April’s Stupid Asshole of the Month
Every month there is exceedingly stiff competition for the coveted asshole of the month prize. Glenn Beck is always a contender. Wolf Blitzer in the past few months has really risen to prominence. Charlie Sheen, well, he is certainly always “winning” in these stakes. But one man, one unknown entity, has somehow risen from obscurity, and taken the trophy from these heavyweights.
Enter Matthew Millan, a wannabe filmmaker residing in the shithole par excellence of Los Angeles, California. So how, you ask, does a relative unknown rise to the top of the steaming pile of douchebags to win the award? Simple. This prick is going to Libya to make a film! Yes, you heard it. Libya! Home of Gaddafi, a man who recklessly invaded Chad (who still has trouble sitting on a hard surface to this day), bombed a German nightclub, plotted the Lockerbie disaster, and worst of all, purchased a nuclear warhead made from used pinball parts. And Matthew “Middle-Aged Attention Whore” Millan is going to his backyard to make a little film on god knows, or cares for that matter, what.
I lived my whole life immersed in the most brutal violence imaginable, for I was just a product of the times. But it really, really takes a dipshit of the highest order to actively seek out a conflict, particularly one centered around an even bigger tit than myself. God bless Tiny Tim.
And so I call on all of my followers, and all 10 readers, to support this idiot in this ridiculous, 64 calorie T.E Lawrence endeavor. Why, you ask? Simple. This is certainly going to end up being the 4th installment of Jackass, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Short of stapling his nutsack to Saif Gaddafi’s thigh, I can’t see how this could possibly be more hilarious. So, please my dear readers, if you are loyal to comedy, then give this asshole some money so he can not only go into the lion’s den, but stick his finger up its butthole. You can donate your money to the cause below:
Charlie Sheen’s War
Recent developments in North Africa, and within the labrythine mind of Charlie Sheen may at first glance seem completely unrelated. Yet an astute observer, like a certain 570 year-old prince for example, will pick up telling correlations between these events. As a butterfly flapping its wings in California causes a typhoon in Japan, the apparent breakdown of Mr. Sheen has in fact accelerated the wind of revolution around the world. So the real question to ask is not if these events are related, but how they are related.
Pax Wolfowitza
The acrid stench of rebellion has been so strong, so overpowering, that it has even stirred the old guard neo-cons from their slumber. Led by Paul Wolfowitz and the other chicken-hawks descended directly from complete-and-utter-prick DNA extracted from Lucy’s pimp in Ethiopia, the Pax Americana Wild Bunch have called for immediate intervention in Libya. This is of course all in the name of democracy and human rights, two themes entirely consistent with their impressive track records. Seriously, any half-witted dipshit can see through this doo doo-stained veil. But how, you ask, can this possibly relate to that quixotic guy known for his ground-breaking roles in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and Men at Work?
Narcissus Raped by Adonis
As a hilarious consequence of the costly picnics in Iraq and Afghanistan, United States foreign policy is in serious trouble. A blowback of Category-5 proportions, so to speak. The aging narcissistic autocrats who supported the powerful American military-industrial complex are being jettisoned into the Mediterranean faster than Paris Hilton can spread her frighteningly virulent strain of HPV (approximately 96% the speed of light). Alas, how things were looking so different in the early part of the century. M1 Abrams, tear gas cannisters, Poison CD’s and Barney, you name it were being shipped over to these friendly megalomaniacs for a little bit of oil money, and some friendly Rendition favors enacted on Pakistani cab drivers. Hell, even Mr. Lockerbie himself, Colonel Gaddafi threw his ridiculous Psychic Network looking hat into the ring of counter-terrorism.
Yet within these past few calamitous weeks, the whole world has been turned on its head, all thanks to Zuckerburg and his previously outlined plans for world domination. The neo-cons rightly suspect that Pharaoh Zuckerburg cannot be possibly be contained, indeed making him a serious threat to their amusingly nefarious designs. As masters of imp-provisation, they have reluctantly stepped away from their retirement glory holes to scour the land for worthy replacements to their friendly despots. But not just any old royal dick-heads can rule these treacherous nations, particularly ones divided along tribal lines. A tricky business finding Pol Pot caliber assholes to control the rabble. Yet as we know, nothing comes out of a vacuum, apart from a reckless teenager’s penis. Concurrently, rigorous scientific investigations into the very fabric of human DNA have led to a startling discovery. For years, it was widely suspected that every despotic ruler in human history has had a certain mojo, a certain je ne sais quoi, a staggering level of prickery that would even make The Situation from Jersey Shore blanch. But the smoking gun was never found. That is until the mojo was serendipitously discovered in a UCLA laboratory in 2009. The Adonis Gene. Yes, every tyrant in the history of civilization can trace his lineage to the ports of Phoenicia, and to the divine scrotal sack of Adonis himself.
Although normally loathe to accept any scientific methodology, Mr Wolfowitz and his merry band of Ring Wraiths saw a glorious opportunity. Celebrity culture in the United States is capable of staggering levels of narcissism, making it a seminally-coated petri dish of perfect candidates for all of these open dictatorial positions. So without delay, the Wolf Pack dusted off the old strip club napkins and revised the Project for a New American Century, and consequently Pax Americana. Their pretty young oil boy assistants were duly instructed to wash their mouths out, and contact the celebrity world forthwith. Auditions were then held for the still unfilled roles in North Africa. But not just any narcissistic tabloid tit could qualify. The right celebrity had to demonstrate beyond all doubt that certain je ne sais quoi. That level of self-loving douchebaggery so great that it could only be traced to the God of Douchebags himself. Adonis.
High on Sheen
And so enter the man. Enter the son of the gods. Enter…Wild Thing. Swaggering toward the mound in his algebra teacher’s spectacles, poised to hurl a 101 mph missile right at the undescended nuts of the media machine. Charlie Sheen. High on celebrity. High on life. High on…Charlie Sheen. And honestly, what better replacement for the King of Kings than a man who can overdose on himself? I mean, if he hasn’t developed a tolerance to Charlie Sheen after 45 years of hard use, then that must be some really powerful shit. So it is easy to imagine the neo-CONS concluding that six million downtrodden Libyans may well be vulnerable to 1 gram, let alone 70 kilos of Charlie Sheen. In fact, conservative jump-to-bizarre-conclusions-without-any-evidence-tank population models suggest that Libyans will be addicted within a matter of weeks, and ravenous zombies bent on their Sheen fix in only a matter of months. By 2012, what’s left of their dignity will be flushed down the toilet. Even more worryingly, these projections point to the entire Muslim World, 1.5 billion poor souls, becoming irreversibly addicted to Sheen, or some toxic variant by 2015. And once again, the Project for a New American Century will be in place. Pax Americana back on track, and firmly within the grasp of the neo-knob gobblers.
So where, you ask, does this leave Charlie Sheen? He’s too high to give a shit.
Despots of the World Unite!
In the year of your Lord 2011, a foul wind is blowing. Just months ago, it was nothing but an inconsequential breeze of discontent. Yet within a blink of my ancient eye, this breeze has grown to gale force levels. From a little back desert covering the salted ruins of Carthage to the STD ravaged-mummies of the Ptolemy line, the gale, a miasma of self-righteous freedom, has enveloped the whole of North Africa and the Middle East. The firmly entrenched autocracies of the region now suddenly find themselves completely uprooted, and floating toward the history books that no American will ever read.
But who is behind this madness? The collective will of a humiliated Arab nation? The Islamist extremist bogeymen of neo-conservative wet dreams? The “experts” on media outlets bandy about a steaming pile of explanations, it seems each one vying to be further from the truth. But listen not to those insufferable assholes, whether they be the fascist-tastic rants of Glenn Beck, the “Mubarak is a force for good. Um, what? Oh, shit! I mean the people have spoken, and Mubarak must go” one-two of Hilary Clinton, or the seemingly reasoned, but still dogshit arguments of Zakaria. All of their explanations are fucking absurd, and entrenched in their own ever flowing dogmatic diarrhea.
So who then is the source? Why are these harmless little dictators – who have never hurt anyone apart from 96% of their population and countless livestock – being ousted? After watching what some stupid pricks have called the most important film of our era, I have determined that it can be only one man behind this mess. One man and his diabolical…megalomaniacal scheme.
Zuckerburg!
Ever since this socially inept dipshit somehow stumbled upon the map of success with Facebook, he has had but one goal, and one goal only. A prize for all time. No, this prize is not in his billions, nor in his algorithms. The prize, my simple friends, lies within the abandoned ruins of Carthage. On the shores of Tripoli. Beneath the city of Alexandria. In the heart of the Holy Land. Don’t you now see it, my despotic brethren? This awkward and abrasive tit plans to trump us all, and become the great monopolizer of our sacred dictatorships. You can see it in his beady eyes.
Where, I ask you, is the level playing field? Why doesn’t anybody speak out? Where are the anti-trust laws protecting our mom and pop dictatorships from monopolization? Under these circumstances, we can’t possibly compete against him and his 13 year old cronies. I mean, how the hell can we put down a rebellion if its origin is some whining asshole’s tweet about not having a job? Or a say in the government? Or food? Or money for clothes? Well, maybe he shouldn’t have spent his money on the iphone then.
As a former middling dictator, my heart goes out to these little despots. These pioneers, these small-folk. These brave men who managed against all odds to carve out their little part of the world…with their own sweat, their own toil (and their own M1 Abrams provided by the United States). And now this half child – half douchebag comes along and takes it all away from the elder statesmen of the Middle East?
Though we be cast adrift in the sea change, do not fear. You can make a difference. Your voices shall be heard above the tumult of the unwashed. So all of you little dictators come out from your exile, whether you are stuck in a palace in Saudi Arabia, or a cozy house in Hawaii. Start tweeting. Update your facebook. Put your current employment status on linkedIn. The world shall no longer be deaf to your plight. I speak not for just a few aging autocrats, but for the multitude…the poor disenfranchised dictators who have been bullied for 6000 years by the Zuckerburgs of civilization.
Let us strike back with the pube-haired nob’s own arsenal…before it is too late. We can turn the tide, my friends, but we must act now. And so I summon forth my own little social network. Update my own status. Tweet my own revolutionary tweets. RT@ben ali gaddafi and mubarak never give up never surrender despots of the world unite lol! And then pat myself on the back for making a difference.
Everybody Loves Bathory
I, Vladimir III, son of Vladimir II of the Order of the Dragon, am pleased to present to you, my dear reader(s), my lovely guest La Comtesse Erzsebet Bathory, known as Countess Bathory, or the Blood Countess to all of you serial killer enthusiasts out there. Popularized by legendary black metal band Venom, and the growing swarm of vampire afficianados, she has once again emerged into our collective consciousness. And the awesome power of popular culture has given life to the Countess once again, centuries after her ignoble death, sealed within the walls of her castle-turned prison.
A noble woman to the very core, she has been shunned by history as a colossal sociopath, but only because her deeds have been largely misunderstood. The simple truth is that she was no serial killer by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, one might say that her deeds were precursors to reality shows like Jackass and Punk’d. You see, what the history books fail to tell you is that her 600 victims were not victims of murder, but of 600 hilarious pranks that went terribly wrong.
And now, 400 years after her death, she has been given the opportunity to vindicate herself (as a guest contributor in my blog realm). So please put your hands together (pull your left hand out of your pants, Jim), and welcome the beautiful Comtesse.
Blowing Rogues
This past week, a furor has erupted outside of bookstores nationwide. No, it’s not a new release of J.K. Rowlings lusting after young boys with broomsticks. Nor is it another ridiculous story penned by Dan Brown about the Church impaling babies to keep us from an age-old secret. So what are the long lines for? To get Americans worked up in such a frenzy over the written word, then it must be something extraordinary.
And something extraordinary it is. Yes, my reader(s), it’s the memoirs of one of the greatest thinkers in modern history. A woman so well-traveled that she can almost see Kovylunueskin, Russia from her house. A woman so well-read that she had to dictate only 25% of her memoirs to a 7th grade spelling champion. A woman so well-spoken that she can talk nonstop for nearly 15 months, and still manage to not actually say anything. A woman so well versed in just about everything, that she has been dubbed the Last Renaissannce Man – If The Last Renaissance Man Had a Big Pair of Tits.
Sarah Palin. Captain my Captain. Please spread to us your pearls of wisdom. Please share with us your world view (if the world was 11 miles in diameter). Please pick up the fallen scepter, and champion the cause of the down-trodden…of the commonfolk…of the honest citizens who regularly grace the front page of peopleofwalmart.com.
Jesus wept yet again!
This is your champion? A hockey mom who gets road rage in her SUV? A woman who could have been a principal character on “Fargo”? Are you people really that stupid? In my day, the boyars (noble pricks) tried to pull stunts like this all the time on the simple Wallachian peasant-folk (without the book signing tours, of course). In a cruel endgame of manipulation and power-flexing, they would steal from the common citizen with one hand while pointing accusingly at my family with the other. An old trick straight out of the Roman Senators’ playbook. An old trick that Mrs Palin is employing now by screaming “Death Panels” in convalescent homes, while lining her ample pockets with your hard-earned cash.
She is Not one of you
This woman is a patrician in a PTA president’s spectacles. She, like all of your so-called Democrats and Republicans, is nothing but a modern boyar. Your boyars may hide under the guise of elected officials, but trust me, I have executed enough of them in my day to know what their shit smells like. Your country was bought and sold more than 50 years ago. No one in power, let alone Mrs. Palin, will want to give it back to you.
The Piper at the Gates of Dawn
What you need is a real savior. A Champion of Change. A “Yes We Can” kind of guy. Someone who will pick up that scepter, and emancipate you all from mental slavery. Someone who will reveal to you the ugly truth hidden beneath your brown-stained noses.
What you need is none other than Rowdy Roddy Piper. Recall in ‘They Live” when he got into that epic fight with Keith David over a pair of glasses. After 175 suplexes and 62 piledrivers, he finally coerced him into put the glasses on. And David’s world came crashing down around him, for the veil was lifted from his eyes. The alien overlords were among us, and without those special glasses, who could tell who was who?
You, my halfwitted peasant friends, are living in such a world. And what you need is not what you think you need, nor is it what you particularly want either. What you really need is a certain Mr. Piper to kick the living shit out of you, and make you put on that pair of glasses. Then you will see what Sarah Palin really is.
A Tyranny of Douchebags
While I was still breathing, the known world was inundated with a viscous layer of douchebaggery. From my Saxon neighbors in the North to Sultan Mehmed II and his army of oil boys to the East, and of course that Holy Roman prick Matthias to the West, I was literally floundering in a sea of assholes. As a consequence, my little state was constantly in danger of being assimilated or destroyed by those mad tits. 500 years on, and I see that the waters of the Sea haven’t receded one iota. In fact, the tides appear to be rising faster than the oceans of this earth.
I find myself wistfully looking back to my noble reign; in those simple times, when somebody irritated me, I lovingly inserted a hot wooden stake up through their rectums, which caressed their vital organs and came out gently through their pleading maws. And all this while sipping fine wine, and enjoying another lovely Tirgoviste sunset. Alas, those days are gone, and I must now resort to attacking my enemies with the 1’s and 0’s of this information age. On the bright side, however, the internet has afforded me an opportunity to out these enemies of nobility, and oversee a friendly competition to boot. And if there is one thing I love more than a good impaling, it’s a good tournament.
So I present to you, my dear readers, a royal tourney, where you decide who will win the the greatest accolade that any asshole could ever hope to receive. I call it The League of Extraordinary Douchebags. I would prefer the league to start out as competitive as possible, so I am forced to retire a certain individual from the tourney. Yet as I am a man who believes in handing out the olive branch, I have named the award in his honor.
The man will go down in the Chronicles as a legend among legendary shitheads. Back in my day, Wallachia was beleaguered by hostile peoples bent on raping and murdering her peaceful subjects. As Lord Protector of its citizens, I was given little choice but to be as brutal as they come. But the unbridled hatred spewing out of this man’s supernaturally fat head makes even me, Impaler of 20,000 Turks, cringe.
Since my reanimation, I have found some time to absorb the events of the last 500 years, and I have come to the conclusion that this man would be Kim Jong Il’s fluffer and personal baby stabber if he was born above the 38th Parallel. But unfortunately for him, he was born in an apparently free society where you have to be cleverer to get away with such deeds.. Yet through sheer talent and force of will, he has still managed to influence millions of the unwashed into believing what he shits out of his mouth. In a society full of village idiots, he has brilliantly managed to stir the uneducated rabble up into a hysterical frenzy, using fear and hatred as deftly as Joseph Goebbels would. Sadly, he has had to work in conditions not quite as amenable to insanity as Herr Goebbels’ Germany, but he has adapted and improvised like a true champion. And so I dedicate this award to him for all of his hard work in championing the cause of assholes worldwide. When you hear his name, you will naturally think of a Canadian rock band who put out a few fantastic songs in the 1970’s, until you realize that whoever you are speaking to is referring to this ugly dickhead.
Ladies and gentleman, I present to you the Rush Limbaugh Trophy. May this year’s winner be a deserving one, and do Rush proud. Let the tourney begin.
In our first matchup, Ann Coulter goes toe to toe with Sean Hannity. Who will emerge victorious, and advance to the Second Round?
Vlad's Principality 
