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August 7, 2008 |

By Brian Prisco | Eloquent Eloquence | August 7, 2008 |

The results are in! The 20th of our 20 seasons has been selected! It wasn’t an easy task, particularly since most of you dipshits couldn’t figure out how to follow to simple instructions. I imagine most of your homes are full of IKEA furniture with extraneous legs and missing shelves, like the deformed bastards of Pinocchio and the Nutcracker. We somehow managed to unfuck your dumbassery and declare a victor. You have no one to blame but yourselves.

Oh, like I’m really going to tell you. Patience isn’t just a stripper at The Blue Zebra. Besides. None of you bastards has made a lick of progress on the Pajiba Wikipedia entry. Get to stepping, you Jonas Brother.

Hey, kids! BarbadoSilm, finally escaping the bloodhounds of Chris Hansen, has returned to wreak his special style of street justice on the dusty roads of Pajiba. I was thrilled! Then I remembered, fucking B-Slim is back. He’s like Hellboy in a way, keeping the trolls at bay, while smashing and destroying everything and drinking Tecate Light. I stand by my original assessment: he’s the kind of guy you want to throw through a plate glass window in a knife fight, then buy him a mug of beer. Welcome back, you son-of-a-bitch.

Let’s make this quick: I’ve got to go put on my tuxedo shirt and pajama pants, I’m due to a gathering of angels. If the East Coast suddenly rises out of the water a mile or so, that’s because all of the collective awesome of the world is seated in a bar somewhere in Los Angeles, drinking and feasting. That earthquake last week? That was just practice for our arrival. We don’t need no murdertanks to make the streets run red with the blood of the non-believers.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions. The road to heaven is paved with just TEN:

10. And how exactly is it possible to add treacle to a James Taylor song? Is that what Generation Douchebag is up to these day? If so, maybe we should be more afraid of their technology than we realize. — Grover

9. Oh. My. Dad. I’d like to take a moment to thank my big sister for forcing me to listen to radio station 107.7 The End — so full of grunge and 80’s punk and whatever category They Might Be Giants falls into — in the early 90’s as I was stumbling awkwardly into high school. I don’t understand what’s happening these days! Why don’t these kids appreciate well-written musical angst like they used to!?

You can’t remake Rock ‘n Roll High School. You can’t! I’m gonna throw up. No. I’m gonna go to Newbury Comics and buy some…I don’t know…something obscure and imported and possibly on vinyl. This aggression will not stand. — HB

[Remember, despite the Hippie Generation, and all them tie-dye wearing bastards sticking daisies in the ends of rifles, there were plenty of other people on the end of those rifles, shooting holes in the heads of Hippies. Despite your age, you do not have to be a part of Generation Douchebag. You can rise against them. You’re here, aren’t you? You’ve already made the right choice.]

8. Starship Troopers 3 looks like a flick that the Sci-Fi Channel would pass on producing. The trailer made me want to smack a geek and steal his lunch money, so I punched myself in the face and bought an iced coffee. — David

7. Doesn’t Casper Van Dien have, like, 67 kids or something? Shit, I’d be making whatever stinking pile of feces they threw my way if I had 241 mouths to feed, too. — Kolby

Kolby… 67 kids = 241 mouths? What the fuck kind of baby are you gonna have, anyway? I’m officially scared. — TK

6. Today’s forecast - grumpy with scattered periods of stabby. Also sunny and warm, with mild (white-hot) rage interspersed with homicidal irritation. 69% chance of rampage, with a projected casualties in the upper 40s. Tonight’s forecast - dark, with reduced incriminating evidence, followed by increased light and irritation come dawn. Advisories - Watch for flying knives and squirrels, and tread carefully on the…organic…shrapnel. Some may scream that they’re not dead yet and that they need medical attention, but pay them no mind as it’s well a known fact that the recently dismembered persist in a state of denial for several hours.(This forecast brought to you by the Rightful Death Alliance. Any similarity with TK’s usual disposition is purely coincidental. All forecasts final and binding unless successfully averted by bribery, promises of greater future destruction, or repeated viewings of River Tam gracefully kicking Reaver ass.)—lordhelmet

5. Played rock paper scissors with the hubby to see who would get to either take half of the kids to see the Dark Knight, or the Mummy 3. I lost. He loved Dark Knight. If I live as long as these dumb ass mummies I will never let him forget this. No sex for a month. — jp

4. They should have “accidentally” put the colon in the wrong place. I bet a lot more people would buy Lost: Boys The Tribe. This review was not only well written, it was informative. There’s an actual movie called From Dusk Till Dawn 3: The Hangman’s Daughter? There was a From Dusk Till Dawn 2? People actually name their children things like Tad Hilgenbrink and Autumn Reeser? The mind boggles. — Three-nineteen

3. TMax, are you lecturing me on what to expect here? Who the hell is exactly posting irrational hate (well besides Pookie but come on, he’s Pookie!)? Noting that save the presence of Ms. Anne we’d be snarkishly talking about real-life horror stories isn’t hate filled OR irrational. Nor is it unfair to come to the defense of someone who said NOTHING REALLY WRONG HERE except that he didn’t want to apologize for a very benign comment.

Now you can throw a shit fit about the impoliteness of such a declaration, you can post your usual rants and raves but don’t be preaching, my friend, about the presence of the MurderTank™ (ESPECIALLY when you forget the ™). I have a damn locker on the MurderTank™ to protect my pretty Coach purses. Skitt lets me take it out for parties and cocktails and evenings of bloodshed. Seriously, unless you’re senior Skittimus or TK or Vermillion or Julie (cause I’m still kind of in love with her) do me a favor and keep your little lessons on Pajiba to your own self? Cause this faux lesbian knows not to talk to Sabrina about pie, has the drinkin’ game good and memorized and remembers when BSlim ruled these here parts. So lighten up son, and don’t go telling the likes of Mo and the rest of us what goes on or I’m libel to go all Deadwood on someone up in here. Or, you know, something like that. — lilliana28

[The point of being a Shakespearean play up in this piece is that while we can occasionally wax poetical, we get to be the fucking rude mechanicals wearing asses’ heads or engage in a little gravedigger humor. Personally, I’ve always assumed I’m going to die in some sort of ridiculous way, like suffering a heart attack winning at an Indian casino or being seared by lightning bolts trying to microwave a foil-wrapped cheesesteak or having a poodle dropped on my head, or getting pulverized by one of those frozen shiteors. It will be an unparalleled tragedy, but I also hope there’ll be a few photocopies of my obituary getting turned into internet spam. We make tasteless jokes about rape and death and sordid sexual acts, but in the same respect we raise money for AlabamaPink’s cancer research. We’re not saints, but sin well.]

2. Wah! Wah! Wah! The last thing I need to hear is the drip-drop of some ugly bitch tears before lunch. I’m just counting the days until my leggy blonde sensei arrives to offer me the salvation of some man trapping skills. Too long have I been burdened by my dignity and intelligence. Soon I will be transformed in to into a white(orange), borderline anorexic, vacant, Grade C piece o’ arm candy. I will become an expert in speaking only when spoken to, sleeping with my eyes open during sex, and poking holes in condoms. I’ll be able to bag and divorce a podiatrist in no time. Do you know who goes to podiatrists? Everyone. Then I’ll be crushing eagle skulls in my Hummer with my monthly checks(kids) while you bagfaces are tooling around in your in Smart(dumb) Cars with your degrees and your careers and your accomplishments and shit. Peace, bitches! — jM

[jM had a ton of good-uns this week. I selected this one, because I wanted to raise a point. You people bitch about how smart girls aren’t allowed to be considered attractive out of one side of your mouth, while smashing bald guys, fat guys, and short guys out the other. I happen to rock all three aspects of the holy trinity, and I rock it well. But according to you kids, I’m somehow lacking. You champion how it’s despicable that there’s a standard for women, all the while cutting down dudes for not rocking Ryan Reynolds abs, or Sayid’s luscious man locks. Even Stacey and Bedhead were dissing the men of this blog. Psssh. Haters. I’d call you donut jockeys, but frankly, I’ve seen your pictures, and you’re both beautiful. Damn your alluring eyes! Now, someone give us our goddamn beautiful blogger trophy, or I’m setting this prom on fire.]

[Here’s number one. I’ll be over in the corner, crying into my Luther Burger

1. I LOVE crappy movies!!!

Then you must believe that you live in a golden age of unparalleled delight. — SugarFree


I tried working up a top ten movies of this year so far. It wasn’t a pretty list. For you dissing your fellow commenter, our dear diabeetus prevention tactic, we shall gift you with your very own Pajiban T-Shirt. Please send four cereal box tops, a bowl of Frosted Flakes, and where your mail thingies go to dustin at pajiba dot com. Please wait several weeks for delivery, because Dustin, he’s going to be drunk in an Arkansan accent for the next couple of days. At least if the rest of us have any say.

Until we meet again, in some back alley or bar, where we exchange sweet nothings or sour somethings, let us dance with the devil in the pale moonlight.

See you at the debates, bitches!

The Top 10 Comments of the Week / Brian Prisco

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