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Category: 1980s

I Lift Things Up-Diddly-Up And Put Them Down-Diddly-Down

I Lift Things Up-Diddly-Up And Put Them Down-Diddly-Down

Bob Couch, the love child of Ned Flanders and Arnold Schwarzenegger, has become my favorite recording artist of all time. Not because of his music, or his muscles. Not even because of his dedication to his workout. I love his sweet sense of style. The hair, the porn stache, the short-shorts; he’s got the look down. Every day I get out of bed and I try to live my life as Bob Couch would. I pump iron, I push out another set, and I work up a sweat.

Except I don’t actually work out — or get out of bed for that matter. It’s the thought that counts. I may not be making Bob proud, but I’m getting his sweet style down. I can almost grow a moustache, and I think I own a pair of jorts. Maybe when I grow up I can be just like Bob, but until then I’ll just relax my mind and think about pumping iron.

[Many thanks to Gerard at American Digest who doesn’t need to pump iron to get attention from the opposite sex. He just shows them his massive collection of Bob Couch records.]

Yes, Virginia, There Was A Time Before “Oh Noes, Someone Might Get Hurt”

Yes, Virginia, There Was A Time Before “Oh Noes, Someone Might Get Hurt”


Back in 1982, “Group B” rules were introduced for rally car races. Group A was basically a stock car, with lots of limits on power and modifications. Group B was a Katie-Bar-The-Door, let it rip, hold my drink and watch this blast.

The spectators got into the spirit of Group B. Why let the drivers have all the fun? They wandered all over the racecourses like lemmings and took photographs while the mirrors of the cars scratched their belt buckles and the tires ran over their feet. It was glorious. But like all wonderful things, some Debbie Downers got all upset about all the dead and injured people littering the racecourses, and whined about it. Before 1987 rolled around, Group B races were cancelled, and Group A rules were all there were.

Stupid dead people’s families are always ruining everything for everyone. It’s getting so I can’t even buy lawn darts at a yard sale anymore.

Way Before Sochi, We Kicked It Old Skool. 1980s Ski Flying — And Crashing

Way Before Sochi, We Kicked It Old Skool. 1980s Ski Flying — And Crashing


Ah, the eighties. It’s worth it just to see the high-tech animation of how ski flying works at around five and a half minutes. Cutting edge, that. Of course, it’s always fun to hear the dulcet tones of old pink eyes Costas, who I always picture in my mind’s eye sitting on a stack of telephone books. Hey kids, ask your parents what telephone books are. I mean, what they were. They had telephone books in the eighties. The yellow ones were filled with numbers that had something to do with a functioning economy, as I recall. We had one of those in the eighties too. Ask your parents about that while you’re at it. They’re right upstairs, on the first floor of the house.

You Are There: The Moment When Smoking Unfiltered Cigarettes Officially Became Slightly More Dangerous Than Driving

You Are There: The Moment When Smoking Unfiltered Cigarettes Officially Became Slightly More Dangerous Than Driving


The Camel Trophy was an endurance race run through various third-world hellholes to see whose jeep or jeep-like vehicle would break down last, or which team of competitors would run out of unfiltered cigarettes last. The cigarettes were to cover the stink of the smelly Frenchman or Turk or whatever in the passenger seat, generally, and when you ran out, you’d quit. Failing that, you could always burn your car to a cinder making tea on the engine block if you were a smelly Brit, instead. The race was run for twenty years, from 1980 through 2000, when people just started staying home and waiting for natural disasters to signal the beginning of races to the 7-11 in their econoboxes to buy milk and bread.