Chilling in a compound in Pakistan

Turns out Pakistan may not be the best place to play hide but don't peek with Special Forces troops. While Osama was no doubt well-versed in the art of blending into dirt or worm shit, this time he made the mistake of dying... sure sounds like the game is over for him.

Obama almost decided to give the speech in his silky pajamas.

I don't see why it was so hard with him to come up with a decent disguise. If I were him I would've stocked up on HGH and shaved my head and maybe even gotten a few AK-47 tattoos on my fingers for good measure. But then again that might have been awkward, finding a dead meat-head in a hurt locker.

Proof that Osama's death makes the world a better place:

Twiter got the news first.

The markets just got a little wet.

Hamas tastes saucy again.

Impromptu parties are cool again!

"And let the highest ranked fly tall o'er the intersection." -Traffic News International

Caring About your Looks

Before we get started, A QUICK OBSERVATION: Just realized that the word jeweler begins with Jew. Rabbi wanna buy me a diamond ring?

Why caring about your appearance is a Generally Bad Idea

Explanations and advice is broken down by boob group. Choose your chest category to continue: With Boobs or Lacking Chest Mounds.

With Boobs

Being in the “with boobs” category doesn’t automatically mean you subscribe to the cheerful reoccurrence of the red tide(comma) but if you’re a man with boobs you probably aren’t going to get much out of this post(period) I suggest visiting http://howtolosemanboobsnow.org/.

Common Sense tells women that they should match colors, comb their tangled head webs, and wear shoes, but who tells Common Sense to tell them that? Probably a man with too much estrogen pumping through his system and a condom tucked under his wristwatch; an untrustable fellow.

Boobed individuals are taught the following model of reality: To get a man, you need to

1. Get goods – this can be done genetically or synthetically. Personally I prefer pathetically synthetic but I've always been more of a “path of least resistance” type so don’t accept any blood or advice donated by me.
2. Show off the goods – since whipping your goods out on the street is unfortunately frowned upon you might as well twist them up and present them in every other way possible (i.e. Dick in a Box). You can cage your breasts in expensive, frilly wire, put your heels on high risers, or grease your lashes with black ash – yeah, that’ll get ‘em hard.
3. Give out free samples – if you've ever been to a wholesale market you know the best way to get someone to buy the goods is to let them have a taste. Whether it’s breaking off a dollop of milkshake in the yard or encouraging a skinny dip in the goodie jar, there are some elemental ways to show off what you've got without screwing with the periodic table.

I propose getting rid of #2: showing off your goods through expensive displays involving clit glitter or lipstick (same thing!). If you don’t have goods, save the money you currently spend on lingerie, makeup, haircuts, footwear, braids (I assume you have to pay good money to get a good braid these days,) sunglasses, lip balm, udder balm, tithing, sex tip magazines, bags, food that isn’t salad, international calls, therapy, international calls to your therapist, and pregnancy tests. Take that money and “get big” at the gym and then choose your own adventure between getting implants or breast reduction surgery. If you go with an upgrade, start giving out free samples and I guarantee immediate success. No accessorization necessary. If you decide to reduce, go all the way, take testosterone, become a man, and enjoy a simpler life lacking…

Lacking Chest Mounds

So you’ve got nothing going on up top. No, I don’t mean all the way up top – up there with a brain that only takes up half its rented space – but at heart/nipple level. The fact that you’re lacking is fine with me; boobs aren’t everything. For some reason, you were born to be looked at in the face.

Since you don't have speed bags, why should you care what you look like? If you’re a guy you definitely have HPV and if you are a female reading this section you’re flat-chested and have a lot of free time. Either way, why don’t you go out and participate in our economy or something. Get a rake and comb the yard. Steal a kiss and give it to the homeless. Shoot your neighbor as you wish to do to thyself. Hug an armless person. Mug a harmless person. Drive a few miles under the influence of the posted speed limit: sometimes going exactly 25 MPH past an elementary school during school hours can be exhilarating.

How many of the wonderful activities listed above require “proper grooming?” None. That’s short for: Not a fucking ONE! Turns out all the important and fun things in life can be done without giving a rat’s ass about what you look like.

Flat-chested people of the world, unite! Untie your shoes and burn your socks. Life is meant to be lived naked with your toes in the sand. All nudist Spartans out there have it right; sweep your worries into a corner and sprawl out on the empty living room floor, splinters be damned.

I’m sick of our world, all full of materials. Driving down any road in any city in this country I am reminded of our waste size and how good we are at setting a horrific example for whatever species next develops a materialistic society. My money was on leprechauns to be the first to follow our platinum-lined path to hell, but then I decided leprechauns were a myth just like no-panty parties. I stopped wearing panties and got myself and all my friends boob jobs. If you want some samples just send an email to generallybadideas@gmail.com and we’ll come up with something to show you… or maybe we’ll just come into some sample-sized cups.

I think the next species to worry about their looks will be pandas. They are way too into bamboo, and I could see someone coming up with some sweet-ass bamboo panties.

"Is that a bush in your panties or just the tastiest damn branch in history?"  - Panda

Heavy Petting; The Thrill of the Chase

Buffaloes are long and hairy and full of assholes. Their shared history with humanity is pretty much the same. Buffalo Bill had one of the hairiest and lengthy penises the inside of Anne Oakley ever granted access. Buffalo chips live only to be eaten, but aren't as tasty as celery. Buffalo Wild Wings has weird bathrooms.

On the flip side, dreams come true in Buffalo; baseball and other ground-based sports are now handicap accessible.

What happens in Buffalo stays in a wheelchair.

Who or what can lead these Buffali out of this quandry? Tell you what, it isn't going to be someone's bi son. That would be too easy. No, this Buffolution is going to come from the Canadian countryside; from the great plains of a broken heartland. It is going to come from Bailey, the only Buffalo ever to be smarter than it's Canadian owner (not hard).

Update: Turns out Bailey is a bison, so apparently he isn't the second coming of the Buffalo Jesus unless he plans to pull off a species change. That just proves that buffalo are screwed and bison rule the grasslands.

Click here if you want video. You do.

Bailey winks at underage floozies and does unspeakable things to every vegetarian he can get his mouth around. He lets the dog ride alongside him in the back only so he can unleash digitally remastered mustard gas into the dog's face. In an unaired interview with owner Jim Sautner, the buffalo's owner admits to having to stop every few miles to scoop up the unconscious dog from the dusty edge of the dirt road.

Despite these foibles, why will Bailey come out on top? Because he doesn't run and he doesn't hide. He doesn't even know how. All he knows how to do is block the shit out of driving engines and ride a shotgun like a sex toy. He stays calm in the face of pressure and comes in the face of pleasure.

While completely saving the Buffalo brand isn't an attainable goal, a lot can still be accomplished. It's all about using the resources at hoof. Bailey has charisma, chocolate genitals, and an endless supply of mustard gas. Just getting his story out there will help the Buffalo cause. Even if Bailey ends up being a fake savior, the days to come can always be digitally remastered.

Run and tell that.

Ultra Music Festival

This guy had a head on a swivel; he was staring at me wherever I went.

8 Reasons why UMF is a Generally Bad Idea:

1. People die every year.

While dying in the sweaty arms of a total stranger isn't the worst way to go out, dying in the sweaty arms of a total stranger who mistakenly thinks you're a blowup sex doll is.

Flag parasite takes over brain function, kills host, sprouts.

2. There are teenagers.

Half the crowd is of an undefinable age, somewhere between born and dying, but it is hard to miss the groups of friends that trip past you with an average age of 17. The part of the crowd that is over 17? Doing their damn best to act like they are 17. It's a Catch 17; the pitcher missed the catcher's signal and the catcher forgot his glove. Playin' hardball.

3. Your hearing takes a serious step toward deaf.

If your eardrums were castles, they just got stormed by a horde of troll whores carrying torture tables that mix broken bones better than wrecked chords. To add insult to injury they were wearing Beats headphones by Dr. Dre, who hates trolls.

DJ AdolfH lays down a sick set of beatings as one supporter cheers.

4. Saying UMF has bathrooms is like saying guys named Slyde don't suck bananas out of unwashed hammocks.

In fact, I think I might have seen some impromptu hammocking taking place behind a few of the outhouses. In any case, I would say out "houses" is an overstatement. "Trailer toilets" might be more appropriate.

5. All the hot girls have boyfriends.

On the rare occasion you are lucky enough to spy a lass with class you must also immediately notice her boyfriend who has his tongue up her shirt and his hand down her throat.

6. Some of the hot girls have shanks.
A trip is a trip is a trip, unless the tripmaster happens to have nothing to chew on but a plastic water bottle. I watched in awe and visceral fear as the cutie next to me took a good four hours out of her day to chew and twist a water bottle into a prison shiv. While the smile on her face told me she was harmless, the sharp tip of the weapon she held told me some life moments should have asterisks. As in: Ultra Life Moment #121*. *Could have been murdered here, the drugs she was on probably saved my life. 


7. The food costs more than a vasectomy, which costs more than you could pawn your self-respect for after attending Ultra. One of the most ridiculous things I've seen in my life: a hotdog, corndog, and fries combo for $20. Yes Ultra, I know everyone there is high rollin', but not that kind of rollin'. I guarantee if you install a cotton candy machine and a stand that sells latex gloves with lotion in them, you could charge whatever you want and make so much money you can open a UMF bank. Then you can buy your own damn ATMs, launder money onsite, and fuck the free world out of more money then you already are. Take that $5 you are making off of every sold bottle of water and get yourself a good rape lawyer, because you bruised more than my ego when you stormed my castle earlier.

8. Tickets. While an original ticket can be had for less than $200, which isn't so bad, once the $60 service fee is processed the shit starts to pile up. Next on your bill is overnight priority shipping, which is your only option. Then, book a plane ticket or buy a fucking yacht, it doesn't matter; you're going broke anyway.

Everyone on this boat faces the same direction. Someone should attack from behind.

Silver Lining
Despite everything I said, Ultra can change lives like domestically abused partners change door locks. The experience can best be summed up with the following quote from an esteemed U.S. Naval officer who I played strip poker with under a palm tree at 4 A.M.:

"After this, prepare to live a hollow and meaningless life thence, because you'll never again have as much fun as those three damn days." 

Backpack watching is the new Baywatching:

Whatcha got in there? Back that pack up!

"Panda, give me strength to cover these shameful loins with neon."

Unbiased research continually points to koalas as the instigators for most orgies.

Yoshi wears small Asians when he want a backpack.

Turtles suddenly aren't as harmless when they train to be ninjas and smile.

Swinger Parties

If there are two things I know it's that existentialism is real and that swinging without restraint is bad for the heart bones. For those who may not know, a swinger is someone who thinks every room in the house is a potential playground and that marriage is between a square peg and however many round holes that square peg can get to come over on a Tuesday night.

Swinging started in the animal kingdom around the time animal rights became popular in China. Most animals have sex: Fact. The "missionary" and the "falling goat grab" are favorites among the more conservative creatures - but it's still sex. There are some animals, however, that take inbreeding to the next level. These are the swingers. To them, sex is a joke with 85 punch lines and a gene pool is what happens on the forest floor whenever a group of monkeys comes together.


According to LiveScience:

• Bonobo moms hit up their kids when they're feeling frisky
• Spotted Hyenas can't help but cross swords because all the ladies have boom-boom sticks
• Male walruses have recently admitted that they are basically just large, cold-water penises
• Hanging flies seduce with delectable snacks: Aphrodisiacs
• Little Brown Ant-anus mouse things touch their males so hard the men drop dead afterward

Fighting in Low Lighting

Ever seen Fight Club? Ever seen an overweight corrective actions officer sprint up three flights of urine-painted stairs just to nightstick a former heroin dealer for shooting the Lord's name in vein? Well I've seen both, among other, more contumacious random acts of violence.

Hockey fans tell me this action by Zdeno Chara is an illegal hit/check/poke/boomboom. I don't know anything about hockey but I say the only two things illegal here are how Zdeno spells his name and that I've been talking to actual hockey fans. As punishment, I'll be taking my next 10 phone calls from a Death Penalty box.

Violence isn't so much prevalent in our culture as our culture itself is violence. Our bodies are built to do three things: sleep, eat meat, and resolve conflict by ending lives. If you have a hunger problem, kill something tasty, gorge yourself, and then sleep it off until your next meal. As you can see, violence accomplishes all three things are bodies are meant to do.

Want a real life example? Check out this giggle of trannys, getting wistfully visceral over what must be the best damn taco meal in San Diego:

If you're itching to get your hits in, seize the opportunity! All around you is proof of the beauty of life. There, a face poised for punching, jaw unsettled, jutting, waiting for fist to meet flesh in a cascade of knuckle kisses. Behind you,  unwatered sidewalk cracks wait to be quenched with the blood you will help release in the street fight you're about to start. Stop bemoaning your job and your gas bill and your atrophied sex muscle and erect yourself. Walk, no, run, to the nearest person you don't know and show them just how pleasant meeting a blog reader can be!

(DIY) Doing it... yourself?

Look up "how to be emotionally evolved" on the internet and it will probably tell you to give a hand job to your therapist in order to reach the climax of self-awareness. You can think of that as Generally Bad Advice, even if it is from a collective intelligence of the Internet. I say fuck you therapist, if I wanted your approval I'd send you some naked headshots, and maybe if you're lucky, pictures of my face.

Why would anyone want to become better in the first place? Because there is literally nothing else to do these days. [Baby Boomers, track stars, Whitney Houstons, crawdad fishermen] are getting bored. This is completely understandable. When you have enough food, enough water, marginal amounts of sex, access to basic cable, and buns in the oven, you have to look for something to fill that void inside you. No, I'm not talking about the liposuction cavern around your waist that nobody is comfortable talking to you about... that closed up a long time ago. I'm talking about the perpetual stupor of the unfulfilled. The drive to create something meaningful; to feel useful. The need to return to the old ways; the ways of the young. To Do It Your(goddamned)self (DIY).

When I first heard of DIY I assumed it was a group supporting Donkeys In Yemen, an animal anomaly that scientists have been loathe to investigate because no one gives a jack's ass or a Shi'ite about how many Sunnis there are in Philadelphia. I was completely off base. It turns out DIY just means doing it the hard way, America-style; by baking their own cake, the entire American public was able to sit back with a full bowl of expanded waists and get off on watching the rise of the middle yeast. If you ask the right person, you'll find out we glued an entire region together with no instructions whatsoever and God's Army of One. We simply said "Fuck you United Nations, if America wanted your approval we'd send you grenades filled with permission slips. Save yourself some time and let your jawballs drop right now. Grow up"

My ears ringing with the harmony of political discord and feeling high off my country's recent Accomplished Missions, I decided to take DIYourself  to the next level. I dropped in to visit my friends at the neighborhood dollar store and bought myself a whole hell-of-a-lot of lasers. No, I wasn't going to try and make Conan, I'm not that kind of idiot. I was going through a rough patch with my eye contacts and I figured between myself, a few well placed lasers, and Google I could come up with a new eye care plan.

Here's what I learned: Your eyes are your body's prize. Consult a doctor before attempting a self-proctor. It turns out that even 15 low-tech lasers - manufactured by Chinese kids at a factory picnic - don't do shit as far as fixing vision issues. When my eyelashes fell off and my irises started to boil, I thought I saw angels dancing in sugarplum outhouses and tomatoes committing fruitless crimes of passion. I decided to call the whole thing off when the junior I hired from a local alternative education high-school to oversee the operation started to scream. He tried to help me stand up but I did it myself.

Whatchu "looking at" dog?

The entire experience made me realize that just like the United Nations, I need to grow up and hire the experts to get shit done. If the goal is world peace, call in the doves to drop dirty bombs on terrorists. If the goal is eyes that can see what's going on more than a few inches away, start praying really hard with your eyes open. Eventually you'll be bestowed with the miracle of clear vision; a vision of a future in which you don't:

1. wear glasses and look like a nerd
2. play fag-tag with your Internet friends
3. take screenshots of Pandora's Box whenever she shows off her sexiest see-through songs
4. type hard into your diary when no one comments on your Facebook posts 
5. look up solutions to your problems on Google
6. perform reverse psychology below the pantyline (sexual position reference)

There you go. Get out there and realize your potential potential. Live like a rebel. Take off your pants and peel a banana in front of a school bus. Or, if you've really learned your lesson, do the logical thing and hire a recent college grad to do it for you.