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Weekend war crazy. Westend leider zu wenig Leute, Davos war wasted. Es gibt doch tatsächlich noch Leute, die an einer Hiphop Party "Die Toten Hosen" wünschen. Drsh.

Ich hab noch nie so viele Drinks getrunken. Ich spürs jetzt noch. Damn.

Clubmosphere

Hallo Leute.

Hab im Moment viel zu tun im Büro - zwar nicht so viel wie für eine Diss - aber es reicht trotzdem nicht für regelmässige Blogs. Die einen freuts, die andern nicht. Die einen können mich und die andern......auch, sofern sie hübsch und weiblich sind.

Muss nur noch diese und nächste Woche arbeiten, dann bin ich ein freier, verantwortungsloser, steuergeldfressender, armer Student (welcher fast jeden Morgen ausschlafen kann). Mal sehen, wie lange das mit meiner exzellenten Selbstdisziplin gut geht.

Simi aka C.mEE aka Pfnüselküschtebueb aka ich-schlüdere-wenns-Schnee-hät schreibt seine Maturarbeit über Event Management. Was da natürlich nicht fehlen darf, ist das managen eines Events (aha!). Deshalb findet morgen seine Maturarbeits-Party statt:

(kein Pic mit besserer Auflösung? Quality Control ist manchen sehr wichtig!)

Das ganze findet wie gesagt morgen, Freitag, im Westend statt, welches unweit von der Toni Molkerei und grad vis à vis vom Parkhaus Club Q (hüstel) ist. Das Lineup ist fett und das ganze wird noch gehostet vom Viva VJ Clemens aka Smagoo aka ich-trink-Kafi-im-Usgang-und-leeren-über-mis-wiisse-Hämp. Ein Grund mehr zum dort sein.

Auf jeden Fall eine gute Sache um zu unterstützen, denn ihr wart ja schlussendlich alle mal in der Schule. Oder seid.

Es sind übrigens immer noch Lounges frei, welche ihr spottbillig bekommt und welche einen super Überblick auf die tanzenden Besoffenen gewährt. Bei dieser Hitze könnt ihr sogar auf die Köpfe spucken und es merkt keiner. Ein Spass für sich !

Also nicht entgehen lassen und man sieht sich morgen Abend, ab 22.00 im Westend.

(Wieso mach ich eigentlich fast nur Werbung?)

So long,

P.

New in town - Alpi Kebap

Der Nadja war's langweilig. Das kam dabei raus:

Ah nein, das gab's schon. Das kam raus:

Euer Kebapfather

The Cult Of Cartman

Ich traf mich gestern nach (wohlverdientem) Feierabend mit Stefan und paar Dosen Bier am See (no homo), um n bisschen über den kommenden 3:0 Sieg vom FCZ gegen Maribor und die Welt zu quatschen. Und wie vorauszusehen war, kamen wir ziemlich schnell auf unser Lieblingsthema und meine Hauptbeschäftigung meines heutigen Blogs: South Park und Eric Cartman. Je mehr Biere wir intus hatten, desto mehr Episoden und vor allem Zitate kamen uns in den Sinn und das Bedürfnis zum imitieren stieg und stieg, bis unsere Bänkli-Nachbarn uns anfingen komisch zu finden und schlussendlich das Weite suchten. Dazu würde Eric sagen:





"I would never let a woman kick my ass. If she tried something, I'd be like, AY! You get your bitch ass back in the kitchen and make me some pie!"”

Eric Cartman, seines Zeichens Juden- und Hippiehasser, muss man einfach lieben. Das grösste Arschloch der Welt (nach dem deiner Mutter, Zitat Farid Bang) und gleichzeitig der kleine, fette Junge, der als Britney Spears verkleidet mit einer Justin Timberlake Atrappe knutscht, schafft es mehr als jede andere Person mich zum lachen zu bringen. Wer jetzt denkt "Nää, hab ich ja auch schon auf MTV/Comedy Central geschaut, ist gar nicht so witzig" ist ein elender Banause und hat die Sendung eh nur auf deutsch gesehen, was der wohl vernünftigste Grund für einen Bungee Jump ohne Seil wäre. Southparkstudios.com ist zwar zugegangen (für nicht-Amis), jedoch gibt's jetzt southpark.de wo man alle Episoden auf Englisch und auf Deutsch schauen kann.

Wer nun also mal den Blogfather trifft, aber nicht weiss über was er mit ihm reden soll (shame on u!), der schaut sich jetzt einige Folgen South Park an (am besten die, die sich um unseren heissgeliebten Cartman (no pädo/homo) drehen) und merkt sich ein paar Zitate. Hier eine Liste einiger guten Episoden, wobei natürlich alle gut sind:

• Cartman Joins NAMBLA
• Scott Tenorman Must Die
• Cartmanland
• AWESOM-O
• The Death of Eric Cartman
• Fishsticks

Ich weiss, ihr kennt alle South Park. Aber ihr kennt nicht alle Folgen ! Also Hausaufgaben bis in einer Woche: South Park schauen, ist ja schliesslich Allgemeinbildung. Seid dankbar, ich helfe euch, euer Intellekt zu erweitern.

In diesem Sinne,

Screw u guys, I'm going home.

I hope they serve beer in hell trailer

Das Buch ist zu so was wie meiner Bibel geworden. Wer es nicht kennt, KAUFEN (zumindest LESEN u dirty scumbags!) !

Auf jeden Fall wurde das Buch jetzt verfilmt und der Trailer ist draussen:





Der sieht zwar für Nicht-Kenner nicht so prickelnd aus, aber ich freu mich drauf.

Kostprobe aus Tucker Max' Leben:

I used to think that Red Bull was the most destructive invention of the past 50 years. I was wrong. Red Bull has been usurped by the portable alcohol breathalyzer. The same device that cops have been using for 10 years to conduct field sobriety tests is now offered by the Sharper Image for $99. It is the size and shape of a small cell phone with a clear round tube sticking up from the top, almost like an antenna. One blows into the tube, and a few seconds later a Blood Alcohol Content (BAC) reading is given. Though not as accurate as a blood test, they are accurate to within .01, which is good enough for my purposes.
I was living in Boca Raton, Florida, when I bought one to take out with me on a Saturday night. This is the story:

9:00pm: Arrive at the restaurant. I am the first one of the group there, even though our reservations are for 9pm. The restaurant is crowded full of the abysmal type of people that infest South Florida. Already depressed, I order a vodka and club soda.
9:08: No one else has arrived. I order another vodka and club. I consider checking my BAC, but doubt that it would show anything thus far.
9:10: Two 30+ year-old Jewish women on my left keep eyeing me. Both have fake breasts. One has exceptionally large fake breasts. They are beckoning me from her shirt. She is not highly attractive. I begin drinking faster.
9:15: No one else has arrived. I order my third vodka and club. While I wait for it, I try out my portable breathalyzer. I blow a .02. This is the greatest invention ever made. I am giddy. I show the breathalyzer to the fake-breasted Jewish women next to me. We begin a conversation.
9:16: They both have thick Long Island accents. I summon the bartender over and change my order to a tall double vodka on the rocks, splash of club.
9:23: Four people at the bar have tried my breathalyzer, both of the fake-breasted women included. Everyone wants to know their BAC. I am the center of attention. I am happy.
9:25: The first member of my group arrives. I show him the breathalyzer. He is enthralled. He buys a round. The fake-breasted women loudly inform us they would like drinks. My friend buys them drinks. I order a double vodka on the rocks. No splash.
9:29: I blow again, a .04. I've been drinking for half an hour, and am on my forth drink. My wheels of intellect begin grinding through the vodka haze that is already forming...four drinks...a .04...that must mean that each drink only adds .01 to my BAC. I begin to think that I can drink a lot. I tell one of the fake-breasted women that she is very interesting.
9:38: Six of the eight are here. I lie to the hostesses, and they seat our incomplete party. Everyone is talking about my breathalyzer. I am the focus of adulation. I forgive everyone for sucking so bad. I think this night may go OK after all.
9:40: I blow again, a .05. This confuses me. I haven't ordered another drink since I blew a .04. I have a vague memory from a long distant D.A.R.E. class about the rate of alcohol absorption being constant, regardless of speed of drinking. This memory quickly fades when two hot girls at the table next to me inquire about my portable breathalyzer.
9:42: Hot girl #2 is into me. She begins telling me a story about how she got pulled over once for DUI, and had to blow into something like this, and the cop let her off. She tells me that she always wanted to be a cop, but couldn't pass the entrance exam to the police academy, even though she took it twice. I tell her that she must be really smart. She stops paying attention to me. Hot girl #2 is apparently smart enough to detect thinly veiled sarcasm.
10:04: The novelty of the portable breathalyzer has passed. The table has moved on. I am no longer the center of attention. I am not happy with my table.
10:06: The people at my table begin talking about energy healing. Everyone is mesmerized by a girl who took a class in it. I tell them that energy healing is a worthless and solipsistic pseudo-science. They think energy healing is a real science because the instructor of the girl's class went to Harvard. One guy calls it a "legitimate, certifiable science," while making air quotes with his fingers. I tell them that they are all (while imitating his air quotes) "legitimate, certifiable idiots" because they believe in horse-shit like energy healing. Two girls call me close-minded. I tell them that they are so open-minded that their brains leaked out. They all glare at me with disapproval. I hate everyone at my table.
10:08: I have completely tuned out their inane conversation. I am slamming down straight vodka as fast as the low-rent wanna-be Ethan Hawke waiter can bring it. I blow every three minutes, watching my BAC slowly creep up.
10:10: .07
10:17: .08. I am no longer legally eligible to drive in the state of Florida. I announce this fact to no one in particular.
10:26: .09
10:27: I decide that I am going to see how drunk I can get and still be functional. I know that .35 BAC kills most people. I think that .20 is a good goal.
10:28: I get up, saying nothing to the seven sophists at my table, and go back to the bar. I don't leave money for my drinks.
10:29: The fake-breasted women are still at the bar. They want drinks. Upset that I'm only at .09 after a good hour and a half of aggressive drinking, I decide to do a round of shots. I let the women pick the shots, with the explicit instruction that it cannot be whiskey, cannot smell like whiskey, cannot even resemble whiskey.
10:30: The shots arrive. Tequila. Judging by the bill, very good tequila. It is smooth. We order another round.
11:14: I blow a .15. I have passed a milestone. Only .05 away from my goal. My pride swells. I show everyone my .15. The bar crowd is impressed. I am their idol. Someone buys me a shot.
11:28: I feel queasy. I realize that I didn't even stick around the table for dinner. Not wanting to either go back to my table or eat at the bar, I walk across the street to a sushi restaurant.
11:29: There is a lingerie party at the sushi restaurant. Half of the people are in some form of pajamas or other bedtime clothing. Everyone here sucks as bad as the last place, except they are in their underwear.
11:30: I am confused. I only want sushi. I stand at the door, mesmerized by the shifting masses of near nakedness. A mildly attractive girl who apparently works at the restaurant wants me to put on lingerie. I tell her I don't have any. I just want some sushi. She says I should at least take off my pants. I ask her if this will get me sushi. She says it will. I take off my pants.
11:30: I pause while unzipping my pants, wondering what type of underwear, if any, I have on. I consider not taking my pants off. I realize that getting food quickly is more crucial than my dignity.
11:31: I take off my pants. I have on pink and white striped Gap boxers. They are too tight. I make sure my package is tucked in. People watch me do this.
11:32: I order sushi by pointing at the pictures and grunting.
11:33: I show a guy at the sushi bar my breathalyzer. He is impressed. He shows it to everyone. People begin congregating around me. I am a star again.
11:41: I blow a .17. I tell everyone my goal. Someone orders me a shot.
11:42: I do the shot. Something that has a familiar taste, makes me feel warm inside. I ask what it is. "Cognac and Alize." There is a God, and he hates me.
11:47: My sushi arrives. I slosh soy sauce over it and shovel it into my mouth as quickly as my hands will get it there.
11:49: My sushi is finished. No one is paying attention to my table manners, as everyone is crowded around the breathalyzer, waiting their turn to find out their BAC.
12:18: I blow a .20. I AM A GOD. The sushi bar erupts. Men are applauding me. Girls are pining for me. Everyone wants to talk to me. I forgive them their flaws, as they are all paying attention to me.
12:31: My deity status is lost. Someone blows a .22. This is a challenge to my manhood. I order a depth charge with a Bacardi 151 shot. And a beer back. The crowd is in awe.
12:33: I finish the depth charge, and the beer. I talk shit to my challenger, "Who runs this bar now, BITCH??" The crowd erupts. Momentum has swung back in my direction. I am Maximus. I am winning the crowd. I will rule the sushi bar.
12:36: I take a better look at my challenger. He is a tall, broad-shouldered, heavily muscular man. His natural facial expression is not one of happiness. He quietly watches me, then orders a shot, throws it back without noticeable effect, and smiles at me. I consider that talking shit to him was a bad idea. At this point I also realize that my stomach is very upset with me. I ignore it. I still have a public that needs to adore me.
12:54: I blow a .22. Only mild cheers this time. Everyone is waiting for the challenger to blow.
12:56: He blows a .24. He smiles condescendingly at me. I order two more shots.
12:59: I do the first shot. It doesn't go down well. I decide to take a short break from drinking. The crowd is not impressed.
1:10: Reality sets in. I am going to vomit. A LOT. I try to discreetly make it outside.
1:11: I knock a girl over as I sprint through the door.
1:11: I trip over a bush, stumble into it, and begin throwing up. Out of my mouth. And nose. It is not pleasant.
1:14: I can't figure out why my legs hurt so much. I look down at them in between heaves. I have no pants on. Thorns and branches are embedded in my shins.
1:18: The vomiting is over. I am now trying to stop the bleeding. A bright light hits my eyes. I am not happy. I tell the owner to "get that fucking light out of my face." The owner of the light identifies himself as an officer of the law. I apologize to the officer, and ask him what the problem is. A long pause ensues. The light is still in my eyes. "Son, where are your pants?" Remembering past encounters with the law, and realizing there is no one around to bail me out of the county lock-up, I summon every bit of adrenaline in my body to sober myself up. I apologize again, and explain to the officer that my pants are in the restaurant that is less than 50 feet away, and that I came outside to share my sushi with the bush. He doesn't laugh. Another long pause. "You're not driving tonight are you?", "Oh, NO, NO, NO...no sir, I don't even have a valid driver's license."
1:20: He tells me to go back inside, put on my pants, and call a cab.
1:21: I go back into the sushi restaurant. A few people stare at me in a peculiar manner. I look down, and then tuck my partially exposed sack back into my boxers. I don't know what to do about my bleeding legs. I look around for my pants.
1:24: I can't find my pants. My breathalyzer is in clear sight. I blow. A .23. Someone informs me that my challenger just blew a .26. They add that he hasn't thrown up yet. I tell them to "kiss my fucking ass." My last clear memory.
8:15am: I wake up. I don't know where I am. It is very hot. I am sweating horribly. It smells like rotting flesh.
8:16: I am in my car. With the windows up. The sun is beating down directly on me. It is at least 125 degrees in my car. I open the door and try to get out, but instead I fall onto the pavement. The scabs that cover my legs tear and reopen as I move. My penis falls out of my pink Gap boxers and lands, along with the rest of me, in a dirty puddle on the asphalt.
8:19: The fetid standing water finally propels me into full consciousness. I can't find my pants. Or cell phone. Or wallet. But I do have my breathalyzer. I blow. A .09. I am still not eligible to drive in the state of Florida.
8:22: I drive home anyway.
Let me be clear about this night: it was in my top 5 drunkest nights ever. I was completely shit-housed. I threw up multiple times, some of them through my nose. JESUS CHRIST, I WOKE UP blowing a .09. That's fucking ridiculous. That thing is awful. All you do is drink in order to increase your BAC. That device is the devil dressed in a transistor.
My advice to you: avoid it at all costs.

Ist zwar n bisschen viel zum Lesen, aber wenn Euch so langweilig im Büro ist, wie mir gerade, werdet Ihr es nicht bereuen.

So long.

http://dontevenreply.com

Ein Freund von mir hat mir diese Seite gezeigt. Und seriously Leute, manche Stories haben mich mich selbst fast bepissen lassen. Zum Glück ist mein Büropartner in den Ferien, sonst hätte ich mir die Faust in den Mund stecken müssen (no homo).

Die Seite wird betrieben von nem Typen, der auf E-Mail Inserate antwortet. Möglichst grotesk und absurd. Aber seht selbst:

Original ad:
i am looking to trade/barter my 1994 Jeep
Wrangler. 140k miles, yellow, good condition. NO CASH. I will barter just about
anything of equal value!

From Mike Anderson to
**********@***********.org
CC: Kira Anderson

Hey,

I saw your ad for a '94 Wrangler for barter. I will trade you my whore of a wife
for that car. She is a dirty little slut that fucks just about anything that
moves. She doesn't really have much to offer, so I figure she is worth about the
price of a used 1994 wrangler. I understand if you think she isn't worth it, so
I am willing to throw in $200 cash on top of that. If you are looking for a
loose whore that will give it up easily, my wife will be well worth the trade.
Let me know if you are interested. Does the Wrangler come with a title?

From Jim ***** to Me

Ha ha! Very funny. I am
married and don't think I would be interested in your wife. Thanks for the offer
though!

From Kira Anderson to Me, Jim *****

OH
FUCK YOU MIKE!! DROP FUCKING DEAD!!! YOU ARE SUCH A SCUMBAG PIECE OF SHIT I
FUCKING HATE YOU!!!

From Mike Anderson to Kira Anderson, Jim
*****

Fuck YOU, you stupid cunt! What are you doing on the
computer? I figured you were fucking Steve again. Or how about our neighbor? I'm
sure he's looking to stick his dick in some rotten pussy. You fucking twat.

From Kira Anderson to Me, Jim *****

MIKE YOU
FUCKING ASSHOLE THIS IS IT. DONT EVEN THINK ABOUT COMING HOME TODAY BECAUSE ILL
BE WAITING WITH A FUCKIN KNIFE

From Mike Anderson to Kira
Anderson, Jim *****

Ooh I'm real fucking scared. It might be
kind of hard to stab me with 10 inches of black dick in your mouth you fucking
WHORE

From Jim ***** to Me, Kira Anderson

Hey
you two sound like a great couple and all, but could you stop including me in
these e-mails? I really don't think this concerns me.

From Kira
Anderson to Mike Anderson, Jim *****

TELL YOU WHAT JIM ILL BUY
YOUR FUCKING WRANGLER SO I CAN RUN OVER MY PIECE OF SHIT HUSBAND WITH IT

From Mike Anderson to Jim *****, Kira Anderson

Jim don't sell it to her. She'll probably pick up a random dude and
crash the jeep while she's sucking his dick.

From Kira Anderson
to Mike Anderson, Jim *****

FUCK YOU

From Jim
***** to Me, Kira Anderson

Will both of you SHUT THE FUCK UP
and stop e-mailing me? Jesus fucking christ man c'mon!

Und für die, die den IQ einer Mineralwasserflasche haben: Mike und Kira sind natürlich die selbe Person.

Ich versüss mir jetzt weiterhin meinen Arbeitstag...und zwar auf

http://dontevenreply.com/

Al P.

Goin' on

Weiter geht's mit der Beef-Geschichte. Ich hätt's mir zwar beefiger gewünscht, aber es ist immer noch eine gehörige Portion Rindfleisch dabei:

http://www.renne.ch/archives/1537

Würd mich schon wundernehmen, was die 12-jährige Katrin geschrieben hat.

liber herr emm,

bitte höhr auf blick zu beleidigen. meine mutter hat mier seine cd
geschenkt auf meinen 12. geburztag und sie ist mega kuhl. ich höhre sie immer
wenn ich mit meinen freundinnen barbi spiele.

also höhr auf! sonst kanns du was erleben!

katrin

Okay, so schlimm wird's nicht sein. Hoffentlich. Aber ich weiss doch nicht, wie 12 jährige denken. Emm?
Ich stand mit 12 zwar auch schon auf Bligg'n'Lexx. Aber deren Mucke war echt cool(hab mir die neuen Bligg Sachen nie angehört, also no hate!).

Blog-Beef, Vacation and more

Meine Damen und Herren, der erste Blog Beef ist on. Im Ring stehen Monsieur Emm (http://www.renne.ch/archives/1530) und Monsieur Bligg (http://bligg.ch/2009/08/02/emm-wer/). Aus meiner Sicht äusserst amüsant, aus Emm's Sicht äusserst Klicks-einbringend, aus Bligg's Sicht äusserst peinlich. Denn wieso braucht sich ein dreifach-Platingewinner zu rechtfertigen, vor allem wenn Emm ja so ein kleiner Fisch ist? Neid? Komplexe? Kleiner Penis? Erfolg in den Kopf gestiegen?

Naja, auf jeden Fall solltet Ihr euch die Blogs unbedingt geben und das ganze weiterverfolgen. Denn da kommt bestimmt noch was aus Emm's Ecke (wie zB. vor einigen Wochen sein Free-Mixtape "Summer in the Hamptons", aber ich verrat Euch was: Der Herr lügt. Er verweilt nämlich in Luzern, und nicht in den Hamptons. Trotzdem reinhören! Eventuell gibt's sogar noch n Review, will sie het ken Slip underem Chleid!).

"Soooo Herr Blogfather. Was war denn der Grund für Ihre lange Abwesenheit?", fragt sich der Eine oder Andere von Euch bestimmt. (Oder auch nicht.) Und ich muss sagen...2 Wochen Sonne und Strand. 2 Wochen 35°-40° C. Und dann kommt man so wieder nach Zürich, mit der Hoffnung, der Klimawandel ermöglicht einem auch mal ein bisschen wärmere Verhältnisse. Dann isses so 27°. Was ja an sich ganz okay ist. Wenn dann aber Leute anfangen mit "Fuuuuck eeeey, es isch viiil zheeeeiiss", dann wünsch ich mir manchmal ne Pumpgun.

Auf jeden Fall bin ich ja wieder da und wieder am arbeiten und so. Da sollte wieder mehr kommen, meine Freunde (tiefe Tonlage, Kolle-Style).

So long.