Mongo Nation

The Kentucky Derby is the best anything ever. Here’s why.

Last weekend Axe invited a small band of Interweb journalists to Kentucky in order to promote thier Fixers line of body wash products and get hammered with us because, as we all know, Interweb journalists are the coolest people on Planet Earth that are not David Lee Roth.

As it turns out, we quite enjoyed the products that Axe were advocating as they were instrumental in scouring the shame, embarrassment, mud and bourbon from our flesh in the rare instance that we might stop wilding out long enough to actually wash up and groom ourselves.

You’re probably wondering, “Well, just what in the hell were you doing the rest of them time, then?” And I could tell you… But I think it might be better to just show you!

Bunny Dance

Glue Factory

Some Chick I Went To High School With and Her 100 Year Old Boyfriend

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Where bad shirts go when they die

Have you ever seen someone wearing a shirt so offensive that you’re shocked it even exists? I’m not talking about the typical “I Support Single Moms” shirt with a stripper on it that you always see (although they do sell that one too), but the most heinous, sexist, patently racist and awful, most hilarious slogan tees ever made. Shirts that say f**k on them! Like without even using asterisks like I have to do on this f**king website!

Some of the more colorful examples from the site.

Used to be, if you wanted a T-shirt that said “tits” or “cock” on it, you had to make it yourself with an iron-on or a screen printer. But iron-ons are bullshit because they crumble in the wash and screen-printing is messy and retarded. Thank Lord Kromdor that some asshole has already done the legwork for you, compiling a collection of shirts so horrible that I can’t even reprint half of them here. They’re that awesome! They even make shirts for chicks and babies, neither of which could possibly understand the humor therein but both of which look pretty cute in them.

Ok shirt + Great rack = Best shirt ever. That’s math.

Some of my favorite shirts take a swipe at a range of sensitive topics ranging from animal abuse and rape to blasphemy and abortion. If this appeals to you in any way, I suggest you go on down to TShirtHell.com and have a look at the selection. If this sounds like the kind of thing that makes you get all pissy and write letters of complaint, then by all means, head over there anyway. They do this great monthly newsletter that makes fun of people like you, maybe you’ll be famous!

The spawning pool of the nation’s hipster population!

By Jeremy Azevedo

Last week we examined some of the various characters that make up the landscape of art school, a magical place where people go for four to six years to escape reality and fritter away their parents’ money so that they can tell their fellow mortgage brokers that they “used to be a really talented artist” years later when their family cuts them off and they’re forced to get a real job.

Now you might ask yourself: “Gee whiz, is everyone that goes to art school an egocentric idiot with a funny haircut that exists in a fantasy world of their own making, oblivious to the fact that people don’t actually get paid to paint pictures of their nuts, and even if they did, they sure wouldn’t have learned how to do it in a school that charges double what a regular school would charge to learn something that’s actually useful?” The short answer is an emphatic “yes”, but since that was a very long question, the long answer lies withing the following profiles:

The Emotional Wreck

Way, way, waaaaay too much information. Every time.

The Emotional Wreck thinks that art school is like their therapy or something. Science is unable to explain why it is that The Emotional Wreck doesn’t just go see an actual therapist, which would not only be much cheaper, but also much more effective. The Emotional Wreck will always make the rest of the class uncomfortable with her film about being raped by her father, or her interior design project that reflects her uterus experiencing a third trimester miscarriage.

The Narcissist

I would have shooped my ears a little smaller, had it been me…

At least one person in every class in art school is a Narcissist. Every project by The Narcissist will be a self-portrait of some sort. The Narcissist is in art school to “take a swim in lake me” or some such bullshit. Not surprisingly, The Narcissist is also a chronic masturbator.

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And you thought frat bros were annoying…

By Jeremy Azevedo

Everybody knows that people who go to art school are essentially attention whores with unrealistic expectations. The general consensus is that most every art student is a stoner with rich parents that want their little self-absorbed emo douchebag child to graduate from college, even if it’s some kind of Micky Mouse drawing college that has commercials on late night TV…

But are all art school students really as 2-dimensional as all that? It just so turns out that I number among their kind, and am prepared to share with all of you what I’ve learned about the different kinds of people that populate this misunderstood niche of American culture:

The Rich Kid

One hour later, this asshole will be telling everyone he’s from Compton or something.

This prick comes from a rich family, but you’d never know it because they are pretending to slum it in art school until they run out of drug money and have to go back to work at their father’s company. This person will never actually become an artist, let alone graduate. But they do always have blow, and can probably pull chicks from the upper caste that would never talk to you otherwise, so they’re great to have around.

The Genuine Maniac

Now this is why they don’t paint nurseries with lead-based paint any more.

Everybody in art school pretends to be stranger than they actually are to get attention. It just goes with the territory. This person is not faking it. The Maniac is a person that is so crazy, he makes everyone else look like a total square. This weird bastard will either greatly annoy you or greatly entertain you, depending on your tolerance level for paintings made with human feces, taxidermied duck fetuses and ten foot tall prints of the artists balls, slathered in macaroni and cheese. It’s best not to ever make direct eye contact with The Maniac, but seeing other people’s reactions to their “work” is almost always a laugh riot.

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