Thursday, December 22, 2011

Cruelty, Thy Name is Woman

I know it must be obvious to you, dear reader and brothers of the blade, that I am the walking, talking, ass-kicking embodiment of manhood, but women in all their hollow ditzy-ness fail to accept this undeniable fact. Allow me, dear blade brothers, to recount a personal experience to illustrate my point. Specifically, the experience I speak of was an encounter with a particularly diabolic female, I will call “Breasts” to conceal her identity and because I don’t remember her name.
Well, prior to this particular day, Breasts and I had been on good terms, seeing as how she was the clerk at my favorite Video Game/ Bare Knuckle Glove retailer, THE GAMEHOLE. Moreover, on numerous occasions we had flirted with abandon. To give you just a taste of what I mean, when I bought the new SIM Sex Trade she commented:        
“Wow, that seems explicit.”

I know!! She couldn’t have been more obvious if she took her bra off right then and there. But that’s not all! On one occasion, when I asked her to retrieve a game (Whore Wars II) from the top shelf, I realized mid-retrieval that my father didn’t raise no charity case, and so I thrust out my head-smasher-Dew-clamp to get it my damn self. Naturally a little flesh grazing resulted. If that doesn’t scream Take Me Now, I don’t know what does. (I mean this rhetorically of course; skin contact is an invitation to carnality in every civilized society on this earth).       

Well, anyways.  With that much sexual tension you’d think that Breasts would be cool with a little upping of the ante, but you’d be wrong! Women in their cruel and fickle way would crush your perfectly reasonable expectations. What do I mean? At the end of some sexy banter (occasioned by my purchase of Intercourse Reloaded), I nonchalantly bounced my eyebrows, flashed my smoke glazed pearlies and romantically gestured the old in-out with the index finger of my right hand and the thumb-index circle of my left. Did Breasts respond appropriately by setting a date to realize my love vision or even with a simple approving giggle (as custom dictates)? NOOOOOO!!! She turned into a malicious harpy and demanded I leave the store, and threatened to call the cops! Can you believe it, dear readers?

The worse part? I will have to get my game fix from that shit hole in the mall. Where’s the justice in that? Mull that over, dear blade brothers, and see if you are not more receptive to what I shall proclaim next.

There is no longer any doubt that all women (with rare exception) are agents of the waxy ghost, or are in some way complicit in the Alien Conspiracy. 

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Stabables of Yore

Here is a list of historical figures I would like to stab (either in the course of a knife fight or by surprise attack):
1) Lizzy Borden

2)Suleiman the Magnificent (in the turban)

3)Gutenberg (carve M in his back)

4) Taft (twice in the gut)

5)Gustavus Adolphus (for being the scourge of Rome with a Latin NAME!!!!)

Sunday, May 29, 2011

Great Men Rise and Fall like Mighty Timber

I heard of a true hero's death. Macho Man Randy Savage, a king among men, died in the kingliest of ways the other day - while driving his Jeep Wrangler. My devoted readers know of my fondness for this masterpiece machine, and can probably imagine that my glorious parting from this world will somehow involve it. My love and respect for the Macho Man were deep before, but they are deeper now!

As homage to this great man, to this Alpha spirit,  I will eat only Slim Jims for the next two weeks (ok maybe a Hot Pocket here or there, and I will certainly wash it all back with some Dew). I prey to the spirit powers that I too will be shuttled to the other-side while driving my baby!  

Tuesday, February 1, 2011


If you know me then you know I am haunted by an evil spirit I believe to be made partly of wax. He took my knee and ended my time in this man's navy. He continually convinces women that I am hard on the eyes and/or have the air of a rapist. He consistently thwarts my attempts to unveil the Alien Conspiracy. His list of offenses could fill a Mountain Dew Tall Boy!!! But his latest assault is a stratagem conjured from the very helly pits of his depraved Evilness! The wispy fiendish asshole has ... I struggle even to put in my masterful prose .... destroyed my baby! That's right my beautiful Jeep, who has brought harm to no one except the slow, has fallen prey to his fiendish ways.

I awoke Friday morning rejuved by a sweet interstate booty call to discover that my engine exploded! Perhaps, in my horny haste, I pushed my sweetness a little too hard for the 13hr. drive, but this is unlikely. What is far more probable is that my Grand Nemesis, the waxy ghost, made his move while I was indisposed in the throws of righteous lovemaking.

I must, for now, take solace in some Dew and Hot Fries. There used to be a code to combat, but the ghost has crossed even that line of decency. It is a low spot, I'll admit, but the The Mlyno is not out for the count.             

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Essences of Manhood

Greetings my brothers of the blade!

A thought approached me the other day and I wasn't able to shake it. I'm just going to come out with it: A man is not a man unless he off-roads. At first it seemed to specific to be universally true, but now, after a few days of Dew soaked consideration, I accept it as a truth as certain as Lucretia (my bitchin' Leatherman) is resting on my hip. If you haven't torn up a piece of this fine nations countryside with a glorious machine like my baby (a navy blue jeep), then you have no right to refer to yourself as a man.

This reminds me. If you do own a magnificent machine like my baby, and you don't give her the freedom she needs to flourish, then you'll be answering to me! I can't guarantee anything, but if history is any indicator then I will likely stab the shit out of your briefcase while you frantically try to figure out what it is you have done to incur my righteous anger. Well I'll tell you! That beautiful machine you have there, that lifted Jeep with the wench and cherry paint job has never been off-road, you yuppie poser bastard! Those sweet ass tires should be shredding sod and crushing stone, not driving you to an office job. This cannot stand!
Needless to say, I had to knock back some Chick-fil-a and a Mountain Dew Tall Boy to calm my nerves after I put the fear of manhood in that Jeep abuser. Another thought occurred to me while I sipped my Dew in my hideout and watched that wimp give his statement to the cops. I would make a good cop.   

The Tao Of the Knife

I carry at least four blades on my person at all times - all Times! You never know when you'll need to brandish some steal. Let me give a for-instance: the other day I woke up to discover that I had completely forgotten everything. Now, only two things could explain this: either the evil spirit that haunts me had succeeded in bringing about some type of apocalypse (zombie, Born again or otherwise) or my Mountain Dew/ Hot fry bender of the preceding evening overloaded my brain with joy chemicals. Turns out, the second option was the right one, but for close to twelve hours I was committed to the first theory of my sudden amnesia. Luckily, while in my survival mode, my trusted blades were at hand. I was able to run an old homeless man from his station under a choice overpass with just a few waves of Lucinda (my lovely and sensuous bowie). The old fool even left a nice tarp behind, which, when the Dew haze faded, I returned home with. Yes, I fashioned it into a shower curtain. You see, by sacrificing a little belt real estate, I was able to not only survive what I thought was end times, but thrive!           

Hello Cruel World

I have been woefully under estimated by those who credit me! This blog is my push back, my self respect proclamation. So if you are new to the Mlyno (Pronounced MIN as in minute and O as in Obama) blog (as I am), then welcome.