El Gammy’s Blog of Death

The building in the background symbolizes the state of my schlong when I'm causing the Great Squeal in the Sky

I’ve mentioned before that holySheep! introduced me to the psychedelic, soothing sounds of Pink Floyd, so with that in mind, I guess this new theory is due in large part to his obsession with flying pigs, symbolic walls, the dark side of certain celestial bodies and ancient English dudes with terrible teeth.

Anyway, I’m sure you’ve heard The Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd, which includes “The Great Gig in the Sky.” If you haven’t heard it, you should be shot point-blank in the face by Qui-Gon Jinn like he does to numerous Eurobags in Taken.  For the rest of us non-tools, we’re all familiar with the way that black chick just explodes vocally on that track (I’m assuming she’s black because white chicks just don’t have the badonkadonk it takes to power such beautifully deafening melody).

Well, every time I hear that song, my perverted mind just drifts away to imagine me plowing into some hot chick and hearing her orgasm in the exact same way: OH OWH OH OOOOOOOHHWHHHWWHH OHHHHHHHHHHHHHH WWHUU OH WWWWWWWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA…. Well that doesn’t really translate well into text, but you get the point. I listen to that song and I can easily picture myself making a chick squeal at the very top of her lungs; shattering her vocal cords in ecstasy… Hence, The Great Squeal in the Sky.

Of course in real life it sounds more like the automated answering message you hear when you call Wells Fargo Credit Card Services, but damnit I can still dream.

Like Rodney Stuckey and 50 Cent, as well as Fabricio Oberto and Buffalo Bill, Pau Gasol of the stupid Los Angeles Lakers is not just another ugly Spanish fuck getting yelled at by Kobe Doin Work every other day on the court. No, Pau Gasol is a fucking Camel with some decent low post moves and the magical ability to turn into pudding in the paint during playoff games (translation: he’s soft… like your mom’s rack). Don’t believe me? Then how do you explain this?

And if the astonishing photographic evidence above doesn’t convince you, how about this classic piece of cigarrette paraphenelia?

Pau Gasol wants your children to smoke cigarettes

And just in case Pau “The Camel” Gasol happens to get his hooves on a computer and find his way to this page, here’s my message to you Pau: Si entendiste bien Pau, se que eres un pinchi camello, y van a valer verga otra vez en las finales. Ojala que te mueras.

Finally, since “Black Mamba” is the absolute most retarded NBA nickname ever, I’ve decided to start calling #24 on the Lakers “Kobe Doin’ Work.” As in, “Hey, did you hear Kobe Doin’ Work raped a girl in Colorado?” or “Do you remember when Kobe Doin’ Work scored 81 points a couple of years ago? Was that before or after he raped that white chick?” or “Kobe Doin’ Work really helped the US team win a gold medal at last year’s olympics, I wonder if he raped any white chicks in Beijing.”

How Eddie House doesn’t immediately punch Rafer right in the face is beyond me. The Most Interesting Man in the World would disown him for allowing another man to bitch-slap him.

I should be the poster-boy for the fart pillow: the all-absorbing, technological breakthrough device that allows me to transfer all of the poisonous, o-zone depleting gasses rotting in my intestines to a simple seat cushion without turning mostly innocent bystanders into hapless victims.

This absolutely amazing pillow works so well that I’ve decided I’m okay with the fact that humans haven’t invented the flying car yet. At one point, the lovable clerks Dante and Randal had me convinced that the true “fire from Mt.Olympus” was the flying car – and nothing else would do. But this fart pillow has convinced me that ONLY the most advanced minds on Earth could’ve been involved in its creation. The fart pillow is the epitome of human ingenuity and creativity. It is the pinnacle of our technological capabilities. That’s it. We’re done. Hang up all the lab coats and pocket protectors. It’s over.

Before I discovered the fart pillow, I had written up this flyer to post just outside my work area:

My farts are recognized by American Association of Poison Control Centers

WARNING: If it smells absolutely rancid, putrid, malodorous or otherwise disruptive and disorienting in this area, it’s probably because I just farted.

Rest assured that I do everything within my ability to eliminate the stench as soon as possible through advanced air circulation methods and the application of the latest air-freshening technology.

If you value our friendship or working relationship, it is best to ask “is it safe?” within a 5 foot radius (min.) of The Dark Knight, Guardian of QA. Please do not judge, as this gaseous pestilence is the result of a documented medical condition (feel free to ask).

Luckily, the fart pillow has allowed my co-workers and I to peacefully co-exist and avoid full-scale, intra-office chemical warfare.

No, he’s not worth $0.50, you tool. He IS 50 Cent. Can you guess which is which?

And in case you missed it, Fabricio Oberto = Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs. But in his case, he doesn’t just look like him, he’s also a cross-dressing psychotic assclown.