Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Friday, July 12, 2013
DRUNK HISTORY on Comedy Central...
...made me laugh so fucking hard I re-tore an injured Rib Muscle last night. It was worth it. Check it out Tuesday's.
Fuck Buying a New Radiator
It’s not uncommon to question the condition of something mechanical that’s over four decades old.
I have the original 22” radiator for my 72 Plymouth Duster. A replacement piece is $300 goddamn dollars.
I took the original piece down to A-1 Radiator for a flow-test and leak repair. For $65 they fixed two little leaks and told me she flows 22 gallons a minute. Not too shabby; should work for the open road.
Except when I got it back from the shop it looked like this:
Some sanding brought her back to the land of respectability.
Figured I would give this stuff a shot, Eastwood Gloss Black Radiator Paint, at $13 FUCKING BUCKS a can. Eastwood recommended two cans per radiator as this stuff is super-thin.
Regular high-heat paint isn’t wise to apply to a car radiator, as it’s remarkably thick in spray-form, and will prevent the key word of “radiate”.
After many, many coats and extensive coverage, I only used three-quarter of one can. Assholes.
Looks sharp though, and the car runs nice and cool with the factory piece. I need a burger.
I have the original 22” radiator for my 72 Plymouth Duster. A replacement piece is $300 goddamn dollars.
I took the original piece down to A-1 Radiator for a flow-test and leak repair. For $65 they fixed two little leaks and told me she flows 22 gallons a minute. Not too shabby; should work for the open road.
Except when I got it back from the shop it looked like this:
Some sanding brought her back to the land of respectability.
Figured I would give this stuff a shot, Eastwood Gloss Black Radiator Paint, at $13 FUCKING BUCKS a can. Eastwood recommended two cans per radiator as this stuff is super-thin.
Regular high-heat paint isn’t wise to apply to a car radiator, as it’s remarkably thick in spray-form, and will prevent the key word of “radiate”.
After many, many coats and extensive coverage, I only used three-quarter of one can. Assholes.
Looks sharp though, and the car runs nice and cool with the factory piece. I need a burger.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Hell Yeah Rat Tail
No, the humidity did not just go up in Pierce County; Panties just hit the floor across Gig Harbor in a phenomenon only to be described as THE PLAHUTA EFFECT. Scientist’s will forever debate such a marvel from this day forward…
Dimebag is smiling from Heaven.
Dimebag is smiling from Heaven.
Duster Grill Presto-Change-O
Eventually, when the Triple-Black Duster gets torn down for paint, I plan on stepping up to my aluminum 69 Valiant grill (arguably the bitchin-est grill in Plymouth history). Here’s an example of what the final product does to your boner-area:
A key item to acquire would be the 69 front valance, or modify the existing 72 valance (which is pretty tweaked after a Company Truck of some kind backed into me in the parking lot of a court-ordered AA meeting those asshole’s make you go to when you’re fighting DUI charges, but I digress...)
Until the car is disassembled, I need to live with a stock 70 or 71 grill I acquired, except it’s uglier than shit on a turd.
For some bologna reason, Chrysler cheese-dicked the be-jesus out of this particular grill with some gay-ass 70’s sparkle non-sense that made my soul cringe every time I looked at it
It’s important to get an idea of how these clips go together before everything gets taken apart, trust Daddy on this:
After five days of on-and-off sanding, I removed several years’ worth of Washington’s finest green algae scum from each plastic tooth, and got to see some primer soak in. (Note the very handy tool in the background. Fantastic for continuing paint progress in 50 degree weather)
I let her cure for several days while I turned my attention to the rusty upper grill mount.
Everything blacked-out and re-assembled with their appropriate shiny parts.
Much better. I can live with this for a while.
A key item to acquire would be the 69 front valance, or modify the existing 72 valance (which is pretty tweaked after a Company Truck of some kind backed into me in the parking lot of a court-ordered AA meeting those asshole’s make you go to when you’re fighting DUI charges, but I digress...)
Until the car is disassembled, I need to live with a stock 70 or 71 grill I acquired, except it’s uglier than shit on a turd.
For some bologna reason, Chrysler cheese-dicked the be-jesus out of this particular grill with some gay-ass 70’s sparkle non-sense that made my soul cringe every time I looked at it
It’s important to get an idea of how these clips go together before everything gets taken apart, trust Daddy on this:
After five days of on-and-off sanding, I removed several years’ worth of Washington’s finest green algae scum from each plastic tooth, and got to see some primer soak in. (Note the very handy tool in the background. Fantastic for continuing paint progress in 50 degree weather)
I let her cure for several days while I turned my attention to the rusty upper grill mount.
Everything blacked-out and re-assembled with their appropriate shiny parts.
Much better. I can live with this for a while.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Been Good Lately
For those that remember, I was shot four times in late-Spring 2010, resulting in a C2 spinal-cord injury that I not only survived, but have lived long enough to see life on my feet as well.
Learning to breathe again was serious bullshit. It took 24 days while in the ICU that Summer; one hour off the respirator the first day, two hours the second day, three hours the third…
If you haven’t used your lungs and you’re forced to think about pulling each-breath-in and pushing each-breath-out, every second of every minute for hours on end, don’t be surprised if you begin to freak out, totally normal reaction...
I can successfully admit that I beat the stranglehold of pain medication. Although not one milligram has passed through my system in over two years, there was the arduous process of working through the pain, depression, and bullshit that only mother earth’s “natural green medicine” could carry me through without dangerous, long-term affect. I owe a lot to the Devil’s Lettuce. Thank you old friend, you will be missed.
It has been 14 months since I shed my electric wheelchair. I was three-hundred fucking pounds.
Homebrew and Taco Bell really sink their fat, fucking greedy teeth in when you aren’t moving and you’re stoked on how things taste because they aren’t being squirted through a tube in your nose that leads to your belly.
Getting out of the wheelchair was unavoidable, literally. On April 20th (or some shit) 2012, this little guy came home and running him over was out of the question:
My Doberman: “Judge”
A couple months later:
At five months:
And at one year, and 90-fucking-pounds of crazy:
Judge may be single-handedly responsible for my recovery to this point. I’m down to 215 pounds and dropping. Hey Single Ladies out there, you all like guys with scars?? I know you do. BLOW
Since I’ve been blessed with the gift of Walk, I do as much as my current physical situation will allow.
I can use an angle grinder for almost eight minutes. I can wash a car in 89 minutes. I can change an intake manifold in three days.
These are huge accomplishments.
As a man, Accomplishment grows way down in his Ballsack and can only be unleashed if you have the balls big enough to do so. On the other end of the argument, a real man has humility, and that grows in his heart. You aren’t a real man if you can’t admit that. So what if it takes an hour to clean an SKS? Fuck you. Physical Therapy works. If you’re supposed to go, and you don’t, you’re an asshole.
Mad Max got by just fine with just a dog and a car.
It’s good to be back, Motherfucker’s.
Learning to breathe again was serious bullshit. It took 24 days while in the ICU that Summer; one hour off the respirator the first day, two hours the second day, three hours the third…
If you haven’t used your lungs and you’re forced to think about pulling each-breath-in and pushing each-breath-out, every second of every minute for hours on end, don’t be surprised if you begin to freak out, totally normal reaction...
I can successfully admit that I beat the stranglehold of pain medication. Although not one milligram has passed through my system in over two years, there was the arduous process of working through the pain, depression, and bullshit that only mother earth’s “natural green medicine” could carry me through without dangerous, long-term affect. I owe a lot to the Devil’s Lettuce. Thank you old friend, you will be missed.
It has been 14 months since I shed my electric wheelchair. I was three-hundred fucking pounds.
Homebrew and Taco Bell really sink their fat, fucking greedy teeth in when you aren’t moving and you’re stoked on how things taste because they aren’t being squirted through a tube in your nose that leads to your belly.
Getting out of the wheelchair was unavoidable, literally. On April 20th (or some shit) 2012, this little guy came home and running him over was out of the question:
My Doberman: “Judge”
A couple months later:
At five months:
And at one year, and 90-fucking-pounds of crazy:
Judge may be single-handedly responsible for my recovery to this point. I’m down to 215 pounds and dropping. Hey Single Ladies out there, you all like guys with scars?? I know you do. BLOW
Since I’ve been blessed with the gift of Walk, I do as much as my current physical situation will allow.
I can use an angle grinder for almost eight minutes. I can wash a car in 89 minutes. I can change an intake manifold in three days.
These are huge accomplishments.
As a man, Accomplishment grows way down in his Ballsack and can only be unleashed if you have the balls big enough to do so. On the other end of the argument, a real man has humility, and that grows in his heart. You aren’t a real man if you can’t admit that. So what if it takes an hour to clean an SKS? Fuck you. Physical Therapy works. If you’re supposed to go, and you don’t, you’re an asshole.
Mad Max got by just fine with just a dog and a car.
It’s good to be back, Motherfucker’s.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Well shit, I missed the Greatest Moment in History
...but it's okay, because we have proof that it happened: BILL MURRAY & GZA.
EDIT: I need to see COFFEE & CIGARETTES. Apparently I'm way out of the loop; see below: (yes, RZA in the middle!)
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
NO Huffing
Holy shit. This video should be played every morning in schools across America... Or not.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Pete Carroll’s Diary: October 16th, 2011
Dear Diary,
Thank Lord Satan! This is our Bye-Week! Oh my blessed luck!
So, get this business:
Last night while I was ‘Alley-Dancing’ by myself…
…I came across an open garage door housing two really cool Pygmy Children playing ‘DIE HARD‘ or something silly like that.
Of course I said ‘Hello’ and they immediately invited me inside.
(At least I think they invited me in; I’m not totally familiar with Pygmy welcoming ceremonies, but since one of Them slapped me and the other clamped His grip down on my genitals, that this must be my initiation ritual to join their Tribe.)
The garage door closed. I knew I was in for a surprise because they immediately blind-folded me. I don’t think they wanted me guessing where we were going either, due to the fact they crammed a Racquet Ball in my mouth and wrapped my face with Duct Tape.
The Two Pygmy’s must have sensed my Dancing Legs were tired, as each just took an arm and let my feet drag nice and limp-like across the concrete. I didn’t have to walk another foot!
Wherever we were headed smelled remarkably like Oxy Clean. (Weird huh?)
The next thing I know, I hear a butt-load of shouting in a foreign language and my blind-fold was yanked off (that kind of hurt my ear a little).
In front of me was a rusty cage made of Rebar Steel; containing two White-Collar Gentleman, crying in sorrow, whilst avoiding cattle-prod shocks and bare-knuckle boxing each other!
“Holy Potatoes!” I scream, muffled under the Gag-Ball resting half-way down my throat.
A Pygmy Child begins screaming at me. Another Pygmy cuts the Duct Tape loose from my face and I spit out the Racquet Ball, “Gross Guys, that ball had dirt on it.”
The Screaming-Pygmy continued on in an unintelligible manner.
“I don’t know what you’re saying, but if I don’t get a snack soon I’m going to have the belly-grumble’s, you hear?”
A familiar voice came from behind.
“They want you to fight to the death, Coach.”
What was Tarvaris Jackson, my shitty starting Quarterback of the Seattle Seahawks, doing HERE?
“TJ?! How did you get mixed up with this Pygmy Alley Death Tribe too?! I don’t think they’re very friendly!”
“Yes, they are too friendly, Coach. You just need to understand their Culture better. Watch...”
Suddenly, TJ takes his huge black penis (with the birthmark of Steve Largent being butt-fucked by Ken Stabler) out and three Pygmy’s stand right in front of him while he plays their hollow skulls like a drum-set with his battering-ram Dong.
“My goodness…” These Pygmy’s pray to his Seahawks-hating dick like it’s a God! TJ is using it like a musical instrument on their scalps for Goodness Sake!
The Pygmy’s see that their Weiner-King, Tarvaris Jackson, and I are ‘Tight’ (you know, because we both HATE SEATTLE, like, a lot, and both of us are in the grip's of Satan's sweet, juicy lure) and they let me free... After what I can only figure was the last phase of my initiation, that I will call in Our Native Tongue:
‘The Three Pistol-Whip’s’.
Maybe I can use this Pygmy Tribe to do the Devil’s bidding too? We will see. A problem has arisen that I may require their assistance with:
THE SECOND COMING OF JESUS.
Seattle's Great-White-Hope: Charlie-Fucking-Whitehurst.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
HARRISON FORD DOESN’T GIVE A FUCK: “I need dinner, Faggot!”
“No!” The plexiglass housing of the bright lit Drive-Thru Menu shakes. Spittle flies from Harrison Ford’s dry, aching mouth. “I said Pepsi for Christ’s sake! What do want me to do?!”
The stunned Drive-Thru Attendant is taken back, “I don’t know what you mean?…”
“I was in Blade Runner. Give me two taco’s.”
“Two taco’s and a Pepsi. Will that be it Mister?”
“Fuck you!” Ford mashes the pedal of his Mercedes. The large sedan elegantly turns at high speed, perfectly between each curb. The man can drive like hell.
The Drive-Thru Attendant reluctantly sticks his arm out the window.
“I will not high-five!” Ford fumbles with his bong.
“No, Mister, we go over this every time: I need money to give you the food.”
“Fair enough! Shut up!” Ford blasts a heavy bong-load
“And you can’t do drugs here. We had to put up the NO DRUGS sign because of you.”
Ford raises the bong up to his lips, “This is very little of your business… Two Taco’s, a Pepsi, and shut the fuck up!”
“I need money, Mister.”
“I need dinner, Faggot!”
“I can’t give you anymore free food. Last time you tricked me into trading Your autograph for the Fiesta Nacho Platter, but all you gave me was a cassette tape sleeve for the album Stain by the band Living Color.”
“Give it back to me! I love that album!” Ford drops the bong between his knees as he feverishly crawls through the elegant Mercedes driver’s-side window.
“Fine.” Conveniently, the Drive-Thru attendant had the album sleeve in his shirt pocket. “And here’s your Food. That’ll be five dollars and forty-nine cents.”
Ford carefully reaches for the Taco’s and Pepsi.
The Drive-Thru attendant freezes; his mind races: Is this transaction going to be completed by SOME SORT of Currency Exchange? Why is Harrison Ford just staring at Me??
Suddenly, Ford’s expression changes. A friendly twinkle in his eye suggests he understands that payment is required. “Do you take Amex?”
Relief. The Drive-Thru Attendant sighs and smiles, “Yes, by God, we do…”
Ford hands the Card through the Window.
“Wait…” The Drive-Thru Attendant’s lower lip quivers. His brain tries to register the situation at full value. The poor bastard doesn’t get it; He’s been had.
“That’s for being born, Cocksucker!”
Ford sends the Mercedes into the street, sideways, forcing a Transit Bus to come to a screeching halt
Harrison ford is always one step ahead, and doesn’t give a fuck.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
RIP Al Davis...
I know some were wishing this day to come sooner than others (*cough* RAIDER'S FANS). Nonetheless, we lost a Great, who has always looked very scary.
"Just win, baby." -Al Davis, 1929-2011
"Just win, baby." -Al Davis, 1929-2011
Pete Carroll’s Diary: October 8th, 2011
Dear diary,
I was staring at two Asian Women clawing each other’s eyes out over a taxi, when suddenly I was approached by a large African American Gentleman named ‘Willy’ who asked if I wanted to have a good time… Of course I said YES!
Willy took me down the street and up a flight of stairs to a room with NAKED GIRLS!
I froze, and was like, “Say what?!” which I felt was the correct thing to say (there were black people in the room).
Some of these ladies had nipples the size of the drink coasters at The Outback.
The danger alarm went off in my head. My Rape Whistle was nowhere to be found. ”I want my wife! I want the police!” I shout. I wanted out and told those weirdo’s “I must go now! I have a game to Coach against the New York Giants that I will desperately try to lose today!”
Willy asked, “Wait a minute, you Pete Carroll?!”
Just as I was about to answer, a voice came from behind a dirty blanket hanging over a door-way: “That you coach?”
What was Tavaris Jackson, my shitty starting Quarterback of the Seattle Seahawks, doing HERE? “You are supposed to be watching film! Giants scored five touchdowns on us last year! That’s it TJ, you’re on the bench! ”
“Coach, I’m banging these dirty, big-nippled sluts to burn as much energy as possible before the game so I can forget plays, throw the ball inaccurately, and fuck up everything!”
“Sorry Kid!” I yelled, “You, Me, and Satan are all on the same page then baby!” (*does back-flip, slide-whistle sound*)
“Look Coach!”
“My Goodness...” I saw it: Tavaris Jackson’s huge, black penis wears the birth-mark of none other than Steve Largent, Hall of Fame Seahawks Wide Receiver, being sodomized by former Oakland Raiders Quarterback, Ken Stabler!
Diary, I swear to you this! It was a sign from Lord Satan!
Much like a Headline: Tavaris Jackson was conceived by Demon Seed from the Devil himself to bring down the Seattle Seahawks, from within.
I nodded approvingly, “Keep it up you big-dicked Monster from Hell.”
I need all the help I can get.
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