When I Grow Up I Wanna…

When I Grow Up I Wanna…


Oh, the hell with that. I don’t want to grow up. I just want to get older. I want to be a giant kid, except I can drive myself to the Toys R Us, and use a credit card to buy whatever I want instead of sticky change I’ve collected for four years in a Dumbo bank.

I want to be able to by my own house so I can go out on the lawn and ruin it without anyone yelling at me. I want to dig worms for going fishing with an excavator, not mom’s garden trowel.

I want to go to the Seven Eleven and buy four hundred dollar’s-worth of D batteries. Just cuz.

There’s Dashcam Footage, And Then There’s Syrian Dashcam Footage

There’s Dashcam Footage, And Then There’s Syrian Dashcam Footage


I’m a veteran. No, not that kind. I mean I’m an Intertunnel veteran. I’ve seen dashcam footage, my friend. You don’t wanna know. You weren’t there. Man, I’ve seen Russian dashcam footage.I have flashbacks from those. But now I’ve discovered the ultimate the Intertunnel has to offer from a GoPro stuck on your windscreen: Syrian dashcam footage.

Here’s a glorious hour of people I don’t much care for blowing up people I don’t like. They take turns a little in the middle. All of Syria seems to be some sort of concrete block salesman’s idea of paradise, and it crumbles nicely whether you shoot it or bump into it.

The tankers seem a little confused from time to time about what day it is. On even-numbered days they’re supposed to bomb the rubble, and on odd-numbered days they’re supposed to shell the gravel, but they just seem to be mixing and matching, like a hungover man trying to find a pair of socks in the dark on Monday morning.

It’s like Call of Duty with more dust. Rock on, Fouad. Make sure you let civilization know how it all turns out.

(Thanks to Gerard at American Digest for sending that one along)

A Simulation Of Your Commute When The Snow Finally Melts

A Simulation Of Your Commute When The Snow Finally Melts


No, Florida residents, “frost heaves” are not what you get on Saturday morning if you drink too many Banana Daiquiris on Friday night. It’s what you get on your roads at the end of the winter if you live north of the Mason-Dixon line. Some people call it the Waffle House-IHOP line, but the point stands. Every road in the northern part of the country is going to make this race look like the Indianapolis 500 when Spring comes, which should be in mid-July in most places. Luckily, hardworking road crews will be out filling in all the potholes with that fabulous mixture of leftover Olive Garden croutons and discarded eyeshadow they call cold-patch.

Whatever. Hubcaps are for pussies anyway.

[Thanks to Charles Schneider for sending that one along]

Look, I Don’t Care How Super He Is, He’s Still Going To Get Bugs In His Teeth

Look, I Don’t Care How Super He Is, He’s Still Going To Get Bugs In His Teeth


Now, Superman’s super. That’s a given. I understand that. It’s right there in the name.

But the fellow has sketchy references, you have to admit. No one from around town can vouch for the fellow. No. Fixed. Address. He blows hot and cold, too; one minute he’s changing the Earth’s rotation, the next minute he’s just standing around while a freshman thug empties a revolver into him. Then –get this– when the malefactor is out of ammo, he throws the gun at this alleged Super man, and what does Superman do? He ducks! He ducks, mind you. Somewhataboveaverageman would be more like it, if you ask me.

(Thanks to Joan of Argghh for sending that one along)