…is Sweatpants Money!

Taylor from the local Trader Joe’s does not know how to mix bike riding with alcohol.

After celebrating a Portland Trailblazers victory at Blitz Bar in Southeast PDX, Taylor decided to do some victory laps on his bike. Girls looked on longingly as Taylor went for a wicked bar spin and promptly landed on his nose.

As blood poured on the concrete and the ladies went home with other dudes, Taylor realized he should have never given up roller blading.

…is Sweatpants Money!

This terrible tale of woe comes courtesy of Carina, a good friend who calls the San Francisco Bay Area home. It should also be noted that Carina was one of the contributors for FUCKING JAMES FRANCO put out by Social Malpractice Publishing in December of 2011. That should be noted because I edited that fucking book. This is Carina’s first appearance on the blog, and I’d say that she’s done us proud.

Here is her (foggy) account of what exactly went down: 

After about 6 days of “Sober January” I had my last night bartending at this shitty Japenese joint… I invited my friends in and gave them as much free beer and sake as i could throw at them. I also took all the sake bombs with all the douchebag customers. I somehow got my ass outta there at closing with about $200 less than i should have walked with. The last thing I remember is being ass down on the MUNI tracks on Market St and a bunch of other drunk dummies asking me if was alright. I woke up wearing a zip up hoodie, no underwear, and socks.

…is Sweatpants Money!

Pat is a man’s man who surprisingly also dabbles in the visual arts. He and I have now known one another for a couple of years, but he didn’t tell me about this nasty little welt until very recently. See the story below: 

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We spent the first part of the day on the river that has produced some nice salmon in past years. We were too early in the season, so it seemed, for the numbers were not there, although the fishermen were. It was clear that we might be better off going to our other spot on the smaller river, so we packed up and headed for the “Honey Hole.”

The road that runs alongside this little river has seen some construction over the last couple years, and although the road is much-improved, the turn-out for our spot was reduced to a cliff-hanger of a shoulder, and rather than take a chance that it might give way under the car’s weight, we now opt to park fifty yards further up. Parked and at the top of the culvert that leads down to our hole, my buddy remembered that he had left his walking stick back at the car and went to retrieve it. I had my stick, and anxious to get my line wet (Editor’s note: Nice), proceeded down the 60° incline, first in the mud until I noticed what appeared to be a large flat rock that led down to other rocks that could act as steps, so I moved in that direction.

I have tried to recall whether I first stepped upon the big flat rock with my right or left. I cannot. Regardless, the foot did not stay and I began a hurried and erratic descent. I do know that I started on my tailbone and ended on my hands and knees. More a fetal position, and there I stayed.

The body doesn’t always register pain immediately after trauma, especially in the case of severe injury, nerves having to establish new pathways, I suppose. I waited for those transmissions. My lower back hurt right away, like strained muscles, but I was more concerned about bones. I saw that somehow I had torn away parts of both thumbnails, but still no pain from those sites. Then I felt a burn on the outer aspect of my left thigh. I took no blood coming through my sweats as a good sign, and slowly stood up.

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DAMN, DAMN, DOUBLE DAMN. That shit is funky, Pat! I’ve got a couple more disgusting bails and injuries to send your way in the next few days, but I’m going to need more if this beautiful collection of prose is to continue. I suggest getting shit-hammered this weekend and going ice skating at the Lloyd Center Rink. Surely some stupid shit would come of that, eh? 

…is Sweatpants Money!

Ladies and gentlemen, I present you with what I believe is actually Emily’s THIRD appearance on the blog. From Emily:

Kids, you should all start your own businesses, especially if you have no fucking idea what you’re doing.  Then you should quit your day job like an optimistic idiot, blissfully ignoring the cold, hard truth that your already-broke ass just metaphorically poured gasoline all over your bank account and set it on fire.  

If you’re lucky, you’ll actually get a client who’s stupid enough to pay you for shit you’re going to fuck up, and during this luck streak you might actually succeed in creating something that won’t violate the contract or land you in jail.  

Think you’re so hot?  Don’t be a moron.  On the day of the deadline you’ll accidentally bump a Satan button that deletes EVERYTHING you’ve slaved over all month.  If you’re not a bonehead, you’ll have saved a backup.  You’re probably a bonehead.

You’ll break out into a cold sweat, scrambling madly to keep the quicksands of Hell from swallowing the only promised paycheck in your foreseeable future.  

Go forth and start your own company, motherfuckers.

….

Thank you Sweet Baby Jesus.  This bonehead was fortunate enough to rescue the project and submit it on schedule.  

As I was doing so, about an hour post-trauma, the underbellies of my wrists started itching.  Ignore — it was Summer and due to the amount I imbibe daily, my blood is like Happy Hour for insects.  It’s totally normal to wake up with twenty+ bites and hungover mosquitoes passed out beside me.   

Then my arms started screaming.  I rolled up my sleeves and Dear God!  WTF?!  I was bubbling up like yeast in sugar.  Small bumps were growing and joining together like water droplets.  

Hives.  I’ve never had Hives.  Babies get Hives, but I guess it was appropriate since I just acted like one. Itchy, splotchy, mutant-like, but at least they were only on my arms and would be gone in the morning. 

I looked at my arms when I woke.  Gone!  Yay!  And then I got up.  WRONG.  All over my back.  All over my shoulders.  All over my ass, boobs, thighs, legs, feet, torso…. I felt like Senator Kelly from X-Men and was totally convinced that my own malleable jellyfish-like form would also fatally melt during the day.

The photo is not me.  It’s a photograph I found on the internets to illustrate what my entire body looked like, which was too horrifying to document myself.  I have since returned to normal. 

…is Sweatpants Money!

One day, this Italian lady (yes, that is a lady’s leg) was just walking through Portland’s Pearl Necklace District, minding her own fucking business, when BLAMMO! This motherfucking Jack Russell Terrier breaks free from his master’s grip and charges her like a GHB’d teen on prom night.

The dog, a surly fuck named Beatrice, went hyper-aggro-lesbo on Jackie C with little to no mercy. Sinking her tiny teeth into the flesh of a calf, she shook her tiny rump back and forth with purpose. Jackie C. has asked that I make a note that she was growing out her leg hair in plans to have it waxed the following day. Editor’s note: Yeah fucking right. 

This is not the first time that Jackie C. has been murderlized by a pup. In fact, in the third grade she got her entire face chewed off by a German Shepard and had to get her sister’s transplanted onto her own Face/Off style. You should see her sister. ZING!

Here’s a grosser view where you can really smell her toes:

Keep ‘em coming, slags. This shit doesn’t write itself. 

…is Sweatpants Money!

Dave is an artist.  No, not a sandwich artist - he’s the kind of artist who doesn’t get paid for his craft.  LOLZ.  So, he passes the time working various jobs including one at a sign shop in beautiful, gray Portland, OR.

A little while back, he was in the process of cutting a sign or some shit.  When a worker at a sign place does this, they like to use knives, metal rulers and danger.  Generally, those three elements are supposed to exist in that exact order.  But you know how they say, “You’ve got to learn the rules to break the rules” and stuff like that?  Well, Dave is all about breakin’ da rulez. 

His boss is like, “Hey, Dave!  Can you cut that sign to advertise for a thing?”  And Dave is like, “Sure, dude - you’re the boss!” 

He’s lining up the ruler and dragging the knife across it to get that clean, delicious line famous in sign arts and all of a sudden KA-BLAMMO!  The knife does a reverse pinochle-swan dive straight into his chubby little thumb!  A vagina-sized gash ensues, and within a moment, baby Dave faints uncontrollably and passes out on the floor of the sign shop!  He wakes up a few minutes later to his boss slapping him across the face repeatedly and passing smelling salts beneath his nostrils.  It’s a kind of gentle, paradoxical pairing of violence and snuggles that only a real boss can achieve!

Boss Daddy wheels him out of the shop in a rolling office chair and dumps him into the company van, then speeds off to the emergency room.  The doctor tells Dave that he has to choose between losing a thumb or losing his taint.  Dave’s like, “What, what, whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?”  And the doctor proceeds to explain that the only skin on Dave’s body supple enough to effectively wrap the flesh of his thumb that he’s torn off exists between his scrotum and his teeny weeny butt hole.  Understanding that the taint is purely an aesthetic organ, Dave mans up and sacrifices future massages of the perineum for the good of a digit that will continue to separate him from monkeys.

Good thing he’s in the International Sign Makers Union - worker’s comp covered the ER visit!  They brought Dave back to the shop following a massive skin graft and stitching operation and what does he find?  A fat lady who works the phones is being celebrated on her last day at the office with pizza and cake!  Sounds like a place you’d want to work, eh?  Kewl!

GROADY:

Can you smell the taint skin?

…is Sweatpants Money!

Witto Baby Boedi bitted his witto wip! 

That’s right, fuckers.  Boedi makes his third appearance on the blog today in an injury that resulted FROM READING THIS FUCKING BLOG YESTERDAY! 

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Apparently, he was so excited that we’ve returned that while digging through the archives yesterday and eating a bowl of beans (he lives in New Orleans) he bit himself on the lip.  Meta.

Previously, Boedi had made blog headlines by slicing open his foot on a coral reef in Hawaii and then slicing open his hand on a knife in the kitchen.  Somebody needs a babysitter!  Or, maybe someone is a mid-level functioning alcoholic who is slowly deteriorating and essentially becoming a danger to himself.  You be the judge!

Keep those submissions rolling or this blog dies.  Delicious.

…is Sweatpants Money!

Oh my Gawd.  What have I been doing for the last year and a half?  Not archiving disgusting injuries and drunken mishaps, that’s what.  Why, you ask? IDK.  Maybe I’m a lazy slut.  In any case, the blog is back and better than ever.  I’ve imported all of the content from its previous Blogspot URL into a Tumblr format so that you screedlers can share it with the world.

To kick things off, I’d like to share a tale of ocular woe with you…

Daniel sent me this revolting image of his eyeball which has exploded with gnar recently.  The story goes something like this:

As a lad in secondary school, Daniel was an avid pursuer of something called “sports.” Specifically, he was way into baseball.  God hates Daniel and punished him for attempting to become an athlete by ricocheting a fastball straight off his his bat INTO HIS OWN FUCKING EYE.  Despite this horrible atrocity, the jock inside of him refused to acknowledge this divine intervention and he continued to play baseball for weeks. When his mommy eventually freaked out over his eye period, she made him go to the doctor and he discovered that his retina was torn like a hymen on prom night.

He ended up having laser eye surgery and having to wear sunglasses in school and at night.  This made him look like either a “cool dude” or a “blind piece of shit.” Eventually, everything went back to normal.  Years later though, suddenly that eyeball went completely blind.  He went back to the doctor and had to get another surgery. Instead of laser surgery though, this one was more like it was being performed by medieval barber Theodoric of York.  It involved literally slicing open his eyeball, yanking the muscles around, wrapping silicon bands around it and finally a bunch of stitches!  LOLZ.  It probably ended up working, but in the interim it looks like his eye just got raped by a blood cock.

Daniel was kind enough to locate a YouTube video featuring the same type of surgery for you all to peruse!  

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

http://youtu.be/YftCbXIw11k

Oh, FUCK BROOKLYN.

…is Sweatpants Money!

Well, well, well… it’s certainly been a little bit of time since I brought you visual devastation. Fear not though, loyal blog-followers, Is Sweatpants Money! lives on! Today, I received this absolutely fantastic image sent courtesy of Jd White, who has made his very own appearances on this blog resulting from a gnar-gnar staph infection.

This time around though, Jd is not the victim. No, friends, it was an unfortunate co-worker at the Trader Joe’s on NW 21st here in gray-ass Portland, OR who suffered perverted doom unsuspectingly. The young lady’s name is Meredith, and this little wound came after a nasty bout with a box of juice and a box cutter. Five stitches later, and Meredith is the newest addition to Is Sweatpants Money!

I don’t exactly know what the fucking deal is with all of these goddamned kids busting their flesh open on box-cutters. This is, if I’m not mistaken, like the fourth time that we’ve covered a mishap involving this everyday tool. The idea, people, is to FUCKING CUT BOXES. When you turn it on yourself, you end up looking like some mouse-faced fourteen year-old whose greasy black hair can’t get out of her face long enough for her to look at the Joy Division posters on her bedroom wall. What I really wish was that this picture also included the standard Trader Joe’s signature Tommy Bahama Hawaiian print shirt. Jd has like two hundred and sixty of them in his drawers at his house. I’ve seen them.

This new little slice of heaven has prompted me to wonder what the fuck the rest of you have been up to recently. What, did you all stop drinking and biking or something? Are you wearing helmets now? Suck a fuck and hurt yourselves already. This blog isn’t gonna write itself.

…is Sweatpants Money!

There are a lot of stereotypes about the country of Italy, and they’re pretty much all true. Pasta and meatballs litter the windy, brick streets and at any given point, there is a fat man in a mustache signing “That’s Amore” no more than ten feet from your person. Further, everyone there does drive a Vespa and men kiss each other on the face when they meet. It’s a regular old carb-loaded gayfest over there. One of the things though that they’re not going to tell you about on those heinous “Euro-Traveler” bullshit shows on the Discovery Channel is that Italy is also filled with hideous, rabid sheepdogs who want nothing more than to take a bite out of your hand like you’re crime and they’re McGruff.

Take, for example, this little shithead:



Aaron Abbott is no stranger to being bitten. He’s taught high school photography for several years in downtown Phoenix, AZ. He and his lovely wife were vacationing over the holidays in Italy when Aaron stumbled across the flea-infested cock ravager that you see above. Thinking that it might be a nice dog (of which there are a total of three on the entire planet), he reached down and paid the motherfucking piper. Holy Jeez.

Keep ‘em coming.

And just for fun, here’s one more reason to hate both police AND dogs!