and another pair of people to pretend to give a damn.

Good job, Iran.

The Pretenders

Two in the morning. Darkness hangs around the bar like the smoke after a gunfight. Dirty patrons hunched over their tables, stewing under trenchcoats and ball caps, greasy hair hanging down over the eyes. Private mires in the ocean of misery. I take a drag off the cigarette. I don’t come here to drink. I come here to drown. Immerse myself in the misery and the grit and the pain of men who don’t need to speak. Ride the wave of suffering for a misanthropic high and then get dumped out in a reservoir so deep and baseless it makes me want to curl up and die. The contrails of the journey are raked deep around my eyes, the passive etchings of a tortured mind, the perfect portrait of a broken man.

Outside, the trashcan fires cast long shadows along the ground while men like rats shrug up their coats and rub their hands for warmth. Whores congregate under streetlights, calling out passersby, selling their haggard bodies and glazed eyes. Dopers, half of them. What do they see through those hazy, dilated pupils? Do they see me? Do they see through me..? I flip up my collar, take one last drag. Scan for threats. Mark the movement in a peripheral space. Action decisive enough to burn a white-hot hole through the monotony and the depression and the stagnation. I pick him out thirty feet away. Dressed like a bum, but too sure in his stride, too practiced in the way he pretends to watch his feet, the way he holds his hands in his pockets. We are the pretenders, he and I. The last living souls in a land of hollow men and cracked facades. There is no hiding it. The qualities of a mind unhampered by the substances and the conformances of life, a mind unwilling to bend itself to the popular regression, are not easily concealed. He’s made me as well. He slows down. The hands come out, relaxed, non-committal. A predator surprised must reassess his chances. The eyes, unblinking, fire bullets at my own, but I am not fazed. I’ve seen dozens like him. Blood-spattered, shattered, pieced together like him. A wild animal with a broken leg. He threatens the order of things because his order is turbulence and greed, and he lives moment-to-moment, piecing together what he needs to feed his macabre and gruesome psyche.

He breaks the contact. Unused to dealing with a veneer more icy, more impenetrable than his own. He shuffles across the street, looking the other way, ears pulled back for an early alert. I drop the remnants of the cigarette, crush it. Watch hot red embers shoot out from under my heel. The gun is heavy. It wants. I cross my arms to ward off the cold and trudge after the man. His pace as my eyes bore a hole in the back of his head and I am committed. I see his crimes, I see his thoughts. His fear. I know his future. I see him as he never will.

Two in the morning. Darkness hangs around the bar like the smoke after a gunfight. Dirty patrons hunched over their tables, stewing under trenchcoats and ball caps, greasy hair hanging down over the eyes. Private mires in the ocean of misery. I take a drag off the cigarette. I don’t come here to drink. I come here to drown. Immerse myself in the misery and the grit and the pain of men who don’t need to speak. Ride the wave of suffering for a misanthropic high and then get dumped out in a reservoir so deep and baseless it makes me want to curl up and die. The contrails of the journey are raked deep around my eyes, the passive etchings of a tortured mind, the perfect portrait of a broken man.

Outside, the trashcan fires cast long shadows along the ground while men like rats shrug up their coats and rub their hands for warmth. Whores congregate under streetlights, calling out passersby, selling their haggard bodies and glazed eyes. Dopers, half of them. What do they see through those hazy, dilated pupils? Do they see me? Do they see through me..? I flip up my collar, take one last drag. Scan for threats. Mark the movement in a peripheral space. Action decisive enough to burn a white-hot hole through the monotony and the depression and the stagnation. I pick him out thirty feet away. Dressed like a bum, but too sure in his stride, too practiced in the way he pretends to watch his feet, the way he holds his hands in his pockets. We are the pretenders, he and I. The last living souls in a land of hollow men and cracked facades. There is no hiding it. The qualities of a mind unhampered by the substances and the conformances of life, a mind unwilling to bend itself to the popular regression, are not easily concealed. He’s made me as well. He slows down. The hands come out, relaxed, non-committal. A predator surprised must reassess his chances. The eyes, unblinking, fire bullets at my own, but I am not fazed. I’ve seen dozens like him. Blood-spattered, shattered, pieced together like him. A wild animal with a broken leg. He threatens the order of things because his order is turbulence and greed, and he lives moment-to-moment, piecing together what he needs to feed his macabre and gruesome psyche.

He breaks the contact. Unused to dealing with a veneer more icy, more impenetrable than his own. He shuffles across the street, looking the other way, ears pulled back for an early alert. I drop the remnants of the cigarette, crush it. Watch hot red embers shoot out from under my heel. The gun is heavy. It wants. I cross my arms to ward off the cold and trudge after the man. His pace quickens as my eyes bore a hole in the back of his head and I am committed. I see his crimes, I see his thoughts. His fear. I know his future. I see him as he never will.

Haiku for the Dead (Italy)

Fourteen dead in Italy

From a traincar explosion

Railroads: a poor choice.

Haiku for the Dead (Yemen)

Yet one more Airbus

Into the endless ocean

You would think they’d learn

Guns aren’t tools. But you are

The following excerpt comes from some Russian faggot

Firearms are just tools, developed by humans and for humans through centuries to accomplish various tasks. These tasks may vary, but in my opinion firearms are as legitimate for civilian purposes as anything else, and according to statistics on accidents in many countries, firearms are less dangerous than automobiles.

What the fuck kind of idiot to you have to be to believe this kind of relativistic bullshit? The kind of idiot who uses a computer, I guess, because you see this kind of shit everywhere. I know gun owners are mostly limp-dicked rednecks who never finished school because they had to tend to the incestuous love children of their brothers and sisters, and you knuckle-dragging mouth-breathers are going to be the ones posting all the damn comments, so let me just break this down -

• A gun is a tool.

No, dickshit fucknugget, it isn’t; a gun is a weapon, which is a complicated multisyllabic word meaning thing that kills things. See this whole “tool” bullshit is designed to drill home the next point these Jews make -

• PEOPLE KILL PEOPLE NOT WEAPONS OFBHDORHNSDONRHDSRHN

See, when they aren’t wrong, they’re infantile. Too bad when they’re infantile they don’t connect the damn dots.

But I guess that’s part of being infantile. God, I hate infants. How many times have you been enjoying a good movie or dinner and some thirtysomething couple come in with their fucking kid and their fucking high chair and let the little fucker make so much fucking noise you can’t fucking pay any attention to ANY OTHER FUCKING THING. Gag the fuckers; I would. People don’t realize that being a child is the same as having any other disease. Like polio. Only this one can only be cured by time – so lock them up in their damn room until they can communicate like adults. It worked for me.

But it didn’t work for all you egomaniacal wannabe-lawyer gun collectors out there, so back to the point. Whenever someone says “if we banned guns people would kill each other with knives!!!!!” you need to come back strong with a kick to the throat, because ain’t nothing else gonna shut that crankshaft up. People kill each other with knives right now, fuckstick, but if we banned guns at least that would stop.

“oh but why not just ban knives then huh you meanie”

Because, shitmonkey, a knife is a tool. You use it to prepare food. You can use a gun to kill food, but you could also just buy it, which would be easier if you didn’t drop $1,500 on that old-ass Springfield you don’t hunt with anyway, retard. Try cutting a steak with a damn spoon and see how far that gets you.

Actually, don’t, steak is pretty gross. I hate when people pretend to like it. Nobody likes steak. It’s bland and uninteresting, or else bloody and horrifying; I’d probably get more interest gnawing at my forearm. This shit’s fine in a burger, so leave it there. If I go to a 5 star restaurant I expect some five star buffalo wings god dammit.

At least killing someone with a knife shows some clear brass. You always hear about these five year old fucks who blast some dude because they found an unlocked gun in the house. Imagine if they tried that shit with a knife? If they didn’t cut themselves all open, they’d get the shit stomped out of them.

Yeah, that’d kick ass.

Eulogy for Billy Mays; my man.

I hated that asshole. I’m glad he’s gone. I’m sick of seeing this shitty argument between who’s better; Billy Mays or Vince Offer. They are both terrible at advertising. The only reason the products they advertise for make any money is because everyone knows what the product is/has heard of it before. Shamwow? Whoopty-fucking doo. Old. Slap-chop? I’ve had one since ‘05 (and I never use it). Kaboom? OxiClean? Just another brand of something that’s already out. I’m not impressed by anything they’ve advertised so why should I (or anyone else, for that matter) care if some TV salesperson dies? The only reason I’m concerned is because I’m tired of hearing about it – just like Michael Jackson.

Eulogy for MJ, my man.

Michael Jackson was a wonderful man who deserved the title “King of Pop.” He was a man of the people, as well, with great taste in both fashion and children. His songs went through the hearts and minds of many teenagers of his time, and he was an idol amongst many. From black to white – the transition of his life began, from a poor city boy to a king with an entourage. He walked the moon and the streets with a horde of zombies – he had slain werewolves and shrugged off the press. He lived a life that nobody else had, and one day on the Neverland Ranch, he had said “I am truly the king of this manor of mine.” And it was true – he was indeed the king of Neverland Ranch, where he would ride carousels until his heart gave in!

Michael was a man of his word, too. He never touched children. Well, he had, but only through their hearts. He died an honest man’s death, and his reputation as the King of Pop will go on forever.

All I can say is this: Good riddance.

Transformers 2: Perfection Achieved

Now, I can’t say I’m one of the people who liked the first Transformers movie. Let’s be honest – all it was was a bare-bones action movie with a paper-thin plot that only put asses in the seats because of Megan Fox and giant robot battles. So of course I expected that going into Transformers 2.

I was wrong.

The first thing you will notice when you sit down to watch this fantastic movie is the depth of the plot. Gone are the simplistic trappings of the premise – no longer is it merely “AUTOBOTS GOOD DECEPTICONS BAD.” It turns out the Decepticons aren’t even the MAIN bad guys, but they actually serve one supreme bad guy called THE FALLEN! That’s right; it’s more than just a subtitle affixed to the name of the movie in lieu of a 2 – how CRAZY is that?

But it gets crazier. Remember that cube they were fighting for the whole first movie? The one they destroyed because that was the entire point? Turns out it wasn’t. There’s like two shards left and Shia has one because it was in his pocket the whole time. But then he looks at it and gains the magical ability to see strange symbols that you later find out are ancient runes which aren’t actually significant to the plot (or even ever translated) but for some reason causes the Decepticons to chase him and try to pry open his brain before they just say the hell with that and go to the pyramids to unlock an ancient Decepticon machine that they plan to turn on with an ancient key to obliterate the sun (because it’s way easier to put such a machine on a planet than, say, shoot it from space, thereby ending this whole thing before it even began) in order to gain energy for themselves even though they don’t apparently need it because they could get such energy from LITERALLY ANY STAR IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE and this is obviously the only one under Autobot protection and besides they don’t even have the key, but that doesn’t matter because they just activate it anyway. So Transformers 2 not only manages to invalidate the plot of the previous movie, but even invalidates its own plot. Genius! Most people won’t notice, though, because they’ll be spending most of the last 30 minutes staring at Megan Fox’s tits. They’re great. You get about 7 slow motion shots of her running away from explosions with no bra and just a skimpy shirt. I mean, that doesn’t really detract from the completely nonsensical action going on around her (the army launches a naval invasion to get to a desert, a destroyer has a railgun that can kill a massive combination of six transformers but not a pyramid (even though Optimus destroys said pyramid later on with a single rocket), the humans just shoot normal bullets the whole time as if they expect it to do anything, Shia’s parents appear at the battlefield for no reason and with absolutely no explanation whatsoever, and not a single one of the main characters dies, in spite of all of the decepticons in the whole fucking universe trying to kill them).

In fact, basically nobody dies who wasn’t introduced in this movie. You’ve still got all the core Autobots, plus 15 new ones; Megatron and Starscream (even though they both have their faces shot off like twice each); Shia, Megan, Shia’s parents and that Sector 7 guy; Shia’s dog. The main villain was introduced and killed off. The cube was totally destroyed, but we thought it was last movie, too. No major cities were leveled, just a forest and a pyramid. We’re basically back EXACTLY WHERE WE BEGAN. Like a serialized television show.

You know what? I changed my mind. This move was fucking atrocious.

FINAL SCORE 0/5