How To Explain ‘War’ To A Generation Brought Up On Call Of Duty

March 4, 2013 | No Comments » | Topics: Writing |


by BakingBrad

Well little Billy, do you know what it’s like to eat peanut butter crackers a lot? The first few crackers are good, but after that, it starts lose its appeal. It becomes boring, and you’ll stop eating them and go eat something else. You like peanut butter crackers, but you don’t want to eat them every day. But what if you had nothing else to eat? You would have to eat them, or else you would go hungry and start to feel really tired and sick.

In war, we have these meals MREs, which stands for Meals, Ready to Eat. They contain an assortment of food that isn’t too bad at first. But when you’re out at war, that’s all you have to eat, and you get sick of it really quickly. It soon doesn’t even taste like anything, you are eating it just to stay alive.

While the lack of awesome food sucks, it’s nothing compared to the pain you may or may not experience. You remember how much it hurt when you broke your ankle playing soccer? Well, try to imagine being on the battle field, and you’re trying to hide from a bunch of other guys who are trying to break your ankle. Many days will go by where nothing happens, you’re just waiting and watching. Then, all of a sudden, they’re everywhere, firing bullets and you’re either running or hiding, or worse, hiding and forced to shoot back. If you’re lucky, you and your friends won’t get hurt and you’ll get away with only fear to follow you back. If you’re unlucky, you and/or your friend is hurt or dead.

Pain varies in war. Some may never experience anything worse than an uncomfortable place to sleep at night. Some will get scratches and bruises. Others will have broken bones and some will even lose their limbs. At worse, some will die. Do you remember how sad you were when your dog, Scruffy, died? Well, war is watching hundreds of Scruffy’s die, and most of the time, it’s not pretty. While Scruffy was put to sleep and died peacefully within a few seconds, in war they may die slowly, crying and begging for you to kill them just to make the pain go away.


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Chinese Weddings – A Beginners Guide

February 5, 2013 | No Comments » | Topics: Funny Pictures, Writing |

chinese wedding

So you have been invited to a wedding. You have never met the bride? You only know the groom through acquaintance with some guy named wang? No problem! Get ready for a great evening!

Guests should arrive at 6:30 (the actual ceremony will begin around 8:00), shake hands with the bride and groom and hand over a red packet. The amount depends on your relationship to the couple. These days it is customary for friends to give about 200 and family members to give at least 500. As a laowai you don’t give any money. You are free entertainment. The jester never pays the prince. This is the last time this evening that being laowai is a boon instead of a burden, so enjoy it.

Guests wait patiently as a looped video of the couple prancing around a park or local school play in background. It is considered extremely bad form to remark how gay this whole thing is, despite everybody being aware of it. There is usually one song looped as well, so you have heard it 25 times before the wedding begins.

Your table will consist of one guy you know from around, who speaks broken English, and 7 strangers who don’t. One of them will have a 9 year old son with snot hanging out of his nose, who you will be expected to sit next to, because as we all know English is mainly learned through osmosis. You will agree to “practice English” because you figure you are a 5% chance to bang his mum one day.

There will usually be a small box of chocolates in front of you. Consume these immediately because there will be very little edible food for the rest of the evening.

The table in front of you will be covered in food, some of which will look tasty, but god forbid you actually eat anything, no matter how long an afternoon you have had. Likewise the drinks. Even if you have just crossed the Gobi desert on bicycle, you had damn well better wait until the dinner proper begins before drinking anything. You can choose to drink baijiu, horrible wine (it is always horrible. I think that this is how Changyu get rid of the disaster batches – sell them to wedding planners) or sickly sweet fake orange drink. You can ask for a beer, and the waiter or waitress will give you a death stare which could pierce lead, then disappear for 10 minutes. He or she (often indeterminable) will return 10 minutes later with a single beer – somehow several degrees above room temperature, and less than 3% alcohol.


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For Anyone Wondering What’s It Like To Be ADHD….

January 15, 2013 | 4 Comments » | Topics: Writing |


by TheBananaKing

ADHD is about having broken filters on your perception.

Normal people have a sort of mental secretary that takes the 99% of irrelevant crap that crosses their mind, and simply deletes it before they become consciously aware of it. As such, their mental workspace is like a huge clean whiteboard, ready to hold and organize useful information.

ADHD people… have no such luxury. Every single thing that comes in the front door gets written directly on the whiteboard in bold, underlined red letters, no matter what it is, and no matter what has to be erased in order for it to fit.

As such, if we’re in the middle of some particularly important mental task, and our eye should happen to light upon… a doorknob, for instance, it’s like someone burst into the room, clad in pink feathers and heralded by trumpets, screaming HEY LOOK EVERYONE, IT’S A DOORKNOB! LOOK AT IT! LOOK! IT OPENS THE DOOR IF YOU TURN IT! ISN’T THAT NEAT? I WONDER HOW THAT ACTUALLY WORKS DO YOU SUPPOSE THERE’S A CAM OR WHAT? MAYBE ITS SOME KIND OF SPRING WINCH AFFAIR ALTHOUGH THAT SEEMS KIND OF UNWORKABLE.

It’s like living in a soft rain of post-it notes.

This happens every single waking moment, and we have to manually examine each thought, check for relevance, and try desperately to remember what the thing was we were thinking before it came along, if not. Most often we forget, and if we aren’t caught up in the intricacies of doorknob engineering, we cast wildly about for context, trying to guess what the fuk we were up to from the clues available.



Confessions Of A Drug Addict

January 12, 2013 | No Comments » | Topics: Writing |


It’s six o’clock in the morning and my head is fuked. 

Didn’t realize I’d gone to sleep. 

I wake up, disoriented, on the couch. 

For a minute or two, I don’t know where I am.

My lounge is an alien.

Memories flood back into my head like a blocked toilet.

Yesterday is incomplete.

I remember hanging out with a girl, 10 years younger than me.

A girl I’ve always loved.

I remember telling her to show me her tits.

She was too shy.

If I persisted, she would have.

But I’m a nice guy.

I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable.

So we talked.

We laughed.

Now, I love her more than ever.

I’m freezing.

Withdrawing from meth.

I wrap the thin blue blanket around myself and try to sleep, but it’s no use.

I say, “Fuk,” at the top of my voice.

Not hungover enough to vomit.


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28 Words That Don’t Exist in the English Language

January 9, 2013 | 1 Comment » | Topics: Writing |

8 words that

Age-otori (Japanese): To look worse after a haircut

Arigata-meiwaku (Japanese): An act someone does for you that you didn’t want to have them do and tried to avoid having them do, but they went ahead anyway, determined to do you a favor, and then things went wrong and caused you a lot of trouble, yet in the end social conventions required you to express gratitude

Backpfeifengesicht (German): A face badly in need of a fist

Bakku-shan (Japanese): A beautiful girl… as long as she’s being viewed from behind

Desenrascanco (Portuguese): “to disentangle” yourself out of a bad situation (To MacGyver it)

Duende (Spanish): a climactic show of spirit in a performance or work of art, which might be fulfilled in flamenco dancing, or bull-fighting, etc.

Forelsket (Norwegian): The euphoria you experience when you are first falling in love

Gigil (pronounced Gheegle; Filipino): The urge to pinch or squeeze something that is unbearably cute


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Things That Are Hard To Say When You’re Drunk

May 3, 2012 | No Comments » | Topics: Funny Pictures, Writing |

hard to say when drunk

Things that are difficult to say when you’re drunk…

a) Innovative 
b) Preliminary 
c) Proliferation 
d) Cinnamon

Things that are VERY difficult to say when you’re drunk…

a) Specificity 
b) British Constitution 
c) Passive-aggressive disorder 
d) Transubstantiate

Things that are ABSOLUTELY IMPOSSIBLE to say when you’re drunk…

a) Thanks, but I don’t want to sleep with you. 
b) Nope, no more booze for me. 
c) Sorry, but you’re not really my type. 
d) No kebab for me, thank you. 
e) Good evening officer, isn’t it lovely out tonight? 
f) I’m not interested in fighting you. 
g) Oh, I just couldn’t – no one wants to hear me sing. 
h) Thank you, but I won’t make any attempt to dance, I have no co-ordination. I’d hate to look like a fool. 
i) Where is the nearest toilet? I refuse to vomit in the street. 
j) I must be going home now as I have work in the morning.

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The Writing Assignment

April 23, 2012 | 1 Comment » | Topics: Funny Pictures, Writing |

man woman writing assignment

The following is a true story received from an English professor.
This assignmentwas actually turned in by two of my English  students:  Rebecca (last name deleted) and Gary (last name deleted).

English 44A
Creative Writing
Prof. Miller

In-Class Assignmentfor Wednesday:
Today we will experiment with a new form called the tandem story.  The process is simple.  Each person will pair off with the person sitting to his or her immediate right.  One of you will then write the first paragraph of a short story.   The partner will read the first paragraph and then add another paragraph to the story.  The first person will then add a third paragraph, and so on back and forth.

Remember to re-read what has been written each time in order to keep the story  coherent.  The story is over when both agree a conclusion has been reached.


At first, Laurie couldn’t decide which kind of tea she wanted.  The camomile, which used to be her favorite for lazy evenings at home, now reminded her too much of Carl, who once said, in happier times, that he liked camomile.  But she felt she must now, at all costs, keep her mind off Carl.  His possessiveness  was suffocating, and if she thought about him too much her asthma started acting up again.  So camomile was out of the question.

Meanwhile, Advance Sergeant Carl Harris, leader of the attack squadron now in  orbit over Skylon 4, had more important things to think about than the neuroses of an air-headed asthmatic bimbo named Laurie with whom he had spent one sweaty night over a year ago.  “A.S. Harris to Geostation 17,” he said into his  transgalactic communicator.  “Polar orbit established.  No sign of resistance so far…”.  But before he could sign off a bluish particle beam flashed out of  nowhere and blasted a hole through his ship’s cargo bay.  The jolt from the direct hit sent him flying out of his seat and across the cockpit.

He bumped his head and died almost immediately, but not before he felt one last  pang of regret for psychically brutalizing the one woman who had ever had  feelings for him.  Soon afterwards, Earth stopped its pointless hostilities towards the peaceful farmers of Skylon 4.  “Congress Passes Law Permanently Abolishing War and Space Travel.”  Laurie read in her newspaper one morning.  The news simultaneously excited her and bored her.  She stared out the window, dreaming of her youth — when the days had passed unhurriedly and carefree, with no newspapers to read, no television to distract her from her sense of innocent wonder at all the beautiful things around her.  “Why must one lose  one’s innocence to become a woman?”  she pondered wistfully.

Little did she know, but she had less than 10 seconds to live.  Thousands of miles above the city, the Anu’udrian mothership launched the first of its lithium fusion missiles.  The dim-witted wimpy peaceniks who pushed the Unilateral Aerospace Disarmament Treaty through Congress had left earth a defenseless target for the hostile alien empires who were determined to destroy  the human race.  Within two hours after the passage of the treaty the Anu’udrian ships were on course for Earth, carrying enough firepower to pulverize the entire planet. With no one to stop them, they swiftly initiated  their diabolical plan.  The lithium fusion missile entered the atmosphere unimpeded. The President, in his top-secret mobile submarine headquarters on the ocean floor off the coast of Guam, felt the inconceivably massive explosion which vaporized Laurie and 85 million other Americans.  The President slammed  his fist on the conference table.  “We can’t allow this!  I’m going to veto  that treaty!  Let’s blow ’em out of the sky!”

This is absurd.  I refuse to continue this mockery of literature.  My writing partner is a violent, chauvinistic, semi-literate adolescent.

Yeah?  Well, you’re a self-centered tedious neurotic whose attempts at writing are the literary equivalent of Valium.

You total $*&.

Stupid %&#$!.

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Read This If You Want To Ruin All Your Dreams And Ambitions Of Becoming A Superhero

April 6, 2012 | 1 Comment » | Topics: Writing |


Given our current technology and with the proper training, would it be possible for someone to become Batman? (via)

by Mark Hughes

I know everyone hates having a question answered with "it depends," but…

It depends. WHICH Batman, the one in the current film franchise, the one from the current monthlies, the one from the Justice League, etc etc?

I am going to make an assumption here, in order to best answer your question.  We’ll put aside the issue of Batman trained by ninjas in the films, or the question of whether in the comics Batman operates with sort-of-superpowers when interacting in stories alongside Superman and other such characters.  By "become Batman" you mean the basic concept of Batman that we all could agree upon — a master of martial arts, of forensic and detective skills, of gymnastics, of science and chemistry, of history and geography, of the workings of organized crime, of criminal psychology and physiology, and a man with a suit offering protection against bullets and knives and electrocution but which allows him to move as fast as an Olympian runner and acrobat.

The simple answer is, no.  Unless you really boil Batman down to a very diluted level as just a really strong, fast, good fighter who can jump far and with good street smarts plus an education in crime and psychology, and who wears a lot of armor and a mask.

The genius of Batman is that it pretends to be realistic, it lets us convince ourselves that with enough money and training, we could become Batman, too. But it’s still fantasy, it’s just a fantasy that is more compelling and convincing and thus more fun.

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Firsthand Account Of What’s It Like To Be A Drug Dealer

April 2, 2012 | 1 Comment » | Topics: Story, Writing |

drug dealer

In a single word, being a drug dealer was exhilarating. Immense rewards, more than I realized at the time, but also unbelievable stress, unavoidable paranoia, and most difficult of all, an existence in a world that does not ‘exist’ by traditional standards.

I can’t speak to what it’s like peddling product on the street or life as a cartel kingpin. But I can tell you what my experience of being a mid level trafficker was like. My entry into trafficking came about suddenly and ended just as quickly, turning those years into blazing memories, grandiose and traumatic. It’s not easy to put into words and probably best said through experience.

Towards the end of my freshman year at a California college, I found out that you could successfully ship weed. But that was only part of the puzzle. What made this all possible was a friend at a prestigious Ivy League school on the East Coast.

We eventually scraped together enough money to buy a quarter pound before the end of the school year. Roughly 1200 dollars at the time and I sent it to my counterpart. It was enjoyed by a small group of friends and that was it. While the profit margin on selling a QP wasn’t bad, several hundred dollars, it wasn’t enough to make clear that putting in the work to build the infrastructure could be more than worthwhile. It was one of the critical move that led to me and this best friend and partner spending the next few years of our lives fine-tuning our trafficking craft.

That summer, I spent in New York, where I was working for a prominent plaintiffs law firm. Already my third summer of working at a law firm, I was dedicated to going to law school and becoming an attorney. But another critical experience put me on the path towards trafficking. While out with my friends one night, we were hassled be police after a fight. Having weed on my person meant I would be spending the night in NY’s central lockup. 

The only white person booked that night made for a lot of conversation. Mostly revolving around the unfortunate circumstances that led to our arrests. But more importantly, the discussions over weed prices in various states, sealed in my mind an opportunity too good to pass up. 

Fast-forward two years; I had made enough connections that I was able to secure a ‘front’. For those who don’t know what that means; you give me a pound, I give you the money two weeks later. This is how most weed is sold, as small time distributers or beginning traffickers don’t usually have the cash to pay for product upfront. 


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This Deserves A Slow Clap: There Are No Girls On The Internet

March 29, 2012 | 5 Comments » | Topics: Funny Pictures, Writing |

If l can pontificate a bit, for your edification, one of the rules of the Intemet is "there are no girls on the Intemet". This rule does not mean what you think it means. In real life, people like you for being a girl. They want to fcuk you, so they pay attention to you and they pretend what you have to say is interesting, or that you are smart or clever. On the Intemet, we don’t have the chance to fcuk you. This means the advantage of being a "girl" does not exist. You don’t get a bonus to conversation just because I’d like to put my cock in you.

When you make a post like, "hurr durr. I’m a girt" you are begging for attention. The only reason to post it is because you want your girl-advantage back, because you are too vapid and too stupid to do or say anything interesting without it You are forgetting the rules, there are no girls on the Internet. The one exception to this rule, the one way you can get your "girlness" back on the Intemet is to post your tits. This is, and should be, degrading for you, an admission that the only interesting thing about you is your naked body.