This feline had her morning walk interrupted by Irene. From the looks of the female, her daily walks are presumably accompanied by a nice J-Bone, a caramel frappuccino, and some STS9 while watching the serene waterfall before she hits the Springfield mall to work at Zumies. But anyway, does anyone know where the hell this park is?
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DELCO Making NoiseIt's tough to top the actual music video for "Make Some Noise", but few Delco/PSU boys came damn close. Scumbag of the Week: Leron MagilerThere are many different kinds of Scumbag that we have covered here on TTAD. There have been pedophiles, drunk school bus drivers, barf bandits, grocery store masturbaters, hell, we even had a man rob a drug store with a HIV infected needle. That was a good one. But the scumbag we have on our hands this week is truly one of a kind.
His name is Leron Magiler, and he is a real son of a bitch. Claiming he had terminal cancer and only months to live, a 34-year-old Haverford township man managed to scam co-workers, friends and others out of approximately $11,000, police said. Leron Magilner, who worked at the Wooden Indian Smoke Shop on South Eagle Road, is now behind bars charged with theft. He allegedly claimed to have concocted the scheme to get “emotional, moral and financial support” from friends. (full article here) If your a believer in Karma, you have to believe that this cumstain is gonna get what's coming to him while behind bars. My hope is that a few gentlemen by the names of Jamal and “Big Ray” fancy the fat fuck and show him their version of “Thomas the Tank Engine.”Jamal, of course, is a carrier of the HIV virus and “Big Ray”, well, he has that name for a few reasons. Leron, which is a spook name if I've ever heard one, good luck to you my friend. My guess is you're going to need it. By the looks of you, I'd say your only a few more microwavable Chicken Pot Pie's away from an actual terminal diagnosis, and I'll be first in line at your next benefit...to kick you square in the dick. Your little, fat, dick. -Dr. Funkenstein Delco Dime: Chantal GuzmanAs I sit at my computer, drinking an ice cold LandShark, watching with amusement as "The U" drama unfolds on my beautiful 42" flat screen television set, I come across a babe that has been emailed to me as a "recommended dime." The text states something along the lines of "This is my friend Chantal Guzman. She blows away all of your other dimes you need to put her on your site." Whoa, whoa, whoa, bitch! My dimes are top of the line... cute face, lil' waste, with a big behind. Nonetheless, I am intrigued. The name alone is enough for any man to shut his curtains and lock his bedroom door in preparation of some "me time". So I give her facebook link a click. Jesus Cock-Smoking Christ. She wasn't lying. In my opinion this babe shoots to the top of the leader board, and without knowing a blessed thing about her. Well, that's not entirely true. From her pictures I can tell she enjoys wearing bathing suites, drinking out of cocoanuts, and is an avid fan of the Phightin's. Do you need anymore reason to love a broad? I thought not. Chantal, speaking for the men of planet Earth, I love you, and keep up the good work.
- Dr. Funkenstein The Proverbial “Blaze of Glory” By: Chug MonkyHello TTAD readers. I’m here today to discuss something that has been near and dear to my heart for the past seven years. That is, of course, the ending to one of the most magnificent cinematic works of the modern era – the last scene of Rob Zombie’s breathtaking The Devil’s Rejects. Like many of you I presume, this masterpiece was unbeknownst to me for quite some time. The only thing I knew about Rob Zombie was what the normal, everyday person you meet at the Laundromat knew about him: He’s one bad dude with an awesome beard, smoking hot girlfriend, killer tattoos, he worships the devil and it’s a shame that I’m not his illegitimate son.
Then I found out he was doing a remake of one of my favorite movies of all time – John Carpenter’s Halloween. Well, I don’t need to tell you that when I realized that this sick puppy was going to get his mitts on this material, both of my thumbs (and my weener) shot straight up. I decided I needed to delve a little deeper into Mr. Zombie’s filmography. So, one beautiful, sunny Sunday morn, Bunny and I choose to honor our Lord’s holy day by buying a cold case of easy-drinking Busch Lights and watching House of 1000 Corpses and The Devil’s Rejects in my parents’ basement. Two Zombie classics. It’s safe to say that when the final scene of 1000 Corpses faded to black and the words “Written and Directed by Rob Zombie” appeared onscreen, we were less than impressed. In fact, I was dumbfounded. I looked like a mystified Tom Sizemore trying to make sense of his exorbitant hooker tab. Did I really just sit though 88 mindless minutes of piss-poor acting, scalpings, rapes, pedophile clowns, burn victims, doll fetishes, and people being skinned alive just to see Dwight from The Office be mutilated and, for no reason whatsoever, transformed into fishboy? It’s odd because typically the more bullshit that’s packed in a movie, the more I’m likely to recommend it. This had me rethinking my whole philosophy of film. I needed to take a walk. I strolled down to CVS on West Chester Pike, picked up a bag of Sour Patch Kids and sat down next to the dumpster to contemplate Mr. Zombie’s directorial skills. The bum to my right recognized a man in deep thought and offered me his brown-bagged bottle. I was more confused than he. I accepted. Took a sip. Just as I suspected – piss. Today was not my day. Gettin' Naked I’m not prone to it, but in nearly unconscious states, I’ve resorted to it just before I climb into bed. The reason? I couldn’t begin to explain. Others do it in a heavy blackout, walking out into the middle of a party or late night dance off, causing even the most veteran partygoers to shield their eyes after a quick burst of laughter. Then they fall over into the fetal position on the couch. The most brave just undress, grab their air guitar and go wild to ‘She’s the One’ by Bruce Springsteen. The more cautious grab a baseball glove, a grenade whistle, fanny pack, or foam shaving cream to hide whatever they can.
If you haven’t picked up on it yet, you probably haven’t had enough encounters with it. I, for one, have had enough encounters with it in one summer to last me, well, at least a whole summer. It’s called gettin naked. Everybody (especially our loyal readers) has dealt with it at some point. You walk out in the morning and there’s a hairy, white ass sitting in the air staring you right in the eyes. Or you turn around at a party and there’s the kid you thought you just put to bed wandering out, a hand covering his junk, a blacked-out smile that just screams, “I only half realize how ridiculous this is.” You might walk out of your bedroom to find three grown men sitting in your living room with Twisted Teas, naked, with baseball gloves covering their junk and big smiles on their faces. Then, the girl walks out of your bedroom looks at you taking pictures of your naked friends and immediately leaves. She sucked anyway. Or you see a cell-phone picture being passed around your favorite bar, combined with several hearty laughs, only to realize it’s your balls tucked between your thighs while you innocently slept in your own bed. Smart phones… Whatever the situation and whatever the reason for donning the birthday suit, it always provides for a good story and some damn good laughs. Whether it’s a picture of a little penis sticking out from the bottom of a fanny pack or a walk into a nude male naked on the couch next door, you have no choice but to look and laugh. Why people choose to get naked may always be a mystery, lost in the deep canyons of past black-outs. One thing is for sure: it won’t stop happening. Whether you join the party, well, that’s up to you. -Uncle Boner Tuesday Evening Thoughts Last week was a tough one. A really goddamn tough one. I was fresh off another weekend that drained my bank account, shattered my self-worth, and left me in the grips of another case of extended Sunday anxiety.
Author’s note: When your battle stretches into Tuesday and Wednesday, that joke with your friends that you’re only a few moves away from drinking yourself into a coma in a desolate apartment with Pink Floyd’s “Nobody Home” on repeat sure seems like the most reasonable course of action. Monday seemed to drag on longer than the opening scene from Scream 4. I contemplated ending it all almost every hour on the hour. I got in my car to drive home, as it started raining once again. I was at my wits end. Just as I had made the decision to buy a handle of Gentleman Jack and find the nearest condo to rent for the night to make that “joke” a reality, I suddenly came to my senses: The Philadelphia Phillies are playing much too well to pull a move like that. With a potential World Series run looming, this would be the fool’s way out. So, I smiled to myself, opened a beer and sat on my couch, turning on Comcast and getting ready for Doc, Cliff, or Cole to deal—it really didn’t matter at this point, did it? One Crazy Facebook GroupIf you're a reader of the Daily Crimes, you are aware that a couple weeks ago a young gentleman in Chester was shot in the back by a police officer. The dude who got merked, "Pooh", was in possession of a stolen hand gun. Nothing out of the ordinary for the City of Chester, but this has spawned an uproar from community residents and even the Mayor himself. Did the cop have the right to shoot Pooh in the back? I don't know. But what I do know, is that there is a major battle taking place right now on a Facebook group dedicated to supporting the actions of the police officer. It is actually quite entertaining. The poor grammar and middle names like Went'Platimun and SuckaFree makes for a good chuckle.
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