over the shark
?â And finally: âHOLY SHIT IS THAT SANTA CLAUS?!â
Yes. The answer to all of those questions is yes. And the answer to your last, unspoken question, âwhy the crapping hell?" is easy: Because âgoodâ is a relative term subject to the speakerâs moral compass. So even bloodthirsty sharks have âgoodâ little boys and girls, and they have to get presents too. Being Santa is like being a mailman: Neither snow, nor sleet, nor underwater shark BMX rallies shall keep you from your appointed rounds.
Ogre Parking Enforcement
Thereâs no fancy explanation for this one: You just parked in the wrong motherfucking spot. Thatâs not me being cute with descriptions, it clearly says âThis is the Wrong Motherfucking Spotâ on that sign back there. And there are always consequences for ignoring the rules... itâs just that sometimes those consequences are a little more Gravity Hammer-centric than others.
If heâs not the John Shaft/Buck Rogers of meter maids, well then the only other explanation I can think of for a large black man with a hammer-from-the-future bludgeoning a vehicle to death is because this particular car appears to be a Porsche Boxster. And Boxsters are the vehicle equivalent of a puka shell necklace: If you're ever unfortunate enough to see one up close, chances are you've already been roofied and the owner is off somewhere doing his pre-date-rape stretches. Maybe
Shaft up there is just trying to make the world a better place, one double-popped-collar-wearing douchebag at a time.
Buster Sword guy is like The Little Engine That Could if somebody hung those novelty steel balls from the undercarriage. Buster Sword guy
built himself a sword that everybody with any knowledge of basic physics knows you cannot ever practically wield, and then he fucking wielded it.
Thatâs not to say that he wielded it well
--if there is a victor in that video, it is certainly not Buster Sword guy. However, it is also not the palette. No, the only victor here is the force of gravity itself who, but for the lack of lips, would be screaming, âI told you so!â by the end of the tape. Still, Buster Sword guy should not be mocked. He is a fantastic
man-problem. He built that fucking sword himself, you know. He lifted it countless times. He knew the exact weight of the metals it was formed from. He knew full well that he could not swing the finished blade and yet even still, upon completion, he turned to his friend and said, âTurn the cameras on. I am going to murder a family of wood now, and it must be filmed.â
His motorcycle is matte black, its âholdersâ are of the sword variety rather than the conventional âcupâ and he obeys the helmet laws...
to a truly terrifying extent!
He is the Samurai Cyclist, and he is a man doing what man does best: looking badass without really knowing why.Â Honestly though, this is what all men would look like without the level-headed censure of a womanâs influence. There is nothing particularly strange about this picture; this is just man at his most organic.
The great tragedy here is that, upon donning his custom built spiked shoulder pads, full samurai helmet and facemask; sheathing his swords in their spot-welded custom holders; and mounting his night-black, motored steed, this stupid world did not have the decency to end in a ball of fire,Â so the Samurai CyclistÂ found himself without a suitably post-apocalyptic landscape to race through. But did this stop him leaving the house? No! For he is man! He saw the unruined world outside and thought, âFuck it. Iâll just take this thing to Nordstromâs instead.â
And so he did. He probably bought a sweater there, chatted up a puckish salesgirl and maybe tried a sampler of this new cologne he had his eye on. But all the while, inside his head, you know his thoughts were naught but steel and fire. And maybe just a touch of argyle.
The temptation here is to chalk this picture up as just another one of those infamous "arab car stunts
." But look closely at this man; he is not a reckless teenager trying to keep himself entertained in the most lethal way available to him (because his country unfortunately outlawed the more standard lethal teenage entertainment: Carlo Rossi). This is an older man--almost respectable looking, actually--with the kind of beard one can only grow while lost in the desert for decades after having your heart broken by a treacherous lover. This is a man who should know better, and probably does. No, I don't believe this is staged. There is something in that steadfast, noble posture that tells me this simply cannot be the case. I choose to believe this is just how Cycle-sheik gets from point A to Point B like any other commuterâ¦ except that âPoint A,â in this case, is probably a portal of fire that only opens once every 50 years to let him roam the streets for a day, and âPoint Bâ is a motherfucker thatâs about to get stabbed at 75 miles an hour.
That's right: stabbed. Oh, I'm sorry... did you miss the sword?
Well, thatâs probably the best example of this point that I can possibly offer: When you stare in awe at a photo for several minutes and the very last thing you notice--almost as a side-note, really--is that the subject is armed with a three-foot, steel blade, what else can you be dealing with but a Man, in all of his bafflingly awesome, stunningly retarded glory?
You can pre-order Robert's book, Everything is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead on Amazon, or find him on Twitter, Facebook and his own site, I Fight Robots, where you can read more uncomfortably graphic odes to men! Spoiler alert! There's humpin'!