This Dolphin Will Swallow Your Soul

This unleaded fuel for your daymares is brought to you by something called NorthFur, a Canadian firm specializing in mascot performances and commercials.

I find this insulting to my sense of realism. Any dolphin costume without a working blowhole is not worth the investment. At least, not in American dollars.

Surprisingly, the Miami Dolphins have expressed no interest in employing the services of NorthFur, ever since Poochie the Rockin' Dog got fired after humping the leg of new part-owner Gloria Estephan.

It's a slow day here at MagBas ... I fired the entire staff yesterday and the offices are kinda quiet. Actually, they're absolutely desolate. I clicked on their site out of sheer curiosity. It takes creepyness to a HO ... NUVA ... LEVEL. Something about thier portfolio makes me think that it's just a pair of Canadian fuckknuckles that have seen too many horror movies. Naturally, they decided to play dress-up when they got thirsty:

JASON: Hey hoser... we're out of beer.

MARK: Shit! Who's turn is it to get a job?

JASON: Yours. I sold all of our beaver pelts last week.

[picks nose]

MARK: Damnit! Hey, you remember watching Hellraiser for the fourth time?

JASON: Yeah.

[eats it]

MARK: We should do that, man. We could do special effects and make-up and shit! Rent oursleves out to kids' parties and corporate meetings! We'll be thousandaires!

JASON: drawdrawdrawdrawdrawdrawdrawdrawdrawdraw

MARK: THAT'S AWESOME! WHERE'D YOU LEARN TO DRAW, EH? But what about the rest of the mouse and horse bodies? How are we gonna make them?

JASON: Just wear your Rage shirt. I'll put on my Metallica one. They'll get the idea.

RIP, You Magnificent Bastards

When I was a kid, my Mom told me that I could be anything I wanted to be when I grew up. She was quick to add, "As long as you work for it."


I never heard that second part. I had already skipped away at full speed, throwing shurikens at the neighbor's cats while making helicopter sounds. The training regimen of young ninja are quite demanding, it seems.





Throughout my youth and adulthood, I've aspired to be many things: a fighter pilot, a bear trap manufacturer, or even a ketchup packet sales executive. When I saw Arturo Gatti smash the shit out of someone, while in turn get the shit smashed out of him, I dreamt of being a fighter. Maybe it was the otherwise stale, sad state of boxing (even then), the cutting staccato of Jim Lampley's commentary as he called the fights, or Gatti himself: a wild pugilist with a God's heart. Watch Joey Gamache's destruction at the hands of the man they called Thunder and tell me why he had to die that way.


Lately, some of the strongest men have been brought down by crazy women when they are their most defenseless: while they were unconcious. On July 4th, three-time ProBowl NFL quarterback Steve McNair was shot four times and killed (presumably while he slept) by some crazy skank who then offed herself. On July 12, legendary fighter Arturo Gatti was found dead, apparently strangled with a purse strap. His wife, a Brazilian-national and stripper is held as the only suspect.


I found out yesterday that I will never play professional football (on any level). Try to contain your surprise; it turns out I have flat feet. Also, my vagina bleeds when it is concussed by contact over 1.3G's. Sad, really: I wanted to be Dan Marino, but Steve McNair was one of those guys who made me want to play football. Why is he dead and Doug Flutie still walking this Earth?


Shit is all backwards. Up is down, fast forward is rewind. Pause still works because I tried it out last night while watching Dance Your Ass Off. All week, I'll be doing some fetal spooning with my couch pillows. If you want to reach me, send a singing clown to my apartment. Maybe he'll tell me why Thunder and Air are fucking dead.

Programming Note

Sadly, Fred Durst and his breakthrough band Limp Bizkit will not be performing at MMAExpo next weekend, as part of the UFC 100 extravaganza. Their plane was shot down over Montreal. There were no survivors.

At the scene, a single fitted red baseball cap was recovered. It had minor burns, but will survive.

My memories of Limp Bizkit are numerous and colorful, to say the least. I recall them playing at Woodstock '99 and seeing Fred Durst crowd surf on a big ass piece of plywood. After years of therapy and gallons of bathtub brew, recollections of the entire festival is finally gone forever. A shame, really; I heard Rage Against the Machine frikkin rocked.

And remember that one time when their plane was shot down? That was cool too.

The Summer Spin, Kick and Fall Down Championships

I caught this on UniqueDaily today. The caption reads:

Footage of the SpewSpinner 5000 in action. This was a device created to
entertain us during the slow moments of the Bathurst 1000 this year.

Normally, I wouldn't post this nonsensical garbage, but I had another football dream last night, and it left me with a nasty taste in my mouth acompanied by the usual longing for the great sport of AMERICAN FOOTBALL. This happens about every week, for the last month or so. For all those concerned, I am now seeking help for it. By help, I mean drinking and fetal-spooning a bottle of grain alcohol thrice daily. To the analysis!

At first glance, methinks his was a bunch of dumbass drunk Canadian greasemonkeys. They apparently took a racing harness and welded it to a retired carnival ride. Note the dingy yellow stain on the headrest. Did Big Bird run 500 miles on it?

It seems our friends north of the border have long since cut their mullets off, but kept the cool things that came with it: jorts and rugby balls. Later, the only audible voice I heard was that of an Australian. Stange; I could have sworn this was filmed behind a bacon processing plant. The Bathurst 1000 sounds kinda Australian, but then again I don't speak the language. A savage and backwards people, the lot of 'em.

Luckily, Metallica is a universal language. My favorite competitor (or athlete?) is William 'Comic Book Guy' Cook taking a header into the grass after failing to hurdle over the fertilizer pile, splashing beer all over his shit.

I Got Nothing