today seems as good as any to post the greatest political speech of all times. team america. written by trey parker and matt stone. be prepared for profanity.
the joke's over.
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2009-09-11
Source: onemansjunk
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[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]“the rising” (live). by bruce springsteen.
Source: onemansjunk
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2009-09-10
mike tyson. yup, that mike tyson.
Source: onemansjunk
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2009-09-08
excerpt from walking. by henry david thoreau. 1862.
Source: onemansjunk
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2009-09-03
excerpt from travels with charley. by john steinbeck. 1962.
Source: onemansjunk
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is eating sh@t a crime?
i honestly don’t even know what to say. i could spend years thinking of the greatest possible news story and wouldn’t come close to this. i smell a tv movie …
james orr put an immediate halt to his criminal trial when he squeezed the contents of his colostomy bag onto the table in front of him and ate it.
i’ve got news for district attorney david prem, who thinks this is a ploy by orr to be deemed mentally insane: this is no ploy; james orr is as insane as they come.
you can have your shit and it, too?
Source: onemansjunk
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2009-08-28
the beach was empty, except for a fisherman half a mile in the distance. four-foot waves crashed on white sand so fine it belonged in an hourglass. i sat along a dune and watched as the tip of the sun penetrated the horizon and climbed above the edge of the ocean through a gap in the clouds. its rays shone into every curve of cumulus, erupting in a mushroom of orange, yellow, red, and purple. turning from the sky, i aimed the camera at myself, hoping my head didn’t take up too much of the picture. i pulled the pen and paper from my notebook and began writing, checking every once in a while to see how far the sun had left the horizon behind. what resulted were the initial ramblings of a letter.
— excerpt from moments in a box. by ben rohrbach. chapter 7. (via onemansjunk) (via ponchandcircumstance) (via beauthor)
Source: onemansjunk
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2009-08-26
i flipped through the collection of photos on the table. in half of them, we were kids, posing after a touch football game or making faces at a birthday party. in the other half, we were juniors or seniors in high school, gathering after the homecoming dance or raising drinks at a random get-together. someone had enlarged three pictures and propped them against three vases of lilies. in the first, on the left-hand side of the table, graham stood in a blue champion t-shirt, his hair cut neatly and his brown eyes tired from an afternoon of running. he held tightly a trophy he’d won as the most valuable player in a youth basketball tournament and smiled his modest smile. on the right, he stood at the railing of a caribbean cruise ship, which he’d taken with the shaws as a seventeen-year-old. he wore a blue button-down shirt, his hair, as always, looked freshly cut, and his eyes sagged from a day in the sun. in his hand, he gripped a margarita glass, and he delivered that same coy smile. in the middle picture, his pants were rolled to his knees, and he waded on long beach. his back was to the camera, and his fishing line was thirty yards out in the ocean. in all three he was alone, but this photo stood out. somebody’s mother or father took the first, and his teammates were surely off to the side of the frame. kelly must’ve taken the second, because somewhere i’d seen a picture of her posing on the same railing. obviously, somebody snapped the third shot, but it appeared as though anyone could have. the angle was wide and followed the curvature of the beach, and no one appeared for a quarter-mile in each direction. i imagined him happy there in the ocean, waiting for a fish that, for him, always came. he loved the beach in the summer, and the picture was taken in early August, a few days before he left for new haven. i pictured him releasing the fish where it was free to swim for the remainder of its life, oblivious to the memory of the hook that pierced its lip. and I saw him making the long walk back along the ocean to a parking lot, where reality swept across his face like a sandstorm, some grains stinging more than others.
— excerpt from moments in a box. by ben rohrbach. chapter 8. (via onemansjunk)
Source: onemansjunk
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2009-08-19
the footlong hot dog at this place is tough to take.
does eric mangini own this place?
what’s the italian translation for mangina?
i think it translates to anus-anus.
Source: onemansjunk
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“nuthin’ but a golf thang” by calvin “snoop dogg” broadus (feat. tiger “tigre” woods)
one, two, three and to the fo’
snoop doggy dogg and tigre is at the do’
ready to make a tee time, so back on up
(‘cause you know we ‘bout to rip shit up).gimme the taylormade first, so I can drive with a bubble.
cypress and long beach together, now you know you in trouble.ain’t nothing but a golf thang, baby!
two decked out g’s so we’re crazy!
nike is the label that pays me!
unfadable, so please don’t try to fade this (hell yeah).but, uh, back to the twosome at hand
perfection is perfected, so i’m ‘a let ‘em understand
from a young g’s perspective.
and before me dig out a divot i have ta’ use a progressive.
you never know i could be floppin’ a shot,
and droppin’ a shot, and at the same time toppin’ a shot.
now you know i ain’t wit that shit, lieutenant
ain’t no primary rough good enough to get a bogey ’cause i’m up in it.
now that’s realer than real-deal holyfield
and now all you hookers and hosels know how i feel.
well if i’m good enough to break out the proper club
i’ll take a small piece of some of that chunky duff.it’s like this and like that and like this and uh
it’s like this and like that and like this and uh
it’s like this and like that and like this and uh
tigre, creep to the tee like a phantom.well i’m chippin’, and it lip-in, so i’m championshipin’
but i damn near missed the cut, ‘cause my vardon overlap grip kept slippin’.
now it’s time for me to make my impression felt
so sit back, relax, and strap on your seatbelt.
you never been on a round like this before
with a golfer who can rap and construe the contour
at the same time with the dope rhyme that i kick
you know, and i know, i stroke some ol’ funky sticks.
to add to my green jacket collection, account for the wind direction
read the slope, take a putting stroke, but don’t choke.
if ya’ do, ya’ have no clue
of what me and my homey snoop dogg came to do.it’s like this and like that and like that and uh
it’s like that and like this and like that and uh
it’s like this, then who gives a fuck about those?
so jus’ chill, through the next couple holes.fadin’ back on that grass off a hellified masters tee.
gettin’ fuzzy like zoeller and his old batch o’ collard greens.
it’s the capital-s, oh yes, the fresh-n-double-o-p
d-o-double-g-y d-o-double-g ya’ see
showin’ much flex when it’s time to wreck a titleist
pimpin’ holes with an interlocking grip like my name was nicklaus.
yeah, and it don’t quit.
i think they in a mood for some mothafuckin’ golf shit.so tigre (what up dogleg?).
we gotta give ‘em what dey want (what’s that, snoop?)
we gotta break ‘em off somethin’ (hell yeah)
and there ain’t no mulligans (city of cypress)!it’s where it takes place, so i’m a ask your attention.
puttin’ like a mothafucka, and i ain’t missin’
droppin’ the eagle that’s makin the sucka golfers wanna scramble.
when i’m on the green, it’s like a cookie, they all crumble
try to get close, and your ass’ll get whacked.
my mothafuckin homie doggy dogg has got my back.
never let me yip, ‘cause if i yip, then i’m slippin’
but if I got my lob wedge, then you know i’m straight chippin’
and I’m a continue to put the rap down, keep the hacks down
and if your caddies talk shit, i have ta’ put the smack down.
yeah, and ya’ don’t stop.
i told you i’m just like bobby jones with my sticks and my stones
but i’m never off, always on, unlike mickelson.
c-y-p-r-e-double-s, and the city they call long beach
puttin’ the shit together
like my gangsta federer, no one can do it better.like this, that and this and uh
it’s like that and like this and like that and uh
it’s like this, than who gives a fuck about those?
so jus’ chill, ‘til the eighteenth hole.he was off, like mickelson, at the pga championship.
yeah, when he was on the green, he was like that cookie that crumbled.
i guess there was some primary enough good enough for him to get a bogey up in it.
unlike his gangsta federer, he didn’t put his shit together.
he didn’t bring out the proper club, but he definitely took a piece of that chunky stuff.
Source: onemansjunk
