A couple of weeks back I took an interest in writing about bizarre Japanese video games.  They are the perfect fodder for blogging.  Their manic imagery naturally inspires pithy commentary and they provide ample latitude to indulge my racism.   However, rather than just taking swipes at cheap jokes, I also saw an opportunity to tackle the subject more academically.

I approached numerous experts in Japanese culture, seeking a rosetta stone that would contextualize the madness that passed for entertainment.  I compiled the results of their survey responses and interview comments for brevity’s sake:

I think that pretty much sums it up.

In the world of multiplayer first person shooters there are few more reviled than the “campers”.  These wretches are like an opportunistic infection, laying in wait for players at their most vulnerable before pouncing.  Typically this happens at locations where resurrected characters respawn, from largely unreachable sniping positions or shadowing the most emotionally unstable person in team chat.

And just like that, Maya knew she had a new bitch for the night

You’re not alone in your distaste for campers.  Nothing cheeses off the military more than combatants who insist on pussy strategies like not marching straight toward them.  It was a problem they struggled with for years until Obama found a pamplet that piqued his interest:

What Alliant Techsystems brought to the table is nothing short of a death knell for the camper scourge.  The XM25 rifle is sophisticated, powerful, and looks fantastic in earth tones.

I know you can’t see it, but I assure you the rifle is there.  And 15 ninjas.

The XM25 uses a laser to calculate the exact distance to whatever obstruction is housing the combatant.  Though the laser isn’t dangerous itself, the gun does provide an external speaker to make the “pew! pew!” sound while firing (it and can also be color-coded to red or blue, depending on whether you’re a good or bad-guy).  The rifle doesn’t just determine this information for score-keeping purposes – the distance is required so the gun can tell these 25 mm bullets how far to travel before they explode.

Think about the implications here. The typical options in this scenario have been a grenade launcher, which are limited in range and accuracy, or a $70k javelin missle.  With these bullets we can deliver pinpoint accurate fragging but still have budget left over to fund my Terminator Puppy initiative.

Admit it.  You’d never see it coming.

The bullets have their own microchip to store how far to travel before exploding.  Once fired, the bullet’s magnetic transducer creates an alternating current as it spins, which it uses to count rotations and calculate how far it has traveled.  We have officially entered an era where we are firing bullets better at math than we are.  Frankly, I thought it would come sooner.

It gets better.  As if having a rifle clip filled with tiny suicide bombers wasn’t enough, the operator can fine tune the point of explosion a couple of meters in front or behind the target.  This will defeat seeking cover behind a car, kneeling in a trench or even huddling inside a building.  This is a game-changer In terms of combat strategy, explaining the tone of the XM25′s new advertising campaign:

A weapon this sophisticated borders on the fantastic.  You can now pilot bullets with the type of control you’d only expect to get with some kind of telekenesis.  You’re firing MINDBULLETS.  Suck on that, Professor X.

No one could say that Michael Moore didn’t deserve what he got

Ian Chesman isn’t going to feel safe ever again, but with terminal cowardice that’s to be expected.  He often hides in his bunker at iancheesman.wordpress.com.

It’s a rough time to be a deity.  It used to be all they had to do to get a little shine was cure a disease, but these days there’s always a douchebucket scientist ready to take the credit with their medicine or some such nonsense.  Way to fuck up omnibenevolence, Science. Worse, courtesy of alarmist zombie flicks, gods can’t even raise the dead without creating an uproar. 

Grandiose miracles have curiously had to take a back seat to more obscure ones to receive notice.  Subtle tactics like influencing the outcome of a sporting event worked pretty well, but there was never any guarantee that athletes would thank the right god.  Jesus has been coasting on Odin’s work in football for years. 

The reason this happens is simple – Jesus’ marketing staff OWNS.  They understand a miracle without a recognizable stamp is up for grabs.  They also pioneered the mantra "The quickest way to a believer’s heart is through their stomach".  For some reason our primal instincts seem to crave gods that are as powerful as they are delcious.  Lord Ganesha appearing in a flower is precious and all, but hardly very appetizing: 

Hey, L.G., nobody wants their miracle to be a garnish.

I don’t want to tell you celestial beings how to do your job (I so do), but allow me to trot out a few examples of miracles closer to the mark.

1. Marmite Messiah

If this looks like a baby-shit stain to you, the reality is you’re not far off.  This is marmite, a byproduct of beer brewing, that is used for a toast spread.  It is popular in the UK, presumably because their breads taste worse than yeast turds or the population have their tongues scalded with acid as part of a coming of age ceremony.

I don’t think this is Jesus’ best work.  Something about the eyebrows on this one gives me a bit more Charles Manson than son of God:

2. Kit-Kat Khrist

Maybe it’s more Bearded Bobby Deniro than Buddy Christ, but there’s no denying this is the most delectable miracle yet.  Still you’d think someone with omnipotence would know a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup would be the more sanctified choice.

3. Our Lady Of Limburger

The clarity of the image on the grilled cheese sandwich is undeniable, but I do have to question if it is a truly a miracle.  The creator looks as if she’s no stranger to a diet rich in carbs and molten cheese sauces.  it was probably just a matter of time before she made a series of sandwiches accidentally inscribed with the collective works of Shakespeare.

4. Allah Tags The Produce Aisle

Belief in Allah is not only a means to salvation, but it cures scurvy as well.

For some reason Allah only puts his name on fresh fruit and vegetables.  No wonder most Americans find him so foreign.

5.  Teach A Man To Fish Stick, He’ll Eat (Poorly) Forever
 

For those unfamiliar with the biblical account of Jesus, there is very little documentation about his teenage years.  This is because relgious leaders felt that the canon would be negatively impacted by revealing what this picture so clearly shows – Jesus was Batman’s archnemesis Two-Face.

6. Betcha Can’t Save Just One!

According to 55 year old Rosalie Dawson, this chip bears the image of Jesus Christ.  It’s a shame that God opted to bless her potato chip rather than cure her glaucoma, but if she’s convinced Drinky Crow is yahweh who am I to argue?

Pictured: Her Own Personal Jesus

7. Cinna-saint

It’s unusual for saints to make appearances like this, but after Mother Teresa’s death got upstaged by Princess Di she was desperate for some comeuppance.  The validity of this miracle was debated by The Vatican for some time until a cardinal noted these unusual markings inside one of the roll’s folds:

8.  Cheesus

Though this was uncovered years ago, it is still a controversial object.  Many theologens contend it is indisputably an extruded, deep-fried manifestation of the crucifiction.  Others contend it is "some dude just rockin’ the fuck OUT."

9. Mary + Jesus Jawbreaker

Caveat emptor: There is no guarantee this will actually taste like Jesus or his mother. 

I definitely can see Mary and her veil, but Jesus seems to be an oversized prada bag. 

10. Pious Pop-tart

Pop-tarts enjoyed the notoriety from this so much, they launched a whole new suite of flavors including Seraphic Strawberry, Chaste Chocolate Chip, and I Can’t Believe It’s Not Eucharist.

The problem with science is that it is too damn hard.  It’s technically daunting and the questions tend to infinitely regress.  You can assert that your dog shows a statistical predilction for humping your sofa cushions over your slippers, but if someone asks “Why?” you’ve got to start all over.

“Per the non-parametric correlation coefficients, he should be banging Charmander right now…”

It only gets hairier if you’re taking a stab at the bigger questions of the universe, like the folks working with the Hadron Collider.  When the dust finally settles on its reconstruction, we can only hope they’ll come up with answers that make some sense…

This is why many scientists have chosen to swipe that the low-lying academic fruit.  If you only pursue knowledge in the known, you can get published without the peer-review gangbang.  Better yet, courtesy of the endless taxpayer generosity, the money is just as good.  So if you have the stones to put on a lab coat and boldly assert truisms like “Gasping laughter may induce asthma attacks” or “Puppies make people feel good” you may already be a scientist on par with the ones in these actual studies.

Hypothesis: Drunken Gay Men Enjoy Sex

Abstract: Science has recently uncovered a phenomenon wherein young, attractive people with ample access to intoxicants have a tendency to enjoy themselves.  This has toppled the previous paradigm that pubescent youth yearn for nothing more than quiet evenings of bible study at home with plutonic associates.  In order to understand this exponential rise in debauchery, we must get in front of the slut curve and observe a far sluttier country for context.  We selected Argentina as a worthwhile candidate via the 2003 paper from Jerry Falwell‘s Liberty University:

Materials: Morally bankrupt people, preferably men that are gay or extremely bicurious.  An Argentinian bar, preferably with poor lighting and that trance-inducing music that goes BOOOMP-sheh-BOOOMP-sheh-BOOOMP-sheh (note: music that goes UMP-UMP-UMP-UMP-UMP-scheeeet-UMP-scheeeeet will also be acceptable).  All subjects must be screened for condoms as any safe sex may skew prefered results.

Conclusions: This 2 year National Institutes Of Health (NIH) study began in 2008 and has yet to conclude, though initial results suggest that acting as inebriated disease vectors isn’t a primary motivation:

Cost To Taxpayer: $400,000

Hypothesis: Ducks Like Water

Abstract: A set population of farmed ducks are given equal access to a pond, a trough and a shower.  The duck language has over 54 different words to describe water, so it shouldn’t prove difficult for them to adapt.  We will track where the majority of their duck activities take place.

Materials: Pond, trough, shower, ducks, duck transponders.  Note: As detailed below, the transponders MUST be waterproof.

Conclusions: The ducks indicated a strong liking for the shower over the trough and pond.  This indidcates either a preference for simulated rainfall or non-stagnant water.  The latter is supported by a principle discussed in my previous paper, “Why Do All Ponds Smell Like Wet Ox Taint?”

Duck farms may be able to institute better duck hygeine by installing showers.  Since very few farmers can readily absorb the cost of installing multiple showering facilities, they may find it more cost effective to offer the occasional duck blood sacrifice to Aquatron, Rain God Of The Essex Region.

Cost To Taxpayers: £300,000

Hypothesis: Prostitutes May Be At Risk For AIDS

Abstract: For the purposes of this study, a “prostitute” is defined as “your mom” (lol! j/k).

For the purposes of this study, a “prostitute” is defined as “Anyone who accepts cash as a deposit for receiving further deposits in a seedy motel 25 minutes later.  It will focus specifically on female sex-workers in Thailand, which essentially means at least 40% of them will be transgendered because that’s just how they roll.  Transgendering so commonplace that incentives like this now exist:

The AIDS virus is 3 times as common per percent population in Thailand as in the United States, so there is some interest in uncovering modalities that foster its explosive spread.  Our businessmen deserve cleaner whores, by God!

Materials: 60 prostitutes. 1 digital camera and tripod to capture all interactions for later review with my wife.  1 round trip ticket to Thailand.  2 adult prescriptions for Cipro or the strongest experimental antibiotic available on the market.

Conclusions: Nearly 100% of the prostitutes allow men to insert their penises in them, which may have some bearing on the AIDS transmission rate.   Though, in fairness, most of the prostitutes were not conscientious about washing their hands nor using a ass-gasket when using public bathrooms, so it is probably a toss up.  My team is going to need a good deal more tranny sex to make a definitive finding on this.

Cost To The Taxpayer: $178,000 (but considering the NIH has spent $2.6M teaching Chinese prostitutes to drink less while working, this is essentially a bargain).

Ian Cheesman is aware these studies sound wasteful, but when you consider New Zealand spent $12M to discover their wine tastes like cat pee it really puts it in perspective. Thanks to Fark for being invaluable in my research and thanks to me for making all of this come together so beautifully.

Part 1 here

Let me offer a quick addendum to last weeks article, because I’m concerned that it might have given readers the wrong impression.  Despite the cavalier tone I’ve taken on this material, I want the kids out there to know that torture is NOT cool.  It is a brutal and savage enterprise that reveals the darkest compulsions of human nature.  There is no practice of torture that should ever be glorified.  Except this one:

Goddamnit, this is how I want to go

The Inquisition Chair

Say what you will about the backwards nature of medieval health care – they understood the benefits of maintaining good posture.   This chair fucking DARES you to slouch.

If this chair looks like a particularly inspired torture device, it’s not by mistake.  One day during the Inquisition a couple of cardinals were shooting the shit by the watercooler, talking shop when Cardinal Bob offered  "The thing is so much of the time these heretics are just sitting around waiting to be purged of sin via ass to mouth impalement, but we never have time to get to them!"

"Seriously." moaned Cardinal Fictional.  "And the Pope is gonna have our ass if we don’t get the numbers up.  We can’t all be workaholics like those jagoffs in the Seville office."

"Haha…yeah. Hell, we couldn’t keep up with those guys if the chairs were doing the torturing for us!"

One mutual flash of "Eureka!" later, this chair was on its way to being born.  The cardinals celebrated their innovation over some sacrificial wine and a couple of doe-eyed altar boys.

The chair is pretty self-explanatory, but each torturer knew how to make the experience their own.  They could selectively apply pressure or weight to the seated invididual or even stoke a fire underneath it.  The standard of application basically hinged on how big of a dick the torturer was.

I know this is where I put a scorecard for the fuckedupometer last time, but I just can’t do it.  The horrors of it all have begun to weigh on me.  How about a little something cleanse the palette a bit?

OCD Kitten will clean its way right into your heart

The Iron Maiden

When I originally started writing this section, I had worked out a good number of puns involving the musical standards from Iron Maiden.  They were real gems too.  There were gags like "If someone tries to slap you in one of these, you’d be well-advised to Run To The Hills."  However, I’ve decided to side-step those punchlines in favor just declaring "Hey Internet, I’m really fucking old".  You’d reach the same conclusion anyway.

The Iron Maiden was a device worthy of shrill metal commemoration.  This cabinet was lined with sharp metal spikes designed to do everything but kill you.  They’d impale your eyes and chest, but usually avoid all major organs.  On the upside, the accoustics were ideal for recording vocals.

 "You know what torture is?  Waiting for you to play with me."  Awwww!

The Lead Sprinkler

This will probably look familiar to any Catholics in the audience.  It is reminiscent of a device that is dipped in holy water and whipped about so groups of churchgoers can get a refreshing spritz of the Holy Spirit.  For a brief period these were retired in favor of the more modern overhead sprinklers, but the priests found that the resulting wet t-shirts were too conducive to lust.  

This operated in much the same way, opting for a more robust holy molten metal instead of water.  The annointed were so invigorated by the blessing they would loudly thank God by screaming at the top of their lungs.  A more savage application involved slowing dripping silver directly into their eyes, proving torturers didn’t always need to leverage the anus for the big finale.

Lookit!  Good Charlotte is trying to rock!  Awwwww! 

The Heretics Fork

Torturers have to put up with a lot of hassles.  When people aren’t preemptively howling for mercy they’re shouting defiantly about how they will never be broken.  It’s like dealing with bipolar Tweens all day!  As if that isn’t trying enough, just when the torturer is really in the groove of flaying the skin off some sinner with a spanish tickler (one of few torture devices whose name doubles quite nicely for a sex toy), their victims callously pass out from blinding pain.  Ingrates.

The Heretics Fork eliminated both the chatter and the nodding off.  It also doubled as the world’s most dangerous novelty bowtie at parties, though it never caught on in that respect.

  Lookit!  Mommy made me the lil’est whore ever! Awwww!

The Knee Splitter

As hellacious as all the other devices were, this is the only one that was made from Satan’s dental mold.  Or Jewel‘s.  They’re equally terrifying, really.

The name of this device is something of a misnomer.  While it could be ratcheted down to brutalize the knee and render the leg largely useless, it was used on elbows and other sections of the extremeties.  I postulate it was actually given that name to impart a false sense of security in the torturee.  As bad as their leg would be savaged, they could always console themselves knowing that it was pretty much over after their knee split.     Afraid not.

Lookit!  Robert Pattsion is still asserting his heterosexuality!  Awwwwww! 

The Rack

On the downside, you would be tethered to this apparatus, helpless to resist.  If your answers didn’t satisfy, the ropes would coil so tight that every single joint in your body would be torn out of their socket as you writhe in agony.

On the upside, if you could convince them to untether you afterward, odds are pretty good you’d be able to perform oral sex on yourself. 

I’m calling that cup officially half full.

Lookit!  Amazon still thinks it can unload its HD DVD stock!  Awwwww!

Ian Cheesman is happy to get away from writing about torture so he can focus on more life-affirming scatalogical humor.  Speaking of funny pieces of shit, check out iancheesman.wordpress.com.

People have been accusing the media of needlessly hyping the swine flu, but the truth is that they had no choice.  Prior to the CDC declaring a world-wide aporkalypse, pundits were exhausting themselves in an indignation marathon in response to the Bush Torture Memos. Self-righteous posturing burns a lot of calories after all. It’s how Keith Olbermann keeps so trim.

The torture memo details advanced interrogation techniques only to be used in dire circumstances, such as preventing imminent danger to the public or a detainee not responding to “Pretty please?”.  These vile techniques include such horrors as making prisoners stand for a long time and slapping their belly.  Seriously.  The best my government can conjure up for torture is simulating a long amusement park line or ritual abuse from older siblings who caught you in their room.

We may be content to leave our bronze age ideas behind, but we have abandoned the golden age of torture. Back then people understood advancement of truth was more valuable than the sanctity of any rectum. Let’s take a quick look back at the torture devices that make waterboarding sound like a trip to the dayspa.

The Judas Cradle

Poor Judas.  All he did is sell out ONE messiah and his name has been reviled ever since.  If naming this unholy reamer after him isn’t sufficient penance, I don’t know what is.

The guilty party (and lets face it, why else wouldn’t they have confessed?) was supported by a series of ropes and pulleys and lowered until the metal pyramid was inserted into one of the two regrettably non-pyramidal orifices. They could be left sitting on a gravity-powered ass lathe for hours or repeatedly dunked, depending on how bored the puppeteer was.

The Head Crusher

The next time you’re visited at your home by religious missionaries, invite them in.  Allow them to share their worldview.  Provide them with light refreshment.  When they are done, politely inform them that while you believe them to be nuttier than squirrel shit, you appreciate them not obliterating your cranium to deliver the message.

This quaint bit of Inquisition memorabilia doesn’t really mince words with its name.  Using the same technology that smoothie emporiums leverage to juice the shit out of whole oranges, the tightening of the screw would result in teeth shattering into the jaw, eyes squirting out of their sockets and ultimately death.  Other than that you’d be fine.

The Pear Of Anguish

Not to be confused with the Apple Of Infinite Sorrow or the Kumquat Of Imminent Destruction, this device was a sort of a multipurpose tool.  It was designed to be inserted into any opening that didn’t like being stretched 4 times its normal diameter (read: all of them) to teach it a lesson.

This was sort of an apéritif for further torture to come and wasn’t generally used to kill.  However, since liars and blasphemers knew full well it was going in their mouth after just being extracted from a series of 40 different colons, they would probably offer to kick things off quickly and jump in the headcrusher first.

The Brank

For those already recoiling in fear, let me assure you that this one of very few medieval torture devices not designed to go in your ass.  The brank was actually targeted at humiliating women with a tendency to gossip.  It would enclose their head and prevent speech with a metal bar in the mouth or appropriately placed spikes.

I don’t want to validate this torture with some sexist statement about women’s tendency to prattle on, but consider how much more enjoyable this Cathy cartoon is when she’s outfitted with a brank:

This one’s for you, Irving

The woman could be forced to wear the brank for a matter of hours or months on end.  It depended on the severity of her crime or whether or not she was fit to look at in the first place.

The Rotating Drum

Ian Cheesman is certain that if you enjoy torture, you’ll enjoy looking at his brand new site iancheesman.wordpress.com.  It’s like a blog without all of that pesky writing cluttering things up.

(Enjoy a tall, frosty mug of Part 1 here)

What started out as a quick inventory of amusing beer names unexpectedly took the tone of an award show for beers.  All it’s missing is hackneyed banter between presenters and excrutiating, tearful acceptance speeches:

“Seriously, you guys, this pils is sofa king good!”

We still have more Sloshies™ to get through, so lets keep the show rolling.

THE WINNER: None.

All of these pale in comparison to my own personal microbrew:

It’s not just marketing hype either. Using recombinant DNA from my liver I have developed miniature sharks which live in each bottle.  We’re still working on the pitchfork nose, drinkability be damned:

Honorable Mention

Old Leghumper – Unless this is referring to my Gramps when he’s off his meds, this is very funny to me.
Monkey Knife Fight - I don’t know what this beer looks or tastes like, but I’ve decided it’s my favorite.  The name just commands that kind of respect.
Not Tonight Honey Porter – I’m glad Heartland Brewery no longer offers this.  Beer may not be the hottest date, but at least you know it will always say yes.
Happy Ending – You might think this is a play on the rich, lingering finish this stout provides, but there’s actually a coupon for a free handjob on every bottle.
Fancy Lawnmower – The Texas brewer’s lovesong to Hank Hill and shriners everywhere.

Ian Cheesman thanks beerlabels.com again for all of their support in researching this article.  You guys are like the Bartles & Jaymes of beer, except you’re not all gay for each other like those old dudes were.  I think.

Somewhere around 8000 years ago the Sumerians brewed the first beer.  They also inadvertently invented beer-goggles, unleashing a flood of indiscriminate sex that quickly justified the region’s moniker of The Fertile Crescent.  Beer likewise impressed the Egyptians, who even captured it in their written history.  Some contend Egyptians actually created the beer closest to our contemporary version, but there is no disputing they invented civilization’s first keg stand:

Hit that shit, Pharaoh!

Not only is beer present in every emergent culture, beer historians (my most coveted career next to stuntcock) argue it is the midwife of civilization itself.  Beer is accordingly entitled to some bravado, a sentiment echoed by modern brewers when naming their creations.  Here are some of the names that remind us that beer is the anchor of society and not just another breakfast drink.

If you’re out of cereal, a second beer will suffice

Most Clever

The best part of any brewmaster’s job would have to be quality assurance.  On tasting days I’d be lucky to have the wherewithal to change my dribble bib, let alone harness the remaining sober brain cells to conjure up names like these:

Hoptical Illusion – A play on the intoxicant’s liberal application of hops as a flavor agent.  If that wasn’t apparent to you, perhaps you should go check out the Top Ten Juicy Juice Flavors For Stupid Farty Little Babies.
Raisin d’etre – Named for the raisins used in the brewing of this Belgian Strong Ale.  You’re right to dry-heave reflexively, but the Dogfish Head brewery could make a delicious stout out of chicory and turds if so inclined.
Immort Ale – Best when served at room temperature from the Holy Grail.
Erin Go Braless – For the non-Irish out there (read: jagoffs), this is a play on the anglicized Gaelic assertion of “Ireland Forever”, only wishing said eternity for boobs.  It’s properly pronounced ɛrɪn ɡə ˈbrɔless, if that helps.

THE WINNER: Reeb Beer
For the few of you that haven’t solved this cryptex, the name comes from “beer” spelled backwards. It may not seem all that creative on the surface, but the difficulty on that puzzle is precision-tuned to be just barely within the grasp of someone who is completely trashed (not unlike the rebuses under Lucky Lager caps).

Reeb Beer – So Brilliant It’s Moronic

Least Appetizing

Given the alpha male demographic that beer caters to, it’s not surprising standard rules of propriety don’t apply to its marketing.  That said, most advertising firms probably assume they’re being fucked with when tasked with launching a campaign for these:

Old Pecker – Someone finally found a way to trump the foulness of “Brand new, shiny pecker beer”.

Moose Drool – In fairness, of the many fluids that can originate from moose, drool is probably the most palatable

Brise Bon-Bons! (Ball-Breakers) – Men should put an embargo on this out of principle.  After all that testosterone has done for developing beer commericals over the years this is simply uncalled for.

THE WINNER: Yellow Snow IPA

If this actually originated from yellow snow, it would be a profound execution of recycling in practice.

The ale may be pale, but your kidneys will make it look plenty vibrant

Most Religious

I tried to make sure all major religions were covered here, but for some reason muslim breweries weren’t very popular.  Maybe they just don’t have web presences yet.

Note: despite what some liberal idolators say, the Obamanator is not a valid entry in this section.

My God…he DOES taste like change!

Ale Mary Full of Taste – A Denver Rock Bottom restaurant created this in honor of a papal visit many years back.   The pope was so amused that he only condemned half of the employees to languish in purgatory.
ReJEWvinator – The He’brew brewery, makers of The Chosen Beer, parody themselves much more artfully than I could.  They take all the fun out of being anti-semetic.
Back Hand of God Stout – It’s patterned after that taste you get in your mouth when God catches you watching tentacle-rape porn.  He never expressly forbade it, but a quick pop in the mouth is a good reminder that he shouldn’t have to.

THE WINNER: Dark Lord Imperial Stout

Like there was ever any doubt I’d bat for my hometeam!

You can roast malts and coffee for beer, why not souls?

Cultural Reference-iest

These are near and dear to my heart.  When a brewery uses a beer to make an homage it’s like being greeted with a secret joke among good friends (like my alcoholism).

Foothills Sexual Chocolate – A perfectly apropos selection for a beer as rich and potent as my black love.  The reference is from the feature Coming To America, back when Eddie Murphy playing multiple roles in a movie was both novel and entertaining.
Hoptimus Prime – The kind and benevolent leader of all freedom-loving beers.  Unlike his robotic cousin, however, he would kill Shia LeBouf the instant an opportunity was presented.
Golden Shower – If more beer names had names that had to be looked up at urbandictionary.com, I’d be a happier man.  That’s why I’ve decided to start a brewery and bring my Hot Carl Hefeweizen to the people.

THE WINNER: Smooth Hoperator

This combines two of the most potent aphrodisiacs – alcohol and Sade.  She may not rank among the glitterati of contemporary sex symbols, but an ad like this would have me buying it by the bushel:

I’ll show you the Sweetest Taboo.  Hint: It’s my penis.

Ian Cheesman is excited to bring you the exciting conclusion of this excitingly excited entry next week.  It’ll probably talk about beer. Many thanks to beerlabels.com for assisting my research and saving untold millions from drinking shitty beer.

We live in meaty times.  Courtesy of the internet and, by extension, utter lunacy, we are in a bacon renaissance.  That spirit of innovation has evolved into culinary oneupsmanship as bacon is finding its way in to every possible consumable.  It’s become a spreadable topping and yet the trend still hasn’t jumped the (bacon-wrapped) shark.  To prove there is still room to innovate, I have even created bacon-wrapped bacon-wrapped Bacon:

This would have made Footloose watchable

Clearly anyone can just eat bacon (and judging by the rising incidence of heart disease, we have), but what else can we do with this miracle substrate?

Bacon Blowtorch

Some of my most cherished childhood memories come from my family’s big Sunday breakfasts.  No matter how much mom yelled and ashed her cigarettes on us, we’d tightly cluster underfoot to get a whiff of the heavenly aromas from the stovetop.  I remember one particular morning mom was apologizing for spilling her tequila on me when trying to brush me back and offered me first lick of the bacon pan in consolation.  It was then that I learned bacon can be really, really, scaldingly, disfigurlingly hot.

The reason bacon is so reviled by dieters is that it is chock-full of chemical energy in the form of fat.  That energy can either be digested and stored on your muffintop or burned off.  One enterprising scientist decided to cut metabolism out of the equation and go directly to 5,000°F of bacon-plasma-powered combustion :

And I’d still eat it after he was done, duct tape and all.  A little fiber is good for you, right?

Bacon Beverage

I’m a man of simple pleasures.  Give me the occasional clear view of a sunset, a hug from a good friend or a unneccessarily extensive proctological and I’m all good.  That’s how I know any perfect day is necessarily bookended with bacon.

First I rise at the crack of 11:45 to the smell of my bacon alarm clock.  I perform the yoga stretches requisite for auto-fellatio and then head to the kitchen for a smoothie.  Unfortunately, I have somehow forgotten to pick up milk, protein powder and fresh berries from the market for the 98th consecutive month, so I opt for a bloody mary instead.  It may sound a bit degenerate, but when you consider it’s made with celery, tomato juice and bacon vodka, it’s essentially breakfast in a pint glass.

Up yours, Carnation.  THIS is an instant breakfast.

(It’s surprisingly easy to make and I can verify that it it is quite tasty when applied correctly.  If it should happen to find its way into a Lemon Drop I can’t be held liable for the spasmodic dryheaves that will follow.)

After breakfast I change into my workout gear and go for a jog.  I reach the driveway 3 seconds later and hop into my car.  I head into work, weep quietly at my desk for 6.5 hours, and then nab a german bacon bier out of the cooler on the passenger seat as I tweak the key in the ignition.

* Deep-fried bacon straw not included

The day doesn’t technically end for a few more hours, but I can seldom recall the details beyond that point.  Another perfect day!

Bacon Blaster

I’m no fool.  When Obama got elected into office I knew what all knee-jerk conserative alarmists speculated – it was just a matter of time before he came for our guns.   Most ran out to their nearest Wal-Mart to pick up as much commie-shredding ammo as the law would allow, but I knew that was a waste of time.  You can always run out of bullets, but pigs are are a renewable resource.  That’s why I had this commisioned:

The BA-K-47 is 1:1 scaled with the assault rifle for which it was named. It was forged over 8 hours with a blowtorch and Guinness Record-worthy set of testicles.  This model doesn’t presently have the capacity to fire ammunition, but all combatants faced with it thus far have spontaneously surrendered in favor of dropping to their knees in worship.  I’ve also been doing some beta testing on a possible enhancement I call The Bayconet:

Bacon Breath

Don’t you hate it when you’ve just polished off a delicious handful of bacon gummis only to get some wedged between your teeth?  This would have never happened if you’d just stick to those bacon breath mints, but hindsight is worthless.  Now you’ve got no resourse but to sully the remnants of that smoky, salty flavor with some minty abomination of a dental floss….or do you?

Should your bacon stores run low this can also be used to choke a pig

Of course, if you’re out and about on some sort of bacon pilgrimage, whipping out some floss isn’t exactly the most dignified option.  What if you savor good oral hygeine but seek something with more James Dean style?

This wood has been soaked in 100% pig!

Now further imagine you’ve made it home, preparing for bed.  Tones of succulent pork are still joyfully resonating on your palate, but oral hygiene necessitates you purge them.  If only someone made bacon toothpaste, right?

Well, they don’t.  That would be fucking nasty.  What is it with you and bacon, anyway?

Ian Cheesman invites you to enjoy the salty and fatty writers over at scenicanemia.com

The financial End Times are upon us.  In just a matter of days, our kindly old Uncle Sam will morph into a surly, pitiless loan shark, hellbent on wringing every last big of vig out of your gross income.  Double-cross him and you can expect his thugs to take a baseball bat to your credit rating’s kneecaps.