Loki and Domino say hello!

Not even a little bit.

So having to sit and hear people talk about this “cinderella story” (Caddyshack homage definitely intended) all day long is busting up my mellow.

The whole idea of golf bugs me. You go into a field and hit a ball really hard. Then, you walk after it and hit it again. You continue to hit it with lessening force, or different clubs, until you eventually just barely tap it into a hole in the ground.

Then, you pick it up and hit it really hard again…rinse and repeat.

Oh yeah, and the idea is to score as close to zero as possible.

Ok, so first off no sport should be dependent on getting FEWER points than your competitor. That’s just crazy. So golf and tennis are not sports. They just aren’t.

Now, what I could go for golf wise would be a few simple adjustments to the rules.

Allow me to present : Cinlach Golf…

Rule #1 : Strokes don’t count.

Took a 148 on hole #7? Who gives a fuck!

No, instead my version of golf will be timed. That’s right…you’ve got to beat the time your opponent laid down at each hole and the person at the end of 18 with the fewest amount of time spent wins.

No dilly-dallying around, measuring shots, picking up grass to measure the wind…no, just hit the fucking ball already. You’re already 15 seconds behind prick!

Rule #2 : You get one ball…ONE.

Lose the ball, lose the game. Period. No excuses and no crying.

Smack the ball into the pond? Well unless you want to forfeit the game I’d suggest you sack up and get to wading. Oh yeah, by the way the clock’s ticking asshole. You’d better get those pants legs rolled up quick.

If you lose the ball entirely then your opponent wins.

Rule #3 : Drinking is not only allowed, it’s mandatory.

Have a beer! No seriously…drink one. Watching you piss your pants on the 17th green is infinitely more interesting than watching you hit the little while ball.

And that’s it…no other rules. None.

Want to cork your club to get better distance? Fine by me pal…knock the shit out of that thing. Whatever floats your boat baby.

Want to shoot heroin while snorting cocaine and getting a lapdance from Jenna Jameson in the middle of the fairway? What do I care. You’re the one with the drug habit and countless STD’s from Tito Ortiz…have a blast pal.

The only other thing I can think of to make the game more interesting would be to randomly mine certain areas with tripwires and pressure grenades.

“And Tiger Woods walks up to the 6th green to…KABLOOOMM!!”

“Oh shit…”

Of course that would be hell on the spectators…constantly peppered with bloody golfer bits.

Hmm…perhaps not.

What about topless waitresses? Now we might be on to something.

“Why did you stop watching?”, I can hear you asking breathlessly. Well, I’ll tell ya why. Allow me to do so via an examination of the differences of approach that would be evident if I were Jack Shephard.

What follows is an approximation of a situation I happened to catch while Sappy Chick was catching up on Season Three on ABC.com.

Ben, the leader of “The Others”: Jack, I want you to give me the phone that the skydiver gave you. Do it because my people have Sayid, Bernard, Jin, and Sawyer.

Jack Shephard, resident dumbfuck: What’s to keep me from just snapping your neck?

Ben, speaking into the walkie-talkie that Jack has stupidly given him: Zeke, unless you hear my voice in one minute I want you to shoot the hostages.

Hostages via walkie-talkie: Jack, you fucking dimwitted fuck! What the hell are you doing? You would fuck up a wet dream Jack! Do you hear me, you would fuck up a wet dream!

Jack: I won’t do it. I’m getting my people off the island. All of them.

Ben: All of them except the four Zeke’s about to shoot in the face, that is. Thirty seconds left Jack…tick tock Clarice.

Jack: No!! I won’t do it!

Ben: Times up Jack.

Walkie-Talkie: Jack you fucking douchebag! BLAM!

So at the end of this scenario Jack attacks Ben and punches him a few times, knocking him unconscious.

Now for the sake of arguement, let’s say that the above scenario plays out exactly the same, only this time…it’s me and not Jack Shephard on the island.

Just fucking work with me here…

So, after savagely beating Ben into unconsciousness, I pick up the walkie-talkie…

Me: This is Cinlach. Can you assholes hear me ok?

Zeke: We can hear you Cinlach. I bet you’re shitting on yourself now aren’t you. Just come on back and we’ll all be friends again.

Me: No…I don’t think so. If we come back you’ll just kill us. You’ve already shown you’re willing to be murderous ratfucks several times over already. Besides, I like being out here hours away from your redneck ass.

But I will tell you what I am going to do instead. Would you like to know what I’m going to do now Zeke?

Zeke: Uh, wait…so you’re not gonna come back in?

Me: Oh hell no. I’m not that stupid pal. No, instead what I am going to do is repay the kindness you’ve shown my people. Now, I will concede that you’ve killed four of mine, and I only have one of yours to kill. But I think that quality is better than quantity.

Zeke: Oh fuck…waitaminute.

Me: No. There’s no more waiting and there’s no more bullshit mindgames. You have fucked with me for the last…fucking…time.

I am going to kill Ben. I am going to kill this piece of shit deader than fuck. By the time this is over, if you ever manage to find the remains of his body, you will regret fucking with me for as long as you live.

When, or if, you find what’s left of him you will THANK GOD that it happened to him and not to you.

Zeke: Oh shit…don’t do it.

Me: I’m going to do it, and I’m going to let you listen in. Now I’m not sure how much battery life this walkie-talkie’s got, but I’ll bet it’s more than enough for me to get my motherfucking point across to you dirty sons of bitches.

I’ll bet that at night, when you hear some wild animal scream in the jungle, you’ll think about me, and all the horrible things I’ve done to poor ol’ Ben here.

First, I’m going to break his ankles. Don’t want him running away on me now…that’d ruin my fun.

Second, I’m going to break both his knees. Just to be sure he doesn’t somehow manage to crawl away to safety, and mainly because I like the idea of making this maggot hurt as much as possible.

Then I’m going to break both arms, and all the bones in his hands…just to be triple sure.

Now here’s where the fun begins Zeke. Are you still there buddy?

Zeke: I am…please, don’t do this.

Me: Shut the fuck up. You telling me what to do has come to a fucking end. Now I’m telling you. Kill everyone if you want to…we’re all mostly likely dead anyway, so what difference does it make if you kill us or if something else does. Dead is dead.

Speaking of dead…let’s get back to Benjamin here.

Once I’ve taken away all his flight options I’m going to go to work on him.

See, I’m not sure if you assfucks realized this, but I’m a surgeon. Which means I have a VERY detailed knowledge of the human anatomy. That also means that I know lots of things that can go wrong with someone without them dying.

Lots of ways.

I plan on telling you all about them, as I subject Ben to torture that would make Hitler cry for his mother.

You’ll hear Ben’s every agonizing scream over this walkie-talkie…until either it dies or I get tired of playing with Ben. Whichever comes first.

I want to thank you for the mercy you’ve shown my people. A bullet is a nice quick way to die. Unfortunately for you, I’ve no more charity left in my heart. I’m through playing with you people. Now it’s time for me to show you what happens when you push beyond where you should.

Zeke: You’re a savage…

Me: I am now…thanks to you. And just think, I haven’t even STARTED on Ben yet.

Zeke: I can’t listen to this.

Me: Listen or don’t. It’s still going to fucking happen.

Now, here’s how you break an ankle. See, the trick is that it’s structurally weak if moved contrary to it’s designed path. Say for instance if you grab the toes and pull forcefully at a right angle to the leg…like this.

SNAP.

Ben: OH SWEET FUCKING JESUS ON A HANDMADE ROCKING CHAIR WITH A BEAUTIFUL ANTIQUE CROCHET PILLOW!!

Me: Don’t pass out on me Benny, you and I are just getting started.

Oh yeah, by the way Zeke…if you’re really lucky you and I won’t see each other again. If you’re not, we will.

Think about Ben here and do be sure to keep watch over your shoulder.

You know, after writing that I think it’s entirely possible that I have some pent up anger somewhere…

But you get the point.

I got tired of watching Lost because I got sick and tired of seeing the same dumb shit happen over and over again.

The best way to make sure some overly-educated prick with a jungle fetish doesn’t continually fuck you over and threaten to kill you every other day is to forcibly remove the aforementioned overly-educated prick from the gene pool.

But hey, what do I know…I’m just the guy smart enough not to end up stranded on a tropical island with a bunch of freakin’ science nerds gone all “Lord of the Flies”.

Dear Asshole,

I wanted to take this opportunity to say FUCK YOU for helping to reinforce all the most negative stereotypes not only about South Carolinians, but Southerners in general, and humanity as a whole.

I’m sorry that you can’t find the time during the day between watching Bill Dance fishing shows and hitting on your sister for a blow job to actually stop and think about the things other people say in order to determine whether it’s truthful or not.

And for the record, so fucking what if Obama WAS a Muslim? Isn’t this “America, the land of opportunity”? Shouldn’t people who believe in, or do things contrary to your personal beliefs be afforded the same liberties and rights as you? You do know that singular concept is the entire fucking CORNERSTONE of our whole society, right?

Are you familiar with “The Declaration of Independence”? You’re not? How shocking. I bet you can quote the fuck out of the Bible though can’t you.

Here, Mr. Wile E. Coyote: Super Genius, let me give your borderline retarded ass some assistance…

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

Oh no, wait…I’m attempting to use logic on someone who’s obviously a complete fucking fucktard.

My bad. I need to dumb this down quick…

Since I’ve got to speak down to your level (and I do admit to having a near perverse love of expletives), fuck you and everyone who looks like you, you bum-fuddled redneck fuckwad.

Also, just so we’re clear on how diametrically opposed we are on issues…I’m 125% in favor of gay marriage, favor a woman’s right to choose on abortion, wouldn’t really see the harm in a little socialization of our system, abhor sport hunting, and do not condone any form of religion involved in any form of government in any way, shape, or form.

So yeah…fuck you dude, seriously.

Also, I absolutely love that you decide to post one of the most blatantly redneck images I’ve ever seen on a beat to shit 1984 Dodge pickup with a bed full of Bud Light beer cans, a “3″ decal on the rear window and a set of fucking Clemson golf clubs in the front seat.

You sir definitely seem to know your place in society…and that’s good, because the rest of us (you know, the ones of us who aren’t all eat up with the “fucking dumb”) need the mentally infirmed like yourself to make us feel so much better about ourselves.

Sincerely,

Cinlach

P.S.

Fuck you and everyone in your general vicinity.

This pic is just badass.

This is a group of characters that set out on a five year mission that they ended up only getting about three years to complete, afterwards they still managed to stretch that shit out for 40 more years.

That’s talent.

Also, Zachary Quinto, Sylar from Heroes, is the exact mirror-image (you trekkies know what I’m talking about) of Spock.

Also, I’m officially trademarking the name “Sylar Spock”. Anyone who uses it owes me fucking money.

Ok, two posts in one day is all you get…otherwise you’ll go mad with power.

In the span of a short Sunday afternoon, Scott Speed went from points leader to finishing fifth in the ARCA RE/MAX Series championship. He got wrecked by his closest pursuer [Ricky Stenhouse Jr] on lap 27 and returned the favor 7 laps later — an incident that classified his car’s damage as “terminal” after it hit the inside and outside walls. Still, Speed said he earned valuable “street cred.” “Straight out of ‘Days of Thunder,’ I just said, ‘Change my tires. Just put the tires on it and let me go out and try it,’” said Speed (a.k.a. Cole Trickle). “I went out for a lap and a half until the 99 (Ricky Stenhouse Jr., a.k.a. Russ Wheeler) was in our presence. And I did to him what he did to me. From my perspective, I was the championship leader and he disrespected me on the track so there was no way I was going to let him win a championship like that.” Speed finished 34th in ARCA’s season finale. His 2008 stat line reads like this: 4 wins, 3 poles, 10 top fives and 17 top 10′s in 21 races.

This is coming from a dude who raced Formula One last year.

Before the end of the 2007 F1 season, he leaves the monumentally under-performing Red Bull sponsored F1 team, and decides to come over to stock cars.

The guy had never even been in a stock car until he made his debut at Talladega, both qualifying and finishing in seventh place in late 2007.

In 2008 he ran the full ARCA schedule, during which he wins 4 races and damn near wins the ARCA Championship, all while also running 11 races in the NASCAR Truck Series, garnering one win, three top fives (one at fucking Bristol), and five top 10′s.

So his combined stats in both series for 2008 are 32 starts, 5 wins, 13 top fives, and 22 top ten finishes.

Those are serious fucking numbers people.

Scott Speed. Learn the name, you’ll be hearing it more in the future.

Exercise? Discipline? Fuck that. Tony’s gonna have a cheeseburger, drink a bottle of Crown Royal, and then have a nasty supermodel threeway.

Batman has a tricked out cave and a fancy car. Iron Man has a swinging bachelor pad and a suit which allows him to fly supersonically to any party anywhere in the world. It even chills drinks.

Batman hangs out with an old butler and a teenage boy in tights. Iron Man hangs out in a hot tub with Megan Fox, Lindsay Lohan, and Scarlett Johansson.

Batman throws bat shaped boomerangs at people. Iron Man shoots lasers at your punk ass.

Batman can punch you and break your ribs. Iron Man can punch you in fucking half.

If someone shoots at Batman, he ducks. If someone shoots at Iron Man, he laughs at them.

Batman tries desperately to keep his identity a secret. Iron Man told the whole world he was Iron Man just because he thought it’d be awesome.

Batman’s parents were killed, driving him to exact vengeance. Iron Man’s parents are dead too…but you don’t see him bitching and moaning about it all fucking day.

Batman is the head of multibillion dollar corporate empire. Iron Man is also the head of a multibillion dollar corporate empire. Ok, so that one’s a draw.

Batman adopts a gruff, throat rending voice to strike fear in the hearts of criminals. Iron Man just has a little electronic gizmo that changes his voice without sounding like he’s smoked 400 packs of cigarettes that day.

Batman has a utility belt with all sorts of little gadgets. Iron Man has a utility suit that is one gigantic gadget filled to the brim with countless other gadgets.

Batman cloaks himself in the colors of the night and avoids being seen. Iron Man is wearing a gleaming bright red and yellow suit that screams, “Hey! Can everyone see me ok?”

And the number one reason Iron Man is better then Batman?

Because Bruce Wayne only pretends to drink scotch and fuck strippers all night long…Tony Stark actually does that shit and still manages to save the world on a regular basis.

And that’s why Iron Man is better then Batman.

But as awesome as they are I do feel as though there is still a void when it comes to serenades for truly deserving people…especially when those people do things that make me want to choke the shit out of them.

My reckoning is that these little annoyances are universal, and as such if I find something annoying then most likely a bunch of other people do as well. So let’s see if this works…if not I can always shitcan it.

Cinlach’s Place presents…Real American Fucktards.

     Real American Fucktards!

Today we salute you, Mr. Drive one foot from my bumper with your brightest fucking bright-ass lights on.

     Mr. Drive one foot from my bumper with your brightest fucking bright-ass lights on!

While other drivers on the road practice courtesy and respect for their fellow travelers, you instead insist on lighting the inside of my car like it’s noon in the goddamn Gobi Desert.

     Can I offer you a light?

If only I’d thought to bring my copy of The Count of Monte Cristo with me tonight. Because thanks to your bright fucking headlights, I can read better in the front seat of my car then I ever could have sitting under a lamp at home in my favorite easy chair.

     Sucker! Reading is for squares!

Maybe you’re completely unaware of the fact you’ve got your brights on?

Maybe you just got your headlights aimed and you want to show me what a wonderful job the mechanic did.

     Hey! That mechanic is my cousin!

Whatever the reason is, just know that no nighttime commute would be complete without you blinding us with your 10,000 watt car-mounted spotlight highbeams.

So here’s to you, your Halogen highness. I just hope I can resist the urge to slam on my brakes. Because while it would no doubt damage my car, it’d also sure put those fucking lights out in a big, big hurry.

     Mr. Drive one foot from my bumper with your brightest fucking bright-ass lights on!

Those of you who’re lucky, or unlucky…whichever, enough to know me well will find it no surprise that my single favorite word is “fuck”. I mean I fucking love that word.

Well, while most of you are probably very familiar with the word itself and it’s current meaning, I’m willing to bet that most of you are unaware of one of the original meanings of what’s now considered the dirtiest word in the entire English language.

Fuck: [Origin: akin to MD fokken to thrust, copulate with, Sw dial. focka to copulate with, strike, push, fock penis

Now here’s where the aforementioned “little observation” comes in.

Way back in the mists of time, when mighty “fuck” was simple, harmless little “focka”, it was sometimes associated as a more colorful way of saying “hit”.

Fast forward over 500 years. Now, we in modern society are using the word “hit” to intone the word “fuck”. As in “I’d totally hit that”.

It makes me wonder if the word “hit” will be absolutely filthy in 750 years and “fuck” will be completely clean and accepted. Will “fuck” one day go mainstream like Elvis Presley…or Metallica even. Hmmmm.

Because if it does ever happen then I think that’d be pretty fucking ironic.