I trust the inaugural media review is covering up for the blatant racism well, so I'll just put up some silly pictures from today's news.


No, you can't come back here and see what they are beforehand. Is this censorship? It is! DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL, I'LL HAVE YOUR TESTES FOR BREAKFEAST.

No, I know it's spelled, "Breakfast." Yeah, but you see I was trying to make "testes" rhyme with it, so I said, "Breakfeast." Like, breaking a feast.

No, I don't know how you'd break a feast!
Well why don't you ask Thorbjorn if you think he knows?

What?

Oh, right. I locked him out. Whoopsie. :)






SMILEYS!!!!!

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see? he's got a big nose!






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sex! yayyYYYYYY!



anyhow, here's some pictures.
Hillary, post-defeat.




Okay, I lied, it's Bill.




















By the way, this is my last post for a while.

Welcome to The Daily Fix's first official album review. Now, those of you who have read album reviews before in sources as illustrious as Spin (or Rolling Stone, if you're a sheep) already know that the music has to take a backseat to the author. On that topic: those of you who frequently read The Daily Fix won't recognize me as your usual correspondent, Maurice. That's because I'm Thorbjorn. ON TO THE MUSIC!

Remember when Bill Clinton won the Democratic nomination, way back when in the 1990s? He danced with Hillary. Remember when Al Gore won the Democratic nomination, way back in 2000? I sure do! He danced with Tipper. John Kerry probably danced with someone when he won the nomination, but I don't remember because he wasn't legally elected like those other two fellows.

(Man, remember the Gore presidency? Remember that awesome cabinet he assembled? Remember how he signed the Kyoto protocols, and thwarted that totally evil terrorist plot to blow up the world trade center due to his having intelligence multiple weeks prior to said attacks, and cured cancer by allowing stem cell research, and then after that, he toatlly was on, like, the cover of Wired? Man, that was great. Everybody loved President Gore!)

Anyhow. Now that Barack Obama has assumed the position of "most visible living target in the US," what dance will he do?

I know! I know! Let's ask our friend, "Barack Obama's illegally-acquired African slave!"



"Oh, suh, yessuh! I just be's a negro minstrel, but I'se be thinkun that Massuh Barack be's dancun' like we nigros down in his celluh be dancun'! Yessuh, Massuh Barack kin be col'-hearted an' use the whip at times, but other times he shucks and jives jus' like a real nigroo! Which he ain't! He's a white devil,  like you, Massuh Maurice! He just done and painted hisself, so he could win some Demagogueic Nombleynayshun!"






Well, there we have it.

Who knows were the money blows when the cold wind goes? I do! Oh, mother! Another precious opportunity for misdoing, also known as Lewis! Louis, Louis, you've gone amiss, and I must purchase ammo.

Ammo to shoot things with! After all, you're not a New England Patriot unless you're on the payroll, and you're not on the payroll unless you're one of two things:

1) An employee of the New England Patriots (r) Organization

2) A vicious imposter who is wearing the skin of Bill Belichick by night and a persian rug by day.

Yes, that's me. You've heard of a naked man with that baseball cap and a handy camera having Leopold's lunch and dandy too? I cannot profess to having heard of such an imposterer as he.

"Imposterer": Webster's diction canary defines "Imposterer" as "The second coming of 'Akbar the Adulterer' also known as a blue parrot with a shingle on its head that transmits radio waves at twelve tons of solid waste per second. Completely made up, fictional, not real, false, erroneous, concocted by government agents, sexy (but still a lie), and me no likey the touching of my inky palms to the cool wheaties box of your dank affection. The word of the day."

So there we have it. The word of the day. Have fun, all you amateur imposterers out there!

All good things must come to an end, I suppose.

Remember the time I tricked Chuck into thinking I had cancer? No? Well, it's back there, in the archives. I'm sure you could find it. Remember when Chuck thought I was a lady? Well, that too is in the anals.

Yes, the anals. The annals are different. You see, I have devised a clever new way to remember history, involving a dedicated, non-hygiene-concerned tattoo artist, some leather straps, an ergonomic surgeon's table, and most importantly, Xanax. Lots and lots of Xanax. I think it's important that Xanax begins with an "x" and ends with an "x," because otherwise I could not get away with taking them so copiously. "I might forget 'x,' the last letter in the alphabet, if only I do not take my Xanax," I say to Nurse. Nurse is not a tolerant woman, oddly. Curse the Nurse! Lasterday she utilised a heavy quilt in entrapping me, whereupon this grievous incident I was injected in the buyttock with some foul medication. I immediately felt much stronger, and yet filled with an aggression and emptiness I had never known to be inside me. My nipples swelled to the size of grapes, and my testes shrank...

...Twelve months later, in Tucson, there was a grapefruit and then we all ate it. "Sistuh! Sistuh! Come quickly, Y'hear?" I cried, but the truck holding my stuffed animals was departing at speeds I used to think only I could travel at. I jumped on a wheel, went to Omaha City, where the grass was green and the girls were all terrible whores. There, I drunk a whiskey-barrel in three nights and blew a flying elephant from the sky with my trusty Smith & Wesson.

No, a watch. What'd you think? A gun? What? Everyone knows Smith & Wesson make watches and flashlights. In fact, I think I can recall their motto now: "Here at Smith & Wesson, if we do not make a flashlight or watch that suits you perfectly, we will arrive at your domicile with our world-reknowned firearms and shoot you 'til you're dead!"

I wrote this using Excel.

Warpling & Schuster regret to inform you that you're dead.

Before you freak out, wonder: just how does a publishing company know I'm dead?

Because if you aren't dead now, you will be. Later. Or sooner, depending on when you show up on their doorstep with all those illegally acquired publishing-comfits you stole. And the "Warpling & Schuster" racquetball team's leotards (with tasteful logos).

Yes, the dangerous world of corporate theft. If you ever get shanghaiied by a crazed manager with a staplegun, remember that it's all your fault there are now metal stapley thingies in your brain.
"But what if I got a brain staple by a surgeon, Maurice?"
THEN YOU'RE NOT TRYING HARD ENOUGH.


What can I say? Whose fault should it be, eh? Do you think the nice people at the Roomba Company ("need someone to help you operate your Roomba vacuuming robot because you're elderly and thus incapable of manipulating ridiculously simple technology? Then fuck off!") care about whether or not you're getting crushed by a gigantic robotic vacuum? Well, you'll find the answer when nobody comes to rescue you when you're trapped inside of the dustbag.

How d'you think that'd read if it happened to Jane Goodall? "My Life Among The Dust-Bunnies"?
NO! SHE'D EAT 'EM AND KILL EM BY GUM LIKE ANY OTHER GOOD AGRARIAN HUNTER-GATHERER






This blog post has been sponsored M.A.D.B., or Mothers Against Drunk Blogging.
See what happens, children! It comes out all funny and painful to read!
The blog too!

I read Time magazine the other day. Not willingly, though. I was bound and gagged(?) and then forced to read their touching testimony to William F. Buckley Jr.

I didn't know William F. Buckley (Jr.) and Jeff Buckley had so much in common! Like their last names! It's like they came f- waiiiiiiiiiiit a second there cowboy. What if they did? They didn't did they? DID THEY????? Oh, wait. That would be silly!


They're both dead, too.


William F. Buckley (the younger) hated poor people, apparently. Well, that's unfair. He was a Republican. So OF COURSE he hated poor people. Also, where was the outpouring of love and support for the Buckley family? Remember when Reagan died? Why didn't people care like that?

Answer: Because Reagan had been legally a vegetable for about a decade before his "untimely" (Who the hell called his death "untimely," again? What the hell? A cat could've beaten him in a wonderlic test! PARIS HILTON could've beaten him in a wonderlic test! And then after he was president, he only got dumber! Which is a completely and totally legitimate reason that he should have been dead.) death.

Oh yeah. I've been thinking, and I've decided to let her go. Now the only problem will be getting her out of the well. Precious didn't sit so well on her.

Here at Blog.vom, we appreciate enterprise for what it is: a front for slavery!

Wage slavery, fools!

That Willie Nelson, always swimming in whiskey rivers. When will he learn? Probably never, looks like he's drowning. Oh well; there are other country music stars to admonish. WAIT! Damn, he owed me money. Guess I'd bettergo swimmin' and find it...


You know, kids? If I may take time out of my allotted space usually reserved for some type of obscenity in italics, I'd like to tell you something very important: alcohol's bad. Very, very bad. Why, just the other day, Uncle Maurice inserted a stick of dynamite (damn you Nobel and your cursed invention!) into his rectum and lit it. Haven't been the same ever since. Of course, that has absolutely nothing to do with licquor, but if everything did then we'd all be drunk.

There we go, flawless logic.

The problem with child labor is that it’s in all the poverty-stricken places, and isn’t getting imported into the prosperous nations it ought to exist in. For example, I need (desperately) an eight-year-old butler to cater to my every whim. “Roberto, commence the fanning!” I would cry, and hence Roberto would come toddling forwards from his cleverly hidden quarters (also known as the “dryer”), carrying with him an immense palm frond. This palm frond would be utilized in the most ingenious of ways, as an air-circulation device. Who needs strength of character when an eight-year old Puerto Rican boy is hand-feeding you grapes, I ask? Nobody, that is who. Not even the Dalai Llama could resist Roberto’s charms, I feel.

But enough about my upbringing! Or, perhaps not. It is important to realize that it is not in my, Roberto the writer’s tiny scarred hands that the power rests in. Rather, it is John Moses Tarkington that holds the power over me. I am frenzied, hurried, driven mad by the delusive power of my literary glory! Or not. I believe John Moses Tarkington and I tire easily, and require sustenance. To the ink bar!