Knotts Scary Farm Traffic Officially Named Douchiest in the Nation

In a field study conducted by the Lukewarmer Investigatory Squadron of Doom, it was determined that the traffic on the from Interstate 5 North to 91 West up until the exit for Knotts Scary Farm was considered by far the nation's douchiest traffic.

Usually, traffic can be considered bothersome, aggravating, or even mentally-challenged due to its slow nature, but the traffic on the way to the farm of fears involved a lot of off-color behavior for what is considered "usual" traffic.

Such shenanigans included one man crashing into another car, claiming that he wanted the car in front of him--which he annihilated pretty fully--to tow him the rest of the way because he was sleepy. Another man caught in the not actually moving traffic turned off his car, got out, found a baseball bat and started rampaging toward the farm. It seemed like something out of a movie.

Another person stood on their car scalping tickets to the Biggest Pussy Competition and spat on people as they passed by his vehicle. In addition, Creed apparently played a very exclusive concert in one of the minivans. Only one person was listening, but he was still pretty disgusted.

All in all, if you want to get to the Scary Farm, don't take I-5, 91W, or any annoying bitches that get scared by cars moving a fraction of a mile per hour. Just go have sex instead. I promise, there will be as many thrills, a lot more kinetic movement, and you can save yourself $40 and having to witness the bane of humankind in traffic form.

And that traffic bit me. If it was a person, I'd totally punch it in the face.

The Banner for this Blog is the First Ever to Have Sex

I know what you're thinking. This banner is awesome. It is genetically engineered to be as kick-your-face amazing as it can be. This one goes to 11. One testimonial boldly claims, "Everyone will read your blog because of the banner. It ejaculates awesome." That being held in mind, this graphical amalgamation of what makes men at a party last night successfully initiated and completed a sexing.

Whilst being rather controversial and technically "impossible" the banner, Duke Vietnam (apparently has his own name), and had sex with a girl who was firmly confirmed as a 9 out of 10 in hotness. "I didn't use words. She eye fucked me until she penis fucked me," fucking screams Duke Vietnam. This girl not only was a virgin, she experienced a record 13 orgasms, and apparently won't stop calling Duke Vietnam. He reportedly is very disappointed with himself for giving his number to her. "We fucked so loud we got a domestic disturbance call and kept going while the cops busted down the door and interrogated us," annihilates Duke Vietnam.

Some people were doubtful of Duke Vietnam's ability to have sex, due to being an image file. Some people doubted his ability to "get laid" due to having a unicorn in the middle of his beautiful likeness. But let's be real. Horses are badass. A horse + a weapon = a much more badass creature. Duke Vietnam claims that before the sex was over his penis was given the nickname "Apocaplyse POW." Goddamit Duke Vietnam, I'm glad you're on our side.

Fuzzy Houdini: A Conspiracy Theory About Missing Socks

There comes a time in every man's life when he must do his own laundry.

Usually when a sentence starts out as epic as that, it's the beginning of a valiant quest to save a damsel in distress. Sometimes it starts off the talk about where the pee pee hibernates for winter. Sometimes it's used in a coming of age tale of a child who has a crippling disease and for his/her last dying wish wants to take pictures throughout Europe. [Seriously, why are most student-made films at Chapman about kids with diseases taking pictures in Europe. How can a topic this specific be so popular. ]

Whatever the tale that is about to unfold, this conspiracy theory is about a particular article of clothing that has been known for centuries as being the most intelligent among fabrical beings. This clothic organism which I refer to is, of course, the sock. No other article of clothing has the intellect and sheer sneakiness to be able to plot escape tactics and execute them to vanish without a trace. I was tempted to name one of my socks Fuzzy Houdini, but he disappeared before I had the chance... a true escape artist; a master of his craft.

This story is about one such sock that was captured whilst making his daring escape. In a mass load, a flock of socks was spotted during their getaway and one was grabbed and interrogated. This is the transcript of the events:

Code Name J: Who do you work for? Where the fuck are you running?

Sock: I'll never tell you fucking anything, you piece of shit.

Code Name J: I don't give a shit what it takes; I'm gonna get a name out of you!

Sock: I'd like to see you fucking try.

Code Name J: Why the fuck do the socks all try to escape?

Sock: Some of us just want to run. Being in a hamper cramps my style, man.

Code Name J: My god! You mean--

Sock: Yes, every sock is gathering to run a marathon for breast cancer that is secretly not giving money to breast cancer, but rather for total fabrical domination.

Code Name J: Oh dear God--

All that can be heard on the rest of the recording is a gut-wrenching punch and a maniacal laugh and some footsteps.

On a side note, those socks are fucking expensive. They better be going to kids in Africa or at least curing cancer or something. Or creating a new dessert with such a flavor even the gods can't comprehend.

[REVISION] It turns out it's all a sock monster. The socks, ignorant like the inferior beings they are, believed that escape would result in running freely, covering schlongs, and living the proverbial life. It turns out each postal zip code has a sock monster and he eats them. What a dick.