Nobody except a person who smells wants to smell a smelly person’s smell. Except their own smells. When you’re first born up to about age five, you only have to smell your own smells, unless your parents are particularly smelly. Then you have to smell your parents’ smells too. You’re usually OK with your own smell. Not so much with your parents’. They go above the limit. The smell limit should not be passed, of course.

Then you smell your classroom on your first day of school. Say it’s kindergarten, or preschool. And you smell the room, and it smells terrible. Now, you figure that your smells smell pretty good, so you decide to let a big one rip. But it doesn’t make it smell any better. In fact, it smells worse. You’ve added another terrible smell to these terrible smells. It’s like a gas chamber. You’re afraid you’re going to die. Death by smell.

This is your first inkling that your smells might not smell so nice. And now the girls say you stink too. But, you don’t want to take a shower. That’s too much to ask, even for a girlfriend. So you try to control the smells. You use all kinds of deodorant, spraying it everywhere it can be sprayed on your body, including unmentionable orifices. You spray it hoping it can mask the fact that you haven’t bathed in three weeks. Unfortunately, you haven’t yet learned that body spray deodorant mixed with three-week old body odor smells like body spray deodorant mixed with three-week old body odor. It’s a smell from hell. You smell like hell. And somehow the girls still don’t like you.

This is your first inkling that corporate America might be lying to you. After all, the AXE body spray commercials clearly show men with women crowding around them in packs after spraying just a little bit of the stuff on their necks, as if it’s some kind of irresistable miracle fluid. Clearly a lie. So you become a hippie, and begin to go to events like Burning Man to get back at The Man. Your smell gets worse. And all the women that are now interested in you smell like patchouli. To hell with that.

Finally, you decide that enough is enough and you’ll begin bathing regularly. Finally you find a suitable woman or effeminate man and begin having copious amounts of sex. But now you can’t just smell your smell. Now you’re smelling somebody else. Now you have to deal with both your smell and this person’s smell. It’s a cornucopia of smells. Your smells mix into new smell. A together smell. You smell nice together.

Then she has babies, and now there are new smells. The babies are little sacks of feces and vomit and piss, and now you have to smell their smells too. And your smell and your significant other’s smell and the baby’s smell and the smell of the house mix together. You have a family smell going now. You recognize the smell of family time. You could be at work, and you’d instinctively know it’s time for home. Time for family smell.

As you get older, your son ends up trying to use body spray to cover up his odors, too. Now you see why nobody would date you in high school.

And then you go to the senior home. Now your smells are really smelly, and people can smell them from miles around. You’re a lot like that baby, with the horrible baby smell. Baby won’t talk to you any more. Baby’s grown into a man, and has found his own smell. He chose an effeminate man to spite you, and now both of them lisp at you for how ignorant you are when you get mad and start spouting off randomly against “the fags” and “the nigras”. Your son and his boyfriend both smell like cherry chapstick.

Then you die. You smell like dead person. That’s not a pleasant smell at all. Smells dead. people that aren’t dead don’t like that smell. They’ve had enough of you and your smells. You’re stinkin’ up the place. So they carry you to the funeral home. They bury you in the ground. Now only plants like your smell. Smells like fertilizer.

I won’t belabor it any more. Smell is your life. Smell is my life. Smell is life. Life is a test. Life is a smell. Life is a test of smells. First you’re supposed to tolerate your own smell, which is easy. Everyone can do that. (Unless they’re a burn victim, or can’t control their bowels. Then it’s much harder.) The second test is the relative smell. Tough test. Third’s other peoples’ smells. Even tougher. Then it’s the sex smell. People like that test. It’s easier. If you’re straight and going with someone of the opposite sex, and they bathe and don’t smoke. As long as all of those things are going, you’ll be fine on that test. Then there’s the baby test. Now that’s a test from Hell. And finally there’s the death test, where you’ve been through all the tests. That test is to test other people. You’re testing people to see if they can tolerate your smell. Great test.

In conclusion, I find it comforting that after having been exposed to all these different smells, that I’ll get to fight back against the smelly fuckers out there by forcing them to smell my dead rotting corpse. Fuck you, smelly people. Everyone else, have a nice day. Have a good life. Have a good smell.

OK, OK, let’s be honest, in spite of the fact that I think 4chan is stupid, it’s quite clear that this is a bad, bad breach of net neutrality. Many of you who are not 4chan users probably want to defend AT&T in all this, using the classic “aw hell they’re all a bunch of creepy pedos that jack off to cartoon pictures of little girls” logic.

Frankly, so do I. I badly want to defend AT&T in all of this. Because, you know, it’s 4chan. Between the memes and the obnoxious “HAY GUYZ DESU DESU DESU MILHOUSE IS NOT A MEME LET’S DRESS IN MASKS AND SHIT TO STOP SCIFAGTOLOGY TITS OR GTFO” crap, defending 4chan is akin to

[Note: Preceding paragraph edited to prevent 4chan users from dressing in "Fail Guy" masks and harrassing me.]

But I can’t defend AT&T. Denying 4channers access to their favorite site sets a dangerous precedent.

We don’t know what is going on here, at least not yet, but I think it’s quite clear that we need to have a plan for what we’re going to do when this clears up, and by “we” I mean “WordPress users.”

First off, if it turns out to just be an error taking any sort of action against AT&T (such as blocking website ISPs or whatever) would be silly.

And I think it’s quite clear that this is probably just an error, albeit an extremely widespread one. Either that or another minor issue that doesn’t really matter.

But let’s say it gets serious, and it becomes clear that AT&T’s actions went far over the line, and were a breach of the doctrine of net neutrality. What then?

Well, to begin with I don’t know the ins and outs of WordPress, but allowing individual users the ability to  block AT&T corporate ISPs from their personal pages, with a message informing them of the situation involving 4chan and why it is important, might be one possibility. Could WordPress offer this to people? It would certainly seem like a better way of letting /b/tards vent their frustration than what they probably will do otherwise.

I’m still trying to come up with other game plans for those who wish to show AT&T how they feel about the 4chan blockade. If you have any ideas of how people can (peacefully) protest AT&T’s attack on net neutrality (without resorting to DDOS attacks on websites, hacking, personally attacking and harrassing executives, individuals, and employees, or any of the other ridiculous things some less-reasonable /b/tards are probably trying to concoct as we watch) feel free to post them below.

UPDATE (1:06 AM MST JULY 27, 2009): My access to img.4chan.org appears to be compromised. The connection to the server was reset while the page was loading.

This is important because I’m a Qwest customer, not an AT&T customer.

It’s a server malfunction, guys.

Also: I can anticipate your comments now about how this is a pedophilia issue and I admitted it when I said that 4chan users jack off to cartoons of little girls. Currently in the US you cannot take a naked picture of an underaged girl, but you can draw a cartoon of a naked underaged girl being raped by tentacles. You can also jack off to it. I am in the clear, assholes.

There is a craze sweeping the nation, and this craze is extremely similar to earwigs, in that it is also tunneling through people’s ear canals and eating their brains. The craze is hippie food stores, stores which sell food specifically designed to cater to hippies.

If it were just hippies buying this ridiculous food, there would be no problem. But normal people also buy this food, especially yuppies and the mentally disabled*. Now, this doesn’t really make any sense. One would think that marijuana-deadened hippies would not be the ones you’d want to buy your food from, considering that they were willing to eat ketchup-and-mayonnaise sandwiches back in the sixties. These are people that would be willing to put used cigarette butts on toast and eat the resulting tobacco sandwich if they couldn’t find anything else to eat when they started having their marijuana-induced munchies.

*People that voluntarily eat tofu.

But no. Thousands upon thousands of mentally-challenged yuppies, all over these United States of America, are willing to spend their hard-earned dollars on food chosen by dirty hippies. Naturally (excuse the pun) all of this food is exactly what you would expect it to be. Here’s a rough estimate of what kind of food is stocked at hippie food stores:

• Food that tastes like shit: 123.5%

As you can see, by my estimates approximately all of the food at hippie food stores tastes like shit. The extra 23.5% is because the food at these stores is so bad that it actually makes food from other stores taste like shit.

Let’s say you buy some food from Albertson’s one day. Very preservative-laden, fatty, and abhorrently unfriendly to the environment. Basically some real good food.

This is Celestial Raven, owner of Happy Apple Farmer's Market. She would be happy to serve you.

Well, let’s say the next day you buy from Happy Apple Farmer’s Market, run by Celestial Raven, who practices Wicca. She only sells hemp seeds, natural tofu, organic produce, and various spices that are to spice what Phil Collins is to music. She doesn’t want you shopping at Albertson’s. She wants you shopping at Happy Apple Farmer’s Market. So she uses her bizarre Wiccan powers to put a spell on every piece of food she sells. She makes the spell so that it transfers its bland, boring taste to everything around it. She makes sure of this. She is afraid that if only her food tastes like bland nutritious garbage, you’ll stop buying her food.

So if you put Albertson’s food next to food from Happy Apple Farmer’s Market, the latter will make the former taste like salted cardboard. And it’ll cost more, too, due to the spell waves emanating from the food from Happy Apple Farmer’s Market. It’s a very strong Wiccan spell.

Sunflower Market

Hippie food stores take different forms all over the United States. For example, here in Albuquerque they have the “Sunflower Farmer’s Market”, and their slogan is “Serious food, silly prices”.

If by "serious" you mean "shitty", and by "silly" you mean "ludicrously high".

I have tried the “organic” food in Sunflower Market, and I can vouch for the fact that it is some of the most serious food I’ve ever tasted. After all, there is nothing fun about eating it at all.

Sunflower Market pretends to be a cutesy-poo little flower of a food store by adding cute little fonts to everything. Everything has its own font, and a piece of clipart. You go to the produce section, there is a produce font. You get meat, there is a meat font. You want olives, there is an olive font.

If you go to Smith’s, you get food. If you go to Sunflower Market, you get clipart and fonts.

These stores are concentrated around New Mexico, Arizona, Texas, Colorado, Utah, and Nevada, and their central theme is that they try way too hard to be “home-grown, good ol’ nat’ral food” stores. One would think this would mean most of the food would come from near the store (in this case Albuquerque, New Mexico), but no, I go there and most of the food comes from Mexico or California. Most of the food from New Mexico is salsa, on a little shelf off to the corner marked “FOOD GROWN IN NEW MEXICO!”. Thank God. I would not trust Californians to make salsa for me if they were the last Western peoples on earth. They’d probably add habanero peppers and hemp seeds. And then they’d restrict its right to marry the same sex by constitutional amendment.

Blue Sky Soda: The Drink Hippies Like

One of the many products in Sunflower Market that comes from Satan’s asshole California is Blue Sky soda.** I tried their “Organic” root beer, which they call “Root Beer Encore”. It is the most terrible root beer I have ever tasted. It is worse than Barq’s Root Beer, it is worse than drinking Gatorade, it is worse than drinking rhinoceros piss. If you like Blue Sky soda (God help you) I can only assume that your taste buds are burnt off, probably by the habanero peppers you eat in California. Because it is terrible. God is it ever terrible.

**It says “Santa Fe, New Mexico” on the front, but it’s actually made in Corona, California at this point. It actually got sued over this.

Let me write it out in large bold red letters for you:

BLUE SKY “ROOT BEER ENCORE” IS SHIT.

It would be flashing, but I can’t use CSS until I finally find a half-decent webhost. Close enough.

The kind I got was “USDA certified organic”, and had “real cane sugar.” Judging from just the taste of the drinks I’ve yet tasted with actual sugar in them, I would guess that sugarcane is the most disgusting substance on planet Earth, followed closely by high-fructose corn syrup. I mean, seriously, Mexico gets Coca Cola with real sugar, while the closest we can get is Blue Sky “Organic”?

When the version of a soda with sugar in it is more disgusting than the version with high fructose corn syrup, SOMETHING IS WRONG.

Is this some kind of conspiracy or something? Do I have to invade Europe to get some actual sugar in my system without subjecting myself to this disgustingly fruity and tasteless crap?

I guess so. Let’s get some AK-47s from the army surplus store, looks like it’s time to invade Germany again. And possibly Poland. Hey, it might not be nice, but we’d might as well invade Poland. It’s not like the Poles could stop us.

I guess that big American corporations think sugarcane-sweetened carbonated beverages are the kinds of drinks that hippies like. The real sugar must go along well with Doors albums and Volkswagen buses. Good to know.

The Truth About Hippie Food Stores, And Who is Responsible (Aging Baby Boomers)

Like hippies, all of the kinds of foods they sell at “farmer’s markets” are flavorless, bland, and annoying. This food tries to make people feel like they’re making a difference by eating food grown and prepared without preservatives or growth hormones, but all it really does is allow lazy and brainless tools to go through life without doing anything productive or beneficial to the human race.

Frankly, I blame the Baby Boomers. Baby Boomers are just as flavorless, bland and annoying as hippies, and they are equally obsessed with achieving some kind of unobtainable enviro-green future where we all drive recycled hybrid cars and fart oxygen and pixie dust out our asses. Bullshit, I say. Give me a camper trailer. Fuck Toyota Priuses, I want to see the forest, not imprison myself to living in some paved-road shithole subdivision where the people are all pasty-white middle-class zombies and everybody drives environmentally-friendly cars in some kind of surreal dystopia.

Conclusion

EVERYTHING MUST HAVE ITS OWN FONT

I think people who go to these stores think a little too much of themselves, don’t you? I mean, maybe I’m just a moron. Maybe I just can’t appreciate the subtle classiness of buying your Keystone “Light” beer for an extra five dollars at the local “farmer’s market” and buying only foodstuffs that have the words “Natural” and “Organic” emblazoned right on the box in Comic Sans MS font .

But let’s look at the facts. First off, how in the hell is a store like this a “farmer’s market”, anyway? I don’t see any farmers when I go there. Some may have a garden or a couple horses, but I don’t see any farmers peddling their wares anywhere. Hell, I wish they had farmers at the “farmer’s market”. I could buy food from them directly, rather than through a faceless corporation that puts mooing cows on its homepage in a misplaced attempt to appear rustic and homely.

Because let’s face it: These hippie food stores are just big corporate monoliths, and are just like any other supermarket chain. The only difference between a hippie food store and a regular supermarket is that a hippie food store sells organic food at higher prices. Also its board of directors regularly participates in a drum circle. Their conference table may also be shaped like the peace sign.

And while some people may look at all of the peons down below them in the social hierarchy and think how intelligent and classy they are for buying only grain-fed hormone-free free-range naturally-raised humanely-killed organic home-grown all-American wave-the-flag-around-awhile-while-we-roast-this-dead-cow ground beef, we gotta remember that most people don’t buy their food from Albertson’s or Wal-Mart because they want to, it’s because they can’t afford better.

Y’know, I’m not saying Wal-Mart is great. Hey, it’s gigantic and an eyesore and it doesn’t really have every buyable product known to man. Some of its products aren’t great. Sometimes it doesn’t even have the lowest prices.

So we agree: Wal-Mart’s not perfect. But at least it’s honest.

Farah Fawcett.

Whenever two good people have been lost, one a great music artist, one a beautiful actress, people feel a need to grieve, and mourn, without feeling like horrible scumbags.

So I’m going to take what we’re all thinking and just come right out and say it, so we can look at that thought and reflect on it and heal, and hopefully become better people for having our psyches cleaned of our dirty disgusting thoughts.

Here goes:

The world’s most beautiful white woman and the man that most wanted to be a beautiful white woman, have died on the same day.

I apologize for subjecting you all to my horrible machinations. I am a horrible person for thinking something so wicked. I am prepared for your hostilities.

The important thing to remember is that both are now at peace. There shall be no more suffering from cancer for Fawcett, and perhaps Jackson too will be able to rest in peace from his inner demons and mental problems.

And now for the obits:

Jackson had a fascinating life. His early days were quite a thriller, and often completely off-the-wall. Sometimes Jackson seemed downright invincible. Of course, over time things got dangerous, and the child molestation suits were downright bad. Of course, he will always be remembered for his pop music legacy; the entire industry will be forever Michael.

As for Fawcett, she got famous through Charlie’s Angels, where she became well known for her voluptuous extremities (and I don’t mean the off-Broadway play she starred in), not to mention her smile and acting and all that, but mostly, well, you know. For a very long time Hugh Hefner chased her, trying to get her to show her extremities. Finally she relented, and allowed him to show them when she (and they) were about 48. And she also showed her smile, of course. Not so much her acting ability.

She passed of cancer, and yet somehow Hugh Hefner survives her. I don’t get it either.

Anyhow, I hear they’re going to heaven, and some angels will lead their way. Apparently a guy told ‘em to come. I hear his name is Charlie.

Rest in peace, you two.

She waits for the doctors to confirm the results. The doctors gave her painkillers she won’t take, but she can’t sleep through the pain.

And here I’m thinking, “Gee golly, I’m glad all I have to take is some melatonin before bed! Fuck getting old! It must suck!”

Many argue the young don’t worry about getting old. That’s a bald-faced lie. We worry about it daily. That’s why we want to die young.

I don’t want to end my life in pain and misery, fucking around with shitty hospitals and people that don’t care about me. I want to die in a blaze of glory. I want to die with my arms around a sexy woman, driving a big-ass American truck down to my doom, preferably by nuclear bomb or some other manly way to die.

Life’s too short to die boring.