Category: funny

Commands

Commands I’d someday like to be able to give to my army of fearful but loyal minions:

  • Kill them… kill them all.
  • Increase the weather control machine to full power! BWA HA HA HA HA!
  • Bring me the head of Paris Hilton. Oh, and while you’re at it, kill Nicole Ritchie, Michael Jackson, Carrot Top, Paul Schafer, Christina Aguilera, Jennifer Lopez, Andy Dick, Wayne Brady, Fred Durst, Carlos Mencia, anyone remotely involved with reality TV, Tim Allen, Ann Coulter, Jean Claude Van Damme, and the Bangles. Huh? Yeah, you’re right. Tim Allen’s career is as good as dead anyway. You can leave him off the list.
  • Bathe the girl and bring her to my chambers. Put the rest in the dungeon.
  • Can you go to Burger King and get me one of those spicy chicken sandwiches they’ve got? I don’t have any cash on me… can I just pay you back later? Ok, cool. Thanks.
  • BOIL THE PACIFIC OCEAN!
  • I’ll have the panda and manatee cheese condor egg omelette and a side of… do you have tiger bacon? Yeah, I’ll have that. Awesome.
  • What the hell is wrong with you minions? It’s a guy and his comic-relief sidekick, running along the turrets of the castle, clearly silhouetted against the night sky. Are you trying to miss? Can’t one of you fucking HIT HIM?! Alright, that’s it. Tomorrow, every single one of you are going to basic marksmanship classes. Anyone who fails get his or her health insurance revoked for ninety days.
  • If the prisoner speaks again, cut out his tongue.
  • Minion number two-six-four-nine-zero… drink ten.
  • Hey, you. Minion. Yeah, you. Come here. Are you Eddie? Good. Alright, Eddie, I have some bad news for you. The IRS has been trying to take away our tax-exempt status because they don’t seem to think that I’m the messiah. The guys in Accounting have been “massaging” the numbers, and they decided the best way to cover this up was to pin it on a low-level grunt like yourself. So, long story short, Eddie, you’re going to prison for tax evasion for a very, very, long time.

If you haven’t seen it before, this list was clearly inspired by Peter’s Evil Overlord List.

Also, this is probably one of my most irrelevant blog posts ever. Not quite as bad as this… though I doubt anything could be… but a waste of time nonetheless.

How to Throw a Party

I’m sure many of you have been wondering, as I once was, “How do I throw a party?” Well, I’m here for you.

First, select a date a couple weeks ahead of time so that people have time to plan around coming. Fridays and Saturdays are best, obviously.

For the next several weeks, mention off and on that you will be having a party at whatever date, and that acquaintance X should definitely come. To discern whether this person has any intention of coming, mention the party, the date, but don’t mention where you live. If he or she is actually considering attending, he or she will ask for directions. If not, stop wasting your breath on this person.

Make sure that you invite a disproportionate number of women and men, preferably far more men than women. This will ensure that the men have no chance of getting laid and the women will leave early to find a party that’s not a “sausage fest.”

If you can, invite at least two people that absolutely despise each other. If you’ve done your work correctly, they should nervously avoid each other until the drinking is in full swing, then launch into an all-out screaming match. If luck is on your side, they may even get a furniture-bustin’ brawl.

The day of the party, clean your house top to bottom. It should look its best for thirty minutes before your guests soak it in beer and vomit. Buy lots of beer and hard liquor and stock your fridge.

Now it’s time to reap the benefits of your efforts. Your good friends show up early, and you don’t charge them, as they’re your good friends.

It’s important to begin drinking early. Have a couple shots with the fat guy. (Every group of friends has a fat guy.) Drink a beer while bitching about your job (or lack thereof) with someone who gets paid far more than you.

Wait for more guests to arrive.

And wait.

By eleven, you can safely assume that no one else is coming. You should be drunk by now, anyway, so it shouldn’t bother you much. But it does. You’re reminded of how many people you’ve pissed off recently, and how the guest list gets shorter with each successive party. Continue to drink.

Angrily.

Around midnight, the last straggler has shown up, but your friends with real jobs and futures have already left. At this point, there will be about a half dozen people left in the room, and you should be loudly boasting about your ability to spit fire. Demand to know if anyone has the balls to do another shot of tequila with you. Glare at the people that are still present and treat them with the misdirected hostility that you’re feeling towards everyone that didn’t show up. Mentally curse the non-attendees and silently vow to never throw another party.

Right about now would be the best time to begin dropping beer bottles and lit fireworks off your balcony. Ideally, you’ll be dropping them onto the large and equally drunk rednecks that live in the apartment below you. Continue this behavior until one comes up the stairs and gives you a well deserved beating.

Somewhere between three and five in the morning, drink a glass or two of water in a vain attempt to stave off tomorrow’s hangover and crawl to bed on all fours. Make sure anyone sleeping over witnesses this to ensure you will be the butt of jokes for years to come. If possible, don’t even bother to say goodnight to anyone. Just shamble out of the room and don’t come back.

The next morning, if all has gone as planned, you will have two dozen half-empty beer bottles and cups scattered throughout your apartment. Everything you own will be covered in a thin layer of beer, and you will have a crushing headache. Don’t expect anyone that spent the night to help you, as they will be busy rummaging through your DVD collection. As you mop up the beer on the kitchen floor and the vomit in the bathroom, they will be looking for the next two movies to watch. Attempts to make subtle hints that they should leave will be fruitless. Your best bet will be to convince them to go somewhere for lunch, get them out the door, and lock the door behind them.

Order a pizza with the fourteen dollars and change donated by your friends to cover the hundred dollars of alcohol they consumed.

The rest of the day should be spent doing the following:
– Cleaning the layer of filth from your living space and personal effects.
– Suffering God’s wrath in the form of a horrifying hangover.
– Periodically cringing as blacked out memories of last night’s idiotic behavior surface through your hangover induced fog. At this point, you may need to begin calling up attendees to ask questions such as, “Why did I throw a knife at you?” and “Whose idea was it for me to ride the bathroom door down the stairs?”

By the end of the day, your home should only be clean enough that it would not be condemned if a housing officer were to stop by. Anything more than that would violate the very uneasy truce that you will have worked out with your spinning head and queasy stomach.

You should go to sleep that night early and still slightly hungover. It’s important that you end the night by muttering to yourself that you will never, ever host another party again.

And that’s it. Not too difficult. The next time you have a party keep those simple guidelines in mind and I’ll sure you’ll be arrested in no time.

[ I should point out that everything here–and I do mean everything–is something that I have personally done. I’ve thrown knives at people while drinking, I spit fire, I’ve been beaten up by rednecks, and I’ve broken down my bathroom door and rode the pieces down a flight of stairs. I’m not proud of all of it, but it makes for some great stories. –Marc ]

And Now Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Nonsense

Let’s see… hungry, hungry, hungry…

Can’t afford delivery pizza, and I’m not in the mood for it anyway…

Nothing in the fridge…

Nothing in the pantry…

Checking the cabinets…

Here we go. Box mix potatoes au gratin. That should be decent. But is there anything I can add to make it more like dinner? I hate eating a side dish for four and calling it a meal.

Alright, an onion. I can dice some of that up and put it in. That’ll be good. What else have I got…

Canned mushrooms. I hate canned mushrooms. They taste like crap. Oh well. Maybe they’ll be better when taken with everything else.

Searching through the cans… and we have… canned… spinach? Yeah, why not. Plenty of iron in spinach. It’ll be good for me.

What else, what else, what else. What? Canned roast beef and gravy? Who would can roast beef? Where the hell did I even get this? Let’s see… it’s from Aldi’s. Yeah, thanks Mom. Made in BRAZIL?! Who gets canned goods from BRAZIL?! Man, now I’m really reaching. I don’t think this is going to work.

Ah, hell. In it goes.

Mixing, mixing… god, this looks disgusting. The spinach was definitely a bad idea. Oh well. Into the oven it goes. Maybe once it has time to cook it won’t look so… repulsive.

Time for some TV.

[ eighteen minutes pass ]

Let’s see, the box said to check it at twenty minutes. Better check it to be safe.

Oh god.

I’m going to have to eat that?

Why is the whole thing a shade of green that looks like leprechaun vomit?

Um… maybe it will magically be better when I check it in another ten minutes.

[ ten minutes later ]

Damn.

Alright, ten more minutes.

[ the tension builds ]

What? It looks worse?!

Maybe once it sits and cools for a bit. Yeah.

[ still building! ]

Oooh…. maybe not.

This has to be one of the most wretched culinary abominations shat into existence.

:: sigh ::

I hope this tastes better than it looks. Although I don’t know how it could taste worse.

Spinach. It tastes like canned spinach and nothing else.

Damn.

[ yeah, I wasn’t really going anywhere with this. ]