In case you’ve missed our commentary on Fenway Bark thus far, it’s first here and then here, and kind of here. Unfortunately, our disagreements with Ms Fulton et al, which recently resulted in Fenway Bark’s permanent Shit List-ification, have descended in tone to the level of ad hominem verbal aggression. So, with that in mind, I’d like to say that Fenway Bark is gay. Gay, gay, gay. Continue reading →
So this weekend I took some time out of my beer drinking (I switched to gin) to do one last Caught on Chatroulette. At the time, I held out hope that I could save this sinking ship, but alas, I was incorrect as usual. I spent a full hour on Chatroulette, and it was more of a self-flagellation than research on a story. To spout the details of the experiences my tenacity forced me to toil with would only further my embarrassment and present a total for which to assign the amount of penises I have seen online since March. So for my own sanity, I give to you: Chatroulette Is Dead: A Celebrity Obituary.
Not only do yuppies try to shape the grooming landscape, but they try to replace our Pit-bulls and Rottweilers with this genetic abortion.
As my hetero-life-mate, there are many reasons why I love Staker. I have known him for nearly 17 years, and I remember vividly the day we met in our little league coach’s apartment in the Old Colony Housing Projects. But of all the reasons why I would love this hairy little grease-ball, I would have to say that I love him most for his ability to piss people off, and attract more violent energy than a hillbilly wearing steel overhauls.
What can also be a tragic character flaw really pays off here on The Shack, and the amount of heat we’ve received for his March 11th post, Passing Judgment on Fenway Bark, has lead us to make new enemeies of Zeltsonic proportions (mainly because his post is number 6 when you Google “fenway bark.” That can’t be good for business. Oops!). Now we don’t really care if you take your dog to a spa, just like we don’t care if you go down to Bella Sante on Newbury Street for a botox and Brazillian. The point is that there are many more practical uses for the limited property here in South Boston.
In March, when I started Caught on Chatroulette, I thought I hit a virtual oil well of posts that would last for generations of Sugar Shack Southie instances. However, somewhere shortly thereafter, that oil well sprung a leak deep within the ones and zeros of the Internet’s vast ocean. Until this point, the barrier of courtesy between mainstream social networking and burgeoning Internet porn technology remained relatively unmolested. However, Chatroulette has now become the abandoned bath house of Web 2.0. A place where people could once share their ideas on a sunny day has now turned into a shady hangout for anonymous men and their penises. Every time you see a kid around, you shout out, “Hey! Get away from there! It’s not safe anymore! You need an adult!”