Oh, this is fun. MoveOn.org, Brave New Films and the Service Employees International Union went live with a Web site to have some fun with Fox News’ “crying man,” Glenn Beck. Turns out, he has it out for us. Oh noes!
If we didn’t have The Onion, self-described as America’s finest news source, where would we be? Surely, it would be without the news that archaeologists have uncovered the remnants of a truly epic keg party here in Columbia. Indeed, it was quite the kick-ass shindig.
[University of South Carolina Archaeology chair Winston] Eng said that the party can be divided into three generally agreed-upon eras, each marked by a watershed event. These include the Arrival of the Three Great Kegs, Brian Crying Like a Little Bitch, and the Lighting of the Bottle Rockets.
In addition to alcohol receptacles of every size and several cast-off contraceptive devices, Eng and his team also uncovered evidence of advanced toolmaking. The most prized discovery to date is a high-volume gravity bong, the sophistication and ingenuity of which appears to be unrivaled by similar THC-delivery devices found at other sites.
If you truly doubt the enormity of this event held in late February of 2010, just cast your eyes on the intricate illustration that shows what went down by the railroad tracks.
Only in Columbia could such an amazing kegger of such significance take place. We look forward to hearing more dispatches from the excavation.
You don’t know Politico, you only think you know Politico. It turns out that editorial meetings happen in a secret hideout in The District, with Mike Allen doing his best superhero impression and Jim VandeHei holding it together, sort of. Special thanks to that great goddamn American, petersmith2822.
The attack sheep of former Hewlett-Packard CEO Carly Fiorina’s U.S. Senate campaign, Demon Sheep, isn’t content to just hang around and be a joke in the Republican primary campaign. No, it’s looking at the big time. That is, MTV, VH1 and a guest appearance on “Project Runway.”
You can’t stop Demon Sheep, you can only hope to contain it.
A girl we dated once — it was in the recent past — said that we acted like an old man sometimes. We chalked it up to the fact that just bitching about things sometimes is cathartic, and that we listened to the “60 Minutes” podcast every week. Really — we’ve had a few minutes with Andy Rooney since we could watch television, so it was bound to take eventually.
Rooney has something going here that’s important. As in, to avoid losing it and violently destroying what irritates you, just complain for a few minutes and get it out of your system. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t (that train knows what it did, and deserved what it got — YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE). In that vein, the old man that resides in the dark recesses of our noggin has something to say.
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Old Man Wolfe takes the keyboard.
To that student with the loud goddamn motorcycle — you can just fuck off to the ninth circle of Hell. Maybe you just moved in, a few blocks away, for the spring semester. Maybe a thoroughly sadistic person gave you that machine for Christmas. Frankly, I don’t give a shit. You roll up and down the road outside my place half a dozen times a day, and your fucking engine rattles the walls. I’m easily 50 yards away, and it damn near shatters the eardrums.
It’s obnoxious and a total dick move to ride that thing around town. You must have a serious adequacy problem (like another self-promoter I know) to behave in such a fashion. You ride that fucking thing, decibel levels higher than a 747 at takeoff, with your backpack, no helmet and no jacket. So, not only are you an asshole, you’re an idiot, too.
By the way — keep it up, and you may have a quite sugary gas tank. Take your crap to North Florida — this ain’t the place.
Fin.
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Wow. That was rough. Here we were, expecting something on shoes or how the waitress doesn’t keep the water glass full when you want it, but bothers you when you don’t, and, well, damn. Hate to see what happens when he opines about the kids down the street, acting like fools with their pants on the ground.
Certain holiday destinations in the South have been off the plan for us for years. Here, it’s Myrtle Beach and Hilton Head Island. Our suspicions were confirmed about the “Dirty Myrtle” when we went up there for the S.C. Press Association awards last year. It was like the cast of “Jersey Shore” thought mid-March was a great time to head down I-95. As for HHI, unless a friend of ours is taking us along, we like to stay away — too many people from Ohio. Hence, we fucking hate the Buckeyes.
The culture clash of dealing with Yankees and those from the frozen Midwest usually ends up with us sporting a quizzical expression that should be accompanied by a question mark over our head. A similar reaction occurred this morning when reading a story about some people living at Sea Pines on Hilton Head. One word: turkeys.
The Island Packet reports brother and sister Robert and Jennifer Klippel are suing Ralph Dupps for defamation. They say Dupps falsely accused them of stealing seven pet turkeys from his property six years ago.
Dupps says he found four of the birds in an island forest preserve, but never found the other three.
Petit larceny warrants were filed against the Klippels but were later dismissed. The Klippels then sued Dupps saying they had been falsely accused.
We hear they have alligator problems out there because of developers overdeveloping and the rich transplants who are willing to pay for it. Even money on a gator going gobbler hunting.
The dismal science is bringing sexy back. Now, if all economic arguments were held as hip-hop battles like the one below between (the immortals, obvs) Friedrich Hayek and John Maynard Keynes, we might actually school some kids ’round here. Ya heard?
We’re only passing along the knowledge of Voting Under the Influence’s Brian McCarty, who pushed a proposal to censure none other than Earl Capps, mainly for being and supporting “RINOs.”
…that Capps had the audacity to win elections that he ran without checking first with the big three consultants; that Capps does not attend Gamecock football games; that Capps actually knows Mike Reino; that Capps actually worked for Republican campaigns before Howard Rich came along including for that RINO Ronald Reagan; that Capps does RINO things like being an adjunct professor at some sissy college that wants people to learn; that Capps has been seen in a bar near Summerville; that Capps committed other notorious offenses to those who are the self professed rulers of South Carolina; that Voting Under the Influence, with the power vested to it by a few folks drinking in a barn, does hereby and forever censure Earl Capps for being an longhaired, outlaw blogger devoted to RINO politics and heavy metal music.
Be it also resolved, by Voting Under the Influence, with the power vested to it by a few folks drinking in a barn, to extend greetings to Earl Capps for a Happy Birthday along with this censure.
Fun and games, gentlemen — fun and games. Hopefully Earl will have a good birthday on Friday.
We kind of like Boston Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia. But with the hats, we never realized he looks like an everyday dude — an older everyday dude. The irony is that we’re older than he is. That’s what happens when you go bald early. He does act like a guy in his mid-20s, so that should have been a tip-off. Really — he’s totally into “Call of Duty.”
Well, Pedroia does this video for Boston station WEEI. If he was at any gym in Columbia, you’d think he was just another guy getting in his workout. But he is a former Rookie of the Year, American League MVP and MLB all-star. He won a World Series title. He has a Lebanese chef that cooks Tex-Mex. And like Over The Monster mentions, the best line is, “This shows I’m a man of fucking biceps.”
While we wait on the latest off-field bullshit with Brett Favre, The Onion beat us to the greatest story of the NFL offseason. That is, of the Green Bay Packers fan that isn’t going to give up his hops. Choice quote, “The Packers are my life, and drinking is my life. I think I have another couple thousand beers left in me.”
