Well, life has been acting up in my corridor lately. I haven’t offered a shred of usefulness to mankind in at least a fortnight or two. Not that my usefulness was ever quite useful, but I plan on offering my services as a fortune teller for free even, starting Tuesday. Hooray! What the hell would any of you do if it weren’t for me doing something great for my fellow man? Kill yourselves, that’s what.

To those faggots, or fuckers, or (insert derogatory-stereotypical word describing who you are from my point of view here) that are way too self involved, or casting all of their immediate attention to the new Xbox 360, to have noticed the recently altered look of the site, fuck off! It’s spectacular — wondernomously fantabulous.

This atypical portrayal of news events for this site is about to bust a 180 as soon as I can remember my standard approach of delivering updates to you bastards. Hmmm, — thinking. I’m working on something terrific to make a resurrection of perfection, near-Jesus quality, on your asses. I take that back; I meant superior-to-Jesus quality.

Okay, I’ve got some news for those deprived souls who base the quality of life on how many homicides take place during the holidays. Thanksgiving is a holiday of giving, hence the to-the-point name, and on Thanksgiving a guy by the name of Brandon Deon Mitchell really gave it to them. Apparently, his Thanksgiving wasn’t going quite as well as everyone else’s because he couldn’t quite afford the cost of a turkey.

You can tell he’s black for several reasons. First of all, his name is Brandon Deon Mitchell, which doesn’t look too black at first glance, except for the fact that only black people, and famous-Canadian musicians last names, consist of the word Deon. Secondly, the crime, that I’m about to get to, took place in Birmingham, Alabama, the home of the 90% Negro population. Lastly, only a Negro man would be stupid enough to walk into a motel, on a holiday, and shoot a few clerks dead in hopes of robbing the place, in order to feed his face Tryptophan, the amino acid inside the entrée of the holiday feast that makes you pass out faster than Ambien.

Way to go, in my opinion. Go commit a few horrendous crimes, pass out, wait for police to arrive, then upon waking declare that you had nothing to do with being Brandon Deon Mitchell, because that’s a black man’s name, and you most certainly are not black, despite the fact that you reside in Birmingham and your middle name is Deon. The police laugh maniacally at this statement because you are obviously a liar. They delouse you, and then they proceed to beat you as if you were Rodney King’s spine. You plead for your life, but it doesn’t matter because the entire police force consists of the recent-white-supremacist movement known as the KKK.

Sorry I don’t speak your MOONLANGUAGE, but what for what it’s worth here is a shitty update.

Note that I’m too lazy to beefbasket.com this photo, it’s because I’m so sad.

That’s ride, you read my title right, Pat.  Morita.  Dead.  What kind of fucked up bullshit is this?  How can a man, whose most famous movie Why I Rike Rice, kick the bucket like that?  What a waste of a man.  You can’t fucking die after directing that blockbuster of yours, the Farenheit 9/11 movie.  Yeah I know you did your crazy jarate or karate through-out the entire movie but you know what I just don’t fucking care.  Stop hording all those Oscars your Puerto Rican fuckstick.  Man I hate other races.