Porocrom’s Crappaper

Hi…

I’m that guy.

You don’t know me, but you’d definitely recognize me if you saw me.

I’m the guy who always pukes first at the party and forces his friends to look after him so he doesn’t die.

I’m the guy who starts shit with random guys at bars, just to see the reaction.

I’m checking out your girlfriend, even though I know you guys are still together.

I’m the guy who swoops IN on your girlfriend at the first sign of trouble between the two of you.

I’m the guy standing on the wall by the dance floor waiting for your friend to leave you long enough for me to start anonymously grind on you.

I’m the guy who thinks that if he buys those girls drinks, they will go home and sleep with him, and who will get mad if they don’t.

I’m the guy who keeps feeding that girl drinks until she DOES go home with him, even though I’m aware of the fact that if she was sober, I’d have no chance.

I’m the guy who gets drunk at the classy party/wedding/bar mitzvah/funeral

I’m the guy who cock-blocks his own wingman while the wingman is talking to a really cute girl.

I’m the guy who deserts his wingman when he sees a really cute girl.

I’m the guy who will go/has gone after your little sister.

I’m the guy wearing one Lacoste shirt underneath another Lacoste shirt so I have more than one collar to pop.

I’m the guy who is the first to make racist jokes in mixed company.

I’m the guy who tells his female friend he’s in love with her, then spends the rest of the night trying to pick up random tail.

I’m the guy who sends drunk e-mails late at night that are in NO way appropriate.

I’m the guy who screams ‘WHOOOOO!’ at really inappropriate times.

See, I knew you knew me.

If you have a ‘That Guy’ statement, put it in the comments.

Ladies and gentlemen, it is not often I am able to astound the scientific community and bring never-before-seen material to light, but I have conclusive PROOF that aliens live and work among us… my research design prof.

This specimen, which I have called Biological Replicon KR-Alpha (BRKR) appears at first glance to be a normal human person. Well, maybe ‘normal’ is stretching it a bit. However, upon closer and repeated inspection, it is clear to even the most skeptical of people that this is not a human as we know them.

Physical appearance, while very peculiar, is not the basis of this pronouncement. Despite the bizarre structure of the human costume that BRKR wears, the most damning evidence is in the specimen’s unorthodox behaviour. I make a few observations about its species:

The people of BRKR’s planet seem to communicate through the backs of their heads. This becomes increasingly evident as one compares the amount of time BRKR spends staring at the overhead with its back to the class, while continuing to talk. This is possibly due to the extreme aversion BRKR’s people have to seeing empty chairs. When faced with this situation, BRKR becomes highly agitated and will lose track of its thought patterns.

BRKR’s people display displeasure by moistening their upper lip repeatedly. To the untrained eye, this action would appear much like an eerie attempt at seducing an entire lecture hall. However, being the scientist I am, I conclude that this is a means of expelling waste chemicals. Another waste removal site is what we humans would call the ‘belly button’. As a consequence of this, BRKR is careful never to wear clothes that conceal this aperture, opting instead for belly-toppers without undershirts, or wearing a jacket as a shirt.

We can tell that despite their advanced ways, BRKR’s people are technologically behind, since BRKR’s translation module only works one way. As a consequence, BRKR is able to speak fluent English. However, when confronted with even a simple question, BRKR becomes flummoxed and resorts to staring intently at any nearby bright object (i.e. computer screen, projection screen) as a calming technique as the translators in the mothership work frantically to produce an answer (with varying success).

However, the most compelling evidence I can provide for my theory is the following: the presence of antennae on the head. In an attempt to disguise these telltale appendages, BRKR wears a disheveled hairdo, hoping to prevent detection while simultaneously providing ample space for transmission to continue unimpeded. Upon closer reflection, however, one will remember that NO woman lets her hair go THAT crazy unless she is trying to hide something.

To the untrained eye, all these occurrences may seem to be just the profile of a highly-eccentric person. When we look at the facts all gathered together however, we see a much more startling reality: aliens are attempting to destroy the human population by boring us to death. Beware – no one is safe.

It’s that time of year again… when there’s a crisp chill in the air, and a spring in your step. Where the only force stronger than the love that unites all of mankind is the force urging shoppers to trample each other in order to save 50 cents on a dented DVD player. It’s that magical time of year that we tell children to follow in the example of the baby Jesus and DEMAND another fucking Furby doll from parents too kid-whipped to stop and think what long-term damage mindless commercialism could do to their progeny. It’s the one time of year that the voices in your head telling you to pull out an AK and spray death all over your local mall are drowned out by the sickening pablum of

Christmas Music.

In true Porocrom style, I’m here to take a closer look at the songs that warm our hearts as we empty our pockets. Maybe some of the insanity that accompanies this season can be explained by the drivel that we play ad nauseam year in and out.

White Christmas

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas
Just like the ones I used to know
Where the treetops glisten and children listen
To hear sleighbells in the snow…

Now I am not sure when this song was written, but I would have to guess it was some time in the 18th century, when it was still fashionable to own and operate a sleigh. This song doesn’t get a lot of air-time in places south of the Canadian border, since snow to most non-Canucks is either a crappy white rapper or a slang for cocaine. Maybe the latter definition would explain why the treetops are glistening. To my memory, the only time I’ve ever seen treetops ‘glisten’ is during the Quebec ice storm of 2000, and I really doubt that’s the kind of nostalgia we really want.

Winter Wonderland

Sleighbells ring, are you listening?
In the lane snow is glistening.
A beatiful sight, we’re happy tonight
Walking in a winter wonderland.

Seems harmless enough, doesn’t it? That’s how the blasted Ruskies infiltrate your mind. Before too long, you’re getting a common-law marriage presided by a snowman that you built yourself in the lane. Then, if the laudanum-induced winter “wonderland” isn’t enough for you, you and your comrades will “conspire” indoors to overthrow the snowperson empire, facing your evil designs “unafraid”. It’s always the nice Christmas songs that end up going so terribly wrong.

The Little Drummer Boy

Come they told me, pa-rumpupum-pum
A newborn king to see, pa-rumpupum-pum
Our finest gifts we bring, pa-rumpupum-pum
To lay before the king, pa-rumpupum-pum, rumpupum-pum, rumpupum-pum
So to honour him, pa-rumpupum-pum, when we come.

I tried this with my baby cousin. Free piece of advice: babies do NOT like drum solos at close proximity. I tried to throw in some Neil Peart with a Travis Barker twist and all I got for my trouble was loud wailing and a ticket for noise violation. To top it all off, my aunt threatened to break her foot off in my rumpupum-pum…

The 12 Days of Christmas

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me:
12 drummers drumming, 11 pipers piping
10 lords a-leaping, 9 ladies dancing
8 maids a-milking, 7 swans a-swimming
6 geese a-laying…
5 GOLDEN RINGS (pause for emphasis)
4 colly (calling? nobody seems to agree on this one) birds
3 French hens, 2 turtledoves
And a patridge in a pear tree.

It must be nice to have a true love whose portfolio includes both forays into animal husbandry and the slave trade. It’s a good thing there are only 12 days of Christmas (although last time I checked, it was only the one…) otherwise the narrator in this story would have to request a warehouse to store all this shit. If it were me in this story, I’d tell my true love to skip the drummers, pipers and leaping lords (why the HELL would anyone want a bunch of riverdancers?), leave me the 17 bitches and the bling, and trade the livestock in for a decent-looking car. Then again, I’m a man of much more refined tastes.

Also it would be funny if you served your true love a dish of partridge with pear stuffing…

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus
Underneath the mistletoe last night
They didn’t hear me creep downstairs to have a peep
They thought that I was tucked up in my bedroom fast asleep.

It’s a good thing that the kid didn’t walk in on the second half of the performance when mommy begins pumping on Santa’s North Pole, trying to get some presents out of his sack. It makes me wonder why this perverted song still gets played every year. The lost verses include mommy tying up Santa and making him beg her in German not to take a dookie in his mouth. Heart-warming stuff.

Santa Claus is coming to town

You’d better watch out, you’d better not cry
You’d better not pout I’m telling you why:
Santa Claus is coming to town
…
He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake
He knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness’ sake!

Wow… just wow. If any child wasn’t already petrified by the prospect of a fat white dude dressed in blood red and leather who enters the house by the chimney, they can now talk to their therapists about the fact that he sees them when they’re sleeping. One wonders where he finds time to monitor every child in the world in between sexually molesting his army of elves and whipping the crap out of his eight tiny reindeer.

So if you’re flummoxed trying to pinpoint the origin of the holiday madness, look no further than your friendly Christmas songbook. Our team of songwriters is working around the clock to come up with some less intimidating holiday hits such as

- I’m Dreaming of a non-race-specific Holiday gathering – All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth… and a PSP – Silent Night, holy shit buy me a Tickle Me Elmo NOW – It’s Beginning to Look a lot like another crappy sweater from grandma

And many other instant Christmas favourites. If you don’t buy them, the baby Jesus will come down your chimney and burn your fucking house down.

As you have probably suspected, we at Porocrom are devoted to bringing you reviews of only the absolute best products. Today we are reviewing a product whose idea is as ingenious as its implementation useful. We present Stadium Pal. Do you love wetting yourself in public, but hate the hassle of getting arrested and shunned? Then this product is for you.

Stadium Pal is one of those products conceived when a brain-dead person accidentally replaced their IV with LSD because they smoked too much weed. It is basically a bag with a long tube attached to it. You strap the bag to your leg, and you wrap the tube against your peepee and then when you piss, it goes into the bag. When the bag is full it hopefully bursts, killing you and spraying everyone in a 100-feet radius in piss and blood, so that your relatives will write on your tombstone “He died and people got pissed”.

Stadium Pal is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever seen, and this is coming from a guy with a comedy blog. I mean, what is so gripping that you could not possibly take your eyes off to go piss? Want to watch a game? It only lasts an hour or so, and they have plenty of breaks inbetween. Not to mention that you can, you know, go before or after it? I guess that “people not in a vegetative state” is not one of Stadium Pal’s target groups.

Another excuse for using this abomination that I hear frequently is “on long car trips”. This is actually quite valid, if you have to drive for eight hours straight and stay above 50 mph because otherwise the entire bus will blow up, killing everyone in it. Otherwise, you can take a break and use a restroom or a sufficiently big bush.

On top of being useless, Stadium Pal costs $29.95, which is $35 more than I am willing to pay for a bag and a tube, so we have included instructions on how to create your own Stadium Pal. You will need:

1. Three plastic straws.
2. Two pieces of string, 1ft long each.
3. A plastic bag.

Take the straws and insert one into the other, like you used to do when you were a kid and your parents would leave you alone in the coffeehouse to go gamble their foodstamps away. Take the plastic bag, tie it to your leg using the pieces of string and tie the top with what is left of the top piece of string. Insert the one end of the long straw you created in the bag and the other in your penis (this might hurt a little or render you impotent, don’t worry) and you’re all set.

/images/thumb-asspal.jpg” style=“border-width: .5em 0 .8em 1.4em; border: 1px solid #ccc; padding: 3px !important; margin: .5em;” title=”“ alt=”“ />

We have, nevertheless, spotted a glaring omission on the part of BioRelief (the makers of Stadium Pal), and that is that there is nothing available if you want to take a dump while watching “the game”. So, we now present to you this amazing new product, the Ass Pal. Simply insert the tube (which is coloured red for easy access) in your ass and you are ready to go (pun intended)! The plastic bag can be changed when it is full and it is very inexpensive. We have also done some research, and have arrived to the conclusion that by combining the Stadium Pal with the Ass Pal, you can sit on your couch and not get up for a whopping 81 days!

Stay tuned for more reviews of brilliant products!