Thanks For Nothing Asshole (A Thanksgiving Post)

Courage. Or as his friends call him. Ball face.

By Courage the Turkey

A pardon?! PARDON?! Are you fucking kidding me?! Do you have any idea what it took for me to get here? Oh no. They just randomly select the turkey they’ll be serving to the leader of the free fucking world! Are you sensing the sarcasm here? I should hope so. Get your head out of your ass!

It’s one of the greatest honors among my people to be served at the White House Thanksgiving. To willingly give our life to help fuel and sustain those who protect the freedom of the Western world. Today. November 24th, 14070 (that’s in Turkey years for the layman) the privilege was to be mine. Before it was snatched right out from my finely manicured talons!

Do you have any idea what I went through? This isn’t bestowed on any asshole with a ballsack for a chin. I’m talking a Mortal Kombat style tournament. I’m talking about a call out to the fightin-est, drinkin-est, hen fuckin-est bad asses to ever call themselves a turkey. I went through some serious Ong-Bak shit to get to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue this morning. But I was denied satisfaction!

And for what?! A new more “cute” and PC tradition for the President to perform in from of the news cameras? Don’t get me wrong, there was a moment there where I was sure Obama would perform the killing ritual himself.  It was in his eyes. We both knew. In my mind I saw him raising the ceremonial knife carved from the femur bone of President Theodore Roosevelt.  It’s finely honed blade glistening in the morning sunlight. I could feel the rush of blood leaving my brain as the blade pierced my lanky neck. I could see my headless body running around in circles as my vision slowly blurred and faded away. Then the clouds opened and my decedents welcomed me to sit at the table with them in our version of Valhalla. 

But instead of dining with my honorable ancestors and taking my place among them. I am taking an all expense paid trip to California to be Grand Marshall in Disney Land’s annual Thanksgiving Parade. No. That makes sense. You should definitely appoint a disgraced warrior bird as the head of your celebration where all you do is commit mass genocide upon his people.  I can never regain my honor. We Turkey don’t have a version of seppuku to fall back on. But don’t think I won’t have my revenge! May God help the first Disney teen star I come across!


Gobble, gobble motherfuckers,



Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!




LOLJK's Aquaman Joins Twitter

Ever wonder what Aquaman is doing when he’s not writing his awesome screenplays?
Yeah me neither, but he signed up for twitter anways.


Twitter @jreinisch @LOLjoeyANDkyle @destructobox

(ps - all other aquaman twitter accounts are fakes)

9:05 pm, by loljk


How has no one made this one yet?!

You’re welcome.

- Kyle

@kamcvey @LOLjoeyANDkyle


How To Be Successful at Making TV:


Now you too can have your very own CSI show or whatever.  I’d watch it.


Twitter @jreinisch @LOLjoeyANDkyle @destructobox

1:19 pm, by loljk


Girls Are Gross Pt1: Lets Nip This Menstruation Thing in the Bud

I think we could all do without menstruation.

Let’s be honest. Nothing good comes of it. A) Its messy. B) The mood swings and cramps do NO ONE any good. And finally, and most importantly, point C) No one gets laid for a week. Naturally, there are naysayers. People who would be quick to point out that without the process of menstruation we would be unable to continue to propagate life on Earth. That we would be abandoning the “beautiful and natural process” of child bearing so we could avoid 4-5 days of inconvenience. And to those people I ask, have you seen the movie Gattaca?

Before Uma could murder you

Test tube babies are the wave of the future.

Think about it. Women would no longer have to suffer the agony of traditional child birth, or experience the pain and mental anguish that go along with their monthly cycles. Having a baby is a horrifyingly painful and gross process, with blood and gore that rival any Rob Zombie film. There is nothing beautiful or natural about it. In fact, what transpires is about as unnatural as you can get. I could make a “large food item through a small passage” metaphor right now but I’ll spare you. All you need to know is most women soil themselves in the process and when it’s all said and done you have a child that looks like Benjamin Button repelling from a skin rope. But the point is, I don’t think there is a woman on the face of God’s green Earth that wouldn’t mind forgoing THAT process.

Oh sure, being able to make your children in a lab would inevitably lead us down a road that plunges our society into a dystopia where we are discriminated for our genes rather than our gender, race, or religion. Those of us with inferior genes would be forced to give up our dreams and settle for work as janitors or any other job that involved cleaning up shit or vomit.


No janitor feels this good about his life…I mean mop.

But how awesome would those first 10 or 20 years be?! Come on! Sex whenever you want. No more spending money on all those pesky birth control pills. No cramps. Plus, I don’t have to ever overhear or be involved in a conversation about periods ever again. Unless its something along the lines of “Remember when we had periods? That was silly.”

The only down side: dudes would still have to wear condoms. Bummer. I know. But who knows fellas. By the time of test tube babies, maybe….just maybe, they’ll have invented the cock force field.


And I think we could all get behind that.


Twitter @kamcvey @LOLjoeyANDkyle @mooncounty


The Expendables: Or How To Slobber Over Dudes In Public.


So this weekend, every “real man” will be seeing The Expendables in the dark amongst other fellow mens. The Expendables for those that don’t know, is the first mainstream action movie that actively tries to convince dudes to love dudes way too much. Using words and phrases like “mangasm”, “testosterone mating with an explosion”, and “Its not gay if you don’t let him finish on your face”, the campaign is breaking new ground for bros everywhere with suppressed feelings and ideas they were too shy to live out in college.

I of course already have my ticket.

The last couple nights I’ve spent my slumber hours clutching tight my “Arnold Schwarzenegger Action Pillow (TM)” and dreaming about what this movie will possibly contain.

The following is a transcript straight from my mental theater on how The Expendables will go down:


THE EXPENDIBLES sit around in a gym. They all lift a shitload of weights and are oiled up for some reason.  Suddenly the RED PHONE RINGS.

Expendables, How can I help you.

Oh thank god! The Expendables! We need your help!

What’s the situation.

The Taliban, the Yakuza, The mob, All the gangs, The KGB, The ID4 Aliens, Godzilla and the those weird tribal guys like in Apocalypto have formed a terrorist super cell and are headed to Washington!

We’re on it.

STALLONE hangs up the phone and walks over to the other EXPENDABLES pumping iron. He grunts and they all form a circle with him.  STALLONE looks at each of them, and then communicates to the group using only muscle flexes.  The group has a silent discussion about the logistics of such an impossible dangerous mission through the pumps and jiggles of their muscles. The quiet room echoes with the wet slap of pec.  They all then slap on more baby oil and it’s time to roll out.

Explosions. Gun Fights. Lots and LOTS of shirtless dudes.

Some fucking. Probably even with at least one chick.

A couple smaller explosions so as not to lessen the impact of the final explosion.

As this is the start of act III, The Expendables hit their required moment of strife. The group gets in an argument over who gets to go shirtless into the final battle.  They nearly disband, when suddenly a nearby explosion causes them all to get erections.  They laugh and bond over the mutual excitement and prepare to kick final boss battle ass.

The biggest fucking battle you’ve ever seen.  Ever seen a guy kill someone by “awesoming him to death?” well now’s your fucking chance.  The dudes all sweat and glisten with the leathery tanned skin of 1000 year old gods. Topless cheerleaders cheer them on in the background, then start to make out.



The alien egg hatches as a giant TO BE CONTINUED? splashes across the screen

CREDITS ROLL between two strips of video. The left side is the expendables celebrating their victory. Spoiler alert, they’re still super cut and way sweaty.  The right video is nothing but tit closeups of lady boobs so dudes can pretend that’s what they’re really watching, but it’s not.



I’m pretty sure that’s fairly accurate.

Stay tuned for my review.


TWITTER @jreinisch @LOLjoeyANDkyle @destructobox


"Yes. All of my songs are about you."

An Open Letter to Every Girl Kyle has Known in Indiana


by Tom Petty

I know, I know. I’ve denied it for a long time. And for a while I felt like I was hiding it pretty well.  But yes, it is true. 
Women of the great state of Indiana, all of my songs are about you.  Not all of you.  Just YOU. I know you’ve had your suspicions ever since the first time you heard the opening lyrics to “Mary Jane’s Last Dance.”  Oh sure! Some have claimed the whole song is just one giant metaphor for drug use.   What with Mary Jane also being a common slang term for marijuana.  Which I’m sure the humble Midwestern ladies of Indiana wouldn’t know anything about….eh? Haha.

I’m a charmer, I know. 

But I’m telling you right here, right now, that song is about you specifically.  The whole song is most certainly a metaphor.  For you and a love lost.  A bittersweet goodbye between two star crossed lovers who know that their time together is limited and soon to expire.  Its a sad, very generic life experience that we have all had at one point or another and a scenario anyone could easily place themselves into.  But I was definitely talking specifically about that time at summer camp where you had a fling with Jack Flannery in 6th grade. Remember? He was the first guy you let feel your boobs? Yeeeeea. That was pretty awesome.

What about “American Girl?” Yea.  I know it’s not as explicit, but I’m telling you right now. It’s about you too.  After all, Indiana is the “Crossroads of America.” So you tell me what place would better exemplify the free wheelin’ spirit and thirst for freedom that America thrives on better than the Hoosier state? You’re God damn right.  None of them. And you are THE American girl! Tell your friends!  “Free Fallin’?” Yep. That’s you too.  I know you love your momma, and I remember how you went to bible study every Sunday when you were in grade school. Oddly enough you never cared much for Elvis, I just thought I’d throw that in there.  I took liberties. I’m an artist after all.
Even songs that you think would be totally unrelated to you are about you! “Won’t Back Down” is essentially my own personal sequel to Gloria Gayner’s “I Will Survive.”  And my personal song of inspiration to you.  You don’t need your cheating ass ex! And you don’t need your boss Becky’s bitchy attitude and constant insults that are thinly veiled as “constructive criticism.” Telling you that using “lates” as a sign off in an e-mail to a client makes the whole company look unprofessional is a bit of an embellishment. I’ll tell you what she can do.  She can go ahead and sit on it!

Wait. What are you kids saying nowadays? Ah. I mean, she can fuck off!

Pay no mind that most of these songs were more than likely written before you were born or had any actual life experiences that you can remember. Let alone ones that helped shape your life.  No. Fret not.  For I always knew you. I was there when you were but a glimmer in your mother’s eye, when you were almost just spend seed after your father finally got a moment alone from his yappy wife, when you were a breech birth in Riverview Hospital.

Yes. I always knew you. And just wanted you to know that my whole career and catalog has been devoted to one person. YOU.

Keep on rocking in the free world,

Wait…that’s not me….er

Remember, you don’t have to live like a refugee,

No. WAIT! This is better.

Make sure you’re always stepping towards that “great wide open”,


Twitter @kamcvey @LOLjoeyANDkyle @mooncounty


The Superpower Encyclopedia: Regeneration

The Superpower Encyclopedia: Regeneration

Also Known as:
Autodoctor, Megahealing, That Healie Dealie

Primary Examples:
Wolverine, Stretch Armstrong,  Lizards

Regeneration is a defensive power with multiple levels of potency. At it’s most basic, regeneration allows you to heal minor wounds, scrapes and vicious hangnails in a matter of seconds. More advanced manifestations of the power even allow the complete regrowth of severed limbs / organs.

Associated Powers:

Free Meat - As long as your regenerative powers are quick enough (or that you don’t puss out at how painful it’d be) one human leg can feed a family of four for 5 days. You could save $20,000 anually on meats for the year.  You will also be the favorite at the office when you continually bring in your nice trays of sliced deli meats.

Free Money - Disregarding concern for bodily harm can be a profitable venture in the workplace as long as you keep your regenerative powers a secret. After 4 or 5 lawsuits in various parts of the country and under a few assumed identities… you’re set for life.

Free American Dream - Free money and Free meat.


It still fucking hurts - Unless you have Pain Immunity to go along with your regenerative skills, it’s still going to hurt so bad you’ll wish you could die.  Never under any circumstances do you want to be in a hostage/torture situation. Normal people will eventually feel the sweet embrace of death wrapping its warm arms around their mutilated bodies. You however, will continue to regrow back those balls they keep cutting off. The thumbs they continually break will heal only to be broken again and you will remain alive to suffer through every agonizing second. 


For this method, you will need several gallons of both Rubber cement and healing salves (such as Neosporin or A&D).  You will also need about 2 weeks of uninterrupted marination time as well as a helper with a sword.

  1. Mix Rubber cement and healing salves in a large basin.  Time is of the essence. It will harden quickly!
  2. Coat your entire body in the mixture. Toward the end, you will need your helper to lather up the last few bits.
  3. Marinate for 2 weeks.
  4. Peel off your rubber healing suit. Through osmosis, your body has obsorbed the bonding healing properties of your miracle mixture. 
  5. Stand in front of your helper.
  6. Have your helper stab you in the stomach with this sword.
  7. Watch your skin regenerate OR YOUR MONEY BACK!*

*send proof of your life ending injury as well as a photocopy of your original receipt signed by yourself after the injury. No second party signatures or co-signs accepted. Void 90 days after purchase.

- Joey

Twitter @jreinisch @LOLjoeyANDkyle @destructobox @mooncounty


An Open Letter to the Man that Stole my Car Pt.2

I’ll be honest, I never thought in a million years that there would be a part two to this post. 

I put this pic in because I think it's awesome.

This picture is awesome. It’s the only reason its here.


I was tearfully reunited with my 1996 Honda Accord just over 8 months ago.  Exactly 9/9/09 if I remember correctly.  A great day. I got my car back. Beatles Rock Band was released.  And some stupid bitch that reads tarot cards probably predicted that some planets would align or Bob Hope’s corpse would be violated. Who cares? 

Let me get you up to date since then.  In retrospect….and this pains me to say, I wish they never would have found it the first time. Why? Well for one thing, the cost.  Do you know that even if your car is STOLEN, you still have to pay the ridiculous fees for it being towed to and housed in the nearest impound lot?  I don’t know who wrote the rates for the towing and impound of a vehicle in LA county, but I assure you they were a sadistic son of a bitch. Some weaselly CPA who’s mom breast fed him until he was 13 and who’s dad never respected him….because he became a fucking accountant. 

So I bent over the table and paid it, because I need a functioning vehicle.  BUT. The  bigger issue became that it was not, in fact, functioning. Oh… ran. Except that the brakes had been worn down to nothing, the tires were fucked up beyond repair, and some how found a way to make the radiator hemorrhage.  And of course, they stole the radio as well.  OH. AND my cup holders (**PRO TIP** I actually recommend ripping your own cup holders out. You can now fit any size drink in it and things you never thought about putting there. For example, I recently drove home with a bottle of jager in it. It fit like a glove.). Essentially I spent the same amount I could have used to put a down payment on a new car, on fixing my old, crappy one.

Didn't say I was drinking it at the time.

From there we have arrived at my current impasse. 8 months later. Once again car-less. And I’ve learned a few things.

1) Best deterrent to keep your car from being stolen - don’t have a stereo.

For 8 months, I didn’t have a radio in my car. Why? Well. Once your car has been stolen once, and your stereo twice…you’re reluctant to spend the money.  Seems like a liability.  But exactly one week ago, I FINALLY felt confident enough to put a new stereo into my car. And I’ll damned if it wasn’t a magical week. Driving with the windows down, blasting music is one of life’s little pleasures that I genuinely and whole-heartedly love.  Kanye just killing with some sick beats. New Coheed blasting people’s doors off. Hendrix making sweet love to his lefty guitar.  It was beautiful. And now it’s gone. Again. I swear to God I’m going to murder these people.

2) Our government and law enforcement process is frivolous to a degree you couldn’t possibly imagine.

Now, don’t misunderstand.  I’m not so jaded as to say both are completely ineffective or pointless.  But damn. They do a lot stuff that are both of those things to reach their ultimate goal.

**Humorous anecdote - While filing my report with the police today, the officer who was assisting me with the paperwork was very helpful.  But perhaps unfocused.  Like anyone in LA, I have one or two unpaid parking tickets. That shit happens. But he happily reminded me that even if I have an out of state plate, i need to pay them.  Because they can boot or take my car away. I thanked him for the helpful, yet extremely untimely, advice. It took about an hour or so to work everything out.  So as I was departing, he realized that I had begun to register my car in California about a year ago. I told him yes I had, but realized my car would ever pass the smog test (which is fucking bullshit) and it was just going to end up being far too expensive.  “Well.  You better finish it. Because we can take your car because it was never completed.”  were his exact words.

REALLY?! Well sir. If and when you find it. You can keep the fucking thing.  Is that fine? Because it seems like LA, whether it be the city, county, or the limp dick bottom feeders that live there want the thing way more than I do for some reason. 

Dudes be lovin their cars. Deal with it.

So, with this, I say good bye to my wonderful 1996 Honda Accord EX.  Whether or not you’re ever found…I think it’s time we finally parted ways. 

I’ll miss you. You’ll always be one of my first loves.  I discovered countless new musical artists and albums while driving you down the shady streets of Bloomington, Indiana and palm tree lined streets of LA. I shared some of the best times of my life with you, my family, and friends through day long road trips. I crossed the entire United States with you, bringing me to the current place I call home.  And oddly enough, I experienced some of the most devastating moments of heart break and saddness while inside you. And easily some of the scariest.

I’m sorry for everything I’ve ever done to you. Going months without an oil change. Hail damage. The puke (never mine).  Never washing you enough, so you could shine to your full potential.  The wreckless driving.  The spills.  Sometimes we forget that a car can become as much of a home to us as our actual houses. Or can reflect our personalities as much as the clothes we wear or the things we say. 

See you on the other side buddy.

Thugs 4 life.

- K

Feel free to click here if you want to relive part 1.


Aquaman Finally Wrote Another Screenplay.

Several months ago, I posted a script I found floating in the ocean written by none other then Aquaman himself. To recap, here is that script.

I thought it was a great story. Rich. Compelling. Full of great characters.

Since I found this script, I have been in contact with Aquaman, pressing him to write a sequel.  After months of begging, it seems like it finally paid off.

Ladies and Gentlemen. I present to you, Aquaman II:

I smell blockbuster trilogy.


Twitter@ jreinisch   @LOLjoeyANDkyle  @destructobox @mooncounty

12:58 pm, by loljk