Remember Hardees' relatively brief stint with fried chicken? Some said it was better than KFC. How about the Frisco Burger? Still, quite possibly, the reigning champion in the "Most Likely to Trigger Spontaneous Cardiac Arrest" category at the Fast Food awards.
More recently, though, Hardees has gone in a slightly different direction: Bigger, thicker, juicier meat (or cheese paper) that beautiful, scantily clad, women (or blue collar manual labor) are more than eager to wrap their hands around, get a little messy, and gobble down. Hey, it works, right? Pushing the envelope a bit, maybe, but who couldn't get behind that? Well, someone in the marketing department, while certainly behind it, apparently felt they hadn't pushed quite hard enough; decided it was time to come out with a full on thrust...
Apparently there's an entire lineup of these spots. Make the Jump for some more...
Oh, and make sure to visit NameOurHoles.com for even more. Yeah, seriously...
]]>Rumor has it that during Holt's days at N.C. State he used to tie one arm behind his back during receiving drills. That may help explain things. Either way, I'm adding this revelation to an already long list of reasons why I haven't made a living catching a lot of balls. Make the jump for a clip of Torry discussing his "trophy" of a finger at a recent Jaguars press conference.
As most of our hundreds of thousands of readers have probably noticed, Frumpzilla has been on the mend for awhile now. Still is, really, but, despite our current state of flux, we just couldn't resist paying homage to one of our favorite secular holidays. We could, however, fail to come up with anything original, and instead recycle our incredibly popular Secretaries' Day article from last year. Don't worry, though, the advice is still good...REALLY good, so enjoy celebrating Secretaries' Day 2009 with these helpful tips and suggestions...
Use the link above, not the "Jump". Best wishes, Frump...
]]>You know, I gave Xavier and its fanbase a pretty hard time last year after they ended my beloved Dawgs miraculous run to the Tourney. I may never be able to forget the humping that went on in that game, but, now, I think I can at least forgive...
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And not the lump of electronic poo based on one of Nicholas Sparks' gems. I'm talking about that James Brown impression Jon Scheyer dazzled with yesterday in Blacksburg, VA. Performance after the jump.
He, no sh#t, travels five times in that clip--twice, pre-fouls and thrice, post-fouls. So now we have alarming video proof for Elliott Williams and Jon Scheyer. Who's next?
Donk Spotter
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Do you remember what you did for fun when you were 12? Neither do I. However, I'm pretty sure it involved playing some bball with my buddies or trading baseball cards, definitely not making the babies. The same cannot be said for Alfie Patten, a 13 year old british lad(who looks closer to 7 than 13) as he has recently knocked up his gorgeous 15 year old lady. Proof of her classic beauty after the jump in the Sun link.
As a buddy of mine says, "I'm not in the judgement bidness", however this is regahdamdiculous!! I'm 28 and to be honest, it's a struggle sometimes to take care of myself sometimes. Normally when the unfortunate get pregnant too early, we talk about how it's a shame they'll never get to experience college without the responsibilities no 18 or 19 year old should bear. In said case, this poor kid won't get to experience the 7th friggin grade without those responsibilities.
Sorry, this is my first post back in awhile and I'm just at a loss for words. I'm confused as to whether I should try to be funny(notice I said try) or if I should just cry for humanity. Links to articles and videos after the jump. I'm done.
The SUN UK link...who obviously don't like me stealing their photos, so I also had to go through the link below. Might as well include that as well.
http://news.ninemsn.com.au/world/753177/boy-13-did-father-baby-teen-mum
]]>So yeah, a trusted source just informed me that North Carolina State alumnus John Tesh is responsible for that envigorating, nearly unforgettable jam/theme song for the "NBA on NBC". Yes, Wolfpackers, I'm afraid it's true, and on both counts. Now, if an acquaintance, or even a complete stranger, had told me that over a pint or ten down at the local watering hole, I'd of called them a bald-faced liar and asked them to kindly leave. Otherwise, fistifcuffs would almost certainly ensue, and understandably so. I mean, I just don't take the alleged association of things like competitive sports and John Tesh lightly, and I've always felt such sentiment was perfectly reasonable...UNTIL NOW
You know, for me to believe such a claim under normal circumstances, it would probably take seeing documented video evidence of Tesh telling a capacity crowd how he composed the basic idea for the theme in his head; was so excited about it that he had to call his answering machine at home to preserve an oral, auditory record of his inspiration; prove that he did this by presenting the original recording on his answering machine to the audience; and then perform the fruits of said inspiration, the whole damn tour de force, live, complete with a small orchestra, dueling violin and guitar, and, of course, air dribbling. Well, Frumpsters, rarely has the phrase "Be careful what you wish for" possessed greater meaning to me than it does right now...
I'm not sure whether it's the air dribbling, the remarkable "Teshing" that's going on between the 3:22 and 3:29 marks, the mutual musical masturbation by the fiddler and guitarist around 2:45 through 3:15, or maybe just the fiddler's own bit of "Teshing" around the 2 minute mark and continued around 2:20-2:24, but, my god, that video is simply amazing. Rarely can something blow so amazingly hard, and yet still inspire one to go dunk on some needy kids down at the youth center (9 foot goal). Thank you, John Tesh, in more ways than one...
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Well, Frumpsters, Valentine's Day is right around the corner tomorrow, and I'm fairly certain there are quite a few lonely hearts out there that could use a little help landing a last second date. Sure, you could pick up a Cosmo, or Men's Health or something on your way out the grocery store, or maybe try to squeeze in a marathon of that weirdo on VH1, but all that costs valuable time and money, and who really wants to expend any more of such resources than you already have to on a date, let alone one on Valentine's Day.
Unfortunately, I'm confident that I'm in no position to give anyone dating advice, far from it, actually, but I do know "good" advice when I hear it...even if I have to eavesdrop, which is what I did on my lunch break the other day...
(More after the Jump)
So yeah, I'm enjoying my weekly to bi-weekly culinary sampling of Wendy's 99 cent, Super Value Menu (it's a tough economy, people), when two employees from the adjacent Captain D's walk over to apparently partake of the same. I assume they either don't comp your meals at Captain D's, or that the food is just that much better at Wendy's. My guess is the latter, but, either way, that's neither here nor there. Anyway, after getting their grub, these two grab a table within earshot of the large corner booth that I'd claimed for myself and my Crispy Chicken Sandwich, and, not too long after digging in, begin a rather intriguing discussion.
Apparently one of these heartbreakers was rather anxious about asking his most recent crush out on a date. Being slight of build, somewhat funny looking, even ill-gened perhaps, and exuding an inescapable essence of social awkwardness, he'd of fit right in here at Frumpzilla. Understandable, then, that he was soliciting some friendly advice from his, presumably more seasoned, companion; a young man that, although somewhat of a caricature, cleary considered and carried himself as a bit of a player...
The following dialogue is based on an actual conversation. It has been reconstructued, and perhaps polished up a bit, to the best of my recollection. Only the names have been changed, because, well, I don't know the real names:
Alphonso [The player, putting his junior bacon cheeseburger down in anticipation of a lengthy discussion]: Here's what you do, man. Call her up and say "Hey, Vonda. I'd really like to meet you out for a drink." That's it, man. That's all you gotta do.
Baxter [the would be Frumpzilla intern, soaking it all in]: That's it? That easy, huh? Okay, but I don't know where to say we should meet up.
Alphonso: Doesn't matter. Just make sure it's some place crowded, and kinda loud. Now, you'll need to get there early, though. You need to be there before she gets there, and get a seat where you'll be able to see her when she walks in.
Baxter [still intrigued, noisily slurping down the remnants of his Biggie soda]: Okay...
Alphonso: Okay, now, when she comes in, meet her in the middle of the bar, before she can get to the table. Stare at her, dead in the eyes, for about 5 seconds, make her REALLY uncomfortable...
Baxter [confused (as am I)]: Huh? Heh-heh, you're joking, right?
Alphonso: No, dude, just listen. Alright, after you're done breaking her down, say "This is what's going to happen: First, I'm going to take you back to my place, and pour REALLY hot cocoa butter all over your body, after that I'm going to...", well, wait, what's this chick like? I mean, is she, you know, all sweet and innocent like, or is she a slut?
Baxter [1/2 laughing, 1/2 mortified]: Uhhh, I don't know, dude, what the hell are you...
Alphonso [interjecting, beginning to show signs of frustration]: Dude, do you want my help or not? I mean, do you really want to compare resumes here? I think I may know what I'm talking about, okay? Better than you at least, right?
Baxter [conceding the point]: Yeah, man, yeah. It's just, you know, this is all new to me, and, to be honest, it sounds kinda f*cked up...
Alphonso [apparently understanding how someone like Baxter (and me) must be feeling right now]: It's cool, man. Just trust me, I wouldn't lead you astray. Okay, so is she a good girl or a common whore?
Baxter [emotionally exhausted]: I don't know, man. I mean, I don't know her that well, you know?. I was kinda just thinking dinner and a movie here...
Alphonso [amused]: Dinner and a movie? What, are you trying to marry this girl or something [laughs to himself]? Dude, at this point, you should just be worrying about trying to get a piece, alright? All that dinner and a movie stuff comes later.
Baxter: Well, I guess you're right. I mean, I'm not trying to marry her, and it's been a long time since, you know...
Alphonso [even more amused]: Right, heh-heh, yeah, I KNOW. Well, I'll just give you the options, then: If she's the whore we all hope she is, you go with this after the cocoa butter bit: "...I'm gonna f*&! the sh*t out of you all night long"; if she's nice and innocent, just say "...I'm gonna make sweet, sweet love to you all night long", got it? Same thing, you know, just, like, phrased a different way.
Baxter: Uhhh, yeah, I guess...
Alphonso: Okay, then you say "After that, we'll have a glass or two, and I'll smoke a cigarette..."
Baxter: But I don't smoke...
Alphonso [Hangs head down, fully frustrated]: You're killin' me, man. Seriously, just work with me here, alright? Roll with it. Pick up a pack of Parliaments from the BP over there or something, I don't care, but your attitude is starting to make me wonder why I'm even helping you in the first place.
Baxter [uncomfortably apologetic]: Yeah, sorry, that was stupid. I'll try not to interrupt anymore.
Alphonso: It's cool, man, just chill, I'm almost done anyway. Okay, so after that you say "Then we'll make love again, grab a bath, and after that I'll ask you to leave...And I'll never acknowledge your existence again for the rest of my life."
Baxter [after about a 5-10 second period of silence]: Uhhh, then what?
Alphonso: That's it, then you take her home.
Baxter [in mild shock]: Dude, you're telling me that works?
Alphonso [confidently]: Hey, it does for me. Let me know how it goes...
So, there you have it, Frumpsters. Now, I may never know whether "Alphonso" was being serious, or simply trying to set his hapless friend up for a swift kick in the nuts. Regardless, for our purposes here, I guess that really doesn't matter. I'm sure that type of approach may work wonders on the right kind of woman, but I wouldn't know. I'm also not particularly willing to find out, but that shouldn't stop any of you from exploring such possibilities. Let us know how your experience goes in the comments section. Happy Valentine's Day, and good luck!
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***Assuming you're havnig trouble reading that, and I'm sure you are, click on the above link (or here, if you're really lazy) to get the full sized version***
Everyone loves a good corporate complaint letter. We see some of the better ones pop up from time to time, and they rarely fail to elicit a laugh. Occasionally, however, one comes along that truly flirts with the sublime, and we may very well have one here.
Came across this gem whilst immersed in my ritual morning perusal of foreign newspaper publications. Apparently this guy was so disappointed with the food and other amenities provided on his Virgin Airlines flight from Mumbai to London that he took the time to write Sir Richard Branson himself a rather epic account of his unsavory voyage, complete with photographic evidence. It's a treat.
Make the jump for a complete reproduction of the correspondence, as well as the perturbed passenger's pics...
Dear Mr Branson
REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008
I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit.
Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at thehands of your corporation.
Look at this Richard. Just look at it:
I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert?
You don't get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it's next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That's got to be the clue hasn't it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in:
I know it looks like a baaji but it's in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you'll be fascinated to hear that it wasn't custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It's only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.
Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what's on offer.
I'll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it's Christmas morning and you're sat their with your final present to open. It's a big one, and you know what it is. It's that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about.
Only you open the present and it's not in there. It's your hamster Richard. It's your hamster in the box and it's not breathing. That's how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this:
Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking it's more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It's mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashed potato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird.
Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard.
By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it's baffling presentation:
It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn't want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.
I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point.
Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on:
I apologise for the quality of the photo, it's just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson's face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel:
Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I'd had enough. I was the hungriest I'd been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.
My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations:
Yes! It's another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff.
Richard.... What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I'd done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.
So that was that Richard. I didn't eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can't imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.
As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It's just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it's knees and begging for sustenance.
Yours Sincererly
XXXX
According to The Telegraph, "Paul Charles, Virgin's Director of Corporate Communications, confirmed that Sir Richard Branson had telephoned the author of the letter and had thanked him for his "constructive if tongue-in-cheek" email. Mr Charles said that Virgin was sorry the passenger had not liked the in-flight meals which he said was "award-winning food which is very popular on our Indian routes." Now that's what I call customer service?
Many thanks to The DBJ for the tip...
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Make the jump for the video.
I realize Chase Budinger's head o' hair looks like one of those golf shoe cleaners outside the pro shop, but come on. That makes Laettner's stomp look pedestrian. And his teammates are absolutely thrilled. Awful.
Houston must still be upset about 1983. Understandable.
Donk Spotter
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We're actually in the Round of 16 already, but I'll make my predictions anyway. After the jump.
Doods:
First of all, I'm pretty sure all tennis enthusiasts would call one of the slams (depending on geographic location) the greatest tennis event of the year. Not Donk Spotter. My favorite tennis moment of the year is watching that bigot from down-unda, Lleyton Hewitt, lose in the Aussie Open. It's exhilirating. And guess what? It happens every year now because he stinks. He stinks like that bat bait Mick concocted in Crocodile Dundee II. Moving along...
I don't know if this has anything to do with the recent inauguration and the fact that Donk Spotter watched the coverage for 24 straight hours, but I'm taking Rocket Roddick. Yea, it's got everything to do with it because RR's played like crap for about two straight years. Nevertheless, after this past week, I have to pick a Yank; I just have to. Plus, I just can't "Pick" this guy. No way. James Blake, you say? Naaaah, I'll go with the big serve on the hard court.
Llllllladies (Well, some of them):
Since Aphrodite, pictured above, is already out, I'll go with AJ Hawk. I mean Dinara Safina. Terrifying.
Aussie Aussie Aussie! Oy Oy Oy!
Donk Spotter
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So I'm sure you've all heard the reports about President Obama wearing bullet proof clothing during the inaugural ceremonies on Tuesday. Yeah, it's true. See that strapping overcoat up there? Bulletproof. Shirt? Bulletproof. Tie? Bulletproof. That Q-Ray Bracelet thing on his right wrist? Bulletproof, and all thanks to one Miguel Caballero, a Colombian designer that specializes in such attire.
Naturally, upon learning about this garb, I was like, "okay, where can I get some?". I mean, every girl's crazy about a sharp dressed, bulletproof man, right? Just look at how freakin' turned on Michelle is in that picture. I need more of that in my life ("that", of course, being more women looking like they can barely resist the urge to tear my bulletproof clothes off and get all freaky naughty with me).
Sadly, after I reexamined the prospect of donning bulletproof threads, I realized that my all too zealous imagination may have gotten the best of me. How am I going to pull off bulletproof clothing? How could I justify it? Sure, I probably could afford it (believe it, ladies...), but I'm just not THAT important. I mean, Presidents, Kings, Prime Ministers, I'm sure these are the ilk of folk that keep Miguel Caballero in business.
Well, I decided to research this, just to be sure, and I was right...except for one glaring loophole. A loophole that may just allow the common, independently wealthy, everyday man, such as myself, rock some bulletproof fashion, too...
According to this ad for a $4,000, Miguel Caballero polo, "...High profile clients include action hero Steven Seagal, King Abdullah of Jordan, President Hugo Chavez of Venezuela, President Alvaro Uribe of Columbia, Prince Felipe of Spain, and other notable V.I.P.'s...". So yeah, I was righ...wait, Steven "Hard to Kill" Seagal? What the hell? Ummm, that can't be right. He's the epitome of the whole "Which one of these doesn't belong?" on that list. Heh, no-no, must be a mistake. I needed another, incontravertible source: Wikipedia (obviously)...
"Miguel Caballero is a bulletproof clothing company based in Bogotá, Colombia with outlets in Mexico City and Sao Paulo. It is best known for its fashion line of bulletproof clothing and counts among its clients Prince Felipe of Spain, the actor Steven Seagal, President Álvaro Uribe of Colombia, President Hugo Chávez of Venezuela and other heads of state."
Well, there you have it. If it's referenced in Wikipedia, it might as well have been referenced by God herself. Apparently it wasn't enough for Mr. Seagal to be type cast for the entirety of his professional career...he had to make sure he remained in character for the rest of his life. There's even a nice picture of Steve and Mr. Caballero on Miguel Caballero's official site.
So I figure, hey, if Mason Storm Steven Seagal has a justifiable excuse to wear bulletproof clothing, why the hell don't I? Surely the odds of either one of us getting assasinated or something are pretty damn close. All that's left to do now is decide on what article or accessory to buy. I'm kinda digging Barack's Q-Ray. It's obviously worked wonders for him...
Just for kicks, so to speak, here's probably the greatest/most hilarious Steven Seagal scene of all time. Only a man wearing bulletproof clothing has that kind of swagger. Believe it, ladies...
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