Call PETA

I've recently come to a startling realization.

Mario is an animal abuser. What kind of sick fuck repeatedly punches his pet in the head? Click the pictures for evidence.

1)

2)

3)

4)

Mario is a dick.

Minesweeper

I work at the library during the school year, and, as one might expect, I don't really do much. In my infinite boredom, sometimes I'll listen to music, read a book, or peruse the interwebs. However, most of the countless hours I log at ol' Connelly, I spend playing Minesweeper.

Perhaps you've heard of it, since it was a computer game that came standard with many editions of Windows leading up to just recently. If you've never heard of it, that's okay too. Basically it involved a lot of clicking your mouse. When you click a square on a grid, a number appears in the square. That number represents how many "mines" that block is touching. So, if a 2 pops up, that means the square is touching 2 other squares with a mine, and 6 other squares that have another number. The point is to not click the mines, or else you'll lose. It's a game that's easy to learn and hard to master.

Well, after spending all my time behind the check-out counter playing the damn thing, I've gotten pretty close to mastering it. My personal record was set today, and I gotta say, it made the whole minimum wage thing totally worth it.

So yes, this whole post was in essence a way for me to brag about my achievement. Does anyone else play this game? And if so, what is your record time for "expert" mode?

(P.S. The word record for expert mode is 37 seconds by this dude Dion Tiu. My 201 seconds pales in comparison.)

"Restoring the Roar"?!

above: my life, 2006-2007

"Don't try to fix what isn't broken."

These are words to live by in every aspect of one's life. Yes, even when it comes to drinking cheap beer.

The Lion Brewery was founded in 1905, but more importantly, my friends and I started drinking its titular Lionshead Pilsner approximately the summer of 2006. It was definitely the cheapest beer at our one and only Krewstown Beer Distributor—at one point dipping as low as $9.99 per case—and it tasted pretty decent for the price!

It had the lo-fi appearance of a cheap, working-class beer: faded white/brown label, drab brown and gold-colored caps, and shitty boxes that were always falling apart or torn up, printed with an ugly, red, medieval-looking logo. It looked like something you'd see in a picture on an alcoholic uncle's photo collage hung in a musty rec room basement, But we took pride in it, because it didn't try to be fancy like your Lites and your Buds. It was what it was.

Best of all were the little puzzles under the caps. We spent practically the entirety of high school trying to figure out those motherfuckers. For instance, what the hell could a picture of a iron bell weight, an arrow point to a back, and a fucking wooden chair mean? But we figured them all out, both under the noise of an intoxicating evening and the haze of a brutal hangover (when you find a dozen caps in your pants pocket the next morning). It got to the point that when I was in college, people were amazed that I didn't even have to look at the cap to figure out what the solution was.

Natural Light kind of took hold of my life in freshman year, unfortunately, because there was no easy way to sneak the loud clanking Lionshead bottles into the dorms. But I still ran into it every once in a while at an upperclassmen party or during a visit to fancy-schmancy UPenn. Even more so, I still kept Lionshead close to my heart.

Humble reader, a grave thing has happened, indeed. Lionshead just had to go and change everything. They had to act all "new" and "cool." They had to destroy themselves.

First of all, the design is moderately but crucially different. No more does it feature a fading red logo on a white box, or a weird tan label under a weird gold and brown cap. Replacing it is a "slick" new logo, complete with "badass" looking lion, and red/blue caps. Worse still is what's printed on the caps: new puzzles. Uh oh.

I remember wanting new puzzles when I mastered the old ones. But be careful what you wish for, dear reader—these new ones are fucking terrible, and that makes me sad. An egregious example is a picture of a calendar, with an arrow pointing to Friday, and then "the 13th" simply written out as is. My six-year-old cousin could fucking figure that one out.

I feel as if I have been married to some woman for three years, and then she gets a terrible, terrible haircut. I'd still love her, of course but something is just... off. Same thing with my beloved Lionshead. I still enjoy the taste, and I'll still probably choose it over, say, a case of Milwaukee's Best. But nevertheless, it feels wrong. This is not the same beer I grew up on all those summers ago.

THE END OF AN ERA

Appeasing the gods.

It really is the little things in life, you know?

So as I bustled through another busy Tuesday, I decided to count my blessing a little bit.

Positive energy is good, right? I began to make a list of things little things that make life great.

From this, I realized a hilarious coincidence (ahem, suck on that JMK): a lot of life’s sweetest thing begin with my very favorite letter.

Books. Beer. Bagels. Bass guitar. Bangers. The Beatles. Boobs. Bogies. Boys. Bailey’s. Bed.

One can certainly argue that the word "bad" begins with this letter, but let's be honest with ourselves here: sometimes bad can be so good.

And of course, there’s B**. Which completely solidifies this theory.

Feel free to add your own.

What a Beautiful Day

Yesterday, February 10th, 2009, was my birthday. I'm sure some of you were oblivious to that fact while the rest of you only snapped out of oblivion because Facebook threw it up on your home page right above the "People You May Know" box. For the record, I think it should be the "People You Do Know but Don't Want to Associate Yourself With" because there's a reason I haven't added Kathy Green. I don't fucking know that bitch, and if I did, I forgot about her because she's worthless to me.

Kathy Green? Google Images seems to think so.

Sorry for that sidebar, back to my birthday. It wasn't just any birthday, it was special. Being that I was expelled from my mother's birthing canal in 1988, the beautiful Tuesday fresh in everybody else's memory (yet hazy at best in mine) marked my 21st birthday.

::Pause for the sake of my rejoicing readers::

It was everything I hoped it could be at points, and just like any other day at others. Going to the bar was cool, but I'm not really stoked to spend a lot of money so I won't be going that often in the future. The whole legality of the affair was pretty cool. No consequences at all associated with me drinking.

The coolest part of the day, to me, however, was going to the beer distributor. I've been to one before, with my dad or something, but this time was different. Shelves and shelves filled with all different types of alcohol. Ones with pretty labels, ones with black labels. Ones with names we all know, ones with names I can't even pronounce. I'd compare it to being nine years old and going to a candy store, one with every candy. The best part about it is that I can buy any of them, all of them. Maybe one day I'll start in one of the six-pack aisles and just grab a different one every time.

In closing, youthful readers, turning 21 isn't really all it's cracked up to be. It is, however, everything you hope it to be.

P.S. Yes, I'm a little drunk right now.
P.P.S. I don't envy youse's youthiness.

Recent Tragic Events

Recent Tragic Events
Written by Craig Wright

Directed by Tom Reing

Description:

It is September 12, 2001: the setting is the Minneapolis apartment of Waverly (Hannah), a young advertising executive. Soon to venture on a blind date amidst the television news coverage of the September 11th attacks, Wavely becomes preoccupied when she discovers that her twin sister, Wendy, a student in New York, has not been heard from. Waverly reassures herself that Wendy had no reason to be at the World Trade Center. As the evening unfolds, Waverly and her blind date, Andrew (Bryon), an airport bookstore manager, realize that they are connected by a succession of bizarre coincidences. As Waverly awaits word on Wendy, the date is complicated by visits from her crazed-musician neighbor, Ron (Joe), and his girlfriend, Nancy (Pam W.), and a startling visit from Waverly's great aunt, Joyce Carol Oates—played by a sock puppet (also Pam).

A LA SALLE UNIVERSITY PRODUCTION

THE DAN RODDEN THEATER

February 13, 14 at 8 PM

February 15 at 2 PM

$9 General Admission, but $5 for Students.

All money earned through this production will be donated to the Twin Towers Orphans Fund, so I don't feel bad forcing you to come to this show.

Hope you can make it!

Fucking Juicy Campus

They say that any publicity is good publicity. It's sad, but it's true. So, I've restrained myself from writing about this wretched subject until now. Now that it's gone. Hopefully, it's gone forever, because I really, really fucking despised it.

Juicy Campus.

What it was, in case you didn't know (and it's better if you didn't): Juicy Campus was a website where people could anonymously post anything they wanted on a forum. Each college had their own specific site for its students.

JC was a site for gossiping, basically. Terrible, terrible gossip. I can't begin to tell you some of the horrific things that were said on this fucking website. Some of my closest friends were attacked in ways that want me very much to find the assholes that say these things and punch 'em square in the face.

I, for instance, had a whole topic thread devoted to me. Apparently, I was a "raging homo," had "pubes on my head," and "gave blumpkins to African Americans in the Olney bathrooms." I can laugh at myself—these things are stupid and at least a little funny. However, other people had far, far worse things said about them, and that shit was not funny by any means. It pained me to look at this site.

I don't know what it was that made people think that they could make up lies and post them for the whole internet to see without any consequence. Didn't they know that people would be hurt by this? If you have a problem with someone, say it to their face, don't be a fucking coward and post it anonymously.

I know I'm sounding preachy, but really, the whole thing just got under my skin a great deal. Eventually I stopped going on the damn site. It wasn't worth it.

And the worst part is, you can't even talk about it. No open forum about how to fix this problem existed. It couldn't. Like I said, any publicity is good publicity. Our school newspaper wrote an article about it, saying how it was a horrible website, but all that did was help Juicy Campus grow even more. You can't even talk to your friends about it, because then they'll get curious and go on it as well. The only thing that could be done was to try to ignore it.

But! The glorious day has arrived! Juicy Campus has ridden itself from this earth, hopefully forever!

Apparently, the owners of the website can no longer keep up with the expenses. Let this prove once and for all that money cannot be made at other people's misery.

So, Juicy Campus, I bid ye farewell. May you rot in hell for all eternity. Life will be much better without you.

Fucking Wikipedia

Maybe I think too highly of myself—in fact, this is most definitely the case—but I feel like this humble little blog my friends and I have created here, it's starting to have a life of its own. It deserves something special. It deserves its own little place in scrolls of history, so that generations from now, people can look back and say, wow, look at this neat little blog a few drunk kids started.

You know what? Puke on Your Birthday needs its own page on Wikipedia.

Now I know what you are saying: It'll never work. And right now, it's not working, true. I attempted to created a Wikipage. Check it out (I'm proud of this):

(click both halves)

It perfectly encapsulates what we are about here at PoYB, right? Right?

Apparently, not everyone thinks so! The very first fucking time I tried to get on our new page on Wikipedia, this little fucker popped up:

Acroterion, you little fucking turd, how can you not understand that PoYB needs its own Wikipage? Do you not appreciate the magnitude of this blog's importance? It looks like he doesn't have much appreciation for anything. Look at all the shit this motherfucker had deleted in just ONE DAY:

Acroterion claims to be "an architect." I don't see an architect when I see that name. Do you know who I see? I see a demolisher. A demolisher of dreams. I see the Chief of Police. I see the judge who sentenced me to community service. I see Mufasa the RA. I see every parent that has lectured us or broken up a house party. I see all the people that are trying to keep us down.

Well, ya know what? We're not gonna take it anymore!

Martin Luther King Jr. started small. He started by boycotting the buses. We need to start small too, because we are not going to eradicate prejudice against underage drinkers all at once. We need to start off small.

So, I tell you, I urge you, humble reader, let's right the good fight. Let's get this Wikipedia page up for good!

Type up your own version of a Puke on Your Birthday Wikipage, capture a picture of it (by pressing the "PrtScn" key on the keyboard and pasting it on Paint or Word), and send it to me. Let's do this many, many times and show that motherfucker Acroterion what's good. Pity the fool who messes with Puke on Your Birthday.

Fucking Snow Day

above: freedom? let's hope!

Ah... It's every kids dream. This is what we pray for every winter, all winter long. There are few events in our dull quotidian lives that can elicit such joyous emotions so early in the morning. Yes, the almighty Snow Day.

It starts with the weather report on the television. Some goon will show up on Channel 3, 6, or 10 with a special WEATHER ALERT. He or she will be standing on the side of the road, overlooking the dry and frigid streets, warning us of the impending "Storm of the Century."

Most of us are jaded and won't believe a word of it; we all know the weathermen on TV just love the hype and can't accurately predict snowstorms. Nevertheless, some gullible part deep inside of us will be fooled anyway, and will be tuned into the six o'clock news, when the top story is frightened mothers buying like fourteen loaves of bread and six gallons of milk, as if they'll really be snowed in for a week. Every once in a while, they'll have a manly looking man at the Home Depot buying a new shovel, because you need a new shovel for every snowstorm, apparently.

And then we wait.

We await with bated breath, we school children. We keep peering out the window, searching for those first few precious snowflakes. We get on our knees and pray that the streets are cold enough so that the snow will land and stay frozen on them. We turn our pajamas inside out in time-honored ritual to persuade Mother Nature, perhaps to put her in a good mood so she'll return the favor.

Sleep doesn't really come throughout the night. One eye may be closed and restful, but one eye is always on that frosty bedroom window, cherishing the white clouds in the sky.

The morning is the most nerve racking part of the whole ordeal—and the most exciting. You awake, well before your alarm shrieks. You are short of breath. You start to perspire a little. It's like Christmas morning... but did Santa come with gifts? You await the word.

Two could happen. Let's discuss the dreadful, but more likely, scenario first:

1) You father walks into the room. This is it, the moment. He says with a horribly satisfied grin, "Schools are open." And you clench your fists and raise them to heavens and ask WHY, WHY?! It's all been vain, all the inside-out pajamas and stocking of milk and polishing of shovels and the neglecting of homework. No matter how many times you listen to KYW, no matter how many times you listen for that school number that will give you freedom, it's of no use. All of it is gone, and you sigh, and slowly get up and go about your routine.

But every once in a while, God smiles upon thee. Sometimes life is good:

2) Your father walks into the room. This is it, the moment. He says, with no malice, but really no emotion at all, he states, "schools are closed." Your heart fucking SOARS, and you hop up and rip open the curtains. It's a fucking winter wonderland out there. The early morning dusk is stark fucking white, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. You fall back into bed with a satisfying crash, and your eyes fold and your body is still because in your mind you are already dreaming of the great times you'll be having that day—sledding, snowball fights, maybe a little day drinking. And NO FUCKING SCHOOL. There is no greater gift, no feeling is better than this. Fucking freedom.

So let's get ready for this. As I look out my window right now and the snow is falling steadily, albeit a bit thinly, I can do nothing but pray that the weatherman was right. Getting my hopes up? Probably. But if and when I awake, and my school's web portal tells me I can go back to bed, it'll all be worth it.

Remember: wear your pajamas inside out. Please. For me. For you. For all of us. Please, for a Snow Day. Please.

Fucking Super Bowl XLIII

above: trash

Today is the Super Bowl, and no one seems to care. Why should we?

The Super Bowl is the fancy name for the NFL's championship game, pitting the winning teams of both the NFC and the AFC against each other in a battle for the Vince Lombardi Trophy. This year, the big game features the Arizona Cardinals versus the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Some people are saying that the Cardinals should win because they beat us (the Eagles) and it's always nice to root for the team that beat you—"at least it wasn't all in vain," and so on. Some people are saying the Steelers should win because they are from Pennsylvania and at least someone from this state should hold that trophy high. I say fuck both of those options.

The Eagles are not in the Super Bowl, again. They came so close, and then Eagles fans were cockteased yet again. How is it that the defense is so fucking solid all year and then when it matters they allow some second-rate NFL team to literally run us all over the field? How?! Fuck it, just fuck it.

My point is that the Eagles are the only football team that matters. A true Eagles fanatic would not claim to be rooting for another team simply because the Eagles are not in that game. If you are a true fan, you will be bitter and resigned like I am now, and actively root against both the Cardinals AND the Steelers. Say it, on record: both teams can go fuck themselves forever.

As a consequence of the Eagles' perennial failure, the Super Bowl doesn't really matter to me this year. It never has, really—except in 2004—but this year especially. I think we are all just numb to the fact that the Eagles are always going to come up just a little bit short.

So play your halftime show, Bruce Springsteen. Show your $40 million commercials, Bud Light. Talk out of your ass, Joe Buck. Throw that hail mary again, Kurt Warner, you fucking old man. Friends and family, gather around the TV, eat your hot wings and drink your beer, all 100 million of you who are going to be watching the game. Try to enjoy it. Because I won't.