The Emancipation Declarative Statement

I think that's a double negetive...

I done broke outta Shawshank!

Toiling for months under the iron fist of a totalitarian regime of capitalism and supply and demand, life was grim. My freedom of speech eroded, my basic human rights on the brink of collapse, my laughter silenced. All was dull in an already dull world.

Big Brother was Magick Island Technologies. They offered internet service. For an outrageous price, you could get spotty internet service at random times while unusual websites were blocked. Such was the case with HMNIG. When I tried to access it, it told me the site was restricted because it was porn. Porn! When has Gorgeous EVER had porn? What about the site makes it even remotely resemble porn? It was outrageous. It was unjust. It was...my only option for internet service.

So I abided. Another broken soul claimed by The Man.

Two days ago, I got wind that Magick Island Technologies no longer blocked porn. I didn't care about that. But Gorgeous was, apparently, porn. So I tried it. I was greeted by a striking picture of David Coverdale (see below), the new poster boy for literary freedom. Apparently Wick has been at work, though just barely. My reemergence can hopefully spark his creative genious. That is, if it can fight through the bourbon haze surrounding his brain.

I have been emancipated. The bonds of bondage have been un-bonded.

An explanation

I know what you're thinking, "those Gorgeous boys tease bigger than David Coverdale's hair. Comin' back for a hot minute only to disappear faster than the Social Security surplus." Let me assure you of two things, 1. the title of this post is not smoke and mirrors, and 2. yes, dropping David Coverdale was a blatant excuse to run a picture.

Eat your heart out, Rick Steves

That's out of my system so onto the promised explanation. I could tell you that I've been busy at work, that I've had some shit in my personal life, but you don't want excuses, and, frankly, it doesn't make for hilarious blog banter. Recognition by the U.S. military as porn, however, makes for it in spades. Turns out this site has recently garnered said recognition (look at us, winning awards). As such, dear Pennypacker gets nil in the way of access, and you miss out on the unicorn-like enchantment of his words. (This raises a question; why doesn't the military allow porn access to troops? I have a few guesses, all of which are uncouth. I welcome insight.)

We are working out the kinks to ensure a less sporadic dose of your favorite adventure hounds. Until then...

Cats: Nature's Assholes

I don't like cats. I don't like people who like cats. I don't like people who like people who like cats. Most people who like cats remind me of this:



I can hear you all now. "But cats are cute!" Wrong. "Cats are nice!" Wrong. "Cats are your best friend!" You're delusional.

I just ate your soul

Cats are sneaky, evil assholes. They operate independantly to carry out devious missions of assassination, espionage, and mayhem. They are ninjas.

I killed Lincoln

People think they own their cats. Wrong. Cats have no human master. They take orders directly from their unnamed leader, seen here. He is part cat, part god. He is the reason ancient Egyptions worshipped cats. And that's the reason Egypt is a smelly pile of third world filth today. They worshipped evil.

Walk into the home of someone who has cats. Cover your nose first, or you might vomit. Immediately ask the person where their cat is. They have no idea. That's because cats can be anywhere at any time. A dog runs to greet you as soon as it hears your keys jingling in the door. As soon as a cat hears you, it finds a place to hide to scare the shit out of you.

Let me just throw these wet clothes in the HOLY SHIT!!!

Cats attack anything. If you think it's just humans, you're as wrong as you are about everything else. Cats attack everything from grass to paper clips to other cats.

I'll make this look like suicide...

When I was about eight years old, I slept over at a friend's house. Austin had two cats. One was black (obvious sign of evil), but pretty laid back. For a cat, anyway. Obviously, she was a high-level operative. A leader of ninjas. But the other one, Scotty, was a menace. We were getting ready for bed, and Austin turns to me. "By the way, sometimes Scotty likes to sleep on people's chest when they sleep. So if you wake up and Scotty's on your chest, don't make any sudden moves. If you do he'll attack your face."

I didn't sleep that night.

No sudden moves...

Scotty was a pure assassin. And he was good. Possibly the best. Austin and I once saw him in the front yard, hunched over something. We went over to him and he was eating a chipmunk. Now, I'm eight years old. One of my favorite cartoons is "Chip and Dale." Not the Rescue Rangers bullshit, but the original from the '40s. But Scotty ate Chip. The bastard ate Chip!

We also once found him eating a bat. A bat! How the hell does a cat catch a fucking bat? Bats fly! A lot!

In addition to the standard assassination and espianoge, cats dabble in sabotage. Why doesn't my TV work? Cat. Why did my power go out? Cat. How did the condom break? Cat.

The yellow one is video

To date, I've only found two weaknesses. Food and water. But be careful about the water; it usually just pisses them off. Then the next time you open the freezer...POW! Right in your face.

Overdose

I...am going...to kill you.

Cats are the worst. And they stink. It's easy to tell if a person owns a cat: they smell like kitty litter and urine. The whole kitty litter concept is ridiculous and disgusting. Here's an idea: fill a box with stuff that smells like piss and shit, fill it up with actual piss and shit, and then leave it in your house. Cause you know what would freshen this place up a bit? Feces.

Nature's assholes.

Open Letter Wednesday

Rashida Jones
c/o Brillstein-Gray Entertainment
9150 Wilshire Blvd.
Beverly Hills, CA 90212

Dear Rashida,

What up girl? How you livin? I've been seeing you a lot lately, TV, big screen, all that. Them sexy, bottomless-coffee eyes looking back at me saying “I know you dig what you see.” I do, I dig massive. And that’s why we should be together, ya heard? You get me.

I’m no fool so I realize one paragraph isn’t going to cut it; you need supporting evidence. Check this baby, we've got commonalities for days. Your father is an influential musical icon. My father is a deejay for a small-town radio station, and he loves your dad. We both are of Irish ancestry. You went to Harvard and had a supporting role in Boston Public. I live near Harvard and am supported by Boston public transportation. One of my favorite Gap commercials (Everyone in Vests) features you singing and you lend your vocal talents to the first Maroon 5 album. I sing over that shit all the time. It’s eerie, right?

Back in the day, Tupac blasted interracial marriage, specifically between your parents. Your response? An open letter defending the marriage and taking Pac to task, which eventually led to his relationship and engagement to your sister. I’m a wealth of open letters. George Lucas, Big Chicken, Sean Penn, shit, even Mother Nature and chick is an omnipresent entity. Could we be more in tune?

What about your dating history? Tobey McGuire, Seth Myers, John Krasinski. Notice a theme? Talented, funny, dopey dudes. While my talent and hilarity are only appreciated, if not always acknowledged, by the tens (generous estimate) of people that tune into Gorgeous, my dopiness is readily conceded by everyone that knows me.

Peep that, a cornucopia of reasons for you to slide my way. What say we create an unbreakable bond based on mutual admiration of (y)our considerable talents and light a love-fire that burns hotter than 1,000 suns for all eternity? I’m cool with making a stable of vanilla-kissed super babies too. Whatever greases your wheels, darlin.

Tickled and pining,
-Brunswick P. Danforth

Where Yous Been At???

It's been a long time, kids! Where yas been? Dere's been so much goin' on. Good and bad, yaknowhaddamean. First of all, da Phil's!! How 'bout it? All dem years since da Phillies did anything. Actually, all dem years since ANY Philly team has done a fuckin' ting. It's about damn time, dat's all I can say! Whaddaya say dere, Vinny?

Vinny: It's about damn time.

Birdman: Fuckin' A, pal. I tell you kids what, after da Phils won, I got fuckin' smashed. Well, I was already fuckin' smashed. Whaddaya say dere, Vinny?

Vinny: Fuckin' smashed.

Birdman: Fuckin' right. Well, after dey officially won, I celebrated by kickin' the shit outta some mick fucks, rolled a car, and lit a bag a shit on fire. Whaddaya say dere, Vin?

Vinny: Wasn't it on your own porch?

Birdman: Shuddafuckup, Vinny! YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!!!

Vinny: I don't know anything.

Birdman: Fuckin' A. So dat's dat, now let's move on. Once again, my beloved Birds fucked up and didn't make it to da Sooper Bowl. You know who I blame? Brian Dawkins. Dat's right. He knew he was gon' be traded, so he let da team down. Him and McNabb. And Westbrook. And Andy Reed. In fact, da whole team's a bunch a fucks. Dey can't win da Sooper Bowl? Fire dem all and fuckin' kill dere families. Dere's better players out dere who'd love ta play for da classy fans of Philly. I'm tellin' ya. Whaddaya say, Vinny?

Vinny: Classy fans.

Birdman: Fuckin' A we're classy. The classiest fans in the wor...

(yells at TV)

Rip dat faggot's face off and shit in his throat! Fuckin' Penguins can lick da diarrhea from my ball sac!

Vinny: Classy fans.

Birdman: Shuddafuckup Vinny. It's almost Stanly Cup Season, and our beloved Flyers are lookin' to bring anudder championship to Philly. I tink Philly is gonna be like dem pricks in Boston, wit more den one team winning championships. Da Flyers are gon beat da piss outta everyone else, you just wait an see.

Vinny: Beat da piss outta everyone.

Birdman: No one asked you, Vinny.

Bartender: Yous guys wan anudder round?

Birdman: Da fuck you tink, Dom? Of COURSE we do. I only had twelve. I need at least 15 before I can go home and show da wife who's boss. So anyways, da Phils kick ass, da Eggles suck as usual, and da Flyers are gonna kill some mudderfuckers in da playoffs. And by da way, da defending World Series Champs just started anudder season, where we go back ta back. Until September, it's a good time to be a Philly Fan.

Vinny: A good time.

Birdman: Shuddafuckup, Vin.

New Research Suggests Dog and Penis Size Related

"Why does that dude have a rat on a leash? Oh, wait. That's his dog. What a douche."


New evidence recently released confirms that not only is the above statement scientific fact, it goes on to state that dudes who have dogs shorter than mid-calf have small penises.

"There is direct correlation between the size of the canine and the size of the owner's genitalia," explains Dr. Wesley O'Shannon, author of the study. "Our findings suggests that the lack of penile length prevents these men from owning a 'real' dog, one that is kick-ass and awesome. MRI's and CAT scans of these owners shows that due to extra blood in the brain, blood that would otherwise be used in a larger penis, these men cannot conprehend the fact that their dogs are retarded."

Dr. Shannon points to the follwing chart, which shows the direct connection between dog size and the owner's penis size:

We here at HMNIG have done our own fact checking on these new findings. After extensive thought and real-world research (0.2 seconds) we agree. Although, we do have some caveats to this theory. We find that there are some exceptions to this rule; as in guys that have excuses to own ridiculously small dogs. They may or may not fit into the above chart. The following may be excluded:

-Dudes who took in stray dogs out of pity

-Gay dudes

-Dudes who have girlfriends/wives that forced them to buy a rat for a pet

-Dudes who have a dog that gave birth to a runt, and they were forced to keep said runt

The follwing are those that are not excluded from the theory, and quite obviously are accurately plotted on the above chart:

-Doug Ackley

The bottom line is this: If your dog can't eat another dog, then you probably shouldn't have it.

Sailing on a stream of consciousness

Hey, you. Yeah, you in the Mercedes wagon. You’re a douche. If you want a Benz, get a fucking Benz; if you want a kid carrier, get a van. Driving an E-Class is like dating a mildly attractive girl with six younger sisters, all of whom are Petra Nemcova-hot, exponentially more fun to be around, kinda interested in you, and possess righteously rotund rumps, not the tank ass your lady is lugging.

On the subject of things I loathe, American Idol. A little bit because neither the parts nor the sum are great, and a lotta bit because I can’t look away. I particularly despise when contestants wave their fingers and pretend-talk (even though we can clearly hear Seacrest) to let the TV audience know what number to call or text. I’m almost inspired to take action, if only I hadn’t been beaten about the head audibly and visually with the information you are now mouthing and gesturing during 80% of your performance.

Conversation that could take place between Seacrest and male contestants:

Seacrest: Bro, let’s scene it tonight. Beverly Wilshire at eleven. We’re gonna tear more ass than hot sauce. We don’t even need blow. I’m Dick fuckin Clark.

SingerX: I’m really uncomfortable.

Randy: Jumpin’ off smidgy whaaaaaaa!

Uh oh, now I’m ranting…

Does anyone have hair as beat as Rick Steves?

"We do!!!!"

Dude’s hair has been whack longer than Anthony Mason has been ugly.

"THAT'S F'UHEVAH"

The good ship Danforth is being driven ashore by a wave of fatigue. Signing off