Now, don’t get me wrong: I liked Iron Man. It was shit, sure, but it was entertaining, so it doesn’t require a scientist to understand why I, or any of the millions of douchebag gradeschoolers came running to theaters all around the world to see Robert Downey Jr. (and this time hand-in-hand with Sam Rockwell, a talentless actor who gains his fame by tainting children with lewd, rancid sex jokes (did any of you see Moon? Any Sundance movie is shit, as we all know, but Moon takes the cake. An hour and a half of this asshole running around circle-jerking with himself makes the most sane of people contemplate suicide with no forethought about the repercussions of sitting through this piece of shit film)), once again, be a douchebag — but it’s two plus hours of fun!

No, you’re wrong: Iron Man 2 was shit because Iron Man 1 was shit. The only reason you like it is because it’s Iron Ma-no, shut the fuck up. The only reason you liked Iron Man is because it was better than that piece of shit Transformers and that piece of shit Hulk and Wolverine and it was about time another superhero movie came out that didn’t suck — but it still sucked. Don’t get me wrong — I think every superhero movie, ever, has sucked — but Iron Man has to take the cake. Why? Because you like it? Partially. The other half of the equasion is because it’s Marvel. What a bunch of nerds. Since when did they get the resources to make movies — aren’t comic books extinct? What, did their stock suddenly skyrocket? I don’t understand. Someone explain this to me — it must be because they lived in the shadow of another movie company when Spider Man was being made, those selfish assholes.

Let’s face it: I can’t complain about the visuals or the company. The thing that makes Iron Man the worst, much like Transformers, Titanic, and let’s not forget Twilight, is you bumbling, ditzy prepubescent turds running to theaters to see it. I doubt you even knew who Iron Man was before the first movie came out. Do you know what we called people who liked super heroes? That’s right! We called them NERDS. And that’s what I’m going to call you, you bandwagon hopping cock gobbling circle jerking jerk. You’re the puke in the bottom of the sewage of the film market and you’re the gum that’s stuck on my shoe — you’re trash and I dispise you for everything you’re worth yet I can’t seem to get rid of you.

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.

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.

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.

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.

From a traincar explosion

Railroads: a poor choice.

Into the endless ocean

You would think they’d learn

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.

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.