Carl Sagan Up in Here.

What's better than super genius Carl Sagan dropping some science about interstellar space, busting time continuums and the vastness of the fucking universe over a hot beat and an auto tune filter? Nothing.

Tuck in your pocket protector, put your headphones on and prepare for liftoff. This is some real nerd/gangster shit.

Stephen Hawking makes a cameo appearance. He's drooling.

Products and Services Vol.2: Nutella : Satan's Spread

There is a guilty pleasure that comes from eating store bought frosting out of the container. It is an American processed indulgence, much like buying a box of porn, or a 12” hot dog in Vegas. Eating frosting sans cake is so dark, and so wrong, it veers as close as any food can to sexual deviancy. Some Betty Crocker chocolate frosting, a plastic spoon, and a few hours of Guiding Light has long been an American remedy for cheating husbands, drug addled children, and bi-polar manias. A coworker once confided in me that his wife actually lives on a diet of store bought frosting, Crystal Light drink mix, and American Idol re-runs. If frosting as food product is so quintessentially American, why did it take Europe to invent the socially acceptable, yet deviant food product known as Nutella?

The devilish, Italian company, Ferraro, first thrust Nutella onto the shelves in 1949. There is no doubt that Satan must have had a job in R and D at Ferraro when these Italian scamps decided to market a peanut butter like spread made of 70% sugar and vegetable oils. Nutella also has skim milk, hazelnuts, and cocoa in its recipe, but these pointless ingredients only account for 28% of the product’s make up. Today, Nutella is produced world wide, and is often marketed as a substitute for the nutritionally superior, albeit boorish peanut butter. Nutella is no peanut butter. Nutella is frosting, if frosting were laced with crack and sprinkled with the tears of virgins. Describing a Nutella experience is like trying to describe a near death experience, or the first time you watched your friend’s mom take a shower through the hole you drilled in her bathroom wall. It’s evil, as evil as hazelnuts can be.

Last weekend I found myself horizontal on the floor of my sister’s kitchen dipping Teddy Grahams into a small glass jar of Nutella. Time ceased to exist, I didn’t know if I was gay or straight, and my world became singular, delicious and frightening. That night, I lost any semblance of self control, and as I blindly consumed the entire jar of this Italian satanic spread, I felt as American as apple pie.

Rocko Shako 2009. Volume 1.

Rocko Shako

-noun

1. An event. The process of getting piss drunk in Shakopee, Mn.
2. A whole lotta ass in bedazzled jeans.
3. Cavorting with the locals whilst drinking their little town dry and stimulating their economy.

Origin: Spoken freely amongst the denizens of Mt. Holly.

Used in a sentence: "Holy fuck, there's a lot of broads out tonight, fucking H Christ. Gimme a fuckin' Mich Golden light! I'm shit housed, Jesus. Fuck. Rocko Shako."

Visual:






Photos provided by the The Mayor.

Happy Thanksgiving Day.

Who knew mom wasn't safe while she trimmed the white meat for you. But regardless, hope everyone is merry and in a turkey coma by now.

Products and Services Vol. 1 : I FFFFound Some Boobies!

As a creative out there trying to put bacon on the sandwich, I find myself searching for a sparkling moment in the workday that might inspire my creativity and stop me from perusing porn, and researching what food products go great with barbecue sauce. If you choose to work from home, and are a man, porn and bbq sauce can literally suck away a whole afternoon.

While delving into the internet, I came across a dandy little scrap book known as FFFFound.com. It’s a common site for designers who purchase socks and underwear at American Apparel, and it boasts an inspirational collection of images. The blog collects image files, design elements, and photography form a a variety of sources and tags the images in a rather smart, esoteric way. If you chose to click on an interesting letterpress business card, it might lead you some examples of Rem Koolhaas buildings that were constructed out of business cards. At FFFFound!, it’s all about visual connections.

There is however one inherent flaw to the web architecture involved with FFFFound!. It seems that every image is only six degrees separated and about three mouse clicks away from photos of the nude female body. Whether it be luscious bosoms, Sophia Loren Polaroids, or photos of various nude, European hipsters, for a design site, it's a little disconcerting.

Today, I came very close to pleasuring myself to a topless photo of Lilly Allen. I was in the midst of editing some copy, and I visited FFFFound! for some creative inspiration. After looking at Swiss type, indie rock posters, and Milan architecture, I stumbled across the aforementioned Ms. Allen’s topless photo shoot for ID magazine. FFFFound! knows how this works, and it knows what lurks in the Pantone colored heart of the creative pervert. Suddenly, and without warning, I was no longer a designer or a writer, but a twelve year old British boy, who fancies slightly chubby, drunken, pop singers with a penchant for Jamaican organists.

Thanks to FFFFound!, and it’s plethora of weirdo erotica, today I own one less sock and discovered a new dinner entitled, ‘bbq bananas’.

Definitely Not Bitter. Defintely Not.

So there I was, enjoying a pleasant walk in my neighborhood, when I run into the ex and their new love. It’s inevitable when you live in the same neighborhood. See, this is why I should date foreigners, when we break up I can just get them deported. Boom. Problem solved. Now, we have all experienced the suffocating pain and awkwardness of a break-up; unless, of course, you married your first girlfriend/boyfriend, in which case fuck you ‘cause you’re a freak and I hope your significant other has a life consuming addiction to incest porn. The point is we’ve all basically been there. When we are found in the uncomfortable situation of seeing that person again with their new “better half” we are given the choice to either grasp firmly to our dignity or be the asshole who throws it out the window at 80 mph whilst enjoying a road beer. Why are we constantly told, “Be the bigger person, you’ll feel better.” Wouldn’t it feel just as good to break out of the bubble of social decorum? There are only three true options of dealing with running into your ex:

a) Hide in a bush, hoping they don’t see you and just keep walking
b) Smile politely and say, “Hello,” attempting to prove you are over them and can civilly coexist in the same neighborhood.
c) Flip the bitch switch, call the ex a “penis wrinkle” and their new girlfriend a “billy-goat-fucking-chain-smoking-trolley-whore,” then run away with gleeful laughter.

Most would claim to choose A or B with the argument that it would be the best way to respond to such a situation, to walk away with your head held high and a feeling of absolute maturity. What’s wrong with those of us who are considering option C, though? Why must we be vilified because we want to embrace the ridiculous immaturity that is trying so hard to be heard? While I don’t want to be with that person anymore, it is still a knock to be left for someone else, am I wrong?
So I had my options and my indecision of what to do was thinning them out. The distance between us was closing so I knew option A was out. So, I was either going to smile like a prat or unleash the most crushing honesty I could. 20 paces. You’re a circle-jerking-thunder-cunt. 15 paces. Oh hi, been awhile. You look good. 10 paces. Sociopathic, ignorant, oniony fuckwit. 5 paces. Shit. Out of time. But wait… what about a compromise? I could do that. Our eyes locked, I saw a triumphant smile twitching on the new girl’s face. I turned on my warmest, most genuine smile and strategically flipped my hair out of my face.
“Hi Anna.”
“Hi! Wow. It smells like Chlamydia right here. Whoo!” I could feel my smile widen and even my dignity gave me a little high five as I continued down the leaf plastered sidewalk with my head held high. It’s all about compromise, bitches.

The most creative phone sex ever. Indeed "SuperBeast'. In fact, there's actually beastiality.