Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.



Hanna Park, located on the coast in grimy, unpleasant Jacksonville, Florida. Where all laws are strickly enforced, but the rules of spelling and grammar no longer apply... "No alcoholic beverages," who do they think they're kidding?

It had been a while since I had a drink, so after arriving I wasted no time in gettin' down. Here you can see me, theoretically a grown man, dribbling on my shirt like a common tard.

Nice sunglasses, huh? "Hello ma'am, Offisher Friendly *hiccup* would like to shee your lishense and regishrashin, pleashe..."

Little did I know that I was to spend the night camping on the Isle of Lesbos.

Heh heh, "heck!"

Smoker's corner, where the bad kids hang out.

Legend has it that on certain lonely, moonlit nights you can see the doomed S.S. Douche Bag sail by, looking for more sailors to add to its spectral crew. Listen! Can you hear their ghastly cries?

Amy puts Anne in the dread steamroller. Judging by my visitor stats, pervert dudes in former Soviet countries should spend the next few months furiously masturbating to these pics. Ew!

Earlier in the day, I injured my knee in a kickboxing mishap. Here you can see the secret mystical Indian poultice I applied, from a technique taught to me by a tribe of ninjas.

As long as I can take photos like this, the forces of evil will never win. Suck my dick, Saddam Hussein!

Preston wins the Totally Innappropriate Shirt to Wear Camping award.

I've been a little uptight lately, but somehow getting wasted at four in the afternoon is starting to loosen me up a bit. Kids, take it from your ol' pal Bad News — if life starts gettin' you down, go out into the woods, drink a shitload of bourbon and listen to the Cro-Mags. Many of my patients find this to be an excellent way to regulate both the frequency and texture of their bowel movements.

The Ridiculous Ankle Tattoo Contest!
Contestant 1: James. You'll notice his snowman tattoo includes a jug of moonshine, a streak of pee and some profanity. A strong contender.

Contestant 2: Me. No pee, but people frequently mistake the flames coming from Godzilla's mouth for a sandwich. Also, I'd like to point out the weird kickboxing lump on my shin... That's gotta count for something. I'm fully expecting that thing to grow eyes and a mouth one of these days.

You might want to also take our Vans slip-ons into consideration. That's James with the retro checkerboard, and me with the forward-thinking but ultimately useless camouflage.

Alright, those are the choices! Click here to vote for your favorite!

While we're tallying the votes, I'd like to draw your attention to this, The Greatest Photograph in the History of the Universe. If you look to Becca's right, you can see the Cheez-It, captured in mid-flight. I'm very proud of this pic, and have already started working hard on my Nobel Prize acceptance speech.

More sapphic shenanigans, this time with Bonnie and Amy. Looks like fun! What could possibly go wrong?

Uh oh.

Alright, now that's what I'm talking about.

Pretty much The Second Greatest Photograph in the History of the Universe here. We did a little surfcasting as the tide came in at dusk. It was cold and windy out there, but the sea was beautiful. More than beautiful, in fact — I'd say it was downright therapeutic. I've been a litte depressed lately, just frustrated with a million little things. Watching the sun go down as the gray-green water crashed around me, my thoughts scoured clean of distraction by the roar of the wind and the waves, I had a small epiphany... Facing that enormity, that purity — it really puts the tiny wounds of everyday life in perspective, and reveals the smallness inherent in the petty machinations and schemes and chatter of the herd. For one exquisite moment, the brine on my lips as the stars emerged from their cloak of sun and cloud, I tasted the salt of the sea and knew it was the same as that in my blood... I felt a connection between the enduring power of the ocean and my own fragile biology, and my consciousness spread out in every direction as every nerve in my body hummed with truth and insight. Then a really cold wave hit me in the balls and I decided to go back to camp and get another drink.

Drying out my drawers on the campfire really bummed everyone out.

I always expect girls to be impressed by this sort of shit, but they seem to uniformly find it idiotic. Go figure.

During one scary moment, David Cross unexpectedly emerged from the woods.

James drove him off with his lucky stick. Fucking commie-ass unfunny David Cross.

Amy prefers the old-fashioned style of making smores, where you melt the chocolate by hand. Man, we are drunk.

I thought my Santo mask would lively things up, but it just bummed everybody out again.

I call this series "A Case Study in Arrested Adolescence."

Me spraying a mouthful of booze on the fire.

This was the effect I was going for with the fire thing. Suffice to say I fell somewhat short of my goal.

Guess what this is?

Anyway, I passed out pretty early. My ghetto ass didn't even deploy the Gay Pride Tent this time — I just sprawled out in the back of my truck.

Good times.

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