Porocrom’s Crappaper

There was this commercial I saw on TV. It was about a bear recklessly breaking into some poor redneck’s hunting cabin and eating all the food. The bear bypasses the obvious stash of moonshine and animal porn and goes straight for the cooler, looking for a refreshing beverage. Finding the cooler bereft of liquid refreshment, the bear steals the hunter’s clothes and ID (which are for some reason just lying around in the cabin) and hikes to the nearest convenience store – a caveat here, if the convenience store is close enough for a bear to walk there, what kind of hunting cabin was this? What was he hunting? Children separated from their parents? We can only speculate – anyways… the bear writes a cheque and buys a 12-pack of Pepsi. The announcer’s voice comes up and says “Nothing goes better with leftovers than an ice-cold Pepsi”.

Now maybe it was because my bullshit filter was clogged by the DAZZLINGLY idiotic commercial that preceded that assertion. Maybe it was because of my irrational fear that bears will take over the planet. Maybe it was because Pepsi is, in every way, an inferior product to Porocrom Cola (coming soon to a speakeasy in YOUR neighbourhood), but I had a SERIOUS problem with that statement. NOTHING, they say, goes better with leftovers than Pepsi. NOTHING! Needless to say, I can think of quite a number of things I would rather have than a single Pepsi.


Let’s start with the obvious. TWO PEPSIS. Why would you stop at one? I mean, if one Pepsi with leftovers is just shy of heaven (the Muslim one where you get 70 virgins), two Pepsis must be twice as good! It’s a win-win situation for you and the corporation.


How about A KICK IN THE FACE? Pepsi isn’t that great. I think that if given the choice between a Pepsi and a swift boot to the jaw, I would have a hard time stating my preference. BTW, to all of my friends who read this, don’t bother testing it. Just give me the Pepsi, and your wallet.


Okay, what about A NEW BIKE? I don’t want to meet the caffeine junkie who passes up a brand new 15-speed mountain bike with double-suspension, psychic brakes that you control with your mind, and two cup-holders for a friggin’ COLA. Here’s the thing: you need Pepsi so bad, you can use the bike to get to the store and buy some! And also some Lime Crush for me please.


Who doesn’t like SEX after a hearty meal? I will marry the girl with whom I can have the following conversation:

Me: Wow honey, that was a mighty tasty lasagna.

Her: Oh, thanks. It’s no big deal, my mom brought some leftovers from my uncle’s anniversary party.

Me: Well it was quite delicious. Did she make it?

Her: Yeah, it’s an old family recipe.

Me: What is that, Romano cheese?

Her: Yep, and grated Feta.

Me: Absolutely delectable.

Her: So, what do you say we open ‘em up?

Me: What, these two ice-cold Pepsis?

Her: No, my legs.

Now that is a functional relationship. There is a problem of course, since you aren’t likely to be slapped in the face if you go into a restaurant and ask the waitress if she will bring you a Pepsi…


Nothing goes better with leftovers than A GOLD BRICK. Gold bricks are worth a lot of money. If I went to a friend’s house and they said “Sorry, all we have is leftovers. We can order out or I can just give you a gold brick and we’ll eat yesterday’s pot roast”, it wouldn’t be that difficult a decision for me to make.


Why not wash down last night’s Chinese food (Long Dong Chicken) with a hearty draught of WORLD DOMINATION? Pick the scraps off your plate, then order a tactical nuclear strike against France. Why? To finally make Jerry Lewis as dead as his career! (si tu est francais, je m’excuse mais les anglophones sont tres stupide et je dois les amuser) Have your thumb on the pulse of your community… and EVERYTHING ELSE. Or, you could have a Pepsi… your choice.

Hello dear readers! Today’s post is somewhat special (I mean more special than all the other posts), since it is about one of our readers, who ACTUALLY BOUGHT one of our shirts (why are the rest of you lazy bastards not buying our shirts? Buy lots of them).

This is a picture of him brandishing (or wearing, I can’t remember the order I put the pictures in) his new favorite T-shirt. The T-shirt elegantly depicts a person selling a gourouni in the agora and a gallo buying it.

This picture is something about the shirt also, there is really no hope for me to remember it, so let’s pretend this is the one where the shirt’s back is displayed. The proud owner of this T-shirt (who has had the great honour of knowing me) is proudly displaying the proud address of this site on the back of his shirt, proudly. He is clearly very proud of it, because now everyone who sees the shirt will go like this (sample conversation follows):

Some guy in a bar:
“Wow, look at that dude over there. He is wearing a Porocrom T-shirt, therefore he must be cool. I must pay homage to him. I will go prostrate myself before him right now.” The guy then proceeds to become a slave of the wearer of the T-shirt for the rest of his life.

Another sample conversation illustrates colourfully what happens when women look at the shirt:
Hot chick in club #1:
“Wow, look at that dude. He is wearing a funny and interesting T-shirt. He looks like someone I would like to spank me. I shall take two of my hot friends and go over there and talk to him.”
There you have it, undeniable proof that the sex-appeal of our shirts is almost supernatural. Why have you not got one yet? (Hint: if you already have one, buy another one and wear them one on top of the other to double the effect. The shirts can be stacked infinitely for maximum effect).

This is a picture where we will pretend he is displaying the picture on the shirt. This picture is clearly a work of art from a world-famous artist (me) and everyone wearing it, looking at it, or being in the same city as it must now enjoy life knowing that they have been blessed with one of the greatest honours ever.
Jeff C. (the owner of the shirt) will now be world-famous, since everyone who looks at the address in the back will no doubt visit the site and all the hot women will want to date him. (Girls, his phone number is 555-HOTT).
Lastly, I will bring to your attention some REAL stories from REAL people who have REALLY bought our REAL T-shirts.
Jeff C. bought our T-shirt and said:
“This is the best T-shirt ever. It is almost like second skin to me. When I wear it I am endowed with superpowers and my penis grows ten inches. My life has improved dramatically since I have purchased this T-shirt. I used to be a virgin, but now I have sex three times a day with two different women every day, and the ratio keeps rising. I got a promotion and now I am the CEO of Microsoft in Gambia, and I am running for president in the next US elections.”
Mary B. didn’t buy our T-shirt and she died a few hours later by a flock of wild bulls that stampeded through her house in midtown N.Y.
Jenny G. bought our T-shirt and her blind husband regained his sight just to look at the shirt, and when he did, he was instantly cured of cholera, dysentery, the bubonic plague, tooth decay and chronic impotence. Jenny said “Thank you for this, Porocrom!”.
I could sit here and enumerate all the succes stories of people who have bought our shirt, but since only one has bought one, I would have to make them all up. I could also tell you of all the people that died, became vegetables or got married to the gorgeous and not at all unsightly Bette Davis because they wouldn’t buy our shirts, but I am tired of writing. Bye.

P.S. YOU CAN BUY OUR T-SHIRTS USING THE LINKS ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF THIS PAGE.

Don’t forget that some of our older posts are in the archives. If you’ve read everything on this page and you’re getting bored with it, why not check out some of our older stuff?

I want to relate a story that happened to a friend of mine (let’s call him Eduardo Sanchez). Eduardo was at the bar with a group of his friends. Some of his friends had brought other friends, things were going great and everyone was having a really good time. That’s when Eduardo noticed that one of his friend’s friends (to avoid confusion, we’ll call her Consuela del Caliente) was lookin’ pretty good. So he suavely began to make his move on the young Consuela when out of nowhere, adversity reared its horrendous visage in the form of the mythical beast known only by the name “The Ugly Friend”

Now before we are inundated by hate mail from women (who are undoubtedly the ugly friend themselves) let’s define this term. It gets bandied about and the real meaning has been lost. The so-called “Ugly Friend” is descriptive term only. It is not an evaluation of the person as a whole, nor is it merely a comment on the person’s physical appearance. The phrase ‘Ugly Friend’ described a person who is willing to initiate a heinous cock-block for petty reasons. So that we are clear, I have known many a decent-looking girl who has been the ugly friend. Let’s take a closer look…

Scenario 1: Sitting at the bar, two ladies are approached by a decent-enough looking chap.

Chap: Well hello ladies, how are you doing this fine evening?

Lady #1: We’re fine, thanks. What’s your name?

Chap: Chappy Chapperson. Can I interest you in a dance?

Lady #1: Um, sure.

Lady #2: I’m gonna sit here for a bit. I’ll be out there in a second.

Lady #1: Are you sure?

Lady #2: Yeah, I just want to finish my drink first.

Now that is a GOOD friend. She is allowing her friend to have fun, but she is still there if needed.


Scenario 2: 2 ladies at the bar, approached by skeeze.

Skeeze: Hi! Let’s take a look at what’s in your underwear!

Lady #1: Whaaaaa?

Lady #2: Come on Lady #1, I need to go to the bathroom.

Lady #1: Sorry Mr. Skeeze, but I have to go with my friend.


That too is an example of a GOOD friend. She initiates the cock-block knowing that her friend will be uninterested in such a lame-o.


Scenario 3: Ladies at the bar are approached by a decent-enough looking chap

Chap: Hello ladies, how are you?

Lady #1: We’re great thanks, how are you?

Chap: I’m just great. Can I perhaps interest you in a dance?

Lady #2: Dark Lord Satan I summon you to castrate this inferior male and fling him into the abyss of eternal chastity.

Chap: Aaaaaah!

Lady #2: Oops, what I meant to say is that my feet hurt and I want to go home.

Lady #1: Actually, I think he was asking you to dance.

Lady #2: Well in that case, let’s go!


Now what we see here is an attempt to cock-block that is not motivated by any deficiency on the part of the chap. The chap is removed entirely from the scenario. Here is what is going on inside the head of the “Ugly Friend”

Inner monologue: How come she always gets asked to dance? I mean, sure I’m a bitter evil person, but that’s not my fault, it’s the result of a society that judges people on their external appearances and their internal value rather than what I want. I am going to make sure that this guy doesn’t get anywhere with my friend so that she will remain as lonely and bitter as I am. That way, I don’t have to face up to my own problems because I won’t be alone in them. Oh wait what is this? He wants to dance with me? Ah well then, forget my friend’s happiness, I’m gonna get my swerve on.


Ladies. A cock-block done for noble reasons (the girl is excessively drunk, the guy looks shady, etc.) is a GOOD thing. However, once you have completed the cock-block, please remove both you and your friend from the scene to discuss strategy. Does your friend like this guy? Was she looking for an excuse to leave without being impolite? Once the game plan has been set, then return to the scene. Don’t just leave the poor guy wondering what he did wrong when this girl clearly was into him but he can’t do anything about it.

Guys. Recognize and appreciate the well-intentioned cock-block. If the cock-block is for the wrong reasons, you’re out of luck anyway, unless you can get her number. If you have a wingman, don’t forget that “jumping on the grenade” (dancing with the “Ugly Friend”) puts you in his eternal debt. If YOU are the “Ugly Friend” then get your bitch-ass away from a girl you’re never gonna score with and chase some tail of your own.


So how does the story of Eduardo and Consuela end? Happily, I am pleased to report. Managing to approach Consuela away from the evil clutches of her diabolical guardian, Eduardo got Consuela’s contact info. Not a great ending, but most assuredly a happy one.

Riddle me this: Why do women have to make it utterly and painfully clear that they absolutely will not, never-ever, not-if-every-man-on-earth-dies-except-you, have sex with you? You’re hanging out with your friends (women included), and you (or someone, anyway) makes a completely harmless joke about you and the woman having sex. The woman always says something like “not in your lifetime”. Why do they say that? Do they think that responding to the joke equals having slept with the person, and that will label them as easy?
It is very, VERY annoying when they do that, since the entire fun of hanging out with girls is the innuendoes (and sometimes the sex), and it’s good fun anyway. What is it, girls, do you feel superior by doing that to someone? Does it make you feel powerful that someone made a joke about you? Well, it’s mean, and I couldn’t bring myself to do that to a woman. By the way, it’s not about actually having sex. 99% of the time, I’m not even attracted to the girl I joke with. It’s also not about actually not wanting to have sex, I have had it from women that were much less attractive than me (yes, they were THAT ugly). Also, most of the time it’s not a subtle dismissal. It is an EARTH-SHAKING ROAR that shouts “YOU ARE DISGUSTING AND I AM NOT BLIND, I AM JUST WEARING THESE EYEPATCHES TO AVOID LOOKING AT YOU” right in your ear.
This entry is deliberately short (well, not deliberately, I ran all out of anger). Expect better posts later.
And, by the way, ladies, a hint: When guys joke about sex, they’re only half-kidding, so if you want all the copulation, take it half-seriously.