Della’s Birthday: A Tale of Horror

“What the hell do you want this time, Minigan?” an ungrateful Della grumbled when she walked into the dark room. For a brief second, a flash of lightning from the roaring storm outside  illuminated the room, and for that second, I could see her face clearly. Her eyes were squinted with suspicion, as if that was going to help her see into my head. Foolish girl, she should’ve known that I was prepared for such mental attacks. That’s why I was wearing the foil hat.

“Hello Della” I said as creepily as I could.

She didn’t respond, but glared at me and let the white noise from the rain fill the void of silence from her lack of words. After the few seconds of tense silence between the two of us, she added harshly, “And why are you naked in my living room?”

Oh, and also that. But don’t worry, my hand was covering up, well, mostly everything.

“Oh God, are you here to rape me?” She asked.

“Wha- NO!” I cried, “What kind of monster do you think I am?”

“Do I really need to answer that?”

“No, please don’t,” I replied. There was another flash of lightning and an explosion of thunder. The winds picked up and made the entire house creak as it fought against the gusts. “I’m here to celebrate your birthday!” I exclaimed, trying to ease the newly formed tension.

“Those six words have never been more terrifying to me than they are right now.”

“Hey honey,” Della’s husband, Matt, began as he walked in. He immediately stopped once saw me sitting on his couch and then continued with the question, “What in the flying hell is going on here?!?”

“I’m going to celebrate Della’s Birthday with you guys!” I answered brightly.

“My birthday was last week.”

“I know that,” I replied, “but it snuck up on me so I had to wait until today to celebrate it with you.”

“But why are you naked?” Matt asked, clearly jealous of my awesome body.

“To keep Della distracted enough so that she cannot read my mind.”

“Then what’s the foil hat for?” Della queried.

“It’s another preventative measure to keep you from reading my mind,” I explained.

“You know when I said that we were mentally connected THREE DAMN YEARS AGO, I was only joking around, right?” Della asked, with some pity.

“Yeah, OK,” I scoffed, “You say that so that I will let my guard down and then you’ll invade my mind, make me eat garbage and then steal an elephant. I know your little games, you vile temptress. You just want my treasures, the ones in and outside of my head.”

“First of all, the eating garbage and stealing an elephant was all your idea. Don’t you dare try to blame that on me. Secondly, I doubt you have any treasure in that waste of neurons you call a brain. And finally, I cannot imagine there is anything you have that I would ever want.”

“Oh, yeah?” I shouted as I jumped to my feet. I then pressed my bare ass against the back cushion of the couch and began to slowly drag it up and down. I stared directly into their eyes as I cried wildly, “How about now, Della, now do I have something you want?! Huh?!”

“No because now all I want is for you to stop rubbing your ass on my couch!” She yelled. Even through the dark I could tell that she had tears in her eyes. Man, I’m just so bad at celebrating friends’ birthdays. I promptly stopped rubbing my buttocks on her furniture and sat back down. She took a deep breath and then asked, “How was that supposed to make me want whatever it is you want me to want, anyway?”

I paused for a moment to gather my many well thought out intentions and then replied, “I dunno. I guess I just figured it would work. Did it?”

“NO!” Della and Matt said in unison.

Offended, I retorted “Fine. Well I guess I’ll just put my pants back on and we can get to your birthday surprise.”

“Yes,” Della sighed with bitchy relief, “Let’s do that.”

I grumbled to myself as I rerobed, and reached over the couch for my gift to Della. The wind was picking up, and the hard tapping on the roof assured us that the hail the weatherman had promised had arrived.  Another lightning strike cracked the sky and briefly broke the dense black of the night. With some effort and careful balance, I lifted her present up from behind the couch and placed it on the coffee table in front of me.

Neither Della nor Matt spoke, clearly in awe of my awesome gift. It was a cake- but not just any cake- it’s the most beautiful and perfect cake ever created by man’s imperfect hands. It was a star shaped tower with five tiers. The icing was a golden yellow with silver fondit stars arranged in a complex wave pattern. Trailing each star was a light dusting of a glittery substance which I assured them was edible. When another strike of lightning illuminated the room, the cake’s decorations shimmered and dazzled those of us lucky enough to witness it.

“Who did you steal that from,” Della snapped, completely ruining the moment, the bitch.

“No one!” I shouted over the booming thunder, “I made it with my bare hands! I slaved for you!”

“I don’t believe you,” that awful woman said coldly, “You must’ve stolen it from someone.”

“NO!” I cried as I held the palms of my hands out to her, “These hands! These hands held the whip that I used to encourage a slave to make this cake. It was tough, grueling work, but I struggled through it for you, Della!”

“So that whole, ‘I slaved’ part…”

“Yes,” I replied frankly, “That was a pun.”

“You’re a terrible person.”

“A terrible person that brought you the greatest cake ever!” I exclaimed as the wind howled outside the window, “Now who wants a slice?”

I pulled out my trusty machete and was about carefully carve into the cake when Matt suggested that he go get a “proper knife” for cutting the cake. As he left the living room, he tried flicking the light switch on, but it didn’t work.

“The power must be out,” he said rather stupidly. It’s not like the light switch just decided to not work that day.

“Must be,” I decided to say instead of, “No fucking shit.”

He hurried back with some candles, a lighter, some plates and forks, and a less manly knife. Over the pounding rain, and the howling wind, you could hear the snapping of nearby tree branches. There was a loud bang, and then the wind flooded the house. It flew down the hallway, picking up an old newspaper, and carried it, sheet by sheet, into the living room where it swirled over us like a vortex of bad news and poorly written editorials. Matt ran back out of the room and slammed the front door closed. The wind died, and the sheets of newspaper wafted down to the floor.

“That was weird,” Matt quipped as he reentered the living room, “I remember locking the door when we came in.”

“C’mon,” Della said, sounding exhausted, “Let’s just get this over with.”

Matt (not trusting me with the lighter) lit the candles and we sang for Della. I made sure that I snuck in as many curse words as I could. Della managed to blow out all of the candles with one breath, which shouldn’t have surprised me what with that big, gaping mouth of hers. She then sliced the cake and handed a piece to Matt and me. She then took a piece for herself. Then, they both waited.  So did I. We stared at one another, not saying a word, as the storm raged on outside.

Finally, Matt asked, “Aren’t you going to try the cake that your slave made for you, Minigan?”

“It’s impolite to eat before the birthday girl,” I replied merrily.

Della and Matt had a grim looks plastered on their faces. Clearly they didn’t trust me, the jerks.

“Fine,” I said, “I’ll take the first bite. But I swear I didn’t do anything to the cake.”

I took a bite. Sweet diabetic fuck, the cake was delicious. The cake itself was a dense chocolate chocolate chip, but there pieces of strawberry baked into it too. The icing was a standard buttercream, but it also had the light taste of strawberries added to it too. Within seconds, I was scarfing down my slice of cake and ready for another. More confident, Matt and Della tried their pieces, and then began to shovel the dessert into their mouths like a couple of savages.

We each took a second piece. And then a third. I eventually took a fourth, and by the time I had finished that piece, we were leaning back in our seats with no desire to move.

“Ok, Minigan,” Della said as she stared lazily up at the ceiling, “This officially makes up for half of the horrible things you’ve ever done.”

“Yep,” I murmured as I let the heavy cake settle in my stomach. I was about to let myself drift into a sugar induced coma when the entire house began to shake.

I sat up, as did Della and Matt. I looked out the widow behind me, and realized that the storm had become “end of days” bad.  The wind picked up from a howl to a roar, and you could see it uprooting trees like they were weeds in loose soil. Lightning was flashing so often that was as if someone turned on a strobe light right outside the window. The pounding rain sounded like thousands of fists punching the room and the siding of the old house, which creaked like it was about to fall apart any second. And while I could figure out what was causing all that stuff, I couldn’t figure out an explanation for the walls shaking.

Apparently, neither could Matt or Della because in unison, they said, “What the hell is going on?!”

“Is that something that all married couples do, or are you two just especially creepy?” I asked.

Before they could answer (or probably ask what the hell I was talking about) a faint hissing started from behind the wall. The shaking and the hissing grew louder, and before long, it became obvious that both were coming from within the walls themselves. The banging on the inside of the walls grew to be so strong that dust started to fall from the newly formed cracks in the ceiling.

And that’s when the snakes started pouring into the room… from the walls.

Della shrieked in terror as the cracks in the drywall spread apart and snakes started pouring in like a scaly, hissing waterfall.

“You did this,” Della shouted as she jumped onto her chair, not noticing the crack above her head. The crack spread and dumped dozens of the limbless creatures onto her unsuspecting head. Della thrashed her head around, trying in vain to remove the serpents from her hair.

“How would I have done this, Della?” I shouted back at her.

“You put some of your crazy hallucinogenic drugs into the cake you dick!” she snapped once she got the last snake out of her hair. “You’re probably controlling this whole situation!”

“I swear I’m not!” I cried, “I have no clue what’s going on right now, I promise!”

The last snake slithered out of the hole in the wall, but the banging had become deafening. It was the pipes. You could see them banging against both sides of the wall, cracking the dry wall more and more with each hit. Then, all at once, the pipes cracked and started spraying sewage onto the living room. Almost instantly, the floor was covered and the stench assaulted our nostrils

All three of us screamed as much as our lungs would allow, and headed for the hall. We were fighting over who would get through the doorway first when the banging and sewage spraying stopped, and was replaced with a weird bubbling sound. Slowly, we turned around, and what we saw will probably haunt Della and Matt for years to come. From the lake of sewage that used to be their living room floor, reached a long and strong looking arm, made entirely out of shit. We stood there, petrified, as we watched the arm grow a shoulder, and then a torso, and then another arm, and then legs, and finally a head. The shit creature stood before us, standing at a good eight feet tall, and roared at us.

“Fuck this!” I screamed as I squeezed past Della and Matt and ran into the hall. They immediately followed, and we raced towards the front door. With one powerful kick, I blasted the door off its hinges and I sprinted out into the violent storm, screaming like a manly little girl. Della and Matt Followed.

Shielding my eyes from the rain’s vicious assault, I ran as fast as I could through the rising water. I heard Della and Matt shout things from behind me, but my own survival out ranks my listening capabilities, especially when it comes to cruddy friends that blame things on me. Unfortunately for me, they somehow caught up with me.

“What the hell was that about, Minigan?!” Della ask-screamed.

“I don’t fucking know!” I scream-screamed back.

“Well, this shit all started when we ate the cake you brought,” Della snapped, “What did you put in the cake?”

“I DIDN’T PUT ANYTHING IN THE GODDAMN CAKE!” I roared, “If I survive this, I promise to ask my gypsy slave what he added to it, but I’m still going to have to survive this ordeal with you two dicks first.”

“Wait,” Della said as she grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled be back to face them, “You enslaved a gypsy?”

“Well, who was I going to enslave? A black guy? That’s kind of illegal, Della.”

“I’m pretty sure enslaving anyone is illegal,” Matt added.

“Ooh,” I retorted as I threw my hands up in the air defensively, “Look at the cop lecturing me on what’s legal.”

“But why would you choose a gypsy?” Della asked, “You know they can curse you right?”

“What?!” I cried, “Oh, I’m going to fuck that guy up when I get back home.”

A faint scream made all three of us look back at Della’s now battered looking house.

“Hannah!” Della gasped, “Oh my God. We left her in there with that thing!”

Dell and Matt turned around and hurriedly sloshed through the water back to the house.

Staying far away from that doomed building, I called, “Just leave her! It isn’t worth it!”

“But it’s my sister!” I heard Della reply foolishly.

“I’ll buy you a new one!” I yelled back.

Impressively, this stopped the normally foolish Della. She turned back to face me, and with a concerned face, she asked, “Why do you always treat other humans as objects?”

“Hu-mons aren’t objects?”

She rolled her eyes (what a bitch) and headed back to the house. She and Matt entered, and I stood there, one hundred yards from what was possibly the gates of Hell, when I realized that I was all alone. Before I knew it, I was sprinting back to the house, thinking to myself, they’ll probably need my help anyway. I am  the only one who has fought immortal monsters before.

I kicked the front door open again (I had to prop it back up in the doorway first- I wanted to make an entrance) and sprinted back into the living room, where the sewage monster had Della, Matt, and Hannah cornered. The wall of stench nearly knocked me out, but through my own heroic fortitude, I muscled through the smell and grabbed my abandoned machete.

I stepped up behind the monster, plunged the machete through its back and muttered, “Eat shit and die.” Then, with both hands, I pulled my blade up, slicing the monster in half.

For a second, the monster stood there as if what I had done had no effect on him. But then, it fell to the ground and melted back into a pool of pooey filth water. The rain stopped pounding. The lightning stopped flashing. The wind stopped roaring. When the lights came back on, the four of us finally caught our first glimpse of the damage done to the living room. There were holes in the walls and ceiling large enough to fit a midget through. Various pipes- I doubt that all of them were for sewage- stuck out from those holes. The floor was littered with thousands of poo covered snake corpses, and hundreds more terrified snakes had gathered on the various pieces of furniture.

“My house is ruined!” Della cried.

“Yeah,” I replied as I scratched the back of my head, “My bad.”

“I’m never going to get the smell of shit out of the carpet,” she muttered, tears pouring out of her eyes and down her rain and poo water covered cheeks.”

“I know Della, I know,” I cooed to her, “And I know that this Birthday gift to you was kind of a bust…”

“KIND OF?!?!”

“But I have an idea that might make you feel better,” I continued as if I hadn’t been so rudely interrupted.

“Nothing will ever make me feel better, Minigan!”

With a fiendish little grin, I replied, “Not even force feeding the rest of the cursed cake to my gypsy slave?”

Immediately, she stopped crying. She looked right at me. Her eyes were still red and puffy, but the glimmer behind them told me she liked what she heard.

“That would actually make me feel better,” she answered, and for the first time ever, I had respect for her.

“Awesome!” I exclaimed, “Now Matt, load that cake into my car. I say it’s about time we serve some payback to a goddamn two timing, curse happy, gypsy slave.”


2012 in review

The stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for my blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

4,329 films were submitted to the 2012 Cannes Film Festival. This blog had 22,000 views in 2012. If each view were a film, this blog would power 5 Film Festivals

Click here to see the complete report.


I thank all of my readers for almost tripling the traffic on my blog from 2011. I write this blog to entertain you (and also me… well, mostly me, but you all are still a huge reason why I still do this), and I am honored that I was able to entertain so many of you last year. Let’s make 2013 even better. I will promise to make everything I wrote in 2012 look like absolute garbage in comparison to what I write in 2013 if you promise to share my blog with your friends/ family/ coworkers/ enemies/ fans. But for now, let’s get naked and go crazy.


Your friend and potential inadequate lover,

Lord Minigan Douglas “Man-Storm” Blackwood, Doctor of Awesome

Things That I Am Not Thankful For This Thanksgiving

Well, guys, we’re almost three weeks into November. Do you know that that means? Well, yes, there has been a major turkey genocide over the past few months that the media refuses to talk about, but that’s not what I’m talking about here.

Where’s their memorial, America?

Mass turkey murder is, however, related to what I want to talk about this week, because what I’m going to ramble about pertains to Thanksgiving. More specifically, I’m going against what everyone on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and probably every other blog site is writing about, and instead write about the things that I am not thankful for this year. Why? Because complaining is, like, the third best thing the internet does, right after showing us people’s privates and running jokes into the ground.

So, yeah, here’s what I’m not thankful for:

My stupid mortal body

If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you already know that, objectively, I am hot as hell. When I take off my shirt, people confuse me with a perfectly crafted Greek statue. Each of my eight abs are gifts crafted with love and then given to humanity by a God who wants nothing but the best for our species. My ass has its own aura- that’s how good I look naked.

I have an aura here; you just can’t see it because you aren’t worthy.

Having said all that, I am not going to look this way forever. I know that, and I absolutely hate it. I have every intention to prevent my body from turning into a ball of fat for as long as possible, but even with that determination, my body will still fail in other ways. For instance, I have to go to the chiropractor every week to deal with my shoulder issues. I also have to rehab my wrist at the gym sometimes because I injured it at work 3 years ago. Oh, and this week my ankle hurts, so I can’t run. Fuck, how am I supposed to keep my heavenly physique if my stupid body keeps getting sore because I’m lying on the couch weird? If my cells regenerated forever, I wouldn’t have to worry about that. But no, I have to age like the averages and the uglies. That’s fucking bullshit.


OK, I’m not specifically not thankful for Jello itself; I love that shit. No, I’m not thankful for Jello because they changed their packaging for their single serve cups. They’ve gone from six in a package to four. Not cool, Jello-Corp. Not cool at all. I went to you over Snack Pack because of the 6 pack deal, and now you’re going to switch that up on me?! Look Jello, if you’re going to do that shit, then I’m going with Snack Pack. Snack Packs are cheaper than your brand and they’ve been endorsed by Billy Madison. All you’ve got is higher prices and Bill Cosby jokes. Get over yourself and go back to the 6 pack. I don’t give a goddamn about what state the economy is in. Just do it.



I mean the sandals. No one should wear them. And from the yells on the internet, everyone in the world agrees with me. But then why are they still in business? I’m sure that the prison industry isn’t big enough to keep those rubber sandals afloat. Who else is buying them? Because if you believe the opinions online, every single person on the planet hates crocks twice. Their like the Nickelback of shoes. Everyone hates them, but they refuse to disappear into the sands of time. So I guess that means that I also not thankful for the people who wear crocs, either ironically or not, for keeping that company in business. If you want to wear them, then wait a decade or two for them to be associated with prisoners, just like saggy pants, and then hop on the thug train. As for everyone else, let’s just ignore those people’s existence.


I’ve mentioned before how awful some commercials are, and I think we all know that they suck. But for the most part we ignore them, so how bad can they be. Well, I’m beginning to think that Ad companies are making shitty commercials on purpose so that we marvel at how awful they are. Touché,  commercials, touché. But I still hate you, especially when you make me pay attention, and especially when you’re shitty. The only reason I don’t smash my TV whenever I see a commercial I don’t like is because I like TV and how will I know what TV is the best.


This year I’ve started paying the electric bill, so I’m now sure that electricity is overrated. It’s really just a luxury. I mean, if the Amish can thrive without power, so can I. Of course, that doesn’t include cellphones, or TV, or my computer, or washers and dryers, or electric lights… Hell, see how addicted we are? This is what I mean. I hate that it’s my crutch. If I just had the power to control lightning, maybe I could do something about it.

My dog’s icy nose

Let me get this out of the way- I love my dog. She’s awesome. Sure she’s rambunctious and she just loves to sit on people, but that’s part of her lovability. I am absolutely thankful for her this year. What I am not thankful for, however, is her nose. It’s always cold. And I don’t mean “normal wet dog nose cold,” I mean “frigid artic lake cold.” She touches me with it while I’m trying to sleep, and it wakes the shit out of me. And she doesn’t touch me on my arm or my hand, where the shock wouldn’t be all that extreme, but on my face an armpits. That bitch. I feed her, give her water, take her for walks when it’s nice out and I don’t have anything better to do, and she repays me by giving me repeated blasts of icy coldness to my armpits. It’s like she does it just so that I’ll move away from her and then she can have most of the bed. Oh my God, that’s exactly why she does it! That brilliant bitch. OK, well the fact that she is so amazingly manipulative is just another reason I am thankful for her, but I’m still not thankful for her freezing ass nose. Or her farts. Her farts are awful. Trust me.

My loving friends and family

They always need something. “Minigan, could you please pay the electric bill?” My mom would say. “Minigan, we need to hang out sometime when I’m not busy.” Jimmy will text to me. “Minigan, we miss you. Please come back home, or at least call us back.” Every single damn friend and family member will say to me through their pathetic tears on my voicemail. Get a grip, people. This wolf hunts alone, and all you are doing is trying to cage me with your love and affection. I can’t stand it! Give me some space! All you do is smother me with those cards that flood my mailbox around my birthday, and by storming me in my hospital room every little time I get shot by a gang member. I’m just happy being by myself and never talking to anyone I currently and depend on for companionship ever again. I just want to disappear into the crowd and become someone totally new so that all of you in my support system will never see me again. Is that so much to ask for?

Happiness and other good feelings

This isn’t the first image for “happiness” on Google’s image search, but it is by far my favorite. Just look at all those happy Asians!

Happiness is a dick. There, I said it. We’ve all known it for years, but no one wants to deal with the consequences of saying it. Happiness is a dick and it sucks. It’s a dick that sucks itself, in fact. It’s just such an overrated and self-satisfying emotion. And those happy assholes are determined to make you happy too. “Oh, I’m in such a good mood! Here, let me help you lift that heavy thing.” A happy person will say while simultaneously sucking their own metaphorical cock. I don’t need you to improve my mood, you bastards. I am perfectly fine being the crotchety young man that I am. How dare you try to change that. I will slash your tires and then have sex with your girlfriend. I will see to it that she becomes pregnant and that you have to raise the baby. I will suck the happiness out of the rest of your life. Do you really want to fucking help me now?

People who don’t read this blog

If you don’t read this blog, then fuck you. I’m amazing. I pull letters out of the depths of space and forge them into words in the immortal fires and lightning storms that occur inside my brain. Each sentence is a gift from me to humanity, and if you cannot realize that, I hate you. I hope bad things happen to you, like you embarrassing yourself at your high school reunion. And I hope bad things keep happening to you until you start reading my blog. Then I’ll forgive you. And for those of you that do read my blog, I am thankful for you. You guys are awesome and cannot do a single thing wrong in my book. You could probably have sex it a dead monkey and I’ll not think any less of you. But you should probably spread the word of my blog even further, that way I won’t be wishing so many bad things to happen to people. I think you can count it as an act of charity or something.

Duck Face

For those of you who are lucky enough to not know, duck face is a look that stupid girls make when they’re taking pictures of themselves in the bathroom. If you see a picture on Facebook of a girl doing this, you can go ahead and assume that her daddy didn’t love her. If you see a guy doing it, find that guy and throw rocks at him. I just plain don’t understand this phenomenon. How did it start? Did it come from some far off and weird land, like Japan? Why do girls think they look cute doing it? Are we going to evolve into a species where the males choose the females over how good of a duck face they can make? Is that not the most terrifying scenario anyone has ever come up with?

To the women who make duck faces unintentionally when they take pictures, I’m not making (a lot of) fun at you here. I just want you to know that, just like crocs and Nickelback, the internet hates duck face, and I am no different. But you probably won’t understand what people see when they see your duck face pictures. Afterall, why would you keep doing it if you know it looks stupid? So to help you, I’ve taken pictures of myself doing duck face as everyone on the internet sees it:

Do you see? Do you see how stupid this looks?!

In what magical, logic-free world is this supposed to attractive?

Seriously, how did a trend like this start? Who was the first person to take their picture like this and think, “I think this is a good look for me.”

Women on the Internet, please stop posting pictures of yourselves like this. For the love of God, taking pics like this is offensive levels of retarded. Just stop.

To everyone else, have a Happy No Thanksgiving.

Peace Casserole

What Life Would Be Like if I Had Superpowers (Aka Terrifying)- Part 3

Happy September 11 everybody! Ugh. That was in bad taste. I’m sorry about that. Let’s just get past that awkwardness and watch my latest video about what it would be like if I had superpowers. Just think- if God would have given me these superpowers 11 years ago, I would have been able to prevent the attacks. That one’s on you, God.
Ugh. I did again. Sorry everybody. Here’s the video.

Ok. I’m done. Peace.

The American Douchebag’s Guide to America: Pittsburgh

Pittsburgh n’at


Pittsburgh was settled in a valley where the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers meet to form the Ohio. This area was originally settled by groups of Hopewell and Adena Indians, along with many others who didn’t steal their names from buildings on OSU-Newark’s campus including Iroquis and Shawnee. During the 1750s, The French forced the British out of the fort they built there, and built Fort Duquesne. However, the French eventually did what the French do best, and  let the British force them out and built Fort Pitt in Duquesne’s place.

Over the next century, Pittsburgh became a large steel producing town. This became important during the Civil War because of the production of weapons. By 1911 Pittsburgh was producing up to half of the nation’s steel. However, over the years the steel mills closed, leaving Pittsburgh a polluted shell of its formal self.

Now a days, However, Pittsburgh has been making a small comeback. During the late 2000s recession, Pittsburgh was adding jobs and their property value was rising. Way to make the rest of the country look bad, Pittsburgh.

Initial Thoughts

For the initial thoughts, you really need to know what it’s like to drive into Pittsburgh, particularly through the Fort Pitt tunnels. You enter the tunnels from one side of a mountain, nothing but concrete, other cars and your fear of cramped spaces around you. And the more you reach the other side, the easier it is for you to breathe. And when you finally come out the other side, this is what you see:

So, seeing as though that was the image I saw when I entered Pittsburgh, these were my initial thoughts:

“Wow! I’m back! And look at that view! There’s The Point, and over there is The US Steel building. Oh, and that stadium across the river is the one Bane blew up in The Dark Knight Rises. This place has mad History all over it. You better be ready for me, Pittsburgh, cause I’m coming for you harder than if I could ejaculate cinderblocks.”


Usually when I’m in Pittsburgh, I stay in the house I grew up in, but I once stayed in a hotel, so I’ll talk about both.

My old house is incredibly exclusive. You either have to be related to the current residents or at least close friends to them. Unfortunately, this exclusivity does not translate into high class. It was cramped. I slept on a futon. Most of the outlets were outdated and didn’t have the third hole. But on the bright side, the meals were free and they had free wifi. I wish that could make me forget about the insults thrown at me by the staff there, but it cannot. My blog does entertain people, dad. You wouldn’t know because you don’t read it. I AM DOING THINGS WITH MY LIFE! REALLY IMPORTANT THINGS THAT WILL MAKE ME A RESPECTABLE AUTHOR! GET OFF MY BACK!!!

The hotel I stayed in back in 2009 was much schmaltzier than my old house. Here’s a pic that will give you a good idea of how awesome it was.

Get out of the way, Aaron!

If you look at the lower left corner, you’ll notice the armrest of our couch. Then if you look to the right of Aaron, who is the guy clearly ruining this picture, you’ll see the TV. If you look further in the background, you’ll notice that past the barrier are out beds. Yes. Our TV could swivel so that you could either sit on the couch OR lay on the bed and watch it. There is a god, and he wants us to be happy.


Other than the aforementioned stadium that Bane destroyed, Pittsburgh has a lot of attractions for different members of the family. Kennywood is Pittsburgh’s amusement park and has some of the most historic and exciting rides in the country. Sandcastle is their waterpark, which is pretty run of the mill. You know, water slides and stuff. Pittsburgh is also home to the national aviary, which is essentially one of the more boring parts of normal zoos, just in its own location. If you like heights, go up the famous Pittsburgh Incline and look out at Pittsburgh from the best view in the city. If you’re into Hogwartsian style buildings, go to the Cathedral of learning at the University of Pittsburgh. Only a couple of blocks away is Pittsburgh’s museum of modern art. And last but not least, for you alcoholics, you will want to head over to Station Square and the Southside, where you will find some booze.

Looking down the Pittsburgh Incline

Pittsburgh Skyline from the Incline

University of Pittsburgh’s Cathedral of Learning

Well, that’s kind of fucked up, University of Pittsburgh.



There is a few foods that are Pittsburgh specific: gravy on French fries, city chicken (which isn’t actually chicken because Pittsburgers are weird), but the quintessential Pittsburgh food is, without a doubt, a Primanti Brother’s sandwich.

For those of you who don’t know, a Primanti Brother’s sandwich is what happens when the cook loses his shit and starts throwing all the food onto a plate with his hands. A normal Primanti’s sandwich starts off normally with some meat and some cheese, maybe even a couple slices of tomato. But then the meal makes a sharp left and starts driving erratically down crazy street. The sandwich also has French fries and coleslaw piled on, and the cook only cuts one slice of bread in half.  I didn’t take a picture of my sandwich because I am not an annoying girl on your Facebook homepage, but here is an image from Primanti’s website:

My sandwich was a turkey and cheese, minus the tomato. After I did my best to tear through the meat, fries, and full slice of bread, I finally got to take a bite. It was amazing. The coleslaw was sweet, yet tangy. The turkey and cheese was savory and warm enough to be comforting on a cold day. The fries in all their starchy goodness acted as a balance between the coleslaw and the turkey. Normally, the coleslaw would over power the turkey, but the fries muted the coleslaw’s flavor and helped bring out the turkey and cheese favors. By the end, I wasn’t eating a sandwich so much as a ball of delicious, greasy goodness. Why Primanti’s has not expanded to other parts of the country is a mystery to me.


Yeungling. If you’re in Pittsburgh and you like beer, that is what you have to drink. I mean, sure, Pittsburgh has other beers: Rolling Rock, Iron City Beer, probably others.  Yeungling, however,  is the best. However, If you want to go against my always right opinions, then go ahead and drink an Iron City (Rolling Rock is now a national brand, so it doesn’t count). If you do choose Iron City, then you need to either drink it in their iron bottle or in a regular can. The iron can changes the flavor of the beer, but I cannot remember which one tastes better. But it’s not like it matters anyway; you aren’t even considering drinking Yeungling like I suggested, so why would you take my Iron City beverage container advice. Seriously, the whole point of a travel blog is to listen to my experiences and heed my advice. But whatever. Don’t listen to me, but don’t come crying to me when you realize that Iron City or Rolling Rock isn’t the greatest beer ever, you ungrateful bastards.


The first thing you need to understand about Pittsburgers is that they have their own accent. Well, actually, it’s not so much an accent as it is a dialect. If I were to describe it, I’d say that it’s somewhere between Midwesterner and Appalachian Hills people. Watch the first few minutes of this video to get an idea of what Pittsburghese sounds like:

Having introduced Yinz to how people talk in an around dahntahn Pittsburgh, let’s talk about the locals n’at.

The people there, are awesome. Granted, I know people there, and I got to hang out with them, but still, they’re amazing. For instance, here are my friends Julian and Danielle enjoying a nice dinner with me in Forest Hills:

They were pretty excited to see me.

Then here’s Dan Miller at the Primanti’s after we got done watching The Dark Knight Rises. He was pretty excited to see me:

-totally what Dan said

Then of course I got to hang out with the Newlyweds Julie and Mark Lechliter and their gang of crazy friends. I’ll give you a hint of how this played out.

Minigan- Julie!!!!


Julie- Oh Jesus…

Minigan-Ha ha! No, it’s Minigan!  I know, I know, my hair has gotten long, and I do look miraculous, but it’s just me. Plain old Minigan Blackwood: Doctor of Awesome.

Julie- No, Minigan, I know who you are. I’m just surprised to see you back here after they told you not to come back after that last time.

Minigan- Laws don’t apply to me, baby. You should know that. And besides, I left the Slappin’ Dick Machine with my friend Della, so it’s totally cool that I’m here to celebrate your Birthday!

Julie- Well, as long as you’ve found someone that’s willing to keep after it and you didn’t bring it back here…

Minigan- Oh yeah, Della totally has it under control. We’re mentally linked, so it will probably listen to her.


Mark- [rushes up to Julie, not noticing Minigan] Julie, we need to get out of here, now. Apparently Minigan found out that we’re going to be here tonight and [now noticing Minigan] Holy Shit! Minigan! How did they let you back in PA?!

Minigan- “Let” isn’t the right word. It was more like I “forced” my way back into Pennsylvania.

Julie- We aren’t going to be arrested by talking to you right now, are we?

Minigan- Not unless you call the cops.

Mark- And if we do call the cops?

Minigan- if you do call the cops, I’ll just show them the proof that you smuggled me into PA.

Mark- What proof do you have?!

Minigan- When have I ever let that stop me before? [throws his hands up defensively] But look, I’m not here to send anyone to prison this time. All I want to do is Party with you guys for Julie’s birthday. Now, let’s do some shots. [runs off to find a bartender]

Julie-[calling after Minigan] Wait, Minigan! I can’t drink; I’m pregnant!

[Minigan came back with a tray of shots, the waitress he took the shots from silently weeping into her hands.]

Minigan- I got us the drinks! Julie, the orange juice is for you because you’re on your period or whatever you said.

Julie- Thanks, I guess…

Minigan- To Julie for her birthday, and for both of you wonderful bastards for getting married![they each do a shot. Minigan does two.]

Mark- [once his face returned to normal after the shot] so how did you get kicked out of PA, Minigan?

Minigan- Well, I created a machine that had a spinning wheel of dildos that  started trying to kill people. You know, it was a whole thing. I’ve put that behind me. Like a month behind me.

Slappin’ Dick- Machine- [comes in looking like a Wall-E with a hat of dildos, waving its newly attached robotic arms frantically and hitting people as it passed. It’s voice came from a Speak and Say attached to its backside. It yells] Minigan! Della is the worst human ever. All she does is insult everyone and throw things at me. It’s horrible.

Minigan- Yeah, she’s an awful, awful person.

Mark and Julie- [simultaneously] What’s wrong with people in Ohio?

Minigan- It’s really just Della. She is just a terrible person. [Mark and Julie say nothing, just look at each other. Minigan turns to the Slappin’ Dick-Machine and says] OK, SDM, which is what I’m going to call you for now on. I’ll let you stay with me and not with Della on two conditions: You cannot try to kill all humans and you must do everything I say. Do you understand?

SDM- I understand. What do you need, master?

Minigan- First, I like the whole “master” thing. Keep up with that. Secondly, go get me a drink.

SDM- Yes, Master. [SDM rolls off, attacks a waitress holding a beer and grabs it before she drops it, and rushes back to me] Here you are, Master.

Minigan-[takes the drink turns to Julie and Mark and says] And that’s how you train your murderbot.

And then we all partied and had a great time.

Overall Atmosphere

Now, I may be biased since I grew up in that city, but the atmosphere of the ‘Burgh is definitely welcoming, and friendly. Even though all of the people I talked to were people that I have known most of my life, the people there act like they’ve always known you. It is, simply put, an amazing  city.

The American Douchebag’s Guide to Europe: Belgium


God Cj, a gun is not the same thing as a phone. This is why I never bring you hunting with me.


Brussels, apparently, was built one the sick fetish of little boys peeing. Let me explain. Legend has it that invaders were trying to set fire to Brussels because raping and pilliaging, while good for the invading force’s economy and the army’s moral, is still a lot of work. They opted instead (I assume under influence of a leader who had a disturbing fascination with lighting things on fire) to burn the whole city down. So they lit a fire and then fled, knowing that the people of Belgium were way too stupid to figure out how stop the magic hot light-wind. Luckily, a small boy really had to take a piss at the time, and thought, “Hey, why not?” He then proceeded to play fireman all over the fire.  The town was saved and, from the sounds of it, the invaders turned around and went home because they were the worst invaders ever- even worse than the Spanish. The people of Brussels then built a fountain in the boy’s honor- the fountain being a naked boy peeing into a basin.  The modern day people of Brussels dress the boy up in colorful clothing to signify an important holiday. Think of that next time you decorate your house for Fourth of July:  the only way you’re going to beat Belgium is if you dress a pissing child up in goofy clothes. The game is on, America, the game is on.


I won't be the first to say this, and I won't be the last: Europeans are weird.

Initial Thoughts

I do believe my first thought was, “What the fuck is that thing?” as I looked at the Atonium Building. Was it the real Willy Wonka Chocolate Factory? Or maybe Dr. Evil’s latest hideout? I had no clue. It took me stumblingupon a series of images of the world’s landmarks to actually find out its name. Although, I think a better story is that that is the hideout of superhero The Atom. Yeah, that is a much cooler idea. Let’s just say it’s that one.

I don't think Dr. Evil would hide in a place so gaudy.


We only stopped in Brussels for about an hour or so, so I didn’t have “accommodations”. So, to be honest, the accommodations were pretty awful.  Where we stayed there were no bathrooms, no beds, not even a goddamn roof. A one person tent is more luxurious than where we stayed in Brussels.  I hope you’re happy Belgium, you’ve incurred the wrath of the best and funniest blogger on the internet according to everyone the blogger is willing to talk to.


Well, going in to Belgium, I knew I had to at least have waffles and chocolate. Belgium is like the Mecca of sweets. But, apparently, Brussels is also famous for mussels. Yeah, I didn’t know that either. I also didn’t know (what with me not being a huge fan of seafood) that mussels are actually really damn good.  Only slightly fishy, the mussels had a delicious savory taste to them with just a hint of celery (They were cooked along side some celery; they don’t just taste like that for no reason). The mussels also came with French fries because… I don’t fucking know why actually. We’re talking about Flems (what people from Belgium are called) here. What they call themselves is enough evidence to prove that they just make shit up as they go.

This is a douchey artistic photo I took of the mussels.

Anyway, after the mussels, we had very little time left in Brussels, so I really had to hussle to get some waffles.  I did, but I only got the plain one (the one with just chocolate, how boring).  The long and short of it was that it was good. I didn’t get a picture, but here is a picture of the waffle that one girl in my group, Julie, had. Enjoy:

How do you eat something like this? Do you just pour it into your mouth? As an American glutton, that is what my whole body is telling me to do.


For those of you who don’t know (This should be just about everyone who reads this) there is a specific type of alcohol that is associated with Brussels: cherry beer. For everyone (again-just about all of you)  who hasn’t tried it to get an idea of what it would taste like, take a cherry four loko, make it not taste like fermented ass,  but instead like an alcoholic cherry soda. Yes, it was good.

I don't always drink-hic- beer, but when I do- hic- I drink this cherry shit. It's real-hic- real-hic- really fucking good. YOU DON'T KNOW ME!!!!


Well, I didn’t get to speak to a lot of them because English is not their first language, and I don’t speak their crazy loogie language (it’s called Flemish… really). Therefore, the native person I talked to the most was the woman who served me my mussels.  She seemed to be mildly pushy, but overall really nice, so I’m going to assume that she only seemed pushy since she suddenly had to deal with 30 some odd American that demanded to eat all her shellfish like a bastardized version of the Walrus and the Carpenter. My observations of the rest of the Flemish people are that they are rather relaxed and easygoing people, much like the rest of Europe (other than the English, who are essentially Americans with cute accents). Another thing I noticed about the Flems: they love open markets in public squares. Within the short time I was there, I saw a gardening market set up in the Grand Place, and there was an art market set up right across the street from where we ate lunch.

Overall Atmosphere

In all honesty, Brussels had a very eclectic feel to it. It had the historical sections like London, the laid back feel (minus the constant cloud of cigarette smoke) of Paris, and the tight and winding side roads of  other European cities like Rome and Florence (I’ll be getting to those soon). It also had the deserted feel of a city in the middle of a zombie epidemic. I mean that in the most complementary way possible. But that still never creeped me out, so I guess that says just as much about me as it does Brussels.

Here are some extra pictures if you’re wondering what Brussels looks like:

OK, well that’s all I have for now. for next time, I think I’m not going to update on my travels (The next one will be of The Netherlands), but instead talk shit on some beloved pop culture icons, up to and including Harry Potter and the most interesting man alive from those Dos Equis commercials, so stay tuned!

Lenten Facebook Challenge: Day 26

OK, only 2 weeks left! I am beginning to think I will be able to to make it through this despite what those disembodied voices keep whispering in my ear. And because of this accomplishment, I am going to treat you all to an irrationally long, 13 minute video. Get yourself a hard drink, some tissues, and a crucifix, because this is about to get all kinds of offensive, sexy, and sacrilegious up in here.

P.S. Sorry about the length of it (That’s what HE said!), especially since I do not use it well (That’s also what he said!)

(Note: to any of you uptight people watching that that also do not know me, first of all, thank you for watching. Secondly, I am not a killer of babies. That was a joke. Get over yourselves and get a sense of humor, you prudes.)

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