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!)

NO Huffing

Holy shit. This video should be played every morning in schools across America... Or not.

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.

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.

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

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.

Perfect Date-Night Transportation

Yes, everything you see is really there, down to the British Knight kicks...

A Study of Possibilities: Why being A Homeless Person could be for You…

SHIT LEOPARD has led a rather privileged life: I have always had the luxury of a warm, dry place to sleep. Not everyone is as fortunate.

I’m not sure if anyone else has noticed, but there are people who live in the Streets. These people are Hobo’s.



After a recent conversation with a friend, I realized that I use PRO’s & CON’s lists often. Whether I require self-assistance in making a difficult decision, or if I just need to make better sense of a particular situation, this breakdown-technique is a helpful and honest device... Especially for this specific Study.

First we must ask ourselves, why be HOMELESS? What’s the appeal? Is there a huge chunk of Freedom we Taxpaying Indoor-Dwellers are missing out on?

3.5 Million people can’t be wrong, right?

Sure, everyone thinks about just ‘giving it all up’ once in a while, but, maybe being homeless is a viable option for a long, happy life? It sure as hell seems like an easy enough path to start down:

1) Quit paying your rent.
2) Starting drinking heavily
3) Get a shopping cart.



Let’s break down the homeless lifestyle and get to the bottom of this once and for all:

BEING HOMELESS: Is it for you?

Example One...

UPSIDE: Surprises at every corner. Each day is a new adventure.

DOWNSIDE: Surprises at every corner. This one goes both ways, but bad surprises, like being brutalized for your last thirty cents, or being gang-raped in a dumpster simply because you’re on ‘BAD BILLY’S’ turf, are negative consequences clearly beyond the value of sticking it out on a corner all night in hope of acquiring five dollars for a few twenty-two’s of Mickey’s Ice.

WINNER: DOWNSIDE.



Example Two…

UPSIDE: Not giving a shit and living to get fucked up.

DOWNSIDE: AIDS. If the average person who lives indoors can get AIDS from one bad decision in the course of their day, then clearly the average Hobo is 10,000 times a susceptible. Remember, the moment you no longer live indoors, the idea of sharing a needle sounds no worse than if your Grandfather offered you a breath mint.

WINNER: DOWNSIDE.



Example Three…

UPSIDE: Playing practical jokes on fellow Hobo’s. Think about how much time you would have on your hands to come up with some seriously CLASSIC pranks! Stealing the shoes off a fellow Nomad’s feet in their sleep and hang them from phone lines! Or what about the classic Bum-hand in warm water trick? Jeez! I’m not seeing a downside here!

DOWNSIDE: Do you like being stabbed? The Homeless are a skittish type who shouldn’t be bothered while asleep. Try removing a snoozing bum’s shoes and see what happens: BROKEN BEER BOTTLE TO THE DICK. Guaranteed.

WINNER: DOWNSIDE.



Final Example…

UPSIDE: Dressing like, and being very much, a lunatic. Think of the additional pan-handled income by simply stepping up your most important Hobo asset: YOUR IMAGE. The wackier you seem, the smoother the pan-handle; Indoor-Dwellers would much rather toss you a dollar before risking being harassed and/or assaulted by a Bum dressed to resemble a Triceratops (for example).



DOWNSIDE: Drunk college students exploiting your look and paying you to shove inanimate objects in your butt hole. Picture it now: One afternoon you’re dressed as Homeless Yoda, seconds away from receiving a handout, when it becomes clear that the only thing you’re going to receive is an impacted colon from the six inch long soap-stone St. Peter figurine you will painfully insert (using a packet of Mustard as lube) in your anus for a sweaty ten dollar bill.

WINNER: DOWNSIDE.



CONCLUSION: Look people, DOWNSIDE wins 4-0 here. To recap: if you like contracting HIV, being stabbed, shoving things up your ass, and looking like Randy Quaid, being homeless is for you. By all means, FUCK IT, BE A BUM.

"Smokey, my friend, you are entering a world of pain."

Walter Sobchak: You mark that frame an 8, and you're entering a world of pain.

Smokey: I'm not...

Walter Sobchak: A world of pain.

Smokey: Dude, he's your partner...

Walter Sobchak: [shouting] Has the whole world gone crazy? Am I the only one around here who gives a shit about the rules? Mark it zero!

The Dude: They're calling the cops, put the piece away.

Walter Sobchak: Mark it zero!

[points gun in Smokey's face]

The Dude: Walter...

Walter Sobchak: [shouting] You think I'm fucking around here? Mark it zero!

Smokey: All right, it's fucking zero. Are you happy, you crazy fuck?

Walter Sobchak: ...It's a league game, Smokey.

Pete Carroll’s Diary: October 1st, 2011

Dear Diary,

I went out for ice cream two days ago. I know I shouldn’t have sugar. What started out as a banana-split turned into fifteen Choco-Taco’s, four Dr. Peppers, and a half-eaten Churro that a nine-year-old Pygmy at the bus stop sold me for five dollars. It’s been days since I’ve slept or had any nutrition. I don’t know where my car is. Maybe I don’t even have a car?

I’m pretty sure my life isn’t real sometimes. I am often concerned that I’m not really Pete Carroll, head coach of the Seattle Seahawks, and that I might be in a ten-year LSD-fueled demented craze--that maybe I’m not really on the side-lines making terrible calls that put these players in severe jeopardy…

What if I’m really just a transient loner, under a bridge, whose brain has been forever burnt by hallucinogenic drug use, and am now living day-to-day on a healthy glue-sniffing regiment?



Perhaps these ‘Seahawks’ I have been ‘Coaching’ all this time are just old beer bottles filled with piss that I yell at all day?

No, that can’t be true. Pete Carroll is pretty sure Pete Carroll has said no to drugs. I’m also pretty sure that I DVR’d ‘Boy Meets World’ finally. I can only hope that I can end this season in a disastrous, swollen cluster-fuck so I can sit down in peace and quiet and soak in the 3 wondrous episodes we are graciously given each year.

With that being said Mr. Diary, My goal is almost complete: turn the Seahawks into a five-year losing franchise worth less than shit baked to the brick wall of the Mayor’s Office. Then they will let me go; they would have to. How glorious would that be? I could finally start following my dream: becoming a Summer Camp Counselor. Ah yes, and my free-time would be spent soaking in all those 90‘s sitcoms I missed out on during all those years I wasted trying to bring down the Vikings & Jets.

Will they finally fire me today? Oh Lord why won‘t you let me be free?! I should be asking Satan this question, because only in a world driven by the cancerous pains of Hell would I be allowed to coach an NFL Football Team.



We are 1-2 going into the Falcons this week. Let’s make sure at the end of it our Vagina’s will cry in terror at the pounding Atlanta’s throbbing Weiner has laid upon us.

I just have to get this pesky season over with hopefully 3 wins or less and the deal will be sealed.

Fuck you Seattle.

Jeff Norwell's Diamond Deuce

Jeff Norwell is my favorite artist. Aside from having an artistic eye, he also has an eye for hot rods with perfect proportion, color, attitude, and internal combustion motivation. This 32 Pick Up shown below has been a huge inspiration for the HOT ROD HAULER.

Jeff, whatever set of shoes you put on her, she's always ready to dance!

Dual-Snorkel Hood Scoop

These run $279.99 with mounting hardware. These came on 71-72 Dodge Demon's from the factory, but I think they look great on Duster's too.

The car below I found on FABO. It has a full Caltrac rear suspension set-up and pulls a 1.31 60' time. Incredible.