Thanks
To the five followers who pushed me into the “over 100 followers” category. I now feel slightly less insignificant. This is for you guys:
Serious shit, y’all.

To the five followers who pushed me into the “over 100 followers” category. I now feel slightly less insignificant. This is for you guys:
Serious shit, y’all.
I was gonna say, “and a bitch ain’t one,” but let’s face it: there are plenty of bitches who read my blog. Plenty.
PLE-HE-HEHHHHN-TY.
But thats cool, you know. I ain’t hatin’, as the kids say nowadays.
I just need one more of you bitches to step up and make me feel like I’m doing this Tumblr thing right.
You know who you are.
(Hint: it’s really anybody out there who wants to follow me. I’m not picky.)
…you’ll be delighted to know that those posts now have their own blog, here at
http://brickbeef.tumblr.com/
Enjoy.
I just have one new one up there now, but I’ll post the old ones from here over there soon enough, along with hopefully-regularly-updated new installments.
Woo.
When this baby gets up to 100 followers, you’re gonna see some serious shit.*
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*”Serious shit” may or not turn out to be photographs of women actually defecating that Kevin will post in facetious “celebration” of his new Tumblr milestone.**
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**You never really know how serious I am with these threats.***
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***But now you’re sort of morbidly curious, aren’t you? You should recommend me to your friends.****
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****Who may wind up hating you.
“Where do you want to do this, BLOGTRONIC?” Kurt asked.
“I don’t know…where are we, exactly?”“Texas, BLOGTRONIC. You know, where I live?”The thin man in the suit and bowler hat stepped out of the crowd again. “Actually,” he said, raising a single thin finger, “In February 2003, Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, so that their son could play hockey.”I looked over at the guy. “Who the hell are you?”“Wikipedia Brown,” said Hector the barkeep, as if it was obvious.Wikipedia Brown nodded. “The writer of more Wikipedia articles than any other man alive, and the keeper of vast stores of information, dear sir.”“Okay,” I said. “Why aren’t you out helping the FBI solve child abductions and shit like that, you’re so goddamn smart?”“Who’s to say I don’t?” Brown sniffed. “Every man needs a drink now and again.”I shrugged. “So, Kurt, what’s the deal? You live here or in Canada?”“I live wherever I fucking want, robot. Here, there, inside your mom…I ain’t picky. Now, are you ready to trip the fight paintastic, or what?”I clenched a grasper. “First of all, my mother’s a saint. Or at least, she would have been, had she existed. Second, any time, any place, Russell. Whenever you want to get a cold shaft of titanium justice rammed straight up your ass.”“I bet you’d like that, you electronic douche-rod. You’d love nothing more than to get your mitts on this slab of sweaty masculinity.”“Maybe I would…maybe I’d whisper sweet nothings in your ear before pulling out and finishing on your face! I bet you’d like that, you burly man-god.”“Maybe I would, you sexy obelisk of manhood.”Our eyes locked. Our muscles rippled. We breathed. We sweated. Finally, Hector slapped palm on the top of the bar. “For crying out loud! Are you two going to kill or fuck each other?”Kurt Russell sneered. “Back room, robot…NOW.”“Whatever you say, motherfucker!”We went into the back room, followed by hundreds of eyes, tentacles and visual interfaces. We came out about twenty minutes later, slapping each other on the back and smiling.“Boy,” said Kurt, “sexual tension can really get in the way of a good duel to the death!”“You said a mouthful there, Kurt!” I responded, and then we paused, shared a look, and laughed.Kurt wiped a tear of hilarity. “I guess we’d better get down to killing each other, huh?”“I guess so.”The laughter died down, and the tension ramped up, but it wasn’t sexual tension this time. It was deathual tension.“So wait,” interrupted the anthropomorphic armadillo. He pushed his cowboy hat back. “Did you two just bang? Is that what I’m supposed to understand?”“It was a manly working-out of some long-standing issues!” I snapped. “With sodomy.”Kurt Russell lit a cigarette. “I don’t know about you, robot, but after sex, I like…” He took a deep drag and let the smoke drizzle out his nostrils. “…killing a guy.”TO BE CONTINUED
This album came out today. I have listened to it about five times. I have been a listener since The Sword’s first album Age of Winters. This is their third, and they’re setting a pattern for themselves with each album being better than the last.
Warp Riders contains the usual epic bullshit the boys write about, with the usual bottom-heavy Sabbath riffing, only this time a smidgen of Southern rock seems to have creeped into the mix, being especially prevalent on the second track, “Tres Brujas.”
In my opinion, these guys are the most excing metal band operating today. They know what they like, and nobody’s doing this sort of thing better right now. As a bonus, the production values have ramped up with this offering, with several songs even having discernible vocals.
If you like your metal epic, dumb and with polyhedral dice, you really owe it to yourself to buy this album.
5. Kevin whosis? Yes, yes, it’s striking a bell. I may have perused his blogs one time or another. Didn’t care for them, really. Too many words, not enough pictures. I like pictures. Especially ones about kittens and the mischief they perpetrate! Oh, I could look at those all day! But getting back to this Kevin fellow, yes, damn peculiar, and I don’t mind saying it.
4. Strangling women I could understand, but shemales? That’s just creepy!
3. Can’t say I’m surprised at all. One time he even posted a blog about what people would say when he was eventually revealed as the “Salt Lake Shemale Strangler”! We all thought it was a joke! How naive we were.
2. He always seemed like such a harmless psychotic. Just another person harboring a deep, murderous urge that he would never actually exercise, you know?
1. Does Salt Lake even have any shemales? [Runs off to perform a quick Google search.] I stand corrected.
…about how to recommend me for the Tumblr Directory. Luckily for you, I’ve posted this handy link:
http://www.tumblr.com/directory/recommend/humor/sogoddamn
Boom, as they say in certain circles.
What, exactly, was Jill making in our bathroom, possibly in the toilet, and which federal agency should I call?
So there I was, in this roadside tavern that was like every seedy cantina in every movie ever made to the power of Danny Trejo, but absent that most necessary aspect: the hot ladies. I shrugged and tramped over to the handsome fellow tending bar and waved a grasper in a manner I hoped would be interpreted as both friendly and heterosexual.
“Hello, friend,” I said to his glowering, multiply-punched face, and I kicked my vocal register up a friendlier notch or three. “Nice place you got here, Charlo.”“The name’s Hector,” he said, in the least pleasant way it’s possible to give a stranger your name. “And I don’t like robots in my place.”A quick receptor scan of the place spotted a total of five androids, one of whom was wearing a t-shirt that read, “Robots Drink Free at Hector’s Roadhouse Every Tuesday!”“Goddamn, Charlo, I do believe it’s Tuesday, and I am parched!”“My name ain’t fuckin’ Charlo, and what’s the day to you, grease-muncher?”A sudden hush fell over the joint. The room was on edge. A scorpion smoking a cigar nudged an armadillo, who nudged a potted plant, who nudged an intelligent vacuum cleaner, and this process went on around the place, each nudger nudging an even more exotic and improbable nudgee until every eyeball, antenna and sensory pod was pointing in my direction. I sensed that it was time for me to blind the onlookers with the shine of my titanium balls or risk, at worst, not receiving a free beer. “Well, Charlo, I call all barkeeps that so that it cuts down on the amount of dumb motherfuckers’ names I have to burden my positronic matrix with. Maybe you should mind your own fuckin’ business and pour me a drink on the house before I smash my cock on the bar and cut you with it.”The silence that ensued was quiet enough to hear a pin drop, and in fact Bustin McChops, the Rodeo Clown Who Demonstrates Literary Cliches, at that moment dropped one and it was like an avalanche of cinder blocks crushing a bear made out of an Erector Set. (Man, I hadn’t seen Bustin in ages! Everybody was in this place!) Slowly, Hector’s face didn’t change one bit from his usual pre-violent sneer, but I could sense that the crisis was over. He grabbed a glass, filled it from a tap that read, “Beer, You Fuckin’ Pussy,” and he slapped it down with no ceremony. “On the house, robot.”“Thanks.” I leaned against the bar, traded some looks with the populace, and took a long drink. The beer was surprisingly good, like one of those fancy microbrewed bottles of hobo piss. It hit the spot. Everybody was good and relaxed, so I decided to ask the question nagging at the back of my skull: “Hey, what’s the deal with the lack of pussy in this place?”The tension ramped immediately back up to the boiling point. Bustin McChops pulled out a knife and attempted to cut the tension to demonstrate how thick it was, but only managed to nick a private eye in the shoulder-blade and start a mild bar-scuffle. It ended when the P.I. shot twelve men in the face.Hector glared at me and ate a shot-glass.“Was it something I said?”A slender, prim man in a bowler hat stepped out of the crowd and cleared his throat. “Ahem,” he said. He actually pronounced the word. “All of the, er, ‘pussy’, as you call it, around these parts is, er…spoken for.”I scoffed. “Spoken for? By who?”There was a crash of lightning in the dry-as-hell desert outside the front door, and a dark figure in leather and hate came striding in as his theme music swelled and fifteen men fell to the ground clutching their dicks because they didn’t deserve to have them in his presence. The stranger turned his sunglasses to me. “By me,” he declared.(“I’ll never have an orgasm again,” whimpered a man in the fetal position, who then pissed himself.)“Well, hello there,” I said to the stranger. “I loved you in Captain Ron.” I finished my beer and stood up straight. I would have flexed my muscles if I’d had any. “I don’t suppose you have any vaginas you’re not using?”He took two steps in my direction. He rubbed his hand along the leathery bulge of his crotch, and so help me, I was jealous of that hand. “As a matter of fact, I don’t,” he said, then spit on the floor. “What do you think about that?”“I think I love you, Kurt Russell, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to fight you to the death. No offense.”“None taken, BLOGTRONIC,” Kurt said with a smile. “We’ve got a lot of history to settle…it might as well end here.”Bustin McChops bounced out of the crowd in his chaps and grease-paint. “To Be Continued!” he shouted.TO BE CONTINUED