First of all, Bun B is not my uncle. He don’t even know my mama like that.
Really? It seems like these days everyone has a blog or column about relationships. Even Houston’s own, Bun B. That’s right. People write in with questions and B. gives responses/advice. It’s not bullshit or jokes either. This dude is giving real advice. When I clicked the link and checked out his column on ParlourMagazine.com, titled Ask Uncle Bun B on Choosing a Mate and Claiming Your Power, I expected to find advice like: “That hoe can go ‘head, if she ain’t feelin it. She ain’t goin’ nowhere, she love how I’m drillin it.” or perhaps lessons on what “ridin’ sidesaddle” actually means. But he’s really talking about relationships and he stands a chance at putting a lot of the current relationship columnists to shame. I never doubted him, though. With lyrics like “Cause whats a hoe with no pimp, and whats a pimp with no hoe?” you know he’s a family man. So if you don’t quite understand or know the game just yet, check out Bun B’s new column. As absurd as the name is (for real, Uncle Bun B?), it’s worth a quick read.
Monday night at Minute Maid Park a local Douchebag bailed on a foul ball, letting his cute girl take a baseball off her elbow.
Since the incident happened at an Astros game, no one in Houston cared until the story of “Bo the Bailer” went national.
Astros third baseman Chris Johnson fouled off a 2-2 pitch down the third base line during the bottom of the fourth inning against the Atlanta Braves.
Rather than catch the screaming liner, or protect his girlfriend Sarah, some bitch-made Tool named Bo jumped out of the way, scared of the ball.
Astros field reporter Patti Smith interviewed the couple and basically called Bo out for being a little bitch. Watch Patti’s interview here.
“I was like ‘baby, I’m gonna get hit’ and he was like ‘no you’re not. I’ll catch it’… he just bailed,” Sarah told Patti.
Instead of saying sorry during the interview, Bo thought it was great his lady got hit and came up with the lame excuse, “I was gonna catch it, but then it was in the lights, and I lost track of it,” Bo explained.
But Patti wasn’t buying his bullshit.
“Next time go towards your girlfriend, protect her. Don’t go the other way like a chicken.”
After being put on blast on national television, Bo answered the way a true Douchebag would, “Huh? Alright.”
Zeale Rapz, an Austin rapper, will be making the trek to peform for Hater’s first show @ Walter’s. We wanted to give our readers a quick meet and greet with this cat but since he is still enjoying his vacation, we had to hit him up via Facebook.
Hater: Every Texas rapper has a certain sound from their city, how has growing up in Austin influenced your style?
Zeale: Austin influenced my style by keeping it a lot less “traditional Texan,” like the southern rap deliveries of Paul Wall, Slim Thug, etc…
Hater: Favorite track to perform?
Zeale: Favorite track to perform right now is a song called “GO.” Its a hot beat and it always pulls the ladies in.
Hater: Do you dig mexican chicks? Because my art director thinks you can get it.
Zeale: Hahaa. I dig all kinds of chicks, but there’s only one who has my attention right now.
Hater: Where are you hoping your music takes you?
Zeale: I hope my music gets me around the world, rich, and all access to Jay-Z’s house.
Hater: Where are all the black people in Austin?
Zeale: All the black people in Austin are in jail. I’m only half black so they let me out for shows.
Hater: Backstory about the creation of the video Monzter Hozpital?
Zeale: This was the first song I wrote for the soon to be released “DISASTERKRFT” mixtape. I wanted to make sure my it made a statement, but was still hot. When I was done with it I was like…video. We shot it and half of the way through it started raining so we just dropped and umbrella over the camera and went for the Jodeci shot.
Friday night, “Hater Presents…” starts off the Houston Sneaker Summit weekend with a line up worthy bragging about to your future illegitmate children. Don’t Sleep.
My room mate swears that Kombucha is “angel piss”. She says the drink consisting of yeast and bacteria will taste like shit but will make me feel stronger than Popeye on a spinach binge.
The small bottle she gave me four months ago is still in the back of my fridge.
But after reading this piece from Good Magazine, I see that drinking Kombucha can quench my alcoholic cravings when we are out of mouthwash.
The federal government is looking into the fermented tea’s alcohol content. That’s not the only thing that’s wrong with it.
When Lindsay Lohan set off her alcohol-monitoring ankle bracelet at last month’s MTV Movie Awards Party, celebrity gossip-mongers turned to her habit of drinking kombucha, a fizzy fermented drink that can contain low levels of alcohol. The initial reports were probably untrue, but the incident launched the expensive, once-obscure sparkling tea into the public consciousness.
Then, Whole Foods Market abruptly pulled kombucha from its shelves over other, more substantiated claims that the alcohol levels in the beverage meant it wasn’t being taxed correctly, according to U.S. tax law. Hippie and hipster guzzlers all over were left wondering: what’s going on with my beloved mushroom tea?
For the uninitiated, kombucha is a fermented drink that’s been touted as a cure-all energy drink. Historically, the drink has been consumed across Russia, Bulgaria, China, and Indonesia. It’s made by combining brewed tea, sweetener, and a visible, cloudy mass of yeast and bacteria known as a mother. The mother breaks down sugars into alcohol and acetic acid (vinegar), which act as preservatives, making it possible for kombuchaseurs to make their own batches in less-than-sterile home kitchens.
When the drink is bottled commercially—much of it by G.T. Dave, the Coke of Kombucha—it is often pasteurized, which kills the live bacterial cultures. Other makers let it continue to bubble and ferment. Therein lies the problem: Continued fermentation means booch becomes hooch. In recent tests at the University of Maine, food science professor Brian Perkins found that at least one major brand contained 2.4 percent alcohol—well above the .5 percent limit on nonalcoholic beverages and approaching the alcohol content of some ultralight beers. This taxable amount of alcohol in kombucha is what the feds are going after—and why it disappeared from supermarket shelves.
Alcohol may help explain the serious buzz about the stuff and its alleged stress-relieving powers. But it’s more than just alcohol that explains its appeal. Since its widespread introduction to the United States in 1992, the drink has reportedly worked wonders, from supposedly curing Ronald Reagan of cancer to legitimately protecting laboratory rats from liver damage. Kombucha has antimicrobial properties which have helped fight E. coli and other bacteria in the lab, but this action may jeopardize the microbial life found in healthy digestive systems. In the case of one woman’s unexplained death, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention suggested that the daily consumption of home-brewed kombucha led to an excessive acid buildup. For those reasons and more, both scientists and alternative medicine gurus caution that kombucha’s health risks outweigh any potential benefits.
As kombucha gains traction as the beverage of choice for enlightened foodies and starlets alike, it’s worth questioning the bewildering array of health claims that surround it. With less added sugars than most sodas, it might be appear to be a healthy drink option. And now that Lohan has put this potent, foul-smelling beverage back in the spotlight, it might be time to raise a stink about its claimed magical or detoxifying properties—and keep a lid on it until there’s a better consensus from clinical researchers.
Japanese professor, Anri Suzuki, feels pretty bad about Japan’s 1937 invasion of China, so bad that she is offering to have sex with her Chinese students to make up for it. Suzuki’s obviously not your average college professor; she moonlights as a porn star on the side. She said:
“We have to respect the lessons of history and although we cannot obliterate it we can try and make recompense. I want to cure the wounds of China with my body, and I offer to do this by having sex with Chinese students in Japan. I think it would be a symbolic compensation for them.”
FML is a term that keeps popping up everywhere. At first, I only heard it from the young wealthy kids at my school. It annoyed me from Jump Street, but I let it go thinking it was just the spouting off of an already spoiled and privileged youth. Then, a website came to be, www.fmylife.com. I assumed it was more young men and women in the same mindset of the original offenders. I started hearing it more and more, but still from the usual suspects. The guy at the end of the bar donning the Ed Hardy shirt (2 sizes too small) would spout something off about how he had to go to work tomorrow and there it was, the perfect storm for a …“Fuck My Life.”
It struck me as odd from the beginning. People would say the most mundane things or some rather funny things: “I was 5 minutes late to class” or “I walked in on my parents having sex.” Then they would follow it up with … “Fuck My Life.” Such harsh words for such normal life occurrences. Sure, walking in on your mom putting it on your dad is not one of life’s more lovely experiences, but does your entire life really deserve to be cursed for one random instance? And as for the people that say it for every little thing, grow some balls. No one wants to hear your whining.
A few months back (note: I have been holding my tongue for months on this one) people started posting “FML” at the end of their status messages on Facebook. “Paraguay just lost to blah blah blah, FML”. What the fuck does soccer have to do with your life? You are sitting on a couch watching TV. You don’t play competitive sports.
Soon after, I started hearing it from people I knew and respected. People I loved would say “Fuck My Life” at the drop of a hat. I began feeling really conflicted. I wanted to slap the shit out of them, but that would just add to the already over-escalating emotion that had spawned from something as menial as a missed movie time. One day, I forgot my camera bag at a coffee shop. I realized and told my friend we had to go back. Upon my realization, my friend gave her life a verbal fucking and I wondered why I couldn’t at least get a “Fuck Your Life” out of her. After all, it was my camera bag. But that wouldn’t fit with the self-indulgent, self-absorbed mood that a good FML creates.
So, here’s what I have to tell all the grown ass men and women saying “FML.”
Stop.
When you say “FML”, you are whining. You sound like a juvenile prig, so grow up. Leave the self-pity wallowing where it belongs: with the angst ridden newly pubescent assholes that deserve to be too emotional. They have overly active hormones. You have 2.5 kids and a mortgage. Act like it. Stop throwing fits. People are hungry in the world. They are trying to rebuild their lives from natural disasters and war. No one cares that you locked your keys in your car or that you were late to work. Plan better. It’s not life’s fault. It’s yours. Instead of saying “Fuck My Life”, start saying “Fuck My Dumb Ass.” At least this puts fault where fault is due. And if you can pull away from the drama altogether, attempt to just roll with the punches. Let shit go and move on, there’s work to do.
We see them everywhere, all over Houston. Tags, shitty spray-painted “art”, smeared across traffic walls and overpasses from Westheimer to Midtown. Maybe we’ve grown accustom to tags and ignore them like a child throwing a temper tantrum in public. Don’t give them any attention, and they will stop.
Nevertheless, for the residents of sub-urban Quail Valley, Missouri City in Fort Bend County, the graffiti found all over there hood was appalling and shook the mostly white-collared community to the bone. The gangsters are coming.
I have heard more than a few Mo’City/Sugarland folks brag they “live in a nice neighborhood, not the ghetto”. For these people, it seems the ghetto is anywhere outside of their master-planned hamlets. God help us should there be a corner store down the block. Not in my town, boy.
Personally, I enjoy the convenience of picking up a cigarillo and a case of Bud Light after a hard half-day’s work, or loitering in the parking lot until 2 a.m., but these simple pleasures are the bane of the Fort Bend gentility. On Wednesday Mo’City residents woke to find graffiti randomly, half-assed sprayed on driveways, houses, and the façade on the community pool.
The thug, for sure, did a piss-poor job and might as well have tagged his own house. From the get, Missouri City PD was wise to the rouse. The local haters issued a statement pointing out the graffiti “wasn’t even the right color and the symbols are wrong”.
Damn, dude. The Po-Po in the media just called you out as a wanna-be-G. True to their word, MCPD took all of a day to issue a warrant, arrest, and punk Manchie Sheppard.
I’m no G, but can anyone tell me what the tag “SLOB” represents? Not to mention if you’re going to rep the Blue-C’s, Fort Bend County is little far from Compton, California, don’t you think? Sheppard remains hemmed-up in county and has caught himself a case for Felony Criminal Mischief and two counts of Wanna-Be Gangbanging in the 1st degree.
Stumbled upon this and we just wish we would have thought of it first. Enjoy!
Like many of you, I’m largely indifferent to soccer most of the time. But one thing I’m never indifferent to is an opportunity to gleefully hate 31 lesser nations in the spirit of international competition.
Yes, that’s right. It’s time to put on my hater’s cap (it’s made of 100% hate/poly blend) and offer you, the Deadspin reader, this handy Hater’s Guide to the 2010 World Cup. I don’t know much about soccer, nor do I know all that much about nations such as Ghana. But that kind of all-encompassing ignorance is PERFECT for breeding a solid batch of hate. Knowledge only serves to spoil the anger and white hot fury. So now, join me as I run through the World Cup draw and make sweeping generalizations about each country, its citizens, its brand of soccer (?), and cuisine. And then, as a little bonus, listen as Spencer Hall and I try and determine the five most hateable teams in the whole tournament in a special Deadcast. Yes, this is all a bit late. But the motto here is that IT’S NEVER TOO LATE TO HATE.
GROUP A
South Africa: In many ways, I appreciate South Africa for having an ugly racial history that is more recent than our own. It’s a nice card to play. “Well sure, we had Jim Crow. But at least we weren’t doing that shit IN THE 80′S.” Anyway, South Africa is now known less as a haven for institutional racism as it is a place where you will get raped. So remember, footballers: The host nation is only being nice to you so it can date rape you and leave you crying in the corner. RAPERS!
Mexico: Our natural soccer enemy. Spencer says they flop a lot and like to punch other players in the pelotas, which I find infuriating and hilarious. Also, if that Fast Food Nation flick is any indication, these are the people we hire to work in our meat processing plants for pennies on the dollar. FUCKING COW KILLERS. I also don’t respect anyone who protests his right to voluntarily stay in Arizona. Any smart person would LOVE to be thrown out of that shithole of a state.
Uruguay:
France: Do we really need to get into this? Hating France has become so easy that I almost resent that I can’t hate them in new and interesting ways. Also, I had a cashier once at Vie de France who was a total cock. All I wanted was an almond croissant, you fucking frog. CHOKE.
GROUP B
South Korea: You people are lucky Japan exists. Because without them, you people would be, hands down, the weirdest country on fucking Earth. But no, Japan gets all the tentacle porn jokes while you cabbage-eating freaks skate by. A friend of mine tried to get me to watch a Korean movie once. I had a seizure after three minutes.
Argentina: Coached by a has-been drug addict who’s still kind of a fatass despite having lap band surgery. Also, I’m bitter I didn’t grow up in Argentina, what with its fine mix of European architecture and attractive women. Not really fair that I drew Minnesota.
Nigeria: Well, well, well. If it isn’t one of the upstart African countries that everyone feels obligated to cheer for as part of the Bob Geldolf/Bono Africa Underdog Pact of 2003? You know what? No. I’m not falling for it. I refuse to let liberal white guilt get the best of me. No sympathy for the Nigerians! They can jolly well pull themselves up by their bootstraps, like I did!
/son of a former airline executive
Paul Shirley says you people need to use more rubbers!
Greece: Way to depend on our financial system to accrue massive debts, you hairy cunts. Don’t you know we’re not to be trusted? FOOLS. Also, learn to make food that isn’t wrapped in grape leaves.
GROUP C
Slovenia: Shouldn’t you people be fighting a war with some other country I’ve never heard of right now?
Algeria: Like this one?
USA: WOOHOO! WE WON BY TYING! LOW EXPECTATIONS FUCKING RULE! SUCK IT, ENGLAND!
England: I will tell this story again, because it’s important. I spent a semester in England. I went to a guy’s house one night. One of his roommates, an English dude, was making spaghetti that night. He took the spaghetti, drained it, and proceeded to put eight tablespoons of mayo on top, then ate it. English people are fucking repulsive.
GROUP D
Germany: Nazis. It doesn’t matter what you people do for the rest of history. Every time I think of your country, I think of Nazis. Any time I hear people speak German, I assume they’re discussing how to “reassess the Jewish situation.” You’ll never live it down. You bastards.
On the other hand, my wife was born in Germany. Hi honey!
Ghana: You should have “rhea” tacked onto the end of your country’s name. AM I RIGHT?!
Serbia: Oh look! It’s another bunch of intractable assholes who never stop holding civil wars. You people are like the Middle East with shitty PR. And what the hell happened to Ana Ivanovic? Such a waste of potential.
Reader Gordon also adds this:
There’s a nationwide network of rocket launchers in people’s backyards, and the government calls those people to fire the rockets at hail. I’ll repeat that.
SERBIAN CIVILIANS HAVE FUCKING ANTI-HAIL ROCKET LAUNCHERS IN THEIR BACKYARDS.
So yes, don’t fuck with the Serbs. I was in Serbia on business when Kosovo was about to break off (early March ’08) and the fuckers set part of the US Embassy on fire. But man, their food groups are things people can get behind, since basically every Serbian meal is meat with liquor. Yeah, that includes breakfast.
Australia: I was born in this country, and it is awesome. But we only lived there for four months. Thus, I have no accent. Which is CRAP. Also, I’m annoyed my country of birth lost to my wife’s country of birth by four fucking goals the other day. Losing 4-0 in soccer is like a September college football score. Horrible showing. YOU MAKE ME SICK, MATES.
GROUP E
Netherlands: Just call it Holland. It’s what everyone wants to call you. I don’t see why you have to hold onto Netherlands so desperately, Mr. Van Der Von Ver Schlaaaaaap.
Japan: I’ve been to Japan. They eat bean paste for dessert. Go to Japan and try it sometime. I promise you, it’s every bit as horrifying as it sounds.
Cameroon: As I said to Spencer, I do not trust any country whose name sounds like a racist slur for someone who is half-Black, half-Arab.
Denmark: Guess who’s never watched a shitty Lars von Trier movie and never will? – - > THIS GUY < - -
GROUP F
Paraguay: Proud member of the small group of South American nations not famous for either A) Being Brazil or B) Having a long history of insane drug-related violence. Way to not stand out, Paraguay.
Italy: Worst fucking floppers in the universe and I hate these fucking cologne-wearing mama's boys with all my heart. Italy is the New Jersey of Europe. Go to an Italian train station sometime and try breathing in the air without wanting to heave out your insides.
New Zealand: JEMAINE? PRISINT!
Slovakia: The half of the old Czechoslovakia that has no decent hockey players or porn stars. YOU ARE A FUCKING WASTE OF A NATION-STATE.
GROUP G
Ivory Coast: Yes, I know you're supposed to call it Cote D'Ivor or something like that. But I refuse. That sounds like a tanning oil. You're the Ivory Coast, and I demand you people train elephants to swim and let me ride your aqua-elephants for a small fee.
Brazil: Oh, they always win. BORING. They're the Yankees of soccer. Also, Brazil is another country I am now bitter for not being raised in. With the big asses and the lack of clothing and the women shaking their boobs when they dance and all that. That's good stuff. Almost worth living in a nation where the cockroaches have saddles.
North Korea: EVIL.
Portugal: Spencer says they're the biggest fuckfaces in the tournament. And he would know. He watches soccer. You people are nothing more than Spain's welcome mat. Fucking floppers.
GROUP H
Spain: Oh, thank you people for giving tapas to the world. Now, my old lady can ask that we go to a Spanish restaurant, throw down $70, get served three shrimp, and call it a dinner. That is fucking CRAP. I hate tapas. Tapas should be the free thing you get before the actual meal arrives.
Switzerland: Does anyone like this group of boring, neutral, Nazi-coddlers? I've been to Geneva. My friend paid $15 for beer. Geneva blows. You can get chocolate in Belgium. You can get watches virtually anywhere else. Switzerland is worthless. They don't even have their own language. Suck a cuckoo clock.
Chile: Anorexic landmass.
Honduras: I have no opinion of Honduras. EXCEPT THAT HONDURANS KILLED MY GRANDFATHER AND I LOATHE THEM.
This week's Deadcast is available in the iTunes Music Store here. Special thanks to Liberated Syndication for hosting us. Now sit back, relax, and listen to the hate blossom. Enjoy the World Cup, gang.
