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July 31, 2008 |

By Brian Prisco | Eloquent Eloquence | July 31, 2008 |

What a week! Pajibans across the globosphere have now finally found a way to identify each other and share libations while exchanging friendly dry humps. Lest we forget, we must bestow much joy and thanks upon the fantastic Skittimus Maximus for designing the shirt. Now legions of people will stare at your chests and say “The fuck is that?” And you’ll proudly exclaim Pajiba! To which they’ll respond, “The fuck is that?” Just think! Had I actually been wearing my Godtopus shirt rather than the Murdertank, Whedon and Harris might have said, “Look at that intrepid young scribbler! Sweating profusely and looking exhausted! He must work for the greatest website in the world! The back of his shirt says, The fuck is that?”

It was a proud week for me, as I saw my home state of Pennsylvania receive its long awaited fete-ing. It’s a state that houses more individual militias, white supremacists groups, and satanic cults per capita than another in the union. I miss it for its surlyness, and its greasy delicious food. Fuck scrapple, I’ll take a porkroll, egg and cheese, on a Kaiser roll please. As for the grand cheesesteak debate, well, when I go to Eagles games at the bars out in LA, I wear my Jim’s Steaks shirt. It’s better than a Westbrook jersey.

My current home suffered an earthquake this week, which was my first. I blame the fact that we gave second place in the PA contest to Manny. However, in the grand echelon of weather related disasters that I’ve suffered, it warn’t shit. It was somewhat like a truck passing by my apartment in Allston. Blizzards and hurricanes make it look weak. I won’t even get started on tornadoes. Pussy CA weather.

And boogs, listen up, my bitchtits. Because I love you, I do. I fucking love ABBA. They wrote fun songs. That doesn’t mean that you make a mixtape out of their greatest hits and square peg them into the round holes of a fucking Travel Channel special on Greece and call it a quality movie. I fucking love Journey. But nobody’s scrabbling to make a musical about a small town girl on a Saturday night. As far as I know, the rights are still open to write about a blue jean clad immigrant chanteuse coming to the United States to find the man who bring her flowers featuring a remix of Neil Diamond hits. So what I’m saying is, get on that shit.

Everyone gets to vote for the number 20 slot on the Best of the Best. Hahaha! Not so easy, is it, you puckerfuckers? I’ve been reading your selections. And you are ALL correct! That’s the beauty! Every single show you’ve chosen belongs on the list. But they aren’t going to make it. And SirKickyAss is going to prove his superiority over all of us. How wrong we truly were. What buffoons we are. How ashamed we should be. And then he’s going to drive away laughing at us, in his Prius, sniffing his own farts.

Have you been following the fucking book reviews? Not only are they fucking spectacularly written, but every time a book is selected, a fucking fight breaks out in the comments section. It’s like an Rhodes Scholar Wrestling Federation! It’s magnificent! Some regulars are duking it out brainiac style! That’s the reality show I want to see. Something that’s a combination of Jeopardy! and American Gladiators. You run up to answer a question on Ontological Empiricism and get chased by Titan in one of those giant fucking hamster balls!

But until that grand day comes, you’ll have to settle for these delightful snippets o’ witticism:

10. Hey, you shut up about Kenny Loggins! Perhaps you’re just bitter that your momma don’t dance and your daddy don’t rock and roll, but Danny’s Song, House on Pooh Corner, and Footloose all rock (in various unrocky ways). And I don’t want to live in a world without little mechanical rodents who dance to the song from Caddyshack. — frumpiefox

9. This sounds like one of those movies that a Douche McRemoteControl puts on at 4 in the morning when a party is winding down and everyone else is too drunk to protest as he swears this movie “kickszs asses..s’hilarious”. You know, like Beerfest or Steel Magnolias. — LB

8. Actually, I’d argue that Rocky III was overwhelmingly more homoerotic than Rocky IV. Sure, IV had Stallone avenging the death of his “best friend” while ripped to within an inch of his life and with a tan acquired in the middle of the balmy Soviet winter, but Rocky III? How can you possibly top the beach scenes? Slow-motion jumping in the ocean while hugging each other wearing short-shorts? (You just know when Tom Cruise saw that he kicked himself for not thinking of having Maverick and Iceman play splashy-splash in the locker room showers.) Plus, Rocky III had Hulk Hogan playing a character named “Thunderlips” (in the flesh, ba-by!).
How did no one question this stuff when it was originally released? Better question: are there movies/TV shows being released in the present day which will be laughed at for similar reasons 20 years from now? — Abe Froman

7. tamatha: I get the scrapple and I get the vegetarianism; what I don’t get is the intersection of the two. Scrapple with no entrails is a jonny cake or a glorified hush puppy. Nothing wrong with it, per se, but plopping in some soy and calling it scrapple just seems…quixotic. If you can satisfactorily fake scrapple then I’ll be curious to know how the vegetarian haggis turns out. — Grover

[See, tamatha! You made it into the comments, even after all your whining that we would never acknowledge you! The squeaky wheel gets mocked by the arrogant hedgehog!]

6. You see, my cubemate uses my tape dispenser from time to time to hang pictures of her stupid fucking YorkiePoo (can we just agree that these “designer dogs” are for lonely assholes?). Thing is, she doesn’t replace the dispenser whence she gets it: rather, she puts it in her bottom drawer, you know, the one with the lock. I ask her (relatively nicely, considering the blinding red rage I am typically in) to just put it back when she’s done with it, as it is plain she has no intention of walking the nine fucking yards to the supply closet and procuring her own fucking tape. Instead, she just continues to take it, only now she leaves in its place a fucking IOU written on a Post-It note…from her stupid fucking YorkiePoo. “My mommy needed to borrow some tape! I dressed as Princess Leia last weekend for the Halloween Bunco party and mommy took just the CUTEST pictures of me! Teehee!! ROFLOMGBBQKILLMENOW!!!” So, in summary, you can see why I might prefer a tee shirt of the murdertank variety … Because there’s no suicidetank tee shirt. Godtopus, I hate my life. — Mella

5. Me: [orgasmic moan] T-SHIRTS! Boyfriend: Murdertank. I swear Pajiba is a terrorist recruiting cell. Me: Just because they’ve drawn up the schematics of a WMD and put it on a t-shirt for all the followers of Godtopus to wear, and just because Homeland Security may or may not have confiscated the site in the past, and just because an full scale zombie army attack is very likely to be linked to them does not make Pajiba a terrorist recruiting cell.
BF: … Me: Well, fuck you, I’m signing up. —J_Capri

4. This movie felt like I’d been having sex, continuously, for a little over sixteen years (with the past six years feeling mostly empty and pointless - oh yeah, and I’m starting to chafe) and then the sex just ends. No orgasm. No snuggling. Not even a God damned “I love you.” Nothing. I don’t think I’ve ever been so disappointed in such a group setting in all my life. The writing was poor, full of holes, and I was left with more questions that I didn’t even care to have answered. I never felt the familiar tension, didn’t even laugh that much. Where was the snarky, witty banter? Where was the suspense? Where was the X-File? Where in God’s name was my orgasm?! (And yes, I am a lurker who finally grew a metaphorical pair and posted, so I’m pretty aware that none of you are going to take anything I say seriously. But still. Shitty movie) — Kristen

[I watch over you all. And judge. I’m like that movie with Sylvester Stallone. Rhinestone Cowboy.]

3. Man, I’m gonna out cool everyone here by saying how I totally knew about iHasaBucket back when we had to whittle the bucket out of wood and use it as bait to entice Walruses that we would then harpoon for food and fuel. We’d make woodcuts of the hilarious looks of dismay that walruses would make just before a 5 food long death dealing spike flew through those waddling blubber sacks like a hot knife through butter. Let me tell you, Russian whaling vessels have a bad reputation, but they are nothing but good times if you’ve got the right people and enough vodka with you. You had to be real careful pulling the bucket back though, those tusks are NOT just for show, as my late friend Boris found out one fateful day. But enough with my yarn spinning, more Neil Patrick Harris news! That man is almost as hilarious as a Walrus being brutally penetrated by an iron torpedo of destruction. Almost. — Genny (also Rusty)

[I love that fucking walrus, and it is ALWAYS FUNNY. Unfortunately, the walrus is long dead. Let us all take a moment and say a silent prayer for our bucket-wielding sea critter. There’s actually a website that features all of the exploits of our dear friend. I like the one where he and some friends menace a young schoolgirl.]

2. Top Reasons Why Clit Wood is Better Than Dick Wood
- Just as pleasurable!
- Easier to hide!
- I can conduct meetings at full salute!
- Doesn’t result in blue…um, blue vag?
- Great for party tricks!
- As well as hijacking comment threads!
- Sure to get PissBoy’s attention.

So there. Boys can pee standing up; girls have wood that needs no management skills. — boo

[And then we get to number one. While her rant about dia-beetus and cerulean urine were tops in my books, I had to give it superEdna for this passage. You want the definition of Eloquence? You want to know what it’s going to take to win you a t-shirt? Stick this in your wordhole.]

1. Why in the behind-the-bleacher-humping hell would I sit through this? As a teacher, I avoid my students’ hormone-induced drama like Rainbow Killer avoids keeping that big stupid yapper of hers shut. Nothing raises my hackles more than teachers who enter the profession in an attempt to relive their glory days (or who hope that they can FINALLY be “popular”). These teachers thrive on the students’ drama and gossip. They would rather be liked than respected. They compromise their integrity in an effort to be “cool” in the eyes of their students. Whenever you see a teacher on the news who has had an affair with a student, you can rest assured that it’s one of these teachers.

Now, I’m not saying that I don’t care about my students. I probably get too involved in their lives sometimes. I’ve bought kids everything from school supplies to prom dresses. I’ve taken kids for STD tests (and before you start in on me, it’s not because I thought I gave them one). I’ve helped get a teen removed from her home when I found out her dad was raping her. I’ve had students “practice” with me before telling parents they’re gay. I’m that teacher that burns out because I love my kids too much. I mother them more than I should, mostly because so many have mothers who are absent. But I don’t make it my business to know who’s dating or who’s cheating or who’s hooking up. I don’t take sides in arguments between friends (I swear to you, there are teachers who do). I’m there to be a teacher and mentor. And sometimes, I’m there to be an adult who loves them and is honest and blunt with them.

I do feel sorry for the geeky kid who gets rejected when he asks for a date or for the girl who realized that her “BFF” probably won’t be around forever. These moments are painful to their young hearts. But I’ve seen much worse. Working in the inner city, I’ve seen the real problems many teens are facing. One year, out of a class of 30, there were 10 kids who had lost either one or both parents. Another 10 lived with a single parent or another guardian. Many of these kids grew up in abject poverty. They had experienced and been witness to acts of violence that most of us only see on the news. These kids were facing very adult problems with children’s minds. People talk about having to grow up fast but that’s not true. You can’t fast-forward human development. You just experience enough that you become numb to it and it just seems you deal with it. Many of these kids were born into drugs, while others discovered it on their own.

This is why I hate shit like “The Hills” or any of the other teen “reality” shows. They aren’t reality. Not even close. I’ve seen reality in the eyes of the kids who fill the seats of my classroom, and it scares the shit out of me. — superEdna


See, people? It’s not all about who can write the best dick joke. In the olden days, when I was able to be a wicked monkey, I would have gifted you with something like that shitty Desperate Minds knock off The Freedom Writers thing with Chad Lowe’s ex-wife. But instead you will clothe yourself in the grandness of a t-shirt.

Send your size, a shoebox full of inspiration letters from your class, and your GPS coordinates to dustin at pajiba dot com.

Shit’s got real, peeps. Now we’re playing for all the marbles.

Until next wiggedy-week, always shoot for the head.


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