Mommy, This Apples Tastes Funny

Mommy, This Apples Tastes Funny

This kid has got a lot of heart. He knows that something is amiss but he powers on through. He’s made his decision and he’ll stick by it. There’s no point in giving up now, this is the sort of thing that comes back to haunt you. Like income taxes or a dead relative hovering over your bed, the unfinished onion will be in his dreams for weeks if not properly taken care of.

I’m sure that we don’t have to worry, he looks well on his way to finishing. With one heroic bite after another he’ll be done before you can say halitosis. Then he can go back to his playpen and feel utterly confident that he has achieved more than many men ever will.

Zesty.

Real Men Block With Their Face

Real Men Block With Their Face

If every fight looked like this I might actually pay attention to boxing. I refuse to spend forty dollars on pay-per-view to watch two overgrown men tickle each other. That’s what professional wrestling is for.

I paid to see some action. I want to see some blood and guts. I want to see the boxers turn on the ref and start beating him to a pulp after they get bored with each other. There needs to be more ear biting, crotch smashing, chest pounding action. Fighting should look more like a Black Friday sale at Walmart, and less like two men hugging out their feelings for 45 minutes. But I digress.

Our Japanese friends have once again shown us the way. They have discovered that our brain is encased in a thick layer of bone that no fist can penetrate. Which just proves that blocking is an inferior tactic. It shows weakness. Your opponent can’t crack your head open and feast on the goo inside, so there’s no reason to act like such a big sissy. Put your chin up and your dukes out. What doesn’t kill you makes for excellent television.

Look Matushka, No Hands

Look Matushka, No Hands

[Warning: Some salty language in the soundtrack]

I guess this is what happens when playing in traffic gets dull, or you get old enough to shave. You find yourself dangling off a rusted tower somewhere outside Chechnya hoping a parachute won’t be needed. Not that you have a parachute in the first place. Even if you’re in the military, when you open up your pack there’s only a coupon for a parachute. You make do over there. As long as you don’t let go there really shouldn’t be a problem. And even big problems in Russia don’t last for very long. They’re generally over at terminal velocity.

I’ve come to accept that no matter what any video on YouTube is about, the music will be god-awful. It’s like zoning laws for the Intertunnel. The music’s terrible, it’s true, but it serves the important purpose of drowning out the sound of their brass testicles clinking together, and the clatter of their tiny little brains rolling around in their heads like a pinballs.

[Many many thanks to our pal Jonathan Frost-Johnson and the esteemed Gerard at American Digest for dropping this video on us]

Brother, Can You Spare A Stick?

Brother, Can You Spare A Stick?

Hockey is just an excuse to have a boxing match on ice. The only difference is they give you weapons if you play hockey. Ali versus Foreman would have been much more interesting if they had knives strapped to their feet. They’d look mighty funny cruising around an ice rink in their fancy underpants while Baby Elephant Walk blares over the PA.

Unfortunately, my plan for the ultimate boxing/hockey hybrid will never come to fruition. Starting a national sport is a lot harder than one would first expect, and I simply don’t have the funds. A man can dream though. Someday my genius will be recognized, and we’ll finally have a sport worth watching. Until then, I guess we just have to watch hockey and hope for the best.