How to Break Coin Dozer.

Today, I broke the Coin Dozer app. I didn’t even mean to. Not only that, I’m still not sure how it happened.

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Die Reichswagen Uber Alles!

I saw a black Volkswagen Golf on the road today.  It had a complete blackout kit – including a custom jet black Wokwagen logo on the hatchback – and the windows were tinted darker than a Nazi SS officer’s uniform.  However, the icing on the cake was its license plate, which proudly read BLTZKRG.  That’s right, ladies and gentlemen: I encountered Die Reichswagen on the way to a doctor’s appointment.

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Do not want.

BioCock anyone?

Oh dear.

I don’t want this blog to turn into Dave’s Happy Fun Time Tinfoil Hat Emporium and Juice Bar.  I really don’t.  But every time I sit down to write about something benign like videogames or porn or videogame porn, something happens out in the real world that I feel I just can’t not write about.  It’s infuriating. Continue reading

Now we do the Dance of Joy!

Yeah, me neither.

Do you remember the episode where these two fuck finally?

I spent all day on the couch yesterday, slipping in and out of consciousness thanks to a pretty nasty migraine that sneaked up on me and laid me out.  When I finally came to, the television was on:  Balki Bartokomous was busy renovating an old 1840s Greek Revival building half an hour from the Faire Play campsite.

Quicker than you could say What the fuck was in that Excedrin? I realized that no, I hadn’t died in my sleep and ended up slipping through some strange dimensional vortex.  In fact, this show is a real thing.  Yes, Bronson Pinchot buys properties in Harford, Pennsylvania – a stone’s throw from Montrose – and just renovates the fuck out of them.  I swear, I thought I’d seen everything until I remembered this little flash game that I stumbled upon a few months ago.

Enjoy your nightmare fuel.  I know I did.

Backpieces, sequins, and feathers, oh my!


Oh god what.

I’ve been living in southeastern Pennsylvania for going on three years, and while I’ve acclimated to the particulars of the region, there are some things that never cease to amaze and confuse the hell out of me, especially when it combines packing a street in Philadelphia with enough feathers, sequins, and elaborate costumes with massive backpieces as possible.  No, it’s not the annual Gay Pride Parade – I’m talking about that particularly bizarre, garish, and unintentionally entertaining idiosyncratic piece of Philadelphia culture: the New Year’s Day Mummer’s Parade.

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