Some of you thought I was dead, most likely murdered by the Cartel or one of the many other groups of people I’ve insulted over the years. Some of you may have thought I got a girlfriend. Others probably thought I found Jesus. Those of you who aren’t total fucking idiots probably thought that I had simply gave up on this site, that my premature deletion of this site last year was a mistake from which I could never recover.
You were all wrong. Come on, as if the Cartel’s gonna kill me. Bitch please, those fucking faggots aren’t dumb enough to try to take me on. I’ve read like every Punisher comic book ever, that’s just as good as being trained to kill criminals. I’d chug a 2-liter of Dr. Pepper, then run outside like Scarface and mow down 216 of them without breaking a sweat. I would do it on a Monday, so I could randomly say “Sounds like someone has a case of the Mondays!” before I shot them. Like I give a fuck, bitch.
Those of you who said I wouldn’t come back, that I couldn’t come back, fuck you. There’s a reason my logo is the phoenix, asshole.
The truth is, a lot of shit happened during the past year. And like all good stories it started with alcohol.
The night was July 14, the occasion was the celebration of my latest article, the one about Minecraft. Yeah, I throw release parties for all of my articles. Ever see that movie “Project X”? That’s some pussy shit. I throw real fucking bangers, the kind that even Charlie Sheen is afraid to attend even though I still invite him every time out of professional courtesy. The cops are always called out, because I invite them. It’s not as if they’ve got anything to do that night, since like the entire city is at all of my parties. Except the mayor, he can choke on a bag of chlamydia-infected dicks. My parties usually end with the mayor being a butt-hurt little bitch and calling the National Guard in to “restore order” (TRANSLATION: Kill our buzz). That’s right, every time I release a new article the city shuts down for a night and martial law ends up being declared. You don’t hear about it though, because the mayor doesn’t want the world to know what a total puss-bag he is.
Anyway, the plan was for me to get fucked up. Super fucked-up. I’m talking more fucked up than I’ve ever gotten. Ever. On a scale of 1 to 10, my level of fucked-up-ness was going to be “That 500 lb blonde paraplegic over there looks like Scarlett Johannsen, I’m hittin’ it.” If I didn’t end up puking on some fat crippled chick in the middle of fucking her, my night would be considered a failure. I bought myself three cases of Yuengling Lager, 12 2-liters of Dr. Pepper, and 6 bar-sized bottles each of Yukon Jack, Fireball, and Jack Daniels. These three drinks form the Unholy Trinity of Whiskey, and should never, ever, EVER, be mixed.
Fuck that noise, I was going to mix them.
So after drinking all the beer and Dr. Pepper in under an hour, I decided it was time to do it. “Don’t do it, AJ!”, some hot chick screamed. “Don’t tempt fate!” Silly girl, I wasn’t going to tempt fate, I was going to give it the one-finger salute directly to the face! And so I took the Unholy Trinity of Whiskey and forged from their power a new elixir, The Abomination of Desolation. The entire city of Philadelphia, save for the candy-ass mayor, assembled in the Linc (our football field, you dildo) to watch me down this concoction that the deities of old once drank to attain their immortality. How did I fit a population of over 1,500,000 million into a stadium meant to hold only a maximum capacity of 68,532? I stuck them up your mother’s cunt, that’s how.
I mixed the concoction, and raised my glass to the sky. Lightning danced and thunder rolled across the sky. As I pounded down the drink, the entire stadium chanted “CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!” I finished the drink, raised the empty glass to the crowd, and let out a mighty belch. The last thing I heard was copious cheering.
The next thing I knew, I awoke to the sound of a man screaming fiercly in Chinese.
As the room around me faded into view, I saw that I was in either the world’s filthiest basement or some sort of prison. Rotten Tom’s basement is pretty fucking filthy, so there was a good chance that maybe my night ended at his place, as many of my nights involving partying tend to do (no homo- okay, maybe just a little). But then why was there some asshole screaming at me in Chinese? I had a fucking hangover, this asshole needed to shut the fuck up. And so I politely told him, “Hey retard, shut the fuck up. I’ve got a hangover, don’t be a faggot.” My demand was met with a swift blow to the face with the butt of a rifle, followed by more screaming in Chinese. Oh hell no, it’s on now motherfucker.
I tucked and rolled, putting just enough distance between me and my aggressor to get a good look at him. A Chinese man in his early 20’s, wearing a camoflauge uniform bearing a patch with the PLA emblem (China’s military, goddamn read Wikipedia bro). Holy. Fucking. Shit. It finally fucking happened. The crazy yellow bastards finally did it. Red Dawn had come. I called that shit! And now, these bastards had me held captive in Rotten Tom’s basement.
Unfortunately for these Ching Chang Chong Commie bastards, I had been preparing for this scenario since before I was born, because I am a real American just like Hulk Hogan. Remembering my anti-Red Dawn training, I immediately engaged my captor with an Atomic Leg Drop, just like my hero Hulk Hogan. Overwhelmed by my American wrestling move, the Chinese soldier fell unconscious to the floor. I grabbed his rifle (some cheap Ruskie piece of shit, probably a Kalashnikov) and prepared to take back my country from the red and yellow menace.
As I burst out of the door, I was greeted by several more Chinese soldiers. “KNEE-HOW BITCHES!”, I screamed as I massacred them. Turns out I wasn’t in Rotten Tom’s basement after all, as the hallway I had entered was actually clean and not littered with beer cans, pizza boxes, and the broken dreams of retired neighborhood hooligans. As I dashed down the hallway, Bonnie Tyler’s “Holding Out for a Hero” played in my head. More Chinese troops came pouring from various rooms. “WHERE HAVE ALL THE GOOD MEN GONE, AND WHERE ARE ALL THE GODS?”, I shouted, mowing down the onslaught with my inexplicably accurate hipfire. Voices screamed in Chinese, their displeasure evident. These rookies may have had their way with the average American idiot, but they hadn’t gone up against a true warrior like me. The tide was turning in favor of the Stars and Stripes. I was America’s one-man liberation force, restoring freedom to my fellow countrymen and women. I was Frank motherfucking Castle.
Finally, I made it to what appeared to be the exit. I shot the lone guard in the dick (going against everything South Park taught me). “Ooh, right in the Mao Tse Dong!” I quipped, feeling kind of like Duke Nukem. As I kicked the door open and took in the air around me, I came to a sudden realization: I wasn’t in America.
Indeed, I was smack dab in the middle of some Chinese prison camp in the mountains. As what appeared to be the entire armed forces of China amassed around me guns drawn, I shook my head and laughed. “Boy oh boy, the price of freedom is steep!”, I quipped as I drew the rifle from earlier. I raised my rifle, prepared to mow down every last one of those freedom-hating commie bastards, when the sound of an approaching helicopter filled the air. Both myself and my aggressors looked to the sky, to see this:
It was Señor Juan, piloting 4.52 tons of Vietnam-era ‘Merican freedom! A rope dropped from the descending Huey. Figuring the absurd mass of troops surrounding me weren’t going to just let me fly away to freedom, I began firing at them with the rifle. My foes returned fire, succeeding in hitting the wall behind me. Evidently these guys had graduated from the Imperial Stormtrooper School of Marksmanship. I was able to hold them off long enough for Juan to bring the Huey in so I could make my daring escape. As I latched onto the rope and the Huey began its departure, I gave my Chinese hosts the ol’ one-finger salute, Uncle Jesse style:
“KNEE-HOW MOTHERFUCKAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS!” I screamed as the Huey flew away to the sound of six hundred million screaming Chinamen.
As Juan pulled me into the Huey, he told me what he knew about the previous night’s events.
Apparently at some point I decided that I wanted to “roll with Mr. Chow, bitches!”, and took an express flight to China with Juan. Shortly after my arrival, I heard a song that I liked and completely forgot why I came to China. In an attempt to jog my memory I drank even more Fireball Whiskey. That was when I realized I was on a Fireball drinking binge, and therefor also a “fire bender”. So I wandered the streets of China, claiming that I was a firebender on the hunt for the Avatar. Then I came across a monastery full of Buddhist monks. Completely losing my shit, I started screaming “DEATH TO THE AIRBENDERS! LONG LIVE THE FIRE NATION!” I grabbed a torch and proceeded to burn the monastery to the ground while screaming “AVENGE FIRELORD OZAI!” The smoke caused me to finally black out, until I woke up in the camp.
So we made our way back to America. What’s that? Hueys only have a range of around 300 miles you say? There’s no way we could have made it across the Pacific? Fuck that, Juan had his family trick that shit out. Nobody can fix a vehicle like Mexicans. Ever seen a Huey with hydraulics? Well fuck you buddy, I rode in one!
We arrived at the California coastline, and we were greeted in the traditional American way by eagles. F-15 Eagles, to be exact. “Huey, you are entering American airspace,” a voice said over the radio. “Please identify, over.” Before Juan could get us shot down by saying something about tacos or Mexico, I grabbed control of the radio. I had seen enough military shows, I knew how to talk to these people. “Pilot, this is Freedom 1 Chopper, returning from a rescue mission in Ching Chang Chong Chinaland,” I replied, “Mao Tse Dong has been castrated, I repeat, Mao Tse Dong has been castrated. Over.” A moment of silence followed by “Sir, have you been drinking?” I glanced at the bottle of Jack in my hand, then casually slid it under the seat in case this dickhead tried to pull alongside me. “No sir, just high on good ol’ ‘Merican freedom. Hoo-ah!” “Sir, land your Huey or we will shoot you down.” Son of a bitch, it’s on now! “Oh yeah? Well in the words of Miss Benatar, hit me with your best shot!” Instantly, a missile screeched past me, evidently meant to be a warning shot. Juan yelled something in Spanish, then said he was going to land the Huey. Fuck no, we won’t go! I pushed Juan aside and jumped into the controls of the four and a half ton behemoth. “STAR FOX BE MY GUIDE!” I screamed as I began evasive maneuvers. And by evasive maneuvers, I mean that I seriously attempted to do a barrel roll. In a Huey. We immediately went plummeting down to the Earth. We totally survived the crash, because this is my story damnit.
A bunch of unimportant shit later, and we were safely back in Philly. I then spent the next 11 months drinking copiously, before remembering that I had a website.
Nah, but what really happened was I lost interest and spent most of my time working and drinking. But I’m back now, so rest easily my children.
Angry_Jerk
You know you’re a 90’s kid when you won’t shut the fuck up about it
I am a 90’s kid.
I grew up watching “Rugrats”, “Street Sharks”, “All That”, “The Amanda Show”, and “Power Rangers”. I collected pogs, played with Z-Bots, and couldn’t take a side in the Console Wars because I loved both my Sega Genesis and my Super Nintendo. I remember being psyched as shit for the live-action Ninja Turtles movie. I had all my favorite movies on VHS, and had the Space Jam soundtrack on cassette tape. The song my 5th grade class sung for graduation? “I Believe I Can Fly”. The day my crush gave me a gimp she made herself, I nearly pissed myself with delight. I used to fight with my mom all the time about not being allowed to watch “Beavis and Butthead”. My first computer was an old Tandy 2000, and I used to spend most of my time on it playing Colossal Cave Adventure and talking to a chatbot named Eliza. My biggest crushes were the Olsen twins, and I secretly enjoyed “The Adventures of Mary-Kate and Ashley” just because of this. Me and my friends would argue about who was a better running back, Emmitt Smith or Barry Sanders (Emmitt Smith). I also remember sitting on my friend’s step blasting “The Ruff Riders Anthem” at 10 AM, and giggleshitting ourselves to death when the sudden gunshots and “TALK IS CHEAP MOTHERFUCKER” came on.
Yes, I remember all of that shit like it was yesterday. This was my childhood, my past. These are memories I will always keep with me throughout my life (granted all the booze doesn’t kill my brain). Unfortunately, we have a very large and very vocal majority of idiots who don’t want to let the past go, preferring to live forever in their childhood memories like a bunch of Toys R’ Us Kids (I also remember the old jingle from the commercials).
Normally I would just ostracize these people as I do with 95% of the pathetic excuses that pass themselves off as people and go about my life, but this is getting out of hand.
We now have legions of assholes who were born at the tail end of the 90’s claiming to be 90’s kids. The halls of Facebook are rife with stupid Millenials claiming to be 90’s kids, then posting memes (straight off of 9gag and Reddit, the two biggest pillars of faggotry on the internet) of shit like “Hey Arnold” and “Catdog”. Yes, technically “Hey Arnold” and “Catdog” were 90’s cartoons since they came out in the late 90’s. Chances are though, most of you grew up watching these shows in the 2000’s. The 00’s. Hmm, did we ever come up with an actual word for that decade? I don’t fucking know. All I know is, if your definitive cartoons for the 90’s were “Hey Arnold”, “Catdog”, and anything else that came after 1997 then chances are you weren’t actually a 90’s kid, so hop off the bandwagon.
Not that the real 90’s kids are any better. You guys weren’t content with letting the past stay in the past, and you want your skewed vision of a “perfect” past to also be the future. Great job on “Girl Meets World”, fellas. It’s really on par with “Boy Meets World”, which was also a festering pile of shit whose only possible saving grace might have been the chick who played Topanga. I can’t wait to see “Fuller House”. Obviously Bob Saget’s forced shock-comic act wasn’t panning out, and the last relevant thing that Dave Coulier did was “Full House”, but I can’t figure out for the life of me why John Stamos would want anything to do with this shit. Et tu, John? All these years I’ve modelled my appearance after you, my idol. But now, I just, I don’t know anymore man.
Let’s be real here people, the 90’s sucked just about as much ass as the 80’s. There’s a reason most of that shit died out. It’s okay to have fond memories of your childhood. It’s okay to reminisce about your favorite toys and games. It’s even okay to download the old cartoons you used to watch as a kid, then get drunk and baked and watch them. It’s not okay to obsess over them to the point where you’re adorning yourself in t-shirts of your favorite cartoons, flooding my Facebook feed with generic “20 things only 90’s kids will understand!” links from BuzzFeed, and demanding remakes, reboots, and sequels of your favorite 90’s movies and TV shows. Faggots like you are what’s causing our culture to become stagnant. By 2030 we’re going to be caught in a perpetual cycle of being completely reliant on the fads of the previous generation, spewing out the same rehashed garbage over and over.
Maybe it’s time to start over.
Exploit the system, reboot the world.