Shitty Reviews

A Parody of Reality


Sand is the precursor to glass, and that right there is a big reason to tell sand to go fuck a Petri dish full of gonorrhea. Glass is admittedly Hellspawn, which is why glass always allows itself to be scratched at the exact place where something is visible on the other side that is important to your happiness, like lesbians scissoring or war against lesser cultures (see: all). However, glass can’t take the full blame, because it all originates with sand, Earth’s microbial douchenozzle.

Sand was created in 1964 by the Danish physicist Albert Danishlastname after a kid accidentally pushed him down some stairs in high school and accidentally had sex with his sister on top of his prostrate form. Vying for revenge, he went outside and beat two rocks together, screaming with such an intense agony that small animals and children fled from him, but returned immediately upon remembering he was a nonthreatening Danish kid covered in his sister’s vaginal Sprite.

The rocks shattered in such a way that small fragments of minerals clambered down his arms, into his shirt, and mingled with his nipple hair follicles. He carried these offending demons home with him, unknowingly scratching at his chest like an ape.

Except a lot less scary, because he’s Danish and covered in discharge and shame.

Except a lot less scary, because he’s Danish and covered in discharge and shame.

He took a shower, which at that time in history meant that he spit upwards and hoped it landed on his meat and cheese, and noticed the little rocks coating his nipples. After cranking one out, he brushed the first inception of sand onto the top of his desk, which at that point only housed an abacus, a pair of titties chiseled into a slab of stone, and a high-powered neutron microscope far beyond the time of this supposed history lesson.

When he looked through the microscope to view the material, what he saw were dozens of tiny, angular pieces of matter, still wet with his classmate’s semen and shooting the bird skyward, because sand constantly flicks off the sky for hiding the sun when ugly bitches go to bars to give them a better chance at not being alone like they should always be. An idea struck him, which may have been the most diabolical idea in the history of humankind: he realized that if he were the coat a vast majority of the planet in this flesh-irritating substance, he could make sure that it seeps into every crack and crevice of any person or thing that nears it, thereby making it more annoying than a load shot in the eye.

He ran outside, grabbed a wheelbarrow, and collected hundreds of thousands of rocks. He spent centuries crushing these rocks, even long after he was dead, because unknown to him, Satan had imbued him with everlasting life. One time, Matt Damon appeared before him, and told him to stop his terrible scheme, but Albert threw sand all over the deity. Normally, Matt Damon would have torn the offender’s dick off through the top of his skull using his pubic hair, but he noticed that the sand had no affect on him, and actually made him even sexier and overbearingly attractive to men and women alike. From then on out, Matt Damon never wore a shirt again. His chest hair simply grows in varying colors and styles, and shifts much like a beautiful chameleon.

Free to continue his reign, Albert suddenly was killed by Kevin Spacey, who took over the evil reign of annoying terror, and continues to enact it to this day against the unsuspecting public. This was almost awesome, because destroying lives is something I’m not too shabby at, but I can never forgive Spacey for his performance in that Superman movie, which I didn’t even see, but I’m sure sucked girthy cod.

I didn’t have to watch it, because I tape myself shitting every morning.

I didn’t have to watch it, because I tape myself shitting every morning.

If you’ve ever been to the beach, which you probably have because it’s the only place you can feasibly stare at tits and not get yelled at. Trust me, I have tried this in most situations, and that is truly the only place it’s acceptable. I tried it at church once, but the priest and I got in a huge fight. Some bullshit about it being a statue of the Virgin Mary, but fuck that, no one with tits like that is a Virgin. Plus, didn’t she have a son? Faith is one thing, but gullibility is another. Joseph was a jackass. That conversation probably went something like this:

Mary: Uh, Joey, I’ve got, uh.. some news.
Joseph: Why am I not eating, bitch? Why is your face visible, isn’t this Arabia or some shit? Wear a sheet, and talk less, or live less – whichever is quicker.
Mary: I know I’m not supposed to do anything but cook, clean, and rear-children, but, well, it looks like I’m pregnant.
I haven’t fucked you for, what? Ever? Yeah, ever. I haven’t fucked you in ever, so why the hell are you pregnant?
Mary: Well, I think it’s a magical childbirth. I believe that God placed this child inside of me, and I am to be the mother of his son.

Joseph then proceeded to beat her with sage until her eyes bled, and then he had sex with her so forcibly that he re-impregnated her with a second child, hence Bruce Willis.

Sand gets into everything and destroys it, including stereos, toes, cars, horses, and marriages. If you walk within six hundred miles of a grain of sand, it will automatically toss itself into the wind and jam itself into the inner corner of your eye, and continually fuck your retina with a little jagged sandy dick for sixteen hours, until you finally rub your oculars red and headbutt a child in rage. Sand also never fully goes away, as proven by the fact that there is always sand in your house. Always. Even when you’re homeless, there is sand in your house, and if you bought a brand new house, guess what? Fucking sand in it.

It’s like air, except it doesn’t carry your flatus into the mouths of unsuspecting family members at dinner.

It’s like air, except it doesn’t carry your flatus into the mouths of unsuspecting family members at dinner.

I was talking to my friend Acid the other day, and he sat on my bed in a completely heterosexual way as I desperately alt-tabbed away from a picture of Bambi having sex with all seven dwarves, and he started talking about inane bullshit I didn’t care about like politics, religion, rent, joblessness, and two guys touching cocks in front of him at a red light. After I threw water on him and he started melting because he was actually the Wicked Witch, I checked my bed and saw that sand was all over it. What the fuck.

So, I text Thrall, and he resurrects the dickhead, and I’m like what the hell, witches don’t go to the beach, there’s moisture and shit. And she cackles and brews a cauldron of green shit, or whatever it is that they do, and says she’s never been to a beach. That’s my point. She didn’t have to go to a beach, because no matter what, you always have sand in your pockets. Check your pockets right now. There’s sand in there. Know where the sand came from? God damn nowhere, it just sprouts up like cocks at a volleyball meet.

I went fishing once when I was younger and thought bonding with my dad would stop him from pissing on my shoes every night before bed while I still had them on. He was listening to shitty old music where it was still acceptable for musicians to wear pants tighter than the skin underneath it, and I was getting sunburned because I’m Irish. I looked down at the chair I’m on, and saw a little pile of sand right under where my balls are sagging down in the intense, summer heat. Baffled, I rigged a pulley system to lift up forty-seven pounds of testicular energy harnessed in wolf hide and a forest of barbed wire, and sure enough, there’s sand all over the seat. I stood up, and my pants fell off. Turns out they were made of sand. The sudden weight of my crotch dropping into place caused me to fall forward into the ocean, so I speared a marlin with my manpoon and rode him to Narnia.

Sand is also a prick because it’s best friends with wind. You remember wind, that anal plunderer that I have a heated respect for because it throws cars at peoples’ houses. Yeah, well, it also throws sand, and that is how you get pelted with that shit. As opposed to using super-pressured water, some people opt to sand blast paint off of buildings, cars, and the hands of hippies. Sand is also sometimes used for polishing, hence sandpaper, and dropping an item into a huge vat of moving sand. This is stupid, because there is only one positive thing sand has ever done for the world: quicksand.

Quicksand hates everyone equally, and will eat anything that isn’t Bear Grylls, because Bear Grylls is fucking crazy and quicksand doesn’t want to try to digest something that squeezed drinkable water out of camel shit.

His British accent is a ploy used to lure you in before he takes you as his wife (trust me, you’ll be the wife).

His British accent is a ploy used to lure you in before he takes you as his wife (trust me, you’ll be the wife).

Scientists are not sure what quicksand truly is, but they’re pretty sure sand and moisture is somehow involved. When you fall into quicksand, the air pockets that you create while struggling collapse on themselves, and the pull of the centrifugal gravity therein drags you down deeper towards your death. It is not impossible to escape quicksand, however, as if you make yourself horizontal, you can monkey-crawl out, or just sink in a new and exciting manner. Quicksand intentionally lets people escape its grasp.

Once you have been inside quicksand, you will have sand in your hair for the rest of your life. Even if you Brazilian your entire body, sand will still cling to you like bitches on a Lumberjack. The only way to even hope to remove quicksand’s everlasting influence on the folds of your penis is: you must take a bath in your own urine, and invite friends to take pictures of you for being a retard and thinking there’s a way to remove the sand. Quicksand allowed you to survive after you fell in – wear the scars proudly, even when you have to deal with a constant thigh rash.

Rating wise, even though I don’t give them, sand is a conundrum. Sand is a dick, because it loves the underside of dicks, but it’s also a badass, because it hates black people and children. I’ll do with five infuriating waves of hatred when I bite down on a sandwich and for some reason feel a crunch when I know there’s no lettuce on it because the only vegetable real men eat are quadriplegics, out of ten of all that shit stated again. It doesn’t get a ten, because it holds more territory than even Hitler wanted, but it doesn’t get a 1, or negative rating, because it intentionally strives to enter any and every vagina that goes near it, which gave us that awesome picture of Anna Kournikova scratching at her snatch in public.


March 28, 2009 Posted by | Shitty Reviewer | 1 Comment

Domestic Violence

Domestic violence is one of those things that are inherently awesome and horrible at the same time. Nothing is more hilarious than a woman getting the shit kicked out of her, and yet there is a type of rage towards the man that initiates the violence that burns deep in my testicles. I knew a guy once that used to beat his girlfriend, and he came to brag to me about it, and I laughed at the story, and then I broke his cock off and fed it to my iguana.

People who commit domestic violence are the scum of the planet and need a taste of their own medicine (see: Pillsner’s review on prison population). If you get your rocks off on beating women, then you shouldn’t have rocks, and I’ll gladly remove them for you with a powerful grip and tug. There is a secondary facet to domestic violence that most people don’t allow to come to mind when the subject is brought up: sometimes, women beat up the men.

I use the term “men” loosely here, because any man that gets overpowered by a chick is technically a chick, so it’s closer to lesbian S&M porn than a struggle between partners for dominancy, or dinner. These encounters usually go something like this:

Man: Honey, what do you want for dinner tonight?
Woman: Food, you bitch of a cock-wielder! Did you record that movie on Lifetime for me?
Man: Of course, dear. I also took out the trash, did the dishes, did your taxes, cleaned the entire house, swept the porch, asexually reproduced so you would not have to go through the pain of child birth, went through the pain of child birth, watered the plants, mowed the lawn, fed the dog, fed the cat, fed the newborn child, and plucked my eyebrows.
Woman: You did what?! You plucked your eyebrows?! Did I tell you that you could pluck your eyebrows?!
Man: Well, no, dear, but I ran out of things to do for you.
Woman: Impossible! I have a limitless potential of necessities that you should continually be striving to achieve with every aspect of your indentured soul.
Man: I’m sorry, sweetie.
Woman: I’m going to beat you like you’re my dick and I’m angry at my parents.

This sad display is what most psychologists refer to as “marriage,” and sadly, most of them end with the man wearing pink shirts, styling his hair, and having sex with dudes (not to be confused with his burly, hairy wife). Domestic violence is an ever-growing problem in the world today, and a lot of people argue that it is simply something that you can’t joke about. Bullshit. You can joke about anything; as Chris Rock says, it’s completely based on the context.

If you’re hanging out with your best friend, who happens to be a girl (this is completely hypothetical, because it is impossible to be friends with a girl, because females inherently despise their friends for not living up to their incessant, overbearing idea of what a friend should be: ie, a robot that serves only their needs and has no goals, aspirations, happiness, etc), and she tells you that her boyfriend has been beating her. There are two ways to deal with this situation, one being the right way, and one being the wrong way:

Wrong: Wrap your arm around her shoulders and tell her everything is going to be okay. Grab her a bowl of some super-fattening ice cream, some peanut butter bars, and a Dr. Pepper, and gently stroke her hair while she weeps on your chest, even though you know she’s never going to have sex with you because you will now permanently remind her of one of the worst times in her life.

Right: Wrap your arm around her shoulders and tell her everything is going to be okay. Excuse yourself, and laugh uncontrollably in the hall. Then, go fuck her boyfriend through the eye socket, while not forgetting to continuously yell “take it like the woman beating sack of shit you are, you fucking son of a bitch” over and over. Ejaculate directly into his brain, and wait to see if Matt Damon consummates it fully and you are granted a child of punish rape, of which you will name Furion the Terrible.

Germans can’t say “Furion,” so they went with “Adolf."

Germans can’t say “Furion,” so they went with “Adolf."

Is there ever a time when domestic violence towards women is acceptable? That’s a very difficult question to tackle, because there is technically no right or wrong answer. Morally-speaking, no, there is no correct time to do it. Ethically-speaking, yes, there is. It seems counter-productive to say that, but consider it like this: The moral man will never hit a woman, no matter the circumstance; the ethical man will say that he will never hit a woman, no matter the circumstance.

So which one are you, and how do you find out? If you are a moral individual, you have found this entire review offensive, and are writing up an angry letter for that feminist blog you post on, even though you’re not a chick (most feminists aren’t technically women, either, because they have more body hair than Chuck Norris has memes). If you’re ethical, you’re angered, but you grasp the levity of the situation. Levity in domestic violence?! Madness!

Incorrect. There is humor in everything, which is why the world is a funny place. You can find as much anger as happiness in any given fact as the next guy, but it is how you process it that makes the difference. If you see a fat person fall down some stairs, you feel jovial and sympathetic at the same time. A moral man will help ‘ol fatty, while the ethical will say “someone should help that guy up.” Of course, there’s technically a third type of person, whom will watch the situation, laugh, call a friend, tell that friend, whom is the same type of person, so the process repeats until the fat person is called, told about himself, and inevitably laughs because he doesn’t know it’s about himself and is a dickhead.

Deciding when a good domestic violence scenario is okay to laugh at is a tricky thing to do. First of all, you have to judge the inhabitants, and the situation they are in. Here is a small chart that you can refer to:

So, as you can see, the only times it is acceptable to laugh at domestic violence is when a white man beats up a white woman or a Hispanic woman, a black man beats up a white woman, or an Asian man beats up anyone – especially an Asian woman, because she will immediately pull out a sword and defend the honor of her father.

She will ruin your shit, and by ruin I mean fuck you with a wakizashi.

She will ruin your shit, and by ruin I mean fuck you with a wakizashi.

Now, not all domestic violence is a straight ass-whopping, as there are times when a good forceful strike is all that is necessary. Sometimes your girlfriend doesn’t scrub the bathtub, so you need to remind her of her duties with a Shoryuken. This can also be solved with a genuine, heart-felt talk about compromised duties around the household, but the former gives you exercise, and her a reminder of her glass jaw. Back in the earliest years of human existence, it was common practice for men to drag their women around by the hair. This has been scientifically proven by the classic Nintendo title Cave Man Games.

These days, you wouldn’t be able to have a game like that. If a video game were to imply that women are in any way inferior, then millions of women everywhere would immediately go on their period and queef out some yawn sob story about how they’ve been mistreated in life. Women are constantly striving to be considered equal with men, and yet they use their feminine wiles to achieve that goal. I was at a feminist rally once (not because I support feminism, but because I figured that thousands of lesbians in one spot inevitably meant some carpet munching would happen on top of my face), and a woman had a loud speaker, and was screeching something about inferior genders, final solutions, and heiling. While that was an overt Nazi reference, allow me to input here the fact that she honestly did have a Nazi mustache, and worst still, I think she knew it.

That’s the kind of shit that both creeps me out and infuriates me about feminists: it’s a combination of acceptable laziness and Hippy mindsets. This idea of free love isn’t so much “free” as “one-sided” and “hairy.” Women want to be the men in relationships, but women can’t be the men in relationships. Men are the men in relationships. That’s why we have dicks, because we’re men. You have clits. Bend over and take it, you genetic secondaries.

So, after dropping a verbal deuce, the crowd cheered and pumped their fists upwards, like a single-minded mob. After vomiting all over some gorilla-gal at the site of thousands of hairy armpits (more than one of them had the dreaded L.L. syndrome), I forced my way through with my erection and stole the loud speaker from her.

Mama said learn to apply antiperspirants.

Mama said learn to apply antiperspirants.

Nude, quivering in a fall wind, I leaned forward, using my cock as a kick-stand, and fed the baby birds a can of worms known as “masculine justice.” After demolishing all of their shit, every one of them shaved, asked for a decanter of my seed to knock themselves up with, and went home to cook dinner. I dedicated myself, from that point on, to spreading my word across the globe, and if everyone were to simply heed me, domestic violence would change from acts of rage to acts of boredom, and would eventually taper off completely.

Despite everything, it is important to note that domestic violence in any shape or form is an unrelenting assault on the intelligence of humanity. There is never any situation where it is acceptable, any scenario where it is genuinely funny, and any idea relating to it whatsoever that should ever suggest that it should be carried out against women, or men, for that matter. Domestic violence does not get a rating, because it is not the kind of thing that should be rated. It is disgusting, and anyone who has ever hit a woman for any reason other than self-defense, or likewise in regards to women towards men, should die painfully, drowning in their own shame. If you know anyone that has been a victim of domestic violence, plead with them to call the police and break free, and if they won’t, then call the police yourself. Don’t allow a friend or an enemy to be in an abusive relationship, no matter the circumstance.

March 28, 2009 Posted by | Shitty Reviewer | Leave a comment

Technical Support

Technical support originated in Satan’s asshole, and it damn well hasn’t expanded. Any self-sacrificing American that has sucked up his (there is no “or her” because women don’t know how to use electronics, which includes phones) dignity to subject himself to these mouth-breathers knows what I’m talking about when I say that Hindu McGee needs to shut the fuck up and let me talk to someone named Lenny, Carl, or Alexander. The other night, a message popped up on my computer that said my CPU was abnormally hot, so I took a cold shower with it, scrubbed every inch of it, and tried it again. It wouldn’t turn on! Furious, I called my computer brand’s technical support, and Abdooli Durka answered, spouting something about slushies and BOGO, whatever the fuck that means.

There is something seriously wrong when I call a support line, and the person who answers needs support speaking English. It’s counter-productive. I wound up spending twelve hours on the phone with the guy teaching him the basics of the master race’s language, and now his name is Stuart and he lives in Illinois with no wife, no kids, and an Irish Wolfhound named World Destroyer Kensington, III. My computer still won’t turn on, and this ass-grabber has a better life than I do, even if it isn’t true and he still sleeps in dirt every night, fearing an Egyptian asp is going to ruin his shit, which it will.

Consider your shit ruined, Egypt.

Consider your shit ruined, Egypt.

I tried working for a technical support company once, and I did an amazing job. I was quickly promoted to fired. A typical day went something like this:

Customer: Hello, my computer won’t turn on.
Me: Is it plugged in?

Then the customer hung up and hopefully killed himself, which probably isn’t hard, since he likely forgets how to breathe every few minutes. I almost miss the days when technical support wasn’t done over the phone, but rather in person. Can you imagine how much simpler that would be? If someone came in, sat down a computer, and said it wouldn’t turn on – BAM, that’s because it’s sitting on my desk, jackass, go plug it in somewhere and then promptly swallow your own tongue.

Customer service began in 1547, when Matt Damon decreed that anything with a moving part can be taken back to the creator if it stops working for whatever reason. This is considered the only “wrong” thing Matt Damon has ever done (“wrong” is in quotes because Matt Damon is infallible, which means he technically didn’t do something wrong, we’re just too simple-minded to truly grasp how it was right. Touché, my liege. Touché.) . At the time, I was a watchmaker, because every true man should know how to make a watch. There’re all kinds of badass quotes about watches from Einstein, and that guy was so much of a man that he ejaculated gale force winds and shit thunderstorms.

Ever since the decree, stupid people have been doing stupid things with simple products, and use technical support as an excuse to blame the manufacturer for their inability to use both thumbs at the same time. These are the same assholes that blame fucked up sidewalks for them tripping. Don’t blame the sidewalk because you don’t pay attention, now go home and walk into a glass door like the teat-nibble retard that you are, Forrest.

Run, retard, run – if you don’t trip on your virginity first.

Run, retard, run – if you don’t trip on your virginity first.

Outsourcing has become a horrible problem in America, which is mostly proven by the fact that technical support lines refuse to even hire me at this point. My resume is perfect, considering it is four hundred and eighty nine pages long, and goes over the highlights of my career in very succinct, albeit chronologically-incorrect, manner:

  • The creation of all of mankind, under the tutelage of my one Lord and Savior, Mattimus Damonus.
  • Writing the bible on a chick’s tits.
  • Destroying Pangaea.
  • Smothering a Tyrannosaurus Rex with my balls.
  • Ending world hunger.
  • Restarting world hunger.
  • Giving birth to Joe Brown.
  • Headbutting the ground so hard that a meager crevice is formed, which is later named The Grand Canyon.
  • Working at Publix for two months.
  • Discovering the g-spot.
  • Hiding it from everyone else.
  • Destroying Carthage with my stare.

You would expect that I could effectively get any job I want, from grave digger to Official Annihilator of Asses, but instead I’m writing reviews about technical support, sand, and Nicolas Cage. I was talking to Pillsner because he is the only person I know because everyone else is a figment of my imagination (fuck off, psychology), and he was telling me about this time he drank so much beer that he pissed blood, and the blood turned into a technical support operator for a major mp3 player manufacturer. I called up this company, and I wound up talking to his kidney failure, and he spoke better English than Jihad did, and that pissed me off.

So I call back that computer company, and I tell that guy what’s up, and he’s like “I don’t even know who you’re talking about, this is my first day” or something like that because it was in Arabian, and I got so angry that I flew two planes into the World Trade Center and blamed it on him, and they totally believed me, and now gas is expensive. Talk about shitting on a culture – I managed to crush his smelly country and fuck up our own economy in one swift move, and there’s not a god damn thing anyone can do about it. Except turn back time.

Kevin Spacey turned back time in 1916, because he missed an episode of Jack Shit because no one had televisions back then, and he wound up going back to when I was born to try to kill me. But, since I wasn’t so much born as I exploded out of a womb made of steel, aluminum siding, and rosewood, I kicked him on the taint so hard that he shot back through his portal, and reverted time back to normalcy. Little did I know that time had been altered forever in the future…

Shitty’s gift to humanity with a sharp punt to the taint.

Shitty’s gift to humanity with a sharp punt to the taint.

I don’t give ratings, but if I did, technical support would get one dead baby joke involving pitchforks and/or dinner out of ten dead baby jokes involving pitchforks and/or dinner. These non-English-speaking vinegar baths need to learn the language of their primary customers. Sure, they make sixteen cents an hour, but you have to work for that money, and sitting in a hot, arid room with nothing to eat, drink, or wear (aside from robes, sandals, and turbans; see: terrorist), does not excuse you from your duties as non-Americans helping Americans. Learn the language or learn to fly planes or something.

March 28, 2009 Posted by | Shitty Reviewer | Leave a comment


NCIS is the show that is so manly that if it were a person, it would have hairy eyeballs. Whenever you’re flipping through the channels on your television, idly swapping your gaze between the screen and the monitor of your computer just in case that girl you met on an anime forum messages you, and suddenly you gain an erection: blam, NCIS is on.

The only thing manlier than NCIS is beef jerky and the only thing manlier than beef jerky is a naked woman wrapped in bear meat, masturbating with an axe handle.

NCIS is short for Naval Criminal Investigative Service, or something made-up similar to that, since there’s no such thing as NCIS. There’s only a few law enforcement agencies: FBI, CIA, LAPD, NYPD, GTFO, and IRS. NCIS was made up, and it actually stands for No Cock Is Small, because everyone on the show has a gigantic pants hammer. Especially Ziva.

Her clit is bigger than an industrial toilet.

Her clit is bigger than an industrial toilet.

The premise of NCIS is basically the same of any cop drama you may find on tv, except that it’s good. You may be a big fan of the four different Law and Orders, which of course means you don’t like vagina, or maybe the sixty CSIs, which is short for Cock Suckers Institute, since everyone on those shows constantly gobble beef sticks.

There are, technically, seven primary characters of new and old in NCIS:

  • Leroy Jethro Gibbs – the one who kills your mother
  • Anthony DiNozzo – the one who then fucks your dead mother
  • Kate Todd – the dead one, so probably your mother
  • Ziva David – the one who watches your mother get killed and fucked and doesn’t cringe
  • Abby Sciuto – the one that tests Tony’s semen
  • “Ducky” Mallard – after this one tells a long-winded story about someone else Gibbs killed
  • Timothy McGee – the one that takes pictures, plays Dungeons & Dragons, and ultimately is a copy of everyone who uses the internet, except for me, because I have had sex more someone other than Pamela Handerson

In 1846, Leroy Jethro Gibbs was born. His name is Leroy, because he is actually black, as all black people in the 1800s were named Leroy. But Shitty, he’s white! you may yell annoyingly at your monitor in hopes that I give a shit.

I don't, and neither does Jesus.

I don't, and neither does Jesus.

Once in a while, some people are so manly that they’re confused to be black. This is caused when a baby is born already with a beard, an engorged erection, and testicles larger than a pair of Volvos. This is a common misconception, as it is actually more likely for a Caucasion to have a massive aluminum boxer bat than a black individual. The issue is that most people simply don’t realize that white people do have massive cocks.

This misconception first began in the early 1700s, when a Moor (see: black person with a cooler name) was first found. People were shocked at how gigantic his shlong was, and in turn, began to feel inferior. Galileo (still alive for the sake of an inpenetrable argument), made mention that, in fact, white people are born with two penises, and a single leg. One penis is smaller, though sometimes large by standards of the average penis, while the other is Thor-like, and fits perfectly into a shoe.

Generally, NCIS starts off with some sort of murder, discovery of a murder, or scene in which murder is indicated to some to fruition sooner rather than later. Then, Gibbs gets an erection, slaps someone on the back of the head with it, and shoots off a detective-like load all over the D.C. Metropolitan area. Regardless of all possibilities, and reality, the load stalks down the murderer, which is usually a woman, and impregnates her. The baby matures in seconds flat, and punches through her uturus, bursts into existence, shaves its nuts with the smooth top of a stapler, and kills a bear.

The baby then flies into space and bangs a lot of hot alien chicks.

Once upon a time, the manliest show on television was The Smurfs. Give me as much shit as you want about it, but bear in mind that the concept of the show was that Gargamel, a bald wizard-like man of epic manly proportions, wanted nothing in life more than to eat Smurfs. He spent multiple seasons trying to eat fucking Smurfs. He was trying to internally accomplish what we wanted to do on the outside, but simply did not have the omniscient metaphysical power to do so. He eventually died of cancer, because he was actually 24 in that show, and still looked like a dead guy wearing another dead guy.

Dying men especially enjoy the tender touch of Hustler.

Dying men especially enjoy the tender touch of Hustler.

An episode of NCIS stands in my mind more than any other. I don’t know what it was titled, but I’m going to venture it was something like “NCIS Ruins Your Shit and Hands Your Ass Back to You, Covered in the Blood of Your Mother.” In the episode, Gibbs and Tony hear about a murder of a Corporal or whatever the hell ranking system the Navy has, and they drive out to Las Vegas. Gibbs kills twelve orphans while Tony wins ten billion dollars and pays Kate so she’ll get naked. Gibbs then kills her for not having dinner ready, and replaces her with Ziva. Abby shows up, and everyone wants to see her naked, but then Ducky takes his shirt off and everyone loses their erection, except for Gibbs, who beats McGee to death with it for not getting him coffee quickly enough.

Everyone has a great laugh, and then they gang-banged Abby. Best episode ever.

In following with my normal manner of saying I don’t give ratings and then giving one anyways, let me say that NCIS is not getting a rating of fourteen pulsating, calloused testicles out of ten. That’s right, fourteen out of ten. Of course, it’s not actually getting that rating, because I don’t give ratings.  But if I did give ratings, it would get an awesome rating, because it is awesome.

Gibbs only smiles after he pisses on a culture's religious icon. Sucks for Buddha, his fat ass just got a warm shower.

Gibbs only smiles after he pisses on a culture's religious icon. Sucks for Buddha, his fat ass just got a warm shower.

You know that feeling you’re noticing right now? It’s deep in your abdomen, like a thick shit is trying to force its way out of your dick hole. That’s not a shit. It’s not even semen. It’s your testicles, climbing through your shaft, vying for freedom to track down Gibbs and kneel before him.

If you’ve never seen NCIS before, then you are an illegal immigrant and can’t afford television (or someone else with another classification that’s insulting). If you have seen NCIS and didn’t like it, then you didn’t get beaten as a child like you should have been. I’m going to beat the shit out of my children if and when the countless women I’ve impregnated have them (see: stair abortionist), if only so they don’t grow up to be pussies. I’ll make them listen to metal, watch NCIS, drink beer out of elven skulls, and only wear underwear if they go to Walmart – because all of the fat women their will slob all over him with greasy lips if he doesn’t, and that’s just gross.

Watch NCIS, or cut off your balls, which you probably don’t have if you haven’t seen it yet, anyways. In fact, tear off your balls and mail them to Gibbs, and maybe he won’t crush your shin bones with his ginormous prick.

Matt Damon produces NCIS. Matt Damon.

March 27, 2009 Posted by | Shitty Reviewer | Leave a comment


The art of hunting has been around for as long as there have been small, helpless creatures to kill in brutal and hilarious ways. Scientists like to set the date around the same time Shitty Reviewer was cursing the wind and fucking Natalie Portman. It has been estimated that over 6 billion people engage in this wonderful and clearly adrenaline pumping sport. There are a few different types of hunting, bear hunting, squirrel hunting, deer hunting, witch hunting, human hunting, whale hunting, tail hunting, bird hunting, deer hunting, bear hunting, witch hunting, human hunting, Nazi hunting. Mostly just a few vindictive jews engage in the delightful sport of Nazi hunting, although witch hunting is still the most common form… especially in Africa.

Fuck you, Africa.

Fuck you, Africa.

African witch hunting is based on the old but reliable belief  “if we can’t understand it, it’s probably a witch” that dates back to some time before humanity first crawled out of the primal ooze that is my jizz. Or for the rest of you, some 6 thousand years ago. Fossils prove nothing.

The most preferred method of witch eradication is the use of sharpened blades, more commonly known as machetes. Or whatever is handy really, remember it is Africa. But hey, relax, before you crawl out of your hut, brush the sand from your balls, and go on a machete swinging massacre you’ve got to learn how to recognize a witch. To best identify a witch you should look at their features, firstly, do they look differently than me? Secondly, if they talk (nag)a lot, refuse to cook you dinner, or dare to mouth back they are probably a witch. Third and most importantly, if they refuse to date you and/or cook tasty pies. If you answered yes to any of the above, you’re probably a witch and we will be seeing you soon.

Probably a witch.

Probably a witch.

As you can see she conforms to several of our criteria set forth above. The man stew she happens to be feasting on is just a bonus. Of late witch hunting has produced some brutal, limb severing killings in Africa. The New York Times tells us that Africa has not seen such a display of inhumane and machete wielding cruelty since… some time last week or something. Let’s face it Africa is a pretty shitty place to live. If you can add 2 and 2 you’re probably going to be burnt at the stake, partly for being a witch but mostly because you’re among the top 10 smartest people in that filth-ridden shit hole. Africans believe the witch in question must be hacked into either 12, or 14 pieces before questioning and accusations can begin.

This works too.

This works too.

But another form of hunting also exists, the “art” of deer hunting, in which hardcore rednecks  seek to increase their pitiful self-esteem by killing and maiming small, helpless, defense-less critters. Bitter? Hardly, I’m just of the opinion that this sport needs to be livened up a bit, provide a better challenge to the “hunters”. What fun is there in shooting something that’s running away.. well maybe the Germans enjoyed it, but still. Deer look pretty sweet, and they help with natural selection by standing in the middle of roads, at night,  in a ball shattering display of “I fucking dare you to hit me” manliness.

Go ahead, do it. I fucking dare you.

Go ahead, do it. I fucking dare you.

I just can’t find fun in shooting the poor things, especially with guns. Do they get off on it? Is there a sexual thrill in killing something that cannot defend itself unless its 3 inches away from you, tearing your stomach open with its antlers and painting the ground with your intestines. What about bear hunting? I propose all self proclaimed hunters must first get into a UFC style cage match with a bear, nothing but the weapons nature gave you. If you can walk away alive you’ve earned the right to hunt lesser creatures, as well as cup the breasts of Selma Hayek. Otherwise, be prepared for a few fanatics from PETA to unleash their ultimate weapon to combat the growing hunter problem.


Something like this.

-The Bitter Pillsner

“Fuck you, I’m this drunk”

3/5 dead Bambi

March 26, 2009 Posted by | Pillsner | Leave a comment