Michael C. Hall Gives People Cancer

So, apparently your prize for starring in a great pay-cable show is Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma. Michael C. Hall, star of Showtime's sporadically excellent Dexter, has recovered, kicking his habit for embarrassing FUBU headgear in the process, but in the meantime, Andy Whitfield has had to drop out of Starz' (Starz's? Starz'z?) sporadically boner-inducing Spartacus: Blood and Sand for the very same reason.

Best Superpower Ever

Now I'm not butthurt about MCH's awesome cancer-swapping powers -- Dexter is a solid show that totally deserves to exist -- but I am terminally butthurt about the loss of Spartacus. Yeah, sure, it'll continue with some other no-name, vaguely Australian dude (at least it's not Sam Worthington, that guy can eat a bowl of dick), but obviously it will never be the same, and neither will television.

Why, might you ask, am I mourning the death of some show on Starz whose most famous cast members are Xena and that awkward dude from The Mummy franchise? Well, where else on tv can you see a smoking hot shorty by the name of Viva Bianca (I'm guessing this is her first non-pornographic imdb credit) smash another model-hot chick's face until one of her eyes is hanging out of its socket? Where else can you see a show's hero disembowel and decapitate a frail old man, and his closest homie perform an impromptu abortion? Where else can you hear lines like "By Jupiter's cock!" and "You dogs smell like piss! Perhaps I should shit to complete the aroma!" A squad member once described the show as "the most violent porno ever," but that only scratches the surface of its charm.

Spartacus stumbled out of the gate, seeming at best a guilty pleasure, only bearable if one had taken the necessary precautions (i.e, chugging three to six cans of Four Loko) but it soon proved to be so much more. Eight or nine episodes in, I found myself completely absorbed in its drama, cheering its heroes, cursing its villains, and hanging breathlessly on Viva's every chirping syllable. And when events turned tragic in episode ten? Manly tears were wept. Then came the season finale, "Kill Them All," which was easily one of the most violent and cathartic episodes of television I've ever seen.

Now, many of these elements may still be in place even without the show's leading actor, but I strongly sense that the first season of Spartacus was a happy accident, a gathering of hapless and mediocre talents that produced something of shabby brilliance. There was something fragile and transitory about its successes, it was never meant to thrive. Even before I had heard of Michael C. Hall's dastardly cancer swap, I felt like the party was already over. This resulted in a particularly vicious case of butthurt, as their simply is no ointment, no equivalent in television, with which I can sooth my anally retentive rage.


P.S. - If you get the urge to leave me a comment about how Spartacus sucked and I should just get over it, or that Rome was way better, or that Sam Worthington is actually a cool actor worthy of my respect, then prepare to be sodomized by Jupiter's cock. Just a heads up.

Butthurt: Recognizing the Symptoms

To be butthurt is to be beyond consolation, beyond reason, beyond the boundaries of all polite society. It is a state of self-exile, a prison of one's own mind. Some people are born butthurt. Others only exhibit the symptoms after enduring years of pop-culture assfuckery. Though few will admit it, most enjoy being butthurt on some sick, masochistic level. Like alcoholics and vegans, they don't want to be cured, they just want to drag you down to their bullshit level. While there is no definitive cure for butthurt, its victims will often salve their wounded anuses with the rare works of literature, cinema, music, and beer that they actually find tolerable. Now you might say: "This is all quite philosophical and intriguing Augustine, but what does it mean?" To which I would answer: "Why don't you stop flapping your greasy fucking gums for five seconds you mongoloid retard, and I'll spoon feed it to you! I mean GODDAMN! You are an impatient cunt! Why did you even bother reading this blog if you're going to stop halfway through and spray your retardation at me like cognitive diarrhea? Right now, I don't even feel like finishing this, I just want to shove your inquisitive ass out of a moving car!"

So, to further elucidate the concept of butthurt, I'll refer to a definition from the Encyclopedia Dramatica:

Butthurt [butte-hurr-tuh)] is that special feeling in your ass after it's been kicked and/or fucked. It is a common ailment amongst losers on the internet. It is usually characterized by noisy whining and complaining after being pwnt or otherwise outdone in any minute and insignificant way. It was invented at least 100 years ago by Vlad the Impaler when he went crazy from living in a time without the internets. Today, butthurt occurs most commonly when you fall asleep with your friends and they, being your friends, decide it would be funny to sodomize you. Butthurt is also a primary generator of lulz on the internets and has produced many lolcows. 

I am extremely butthurt about this definition. It bypasses the deeper cultural meaning of butthurt in favor of juvenile homophobia. What gaywad wrote this?

Basically, to be butthurt is to be disappointed and angered to an unreasonable level over the quality of anything deemed worthy of our national attention. For example, while 3-D film a burgeoning trend, it is also a controversial one, and many people still prefer watching movies the old-fashioned way. But when a person decides to boycott everything 3-D, to post angrily about the degradation of cinema on various internet forums, and devote all of their time and resources to tracking down James Cameron and teabagging him into a coma, then they have crossed a line into the treacherous realm of butthurt.

The key to surviving butthurt is self-awareness. If you recognize the butthurt within yourself, you can learn to enjoy it, to wallow in it with self-indulgent pride. You might even find like-minded individuals who share your butthurt, and thus you can form your own Butthurt Squad (although don't use that term, it's copyrighted you thieving bastard) and set out to educate the docile masses in the error of their ways. Embrace the butthurt, and it will embrace you.

 You said it, Palps.

So, to kick this blog off, I'll tell you about something that's left me particularly butthurt as of late: The Yahoo! main page. It's sending our national average IQ into a fucking nosedive. Everybody just reads the first few highlighted topics and considers themselves an informed member of society. In the meantime, rats and other vermin are skullfucking the mouldering corpse of journalism. This wouldn't even be so bad if they offered comprehensive coverage of world events, but most of their "stories" tend to sound like this:

WHOA! LOOK AT THIS FUCKING THING! ISN'T IT GROSS AND STUPID LOOKING? DON'T WORRY, IT LIVES DEEP UNDERWATER, BUT IMAGINE IF THIS WEIRD FUCKER LIVED ON LAND! I MEAN, FUCK!

Or:

HEY, CHECK OUT THIS DRESS THAT SOME RETARDED SKANK FROM A REALITY TV SHOW BOUGHT FOR SOME MASTURBATORY AWARDS CEREMONY! NEVER MIND THE FACT THAT SHE LOOKS LIKE A BACKGROUND DANCER FROM A ZZ TOP MUSIC VIDEO, THIS CHICK IS HOT AND FAMOUS! DON'T YOU WANT TO IMITATE/IMPREGNATE HER????

Oh, and sometimes they'll tell you if somebody died. That's it's main use, really. So when somebody says, "Hey, the OxiClean guy died," instead of saying "Whaaaat?? I loved that guy!" you can say "Yeah, I read about it on Yahoo!News."

Now, to establish the second section of the blog, the ointments for butthurt. These are examples of those rare times when popular culture got it right and produced something that doesn't send me into an anabolic rage. Sometimes, they are things which I consider to be underrated, and thus are a source of butthurt for me because society at large was too retarded to recognize their overwhelming brilliance. If you apply one of these ointments and find your butthurt isn't alleviated, don't fucking tell me about it, because you obviously have no taste and should be euthanized.

OINTMENTS:

FILM: City of Industry (1997) Dir: John Irvin

About four people have ever even seen this fucking movie, and I have no idea why. It is fucking awesome. It contains: Harvey Keitel on a vengeful killing spree, Stephen Dorff being a sneaky bastard, Timothy Hutton with a beard, Lucy Liu's tits, and at least one exploding head. Seeing this movie will make you realize that you are just a big, whiny pussy, and violence is the only answer.

LITERATURE: The Alienist by Caleb Carr

"A book?" you say. "Who the fuck reads books? I mean, have you ever heard of tv? It's like a book that doesn't suck!" Fuck you, this has Teddy Roosevelt hunting a serial killer. Try and find that on the History Channel, you mouth-breathing imbecile.

MUSIC: The Avalanches - Since I Left You

You might say music is a particularly subjective art, and that a song can stir a person's soul for any number of reasons, thereby justifying its existence. I'll say that you need to shut the fuck up and make me a BLT, Sally.

BEER: St. Bernardus Abt 12

Yeah, this isn't anything like Budweiser you classless buffoon. This is from Belgium. It was made by a fucking monk. I guess he let go of that kid's penis for long enough to make an amazing fucking beer, and I have to give him props for that. This is a quadrupel, which is a racist term for someone with one black grandparent. It is dark, slightly sweet, and very strong. If you like good beer, you must try this. If you don't like good beer, you might as well slit your wrists with a broken bottle of Goldschlager, you pathetic piece of shit.

DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT LEAVING ME COMMENTS. SERIOUSLY. FUCK OFF WITH YOUR RETARDED COMMENTS. I WILL URINATE ON YOUR CHILDREN.