Remember Kids, It’s Only Illegal If You Get Caught

Remember Kids, It’s Only Illegal If You Get Caught

[Warning: Some salty language muttered throughout the video]

Everyone needs a hobby. Some people collect stamps, others like to crash tiny model trains. I often enjoy showing off my vast collection of headless Barbie dolls, but I digress. Tactically hurling yourself off a building is as respectable a hobby as any other. Nothing beats the feeling of the wind in your hair, the bugs in your teeth, and the sudden adrenaline rush you get from crashing headlong into a traffic light,  but —

I noticed that in the video description that our friends have listed the names of all their various attorneys and legal advisers, which begs the question. What on Earth would drive these nice rambunctious young men to hang out with lawyers? It seems that their failed flying attempts are not as legal as one would first assume. There are some matters of trespassing and safety that get brought up, but I’m of the opinion that gravity will sort them all out in the end. Getting past security is probably a lot more dangerous than the fall.

You Got Like Three Feet Of Air That Time

You Got Like Three Feet Of Air That Time

Man, his mom’s gonna be pissed. I’m sure there used to be a nice patch of something right where he’s riding. It took her years to grow that crabgrass; nevertheless, our Portuguese-spewing friends have the right idea. Horticulture can’t hold a candle to 150cc of rope swinging action.

Dressed in his finest gym shorts and flip flops the newest honorary borderline sociopath soldiers on in the fight against gravity. The only way he could get any cooler is if his pornstache was also riding a dirt bike.

[Many thanks to the indispensable Charles Schneider for sending this one along]

I For One Welcome Our New Tuba Overlords

I For One Welcome Our New Tuba Overlords

When I was a young man my father gave me some of the best advice I have ever been given.

“Son, if you learn to play the guitar and sing you will get girls. It’s as simple as that.”

Naturally, I ignored him as I had no interest in icky girls at the time; but I assume the same principle can be applied to most other instruments. It is absolutely logical that the glockenspiel or the wurlitzer is equally as attractive to those of the female persuasion as a guitar. From there a tuba is only a short leap away.

So our dear friend with the pillbox hat and the emphysemic cough is not just some weirdo. He is the best kind of weirdo. He is a visionary. A genius. This might be the most revolutionary move in the history of popular music. The tuba will soon take the place of the guitar in popular culture. Guitar Center will be forcibly renamed Tuba Center, and every band without a tuba player will be seen as deeply unfashionable. The world will see the first all tuba rock band premiering live on national television. It will be glorious, and I for one welcome our new tuba overlords.

Missed It By That Much

Missed It By That Much


I was in this Irish bar this one time, playing darts. Oh, man we were hittin’ em, and hitting the taps a bit harder than usual, too. One of my mates, Pat, got a few too many in him, pulled off his shirt, started beating his chest a bit, and declared, “We could declare war on Mexico right now, and we’d win.”

“That’s kinda silly, Pat,” I said. Mexico has an air force, you know. Nothing much, but they’ve got a couple dozen planes, at least.”

Pat had another drink and said,”Well, we could rent a plane down at the airstrip and bring a couple of fowling pieces and take on those lot. I say bring ’em on.”

“Pat, they’ve got a navy down there, too, you know. Nothing much, but it’s gotta have a few dozen warships, at least.”

“Oh, you know me and the lads could get out the bass boat and lug a few deer rifles with us down to the quay and take care of that lot, too.”

“You know, they’ve even got ballistic missiles of some sort they could lob at us, Pat. Not nuclear or anything, but nothing to sneeze at, I’m sure.”

Pat was warming up to the topic now, and bellowed, “Oh, I’ll be sure to bring an ash can lid and a hurling stick with me when I invade, to fend off the splosions while I’m cracking their noggins.”

I tried one last gambit. “Pat, they’ve got something on the order of 250,000 regular Joes, or regular Joses, at any rate, in their infantry. You don’t really think this group of drunkards in an Irish bar can handle that, do you?”

Pat grew quiet, like he was turning something over in his mind that had gotten stuck in the back, and he wanted to shake it loose. Then he smiled a little, and said, “Maybe you’re right, after all. Maybe we shouldn’t declare war on Mexico. There’s no way we can afford to feed 250,000 prisoners of war.”