Lyle spent the 80's rocking some sort of double moustache

The Nineteen-Eighties were a time of excess, there is no doubt.

Another time when you watch a new generation of pointless youth rebel against the fashions of ideals from five years previous, only to repeat the same wind-sucking depravity and uselessness of their predecessors. But due to this, a time when you could buy or sell anything without the slightest hint of candor, and the term "for the right price" was rendered moot. Materialism was up, and if you wanted something done or a dark part of your life forgotten about, this was the best chance.

If you had a child that you fathered 18 years ago, who had come knocking on your door demanding something-the-goddamned-what, and you were trying to not let the putrid bastard remains of your own youth infect the hairsprayed 1.2 family in a black-and-white toned plastic and steel house life that you've created since that time, you needed to call someone who was either desperate or experienced or in the current case both, and have them sneak up behind the problem that you've since forgotten the name of but you don't care because you're a soulless and cursed First in This World, who you've told to wait at an ant-infested dirt motel on the outskirts of Gila County, and keep it quiet. And you don't want to know about the muffled sounds that The Problem makes from the back of their throat, or whether they were excited or scared at the possibility of finally getting to talk to their illegitimate blood parent before their mouths were covered with tape and they beaten into unconsciousness and dragged into the trunk of a rusty sedan.

And you don't want to know about how they were killed (garotted) or where they were buried (in the desert off route 170) or how deep they were buried (they dug it for 3 hours and they had weak university women's wrists) or in what fashion they were buried (upside down so their demonic soul would not escape, but with a cross of St Andrew so their human one may) or what happened to their flesh (cut off and purged to the nearby beasts of the land and birds of the putrid and cold air). You don't want to know any of this, but as you supply your payment after I interrupt your dinner at a Greek restaurant, I tell you. You try and convince your children that I am crazy and a vagrant, and when I drag you into the alley and insist you tell your family the truth and your children don't cry because the truth is something to be proud of, to be celebrated, then you start to beg for mercy despite the fact that I am neither the provider of mercy nor the provider of vengeance, nor did I ever claim to be, and I find the assumptions ignorant at best and insulting at worst. And sometimes I find it in me to listen to your cries and take your family instead, and sometimes I do not.

The Nineteen-Eighties were a time of excess. There is no doubt.

[IMGS OFF]
...Yeah.

His mustache just sitting there, saying, "pst, hey belgand? wanna hang out? oh wait you aren't man enough to grow a fucking awesome mustache like me psh fuck you cunt mutherfucka!" and belgand just weeps and weeps for hours until his mom takes him out for ice cream then he is happy again.

Have an ice cream beard.

Lyle grew the second moustache as a "fuck you" to the McDonald's hair net.

S-S-SCREW YOU! I ONLY WEAR THE DOUBLE MOUSTACHE!

Wait. This is my ideal honeymoon too.

Romantic as hell, man.

This wasn't our honeymoon, but damned if it didn't seal the deal on this marriage!
[IMGS OFF]

Thank you for having a picture of yourself and your wife on a fan boat.

"There is no candy" spray-painted on the inside.

The Candy Is A Lie!

I gots to say, why not hate on Florida? It's got the Dali Museum on one coast and Coral Castle on the other, and nothing else decent. The state's a dick, every one in it is a dick. The entire Florida economy was built on drug running, which sounds cool at first and maybe it used to be but not anymore, oh no sir. People talk about The Everglades like they're some magical prehistoric utopia. It's a swamp. It's a big fucking swamp that used to be The Entire State before the white man drained everything north of Miami.
(Said drainage, by the way, has fucked up the ecosystem possibly beyond repair.)


Quick history lesson here. As a child learning the local history of Florida I was told, with pride, about how the Seminoles are the only undefeated Indian tribe in the entire country. Why is this? Because the Seminoles used to live in and around the Carolinas, but the white man kept killing them and pushing them farther and farther south until they had nowhere else to go but south Florida. The white man followed them, took one look around and said, "Fuck it." No one wants to live in Florida. It's not even worth killing Indians to live in Florida.


I regularly would find insects in my back yard that science has yet to classify. Love bug season: there are clouds of bugs so thick they blot out the sun, roaming the streets reproducing. Land crab season. What the shit kind of apocalypse is it when crabs, which live in water in case you didn't know, migrate across dry land only to be crushed by the thousands under the treads of SUVs?


Red tide on the Atlantic coast. Red Fucking Tide. The ocean itself is telling people: leave this place or you will breathe toxic fucking algae that grows in the water and kills pets and old people. I am completely serious when I ask, %u201Cwhy not hate on Florida?%u201D What is good, or even un-horrible, about that place?

He messed up the fjords.

T was going to start decorating the house in a girly way unless Lyle spilled the beans about Florida.

Damn Junta always ruining the alliteration.

your immediate family was beaten to death with rude ol' titties, weren't they?

AND KNOWING IS SJDJSDFASASDASDAS

Correct. I wanna cum.

I can't tell whether you mean that every woman has a cameltoe at some point in her life as some sort of weird "rite of passage" into womanhood...

...or if you live in a world of delusions where every woman you see is rocking a cameltoe at all times.

Or worse still that every woman you see actually does have a cameltoe at all time.

Some assetbar posters are from Florida.

Fred Durst is not real. He is an elaborate costume.

your avatar is like if The Shining took place at a water park.

I am so sorry: [IMGS OFF]

she looks like a Ramone, in high heels.

That thing is so ugly it makes me want to cry.

That's what she said.

That's what she said.

Toedor is an Asshole.

Correct. I wanna cum.

That's nice. Now go away.

i feel like opening an artery after reading that post.

one of your arteries

The correct answer is "Nah, I'm not really into Pokemon."

It is finals week. Students start doing crazy things, especially in the Hell Towers dorms, a 12-story X-wing architectural salute to Stalin. After dark, longhairs begin creeping out on the campus, stoked on psychedelics, for a few leisurely laps around the Towers.

On the 6th floor, a stressed-out freshman reaches the flashpoint of a semester-long disintegration. He has totally lost focus, can't concentrate in any of his classes, his grades have gone in the toilet, he can never face his stern father now. He is an 18-year old failure at life.
He strips off his clothes, goes out into the 6th floor lobby, and sprints at one of the full-size plate glass windows.
On the sidewalk below, two freaks hear a crashing noise above their heads, and look up to see a naked, hacked body haloed in shards of glass come hurtling down to the concrete with a splatting sound akin to meat being tenderized.

They really, really hope they are hallucinating, but they know in an instant they are not. They are both seeing this, hearing it, smelling it, and know it is not a hallucination, it cannot be a hallucination, although by all rights it should always be only a hallucination they can laugh back into the shadows. They try to laugh. They fail.
What tenuous grip they have on their minds slips away. They thought this was going to be a fine, frosty December night acid trip. They thought wrong.

They end up in the hospital E.R., strongly sedated, gibbering the rest of the night away. And gibbering the next few weeks also. The story is told and retold, becoming part of the lore of the Towers.

Every time I hear that song it bothers me that while he shot the man in Nevada, he's in a California prison. Now there are any number of explanations for this (parole violations, multiple shootings, etc.) but Johnny Cash gave none of them. I stopped a great karaoke rendition of that song once because this issue bothers me.

You must be a blast at parties.

It's not actually against the law to shoot people in Reno. He was in jail for something else altogether.