Mack Avenue Skullgame
Vinnie Pick of the Week
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...with loads? Yes, with LOADS!
[ Full Review ]








12.14.09
JOIN US AT SKULLGAME AS WE CELEBRATE THE JEW FESTIVAL OF LIGHTS, CHAKAKHAN, BY BLAZING A TORCH, BLOWING A SHOFAR, HAVING MIRIAM FREEDMAN BLOW US & WATCHING THE SCREECHED PORNO. PLUS: TIME MAGAZINE FUCKS UP. ROYALLY. A JUDGE ROY BEAN REPORT O'SHAME.

AND as we begin lighting the festive menorah centrally displayed at Casa Skull in the trembling hands of SkullGame writer TOOT SWEET we think about all we have to be thankful for this end of year at the illustrious Mack Avenue.

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EVERYTHING. AND SHIT.



WELL ALMOST EVERYTHING...

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BUY THIS FUCKING BOOK: A LONG SLOW SCREW. IT SUCKS ABOUT AS MUCH AS GETTING HEAD FROM ABOUT 30 SLUTS AT ONCE DOES.




IN ACT OF GROSS NEGLIGENCE, TIME MAGAZINE MISTAKENLY NAMES SKULLGAME MEMBERS INDIVIDUALLY AS "PERSON OF THE YEAR."

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After seemingly running out of brutal, bloodthirsty dictators and fundamentalist bigots alike, Time Magazine goes one step further and gives every reprobate with a wandering eye the crown in the official, year-end "Thanks So Much For Your Efforts In Fucking Up The World This Year" award ceremonies.

Time.com (SkullGame)--Forgetting that in naming "you" as the winner of the Person of the Year award also extended to us, or at least those of us who managed to steal the Dec. 13th issue from neighborhood mailboxes, or picked the magazine up in the waiting room whilst visiting our probation officers, Time Magazine effectively bestowed its long sought-after award to the entirety of the SkullGame staff, and here is what each individual recipient had to say about it:

Vinnie Rose: "Who knew that sitting at your kitchen table, drunk off of wine, in the lonely hours of the night, since ruining your favorite computer chair, writing love letters to those who have long-since passed and hate mail to those who have not, would result in me being crowned the winner of the Man of Illegitimate Income award? Now if they only gave trophies for Wondering Where It All Went Wrong...

Italian Sal Pacino: "Am I surprised? I'd have to say 'no.' Unless you can point out another person in this room that has had sex with a bemoustached Armenian immigrant 'woman' this year. And took pictures of it. And showed people these pictures, keeping a straight face as they choked on their own yak. Western Importer of Most Lax Morals award? Yeah, that sounds about right.

Steely Rob: "Father of the Year? Holy shit."

Judge Roy Bean: "To call it random would be a bit of an overstatement, what since I've kept my toothbrush in the shower for the past six months and all but, nonetheless, I'm glad they've finally started recognizing Getting Drunk and Pissing in the Sink as an Olympic sport, and passing out the due rewards. Say, do I get paid for this thing?"

Mr. Xtra: "After not lying nearly as much this year as I did last, in regards to how many women I didn't sleep with...I mean didn't sleep with me...I mean...thanks to my crippling Asian bitch porn addiction, wherein I work diligently towards convincing Japan to ban white men in totality...wait...what am I again?"

English Bob: "Well considering that I spent the lion's share of the year lying on the floor of my kitchen in a dirty bathrobe, wet with my own urine and tears, after ingesting a heroic amount of unidentified pills that Vinnie Rose Fed Ex'd me, it's a great surprise, upon awakening and finding everything in my life to be just as much of a fucking mess as when I last left it, that Martin Green has went and won himself the coveted position of Homosexual of the Year. Cheers Martin, you fuckin' fag you."

Butcher Bob: "I figured that leaving Milwaukee was the first step towards the Caribbean Convict of the Year award. I just didn't know it was going to happen so quickly. Or that they were handing out blue ribbons in the middle of the night."

Maximum: "I knew that one day I would be recognized for the sheer amount of 22 oz. Budweisers I can drink on a work night, bongs I can load on my lunch break, and rides I can let Judge Roy Bean bum rides off of me without turning his pockets inside out and shaking that motherfucker up and down over a freeway overpass. It would just take a little bit of time. I'd like to thank all the doctors for their help in making me Time Magazine's Best Dude Who Beat a Staph Infection This Year award. It was a long, hard road..."

Heinrich Bimmler: "Jah, after helpings to rid zee toxic cesspool of zee California from all zee subhuman vermin type of Juden, Negro and Scientologist, one bullet at a time from mine vindow, just like zee Schvarzenegger told me to, I knew zat I vould be in zee running for zis avard. But I thinks it vas zee cockblocking of zee mud person Italian Sals Pacino zat put me in such gut favors with zee Fuhrer. Zat is vhy I am so happy to accepts this award for German Overachiever of zee Year. Sieg Heil and Guten Tag comrades!"

Cornholio: "The fuck did you just call me, motherfucker?"

Popeye Katsopolis: "Did I ever tell yous about the time I haphazardly wandered into the gay sex maze after haphazardly wandering into the gay sex club that haphazardly had a big neon sign with dicks on it glowing outside? Did I tell yous about how I spent a good 30 minutes and 5 dollars playing Frogger in the employee's lounge of said haphazard gay sex establishment? Did I tell yous that all I wanted was just a fucking drink? That's why I'm Time Magazine's Non-Gay Person of the Year. It took a lot of work..."



AND THE SLUTTIE, THE SKULLGAME REVIEW OF THE YEAR AWARD, GOES TO OUR OWN...JUDGE ROY BEAN

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THE SKULLGAME SLUTTIE IS AWARDED TO THEMS THAT WRIT THE BESTEST!!!

SAN FRANCISCO (SkullGame) -- Every now and then again a review reaches the level of stunningly great writing, hurtful arrogance and belittling balefulness and the winner of this such-like award is our own JUDGE ROY BEAN whose rape of DUSTIN DIAMOND in SCREECHED should be in the NYT for how completely it will make "Screech" cry big ol' tears of awareness at his own present worthlessness while giving YOU the reading public all you need to know to make an informed decision immediately prior to jerking your cock off.

Mr. Judge Roy Bean, we salute you!

SCREECHED

We've all shit our pants at one time or the other.

At ground-zero, pants shitting generally propels the pants shitter into a suspended state of disbelief, of both shock and awe. What follows shortly thereafter is usually a sense of deep sadness, a sort of woe that permeates their every surrounding. It's a flood of emotion, a process if you will, not unlike that which is experienced when dealing with the death of a loved one.

But while in the midst of a shitting of the pants time distorts and there exists no possibility in the mind of the pants shitter to streamline the grieving process, reconciliation, eventual as it may be, occurs --and when the horror, the guilt, the depression of thereafter subsides, he/she who has shit their pants is inevitably graced with a sort of newfound perspective on life. Events which at one time would have seemed cataclysmic are now considered minute. Sunsets are beheld with due reverence. The humanity of IT ALL is clearly outlined, and they who have shit their pants, unfortunate as that may have been, learn to cherish their own imperfections as being vital to the overall life experience. We learn to love others, and ourselves, much more now that we have found out what it's like to lose so much.

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NOT-SO-SAVED BY THE BELL


Yeah, shitting ones pants isn't one of the easier of life's trials, but it's not wholly a tragedy. In fact, it's such a critical aspect of our very existence that some individuals, nay artists, have made it a defining element of their careers -- a gestural flourish meant to inspire empathy in their audience, a noble maneuver toward concurrence between rather disparate factions of the human race who, may they not see eye to eye due to creed or religious belief, can certainly all chuckle, exchange smiles, at the thought of another person losing their composure, their very constancy, in one fell evacuation of dignity.

This brings us to perhaps the finest example of a career pant shitter: DUSTIN DIAMOND. Best known as "Screech" from the popular teen T.V. series Saved by the Bell, Diamond has fallen far fast in recent years, even appearing on The Howard Stern Show to peddle t-shirts laden with his visage in an attempt to ward off the wolves of foreclosure. Apparently there just weren't enough people with bad senses of humor inextricably linked to their PayPal accounts waiting to sport their very own shirt with a fucking dork all over it, because, lo and behold, not a month after that exercise in economic futility fell flat on it's face and flopped around like a fish out of water, a brand new "celebrity sex tape" arises from the black eternal sea complete with said lovable character purportedly making the sex with a "soon-to-be-bride" and her "soon-to-be-bridesmaids," (who look shockingly like possible friends of this one bar whore named Leslie that's always hanging out down at our corner bar Ace's--corner of Hyde and Sutter in downtown San Francisco for all of you froggy types--alternating between Cosmos and various malt liquors, trying to get one of us SkullGame Patrons of the Arts to "change her oil" or some shit while lying about how she's 30...)

But I suppose the legitimacy of these sluts as being either of the professional or the amateur ilk is the least of the world's concerns with this thing floating around on the market.

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AFTER SPENDING WHOLE MINUTES SEARCHING ONLINE FOR A SCREENSHOT FOR SCREECHED, WE CAME UP EMPTY HANDED. HERE'S A SUICIDE NOTE INSTEAD, AS WE FEEL IT ADEQUATELY CONVEYS THE EMOTIONS WE FELT WHILE VIEWING THIS VIDEO.


The short of it: Screech guides us on an incredibly uncomfortable, 50 min. sexual escapade starring two gappy-toothed trickers who, if logic is to come into play, most likely live in sectional homes, have birthed a literal cabal of ugly children who swim day in and out in above-ground pools, and are proud owners of men who pray for accidents on their weekly fishing expeditions.

Brilliant. Undoubtedly. But mostly hilarious.

Whether you get your kicks out of Screech wiping his shit-encrusted finger, fresh from the asshole of one woman, upon the upper lip of another (known in intellectual circles as the "Dirty Sanchez") or, like me, you find yourself in the throes of hysterics when Screech, probably weighing the pros and cons of leaving his car running in the garage when he gets home, requests a box of Magnums (a situation directly analogous to me requesting the Menshikov Palace as my digs, because my apartment just can't house all of my fucking alarm clocks), Screeched is pure comedy genius -- the likes of which can only be challenged by a good, proper pants shitting.

But proceed with caution, as history has demonstrated, time and time again, in order for a joke to be effective someone must be on the butt-end of it. The funny-looking kid that falls down the stairs on the way to study hall, the man who gets hit in the dick with a bat during his company's softball game, the woman who rags right through her white jeans on the first date with that rich, handsome exec: Funny always hurts somebody. And this time, it may very well be your sex drive.

Dangerous as this DVD may well be, its merits far outweigh its possible negative consequences. For what Screeched offers is invaluable insight into the degeneration of the human condition-- kinda like watching footage from Darfur, the perspective may be painful, but it's an important perspective to gain.

Or you could always just up and go shit your pants. Nevertheless, I will have told you so.

And that's all that, ultimately, is important to me. -- JUDGE ROY BEAN


Buy It NOW!


 


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