Month: December 2013

  • Holiday Recap

    Christmas 2013 - Holy Jeez!

    12/29/2013  09:30pm

    Well Christmas 2013 is finally over (thank goodness!) and all I can say is HOLY JEEZ WHAT A CATASTROPHE! Now holidays with my family have always been a little crazy but this one, let me tell you, surely takes the proverbial cake!

    It all started around 2pm on Christmas day when I arrived at the home of my cousin Kevin and his wife Maria (it was their turn to host this year). Kevin greeted me at the door and, as usual, reeked of cheap Canadian whiskey. I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on with him but from the moment we exchanged holiday wishes it was quite clear that there was definitely something "off". While doing the traditional catching up with the rest of my family, many of whom I had not seen since last year, I periodically looked over at him noticing that he appeared to be quite withdrawn. He sat in his chair wide-eyed, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, taking frequent sips from his highball glass. Maria went over to him a few times, briefly conversing with him. I’m not sure what they were saying as they were speaking very quietly but there appeared to be a lot of tension between them. When the smoke detector suddenly went off they ceased being so quiet.

    “Goddamn it Kevin! I told you to do one fucking thing!” Maria screamed as she ran to the kitchen. “Great! The fucking ziti’s burned you asshole!”

    And boy was it ever! That ziti was black as black and oozing with smoke! Holy Jeez!

    “I’m sorry, I forgot,” Kevin said.

    “Of course you forgot you fucking asshole! You always forget! I’m surprised you remember to take your dick out of your pants before you take a piss you stupid bastard!”

    “I said I’m sorry Maria.”

    “Sorry doesn’t unburn my fucking ziti asshole!”

    “Calm down Maria,” said Aunt Ellie, “It’s just ziti. We’ve got plenty of other food here.”

    “It’s not just ziti! It’s not!”

    “I said I was sorry,” Kevin said, “What do you want me to do? You want me to run to the supermarket and see if I can find something pre-made?”

    “The fucking supermarket is closed you moron! It’s Christmas Fucking Day!”

    “Sorry, it was just a suggestion.”

    “You can shove your fucking suggestions up your fucking ass you sonovabitch!”

    Everybody was like, “Holy Jeez!”, reminding her that there were children present. Maria explained that she did not give a fuck then went on to suggest a strong correlation between Kevin’s alcohol consumption and his absentmindedness of late which she characterized as chronic. Throughout her long and loud explanation she referred to him several times as a fucking asshole and a bastard and a fucking bastard, at one point turning to him to inquire whether there was shit in his skull in place of brains.

    After her long, profanity-laced tirade, Maria retreated to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. The rest of us sat down at the table, trying our best to put her muffled sobs out of our heads as we dined. I was admittedly a bit disappointed over not getting to have any ziti but, as Aunt Ellie noted, there was plenty of other food.

    “Daddy, why is mommy crying,” Little Kevin, Maria's and Kevin’s six year old son, asked.

    “It’s just a woman thing son,” Kevin said, “Eat your supper before it gets cold.”

    About half way through dinner Maria returned and took a seat at the table. She had calmed down and appeared to be relatively serene at that point, though she and Kevin spoke hardly a word to each other.

    Shortly after dinner, when the table had been cleared and the dishwasher loaded, it was time to open presents. By then Kevin's and Maria’s earlier shouting match seemed like a faded memory which had since been supplanted by the joy of the season and the sound of gifts being unwrapped. Somewhere in there Little Kevin decided to show everybody how adorable he was by saying, “I saw mommy kissin’ Santa Claus.”

    “You did?” asked Grandpa.

    “Yeah,” Little Kevin said, “underneath the mistletoe last night!”

    “Oh my!” Grandpa said, “Don’t let your daddy hear about that one!”

    At that point, I looked over at Kevin who was looking really mad, shaking his head back and forth and muttering something under his breath. He stormed off then came back a minute or so later with his .357 in hand. “You fucking whore!” he shouted, pointing the barrel at Maria. Before anyone could say or do anything he shot her right in the face and she fell back.

    We were all like, “Holy Jeez!”

    “Mommy!” Little Kevin screamed.

    “What the fuck Kevin!” I said, momentarily forgetting there were kids around.

    Kevin surveyed the room, taking note of what he had just done, then put the barrel of the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

    Holy Jeez times two! There was blood and brains everywhere! It was like a big lasagna exploded all over the living room, only much more disgusting! It really killed my appetite for dessert I tell ya!

    Needless to say the rest of the night was quite a hassle with the paramedics and the medical examiner showing up to do their thing and the police keeping us there half the night to question us one-by-one. I just wanted to go home and go to bed but realizing that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, I pulled out my phone and watched pornos until the battery ran out of juice.

    “Say Little Kevin, you wouldn’t happen to know where your mommy or daddy's phone charger is kept, would you?” I asked.

    “What the hell is wrong with you?” Uncle Abe said, “Can’t you see the kid is shaken?”

    “Sorry, it’s just that my phone is dead. Like Kevin dead,” I said.

    Anyway, there ended-up being a big what-to-do over Little Kevin and the police weren’t going to let any of us leave until we could assure them that someone would be taking care of him. My sister and her husband finally volunteered to take him home, thank goodness! I’m sure glad I didn’t get stuck with him. I don't do well with kids to begin with, let alone one that keeps waking up in the middle of the night screaming and crying hysterically.

    Believe it or not, Maria didn’t actually die. They’ve got her all hooked up to machines to keep her eating and breathing and all that other stuff. Her family is deliberating over whether or not to Terry Schiavo her. Honestly, I don’t know why they’re waiting, it ain’t like she’s gonna get any better. I mean Holy Jeez, the girl ain’t got no more brains! Believe me, I know, I watched them fly out the back of her head and hit the wall behind her!

    Family – what can you do?

    Here’s hoping next Christmas will be less chaotic!

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  • Santa’s Revenge

    You Better Watch Out .  .  .  .

    12/22/2009 12:07am

    Over the last few months, young Tommy Patterson had become quite lethargic, withdrawn, and prone to night terrors and nocturnal incontinence. His once hardy appetite had become practically non-existent and his complexion was pale and sickly. Mr. Patterson had long sensed there was something wrong. The boy’s recent suspension from school for engaging in “inappropriate behaviors” only confirmed his suspicion.

    “I just don’t understand,” he said, “You’re moody all the time, you don’t talk to us any more, now you’re getting into trouble at school. What exactly is going on here Mister?”

    “Nothing,” Tommy insisted, but his father continued to probe.

    “Something is obviously going on with you and if you don’t tell me, I may just have to call Santa and tell him to skip over our house this year.”

    Suddenly Tommy burst into tears. He buried his head in the pillow and sobbed into it.

    “Tommy, son, what’s the matter? You can tell me. I’m your father, I love you.”

    “You wouldn’t understand,” Tommy said.

    “Try me,” said Mr. Patterson.

    “No, I can’t. I really can’t.”

    “Son, no matter what it is, we’ll get through it. Come on now, what happened?”

    “I really can’t dad. He said he’d hurt you and mommy if ever I said anything.”

    “Who? Who would hurt your mother and me?”

    “I can’t say.”

    “Did someone do something to you Tommy? Touch you in a bad way?”

    “No, no,” Tommy sobbed.


    The boy clung as tight as he could to his secret but his father’s persistence began to erode his grip until it finally slipped away and he had to let it out.  “I’m sorry daddy,” he cried, “ I’m so sorry.”

    “It’s okay son, it’s not your fault. He forced you to do it.” The shadow of concern briefly lifted from his visage which became most serious. Looking Tommy stone cold and straight in the eye he asked, through nearly clenched teeth, “Didn’t he??”

    “Yes, yes. I didn’t want to but he made me.”

    The elder Patterson then shouted to his wife downstairs, “Jane, call the police.”

    Shortly thereafter two squad cars arrived at Santa Claus’ workshop. Father Christmas was read his Miranda rights and placed promptly under arrest.

    During the bail hearing, the prosecutor argued that Mr. Claus should be held without bail on account of the threats he made against Tommy’s parents. The judge, however, felt this unnecessary and released Claus on personal recognizance leaving him free to fulfill his annual duties. He was, however, required to maintain a distance of one thousand feet from the Patterson’s and their home at all times.

    “But what about my Christmas presents?” young Tommy asked, “All the other children will have toys waiting for them Christmas morning but I’ll have nothing.” Sympathetic to his concern, the judge requested that Santa bring Tommy’s gifts to a local precinct no later than noon on December 24th. The police would arrange a time on Christmas Day when he could come to claim them.

    But that never happened.

    “Ho, ho, ho, my Tommy boy,” Santa Claus was saying. It was late on the night of Christmas Eve at the Patterson’s home and there stood jolly St. Nick in full violation of court orders. Behind him, Mr. and Mrs. Patterson were bound to their chairs with duct tape.

    “What are you doing here?” Tommy asked.

    “Why it’s Christmas Eve. I stop by the homes of every little girl and boy.”

    “You weren’t supposed to come this year.”

    “Well, yeah, kinda, but I really thought I should anyway – for the benefit of your parents.” He turned to Mr. and Mrs. Patterson. “Mom, dad, Tommy has something to tell you.”

    “Tell us what you fiend?!” Mr. Patterson said.

    “Tommy, what is it?” asked Mrs. Patterson.

    “Go on,” said Santa, “Tell them.”

    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tommy said

    “Oh come on now Tommy, let’s not beat around the bush here. Isn’t it about time you came out of the closet to your parents? I mean, they have a right to know.”

    “Come out of the closet? Just what do you mean?” inquired Mr. Patterson.

    “Go ahead Tommy,” said Santa, “tell them.”

    “Tell them what? I told you I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Tommy.

    “Oh really? So you’re trying to say that you don’t like it when Santa goes for a sleigh ride in your rosebud?” the Father of Christmas asked.

    “Surely you can’t be saying,” Mrs. Patterson said, “that our Tommy, our son, our flesh and blood is a, a,  a  .  .  .”

    Santa finished her sentence, “that’s right, a fag!”

    “No Tommy,” she said, “how could you?”

    “No mommy! I promise! He made me do it!”

    “He better have,” said Mr. Patterson.

    “Yes, daddy, I swear. I didn’t want to. He forced me.”

    “Forced you, huh?” Santa Claus said, “You sure didn’t seem to resist too much once we got started.”

    Tears were running down Tommy’s cheeks. “You made me. You said you’d hurt my mommy and daddy if I didn’t.”

    “Well actually, I said I would hurt your mommy and daddy if you told them and, to be frank, I’m going to do more than just hurt them. In fact, I’m going to kill them. Ho, ho, ho!”

    “No, please don’t!” the boy begged.

    “We had a deal son,” Santa said.

    Tommy pleaded with Santa not to harm his parents. “I’ll do anything, I promise, just let them go.”

    “Anything eh?” said Santa.

    “No, don’t do it son,” his dad said.

    “Don’t give in,” said his mom, “if you do, you’ll be a fag and God hates fags.”

    “Your mother’s right,” Mr. Patterson said, “That’s why he gives them AIDS.”

    “But I don’t want you to die,” said Tommy.

    “It’s all right son,” his dad said, “we’re older, we’ve lived our life.”

    “How noble,” said Santa Claus, “but let’s face it, no kid wants to be an orphan, not even a little gay boy like your son.” He turned to Tommy and said, “Now why don’t you get your little tush on over here and come lick Santa’s luscious candy cane.”

    Tommy’s parents begged him not to give into the homosexual demon but he could not let his parents die, even as they detailed to him the horrors of eternal damnation in a furnace of everlasting fire.

    “Tell your mommy and daddy how much you love bouncing up and down on Santa’s Yule log!” demanded Kris Kringle. Tommy was silent at first but then Santa threatened “Say it or I’ll kill them!”

    “I love your Yule log Santa.”

    “That’s right fag boy – you love it! Say it!”

    “I love it Santa! I love it buried deep inside me!”

    “Oh my God, I can’t believe our son is a fag,” said Mrs. Patterson.

    Santa was moaning as he inched closer. “Santa Claus is coming to town, Santa Claus is coming to town, Santa Claus is coming to town!” he panted.

    “Don’t let him do it son,” cried Mr. Patterson.

    “Ahhhhhh!” Santa yelled out, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. “Holy shit! I’m dropping my fucking eggnog into your fucking holly hole you fucking queer boy faggot!”

    “Nooooooo!” screamed Mrs. Patterson, “You really are a fag now! How could you do this to me?! To us?!”

    “I’m sorry mommy, I had to.”

    “You’re dead to me!” said Mr. Patterson. “As far as I’m concerned, I have no son,”

    “Please daddy! I did it because I didn’t want him to hurt you and mommy.”

    “Aw, how touching,” said Santa. “Too bad I’ve decided to kill them anyway.”

    “But you promised,” said Tommy.

    “So did you son. So did you,” replied Santa. He then pulled the hunting knife from the sheath on his belt.

    “No, please,” Tommy said, but he was ignored.

    “I can’t believe we’re going to die knowing our son is a fag,” said Mrs. Patterson.

    “You disappointed me so much,” said Mr. Patterson.

    “You don’t think we’ll go to Hell for raising a faggot, do you?” Mrs. Patterson asked her husband.

    “No Jane,” he said, “the boy had free will. He could have chosen the right path but instead he chose to be a fag. He’ll be sorry though when he goes before the Lord for judgment!”

    “I’m sorry,” said Tommy, “I never meant to disappoint you.”

    With that, Santa plunged his knife repeatedly into each of them. Blood spattered from their red stained teeth as the blade ripped into their abdomens and they uttered their final words lamenting that their son had turned his back on Christ to become a filthy sodomite. When they finally expired, Santa dropped the knife to the floor, wiped the blood from his hands with a handkerchief, then said, “My work is done here Tommy. I guess I should be going now. It’s almost Christmas morning and I’ve still got places to go and people to see.” He walked over to the traumatized boy and kissed him tenderly.  “You were fabulous,” he whispered into Tommy’s ear. “I’ll definitely be back for more.” He then disappeared, into a trail of falling dust. Tommy heard sleigh bells above and the pattering of reindeer hooves as Santa called out, “Merry Christmas to all and to all a goodnight!”

    The orphan boy looked upon his dead parents. He thought of their last thoughts before they perished. “I just wanted to save you mom and dad,” he sobbed, “I just wanted to save you.”

    He retrieved the bloody knife from the floor. Holding it with a trembling right hand, he carefully studied the blade, gliding the tip of his left index finger over it. It sliced into him and he began to bleed. He thought about it for a moment then finalized his decision. He pressed the knife firmly against his throat then cut straight across

    Now he’s in Hell.

    Happy Holidays




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  • The Worst Gift

    Scratch Tickets -  A Christmas Rant

    12/22/2013  09:00pm

    Is there any shittier a gift one can get for the holidays than a pack of scratch tickets? I mean really. A certain person I know is fond of giving everyone ten dollars worth of scratch tickets each Christmas. It’s the thought that counts and all but the thought here sucks every bit as much as the gift. I once actually proposed that this person perhaps consider just giving me ten dollars going forward. “Yeah but then you’d only have ten bucks,” he replied, “This way you might end up with ten thousand dollars or a hundred thousand or even a million.”

    But I won’t. Well, I can’t say for sure but statistically my asshole is more likely to teach itself to talk than me winning any significant amount of cash. Yet every year there he is again giving everyone those fucking scratch tickets. I think the most I ever saw anybody win was forty bucks. One person won a nominal sum and everybody else got worthless pieces of cardboard  – Merry Fucking Christmas. Personally I would rather get nothing than a scratch ticket. Of course getting a scratch ticket usually amounts to getting nothing, though I would argue it’s actually worse. It’s an insult really, the ultimate “fuck you”. It says “I want to give you nothing for Christmas but I want to give you nothing so much that I’m actually going to spend money to create the illusion you’ve gotten something knowing that, in the end, you will almost certainly end up with nothing.”

    In case you haven’t notice yet, I really hate scratch tickets. And not just at Christmas! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve ended up consuming a large 7-11 coffee before I got to the register to pay for it because some elderly fuck-face was in front of me requesting four Big Moneys, two Pot O’Lucks,  Five Double Your Lucks, half a dozen Golden Tickets, and three Bucks Deluxes which he or she then scratched off while still standing in line. Elderly fuck-faces usually have all the luck when it comes to winning the small prizes so he or she usually wins like twenty dollars and four free tickets which he/she  then exchanges for four Lucky Lemons, five Jumbo Cash Deluxes, two Golden Opportunities and a Max-A-Millions. This is followed by another session of scratching at the goddamn counter and at least another five to seven minute delay before I can pay for my fucking coffee which is now aggressively exerting its pressure on the inner walls of my bladder.

    But enough of this rant. It’s the holidays for fuck’s sake! Peace on earth and goodwill and all that shit.

    And go fuck your mothers!

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    That is all.

  • Conversations with Idiots

    You Are What You Eat

    12/15/2013  09:00pm

    “Hey, hey” the idiot says, “tell me I’m a pussy.”

    “What?” I say with a perplexed look. “Why?”

    “Just do it.”

    “No. Why would you want me to call you a pussy?”

    “Just do it, it will be funny.”

    “I’m pretty sure it won’t be.”

    “Come on now, just call me a pussy.”

    Just wanting him to get out of my face I break down and say it. “You’re a pussy.”

    “You are what eat,” he says, breaking into laughter and elbowing me in the ribs, “Get it?”

    “Oh I get it.”

    “Then why aren’t you laughing?” says the idiot.

    “Because it’s not funny.”

    “Sure it’s funny. You are what you eat. Remember those PSAs from back when we were kids?” he then begins singing “You are what you eat from your head down to your feet –.”

    “Um, I gotta go.”

    “What? You don’t think that’s funny? Do you have any sense of humor.”

    “Yes, that’s just not humorous.”

    “You don’t eat pussy or something?”

    “Whether or not I do is irrelevant to the fact that it’s not funny.”

    Just then Stacey MacDonald, the chubby blonde with the snorting laugh, comes over.

    “Hey Stacey,” the idiot says, “tell me I’m a pussy.”

    “You’re a pussy Ted,” she says.

    “Well you are what you eat,” idiot says, his words deteriorating into an obnoxious laugh.

    An explosion of air bursts through Stacey’s nasal cavity, as if she were passing wind through her nostrils, and she begins laughing hysterically. “O-M-G !” she says, “You are so raunchy!” She turns to me, “Keep the kids in the other room when this guy’s around! He is sooooo funny! Dontchya think?”

    “No,” I say.

    “Oh my God, he’s hilarious,” she then turns back to idiot, “You should be a comedian. Have you ever thought about doing an open mic night?”

    “I have but apparently not everybody thinks I’m funny,” idiot says.

    “You really don’t think that joke was funny?” Stacey says to me

    “Nope,” I say.

    “Don’t you get it? He’s a 'p-u-s-s-y' cuz he is what he eats,” she says, spelling rather than saying the word because she’s a lady and all. “He likes to eat you-know-what and because you are what you eat that makes him a –“.

    “I get it,” I say. “Not my type of humor.”

    “Oh, look at Mr. Highbrow over there,” idiot says.

    “I’m no Mr. Highbrow. I just like my humor to be funny.”

    “Oh you wouldn’t know funny if it bit you on the ass,” Stacey says.

    “Don’t you mean ‘a-s-s’, “ I say.

    “Huh?” she says.

    “Exactly!” I say,

    Idiot then says “I once ate a Chinese girl’s pussy. Yeah, I was hungry half an hour later.”

    Stacey cracks up and says “You’re so bad!”

    “It’s funny cuz it’s true,” idiot says.

    Putting aside the racist nature of his joke I feel compelled to point out the inconsistency of his follow-up . “Didn’t you mean to say half an hour later you weren’t Chinese anymore?”

    “Huh?” idiot says.

    “What?” Stacey says with a confused and disgusted look.

    “Don’t quit your day job there SKANLYN. Leave the joke telling to the funny guys,” idiot says.

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  • Wost U.S. Cities - #1

    SKANLYN’s Top Ten Worst Cities in America

    12/04/2013 05:30pm

    Having had the opportunity to travel all around this great nation, I’ve gotten the chance to visit a lot of great places. I’ve also gotten the chance to visit a lot of terrible places. Since there’s no fun in writing or reading about the positive, over the next several days I will be counting down the top ten WORST cities in the United States.


    #10. Seattle, WA (click here to read)

    #09. San Francisco, CA (click here to read)

    #08. Cincinnati, OH (click here to read)

    #07. Wichita, KS (click here to read)

    #06. Oklahoma City, OK (click here to read)

    #05. Montgomery, AL (click here to read)

    #04. Hartford, CT (click here to read)

    #03. Harrisburg, PA (click here to read)

    #02. St. Louis, MO (click here to read)


    And the most horrible city in the United States of America is  .  .  .  .



    Up in that far northeastern corner of the country known as “New England” is the land of filth and revulsion they call “Beantown”, a city about which I have so many bad things to say that I don’t even know where to begin. From the grimy cityscape of trash littered streets; to the permanently gridlocked roads; to the unsanitary public transit system with its urine soiled subway trains (some friendly advice if you’ve never ridden the “T” – never let your ass make contact with those seats!); to the continuous aural collage of jack hammers, police sirens, and angry car horns; to the crazy lice-infested homeless people that yell obscenities at you as you walk streets; to the ten months of non-stop bitter cold – yes, Boston has everything you would never want in a city that you visit, much less call home (which I unfortunately did during my college years and for a number of years after). Of all the bad things one can point to when discussing Boston, however, it’s perhaps the awful people that ultimately make this hell hole such a terrible place.

    Ah, the Bostonian (douchebageous maximus), an angry, racist, vulgar, and excessively ignorant creature if ever there was one!  The male of the species is instantly recognizable by his backwards Celtics cap, sleeveless white t-shirt (sometimes referred to as a “wife beater”), and the humble and respectful manner in which he addresses his fellow man as “ya fuckin’ qweer” and “ya fuckin’ cawksucka”. When he’s not calling the people around him derogatory names for homosexuals, dropping the n-word in public, or threatening the life of those who say something critical of his union, he can frequently be heard chanting “Yankess Suck”. Those words always seemed rather ironic to me given that the Red Sox had not won a World Series since 1918 at the time I lived there, as compared to the Yankees who won twenty six between then and when the Sox finally broke their so-called Bambino curse in 2004. But I digress.

    Female Bostonians are of course known for their exceptionally tacky attire, reminiscent of the 1985-era Madonna, and the tall mass of hair that extends high above their heads, adding as much as six inches to their height. Every twelve to fifteen minutes they can be seen reaching into their purse (or “pawk-a-book”, as they call it) to retrieve a large aerosol can from which they release a cloud of noxious gas called “AquaNet”, a compound most irritating to the eyes, nose, and throat of everyone within a fifty foot radius. While generally not prone to the ignorant sports chants of her male counterpart, the female Bostonian can often be heard cursing into her cell phone, usually at her mother whose intelligence she often questions (“What are ya fuckin’ stupid ma?!”). While equally as racist as her male counterpart, she does enjoy the sexual prowess of African American men who are generally able to satisfy much more fully than that punily equipped Irish boy from her neighborhood in “Southie” whom she officially dates.

    Those who have never been to the self-proclaimed “Hub of the Universe” are probably questioning the authenticity of my description of Boston and its wretched inhabitants.  After all, how could the city that gave us JFK (and his brothers Bobby and Teddy) and where Martin Luther King Jr. earned his PhD possibly be racist? How could a town with so many prominent institutions of higher learning be so full of ignorant and uneducated people? And how could a city that always looks so nice on TV and in the movies be as filthy and rundown as I say it is? All fair points which I shall address one-by-one.

    The reality is that the Kennedys, despite their public image, have long kept themselves tucked away from the non-white population. For years they lived behind the walls of a highly guarded compound located nearly two hours from the city in a place called Cape Cod where you are more likely to encounter a Dodo bird than a person of color. As for Dr. King (or “Martha Lewtha King”, as Down Syndrome-afflicted Mayor Thomas M. Menino called him at the 2012 DNC), he got the hell out of there as soon as he delivered his dissertation and headed back to the more racially tolerant Alabama of the 1950’s.

    Yes, it is true that Boston is home to some of the most prestigious colleges and universities in the world – Harvard, MIT, Tufts, Boston College, Boston University, Emerson College, Berklee College of Music, all fine institutions and all mostly populated by foreign and out of state students. Native Bostonians rarely have an education beyond fifth grade, many having been seduced into dropping out of school by the four dollars an hour they could earn by working “under the table” on a construction site. Upon turning eighteen, many then find their way to employment with the City which is strong-armed by the local unions into paying them six figure salaries for menial minimum labor jobs, thus eliminating any need for an education.

    I probably don’t have to tell you that most of what you see on TV and in the movies is pure fiction. However, we all saw quite a bit of Boston earlier this year during the very real news coverage of the Marathon bombing and its aftermath. That bombing of course took place near the finish line in a highly unrepresentative neighborhood called the “Back Bay”, which is also what you generally see on TV and in the movies. Unlike the garbage dump that comprises the rest of the city, the Back Bay is kept tidy and beautified by its large gay population. God may hate those people but there are no better neighbors to have if you want to keep your property values up. Nonetheless they are confined to this small area due to safety concerns as male Bostonians, from other parts of the city, have a penchant for beating them up pursuant to the scientific theory that “if you know a guy’s a fag and you don’t kick his ass then that makes you a fag.” Very logically they therefore sacrifice a clean, kept neighborhood in order to avoid having to perform fellatio on, or accept anal sex from, another man.

    Despite my disdain for Boston and Bostonians, I did briefly find myself sympathizing with the people among whom I spent several years living when I initially heard of the Marathon bombing. Upon seeing the interviews with them in the media and hearing that despicable accent again, however, I immediately lost every ounce of compassion as my mind filled with memories of those dreadful souls and the sheer torture I endured living with them. Yes, what happened at the 2013 Boston Marathon was absolutely tragic and I would hope to never see another terrorist attack on American soil ever again. In the very unfortunate event it were to happen, however, one has to wonder if it would be all bad if Boston were blown to smithereens and the ground irradiated so that no one or nothing could ever live there again.

    Congratulations Boston – you are the worst city in America!


    THE FLIPS SIDE – SKANLYN’s Top Ten BEST Cities in America – 10) Virginia Beach, VA; 09) Myrtle Beach, SC; 08) Charleston, SC; 07) Savannah, GA; 06) Dallas, TX; 05) Atlanta, GA; 04) Washington DC; 03) San Antonio, TX; 02) Miami, FL; 01) Chicago, IL


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  • Wost U.S. Cities - #2

    SKANLYN’s Top Ten Worst Cities in America

    12/03/2013 05:30pm

    Having had the opportunity to travel all around this great nation, I’ve gotten the chance to visit a lot of great places. I’ve also gotten the chance to visit a lot of terrible places. Since there’s no fun in writing or reading about the positive, over the next several days I will be counting down the top ten WORST cities in the United States.


    #3. Harrisburg, PA (click here to read)



    If you like being raped, shot, having your car stolen, and having your house burned down then you’ll love St. Louis! If not, then maybe not so much. Exceeding the national average multi-fold with its ridiculously high rates of sexual assaults, gun crimes, auto-theft, and arson, St. Louis is a top contender every year for the title of Most Dangerous City in America. Though long-time rivals Camden, NJ and Detroit have taken the top spot more often, St. Louis still has a respectable number of wins under its belt.

    A high crime rate is of course a bad thing for any municipality but it doesn’t necessarily make a city a bad city. People certainly didn’t flee or stop visiting New York and DC back in the 70’s and 80’s and Chicago is still bound to show up near the top of any “Best City” list despite its 500+ homicides over the last year. Hell, even Detroit has enough charm to keep itself off this list. Of course those cities, unlike St. Louis, actually have something other than crime to offer. On the other hand, if you ain’t being robbed, raped, murdered, or carjacked (or some combination thereof), you just ain’t experiencing St. Louis. Crime is literally all they have. Well, there’s also that big stupid piece of bent steel that rises over the skyline as a peculiar monument to western expansion.

    Yes, I suppose if I am talking about St. Louis I am obligated to mention the Gateway Arch – the world’s oddest and most impractically shaped observation tower (it’s also perhaps the world’s most unnecessary one, overlooking a city that’s best left unobserved). Many people to whom I’ve spoken were actually surprised to learn that the Arch is not a mere metallic sculpture and that you can actually go inside it. Of course the question is then, why would you want to go inside it? The simple answer is that, other than being the victim of a violent crime, there’s just nothing else to do in St. Louis. And so I paid the ten dollars to take the “tram” ride up to the observatory. This so-called “tram”, as they call it, is actually a series of very claustrophobic pod-like gondolas on a semi-vertical chain that slowly pulls you to the top. One boards with six or so other people making things quite tight (especially so with the thick winter coats everyone was wearing on the frigid October day I visited). With only the most microscopic personal space between passengers and low ceilings that force you to hunch forward, the long, uncomfortable, and noisy ride to the top is torturous to say the least. When the tram finally comes to a stop, you exit to a steep upward staircase (handicapped persons are requested to please go fuck themselves), at the top of which is the very small, very narrow, and very crowded observation deck. On each side is a series of tiny windows projecting downward at a very non-ergonomic angle that makes looking out a window far more strenuous than you could ever imagine it would be. If you care to do so, however, you will see some quite majestic views. To the East is the Mississippi Riviera in all its flowing diarrhea-brown glory, the permanently docked riverboat casinos establishing it as a sort of Monte Carlo for trailer trash. To the West is a spectacular bird’s eye view of the cityscape. On a clear day you can actually see beyond the studio backlot façade of downtown to the real St. Louis – a place of dilapidated houses and plywood-boarded store-fronts, a land where bullets swarm through the air like mosquitoes on a humid summer night and where chalk outlines turn the sidewalks into a virtual portrait gallery memorializing the latest casualties of the ongoing turf war between the Boys of Destruction and the Horseshoe Posse. There is a certain amount of peace you feel while you’re up there though. After all, it is probably the safest place in this war zone of a city even with the wind nearly blowing it over at times, the constant threat of shifting tectonic plates, and the possibility of an unannounced tornado coming along and tearing it to pieces.

    Intensely dangerous yet thoroughly unexciting – St. Louis is a land of contradictory extremes. Its climate of brutally hot summers and bitterly cold winters seems only fitting for a city that gives residents and visitors alike the worst of both worlds in every respect.

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  • Wost U.S. Cities - #3

    SKANLYN’s Top Ten Worst Cities in America

    12/02/2013 05:30pm

    Having had the opportunity to travel all around this great nation, I’ve gotten the chance to visit a lot of great places. I’ve also gotten the chance to visit a lot of terrible places. Since there’s no fun in writing or reading about the positive, over the next several days I will be counting down the top ten WORST cities in the United States.


    #4. Hartford, CT (click here to read)



    This list pretty much could have been comprised entirely of cities in Pennsylvania, the most dreary, miserable, depressing state in the entire the Union. In the interest of diversity though, I’ve chosen to limit myself to one city in this horrible commonwealth. While the filthy cesspool known as Philadelphia or the poor man’s Detroit (aka Pittsburgh) would have been decent choices for any list of this type, I’ve opted for the state’s wretched capital which I feel best represents the utter despair you feel when you’re in Pennsylvania.  

    Death and decay are the words that most prominently come to mind as I look to describe Harrisburg, a city that looks remarkably like the type of post atomic landscape you might see in sci-fi movie. A frozen river covered with polluted grey snow runs through town. Plumes of black smoke continually rise into the air from decrepit old mills and coal plants. A dim sun makes an increasing failing attempt to penetrate the carcinogenic tint around the city. And bitter cold perfectly mimics the effects of nuclear winter. If anyone questions why we must keep nuclear weapons out of the hands of rogue nations, they need only come to Harrisburg for a preview of what it might be like if we don’t. The primitive agrarian communities of the Amish in nearby Dutch country offer a glimpse of what it might be like a millennium or so down the road if society were to find the muster to start over again.

    To be fair, I haven’t been to Harrisburg during the spring or summer months but I can’t imagine it’s any less depressing and I suspect that the trees stay bare year round and that the color green is perennially absent from the flat brown grass in this city of living death. 

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