"Whearrrnrnnngbbbl rrbbbbbbfbfgh, hyangh frrbaaaaaaaaabh," said Menino, who has decided against seeking a sixth term in office. "Iangh breaugh drrrbrbrbbrrrb."

"Whraamsfbisdsion?" Menino asked the Boston Globe Magazine in a 1994 profile. "Framcaghtbraaambose. Bisahobs, bisaburshil, bisabplees, haaampfare." The Mayor's eloquent, what we think was probably, description of a man trying to find a showerhead in a box of used syringes still stands today as a stirring reminder of his iron determination and political shrewdness.

Earlier this week, Menino delivered a robust speech that sounded almost like a pitch for reelection. But as the room emptied, reporters were overheard saying to each other, "Who the fuck was that? Did that guy just have a stroke on stage?" And, "At least now I can see why the city's microphone budget is so high."

Menino's Faneuil Hall appearance is set for 4 p.m. today.

"GRAUGH br brabrbh fruuuughb," Menino joked, which reporters believe is referring to the unique color of pork under the moonlight.

Menino met with a gaggle of reporters outside his Chesterfield Street home before getting into the city owned black SUV for his trip to City Hall. Menino used a cane to steady himself accompanied by his wife, Angela.

At City Hall we're pretty sure Menino said, he planned to scrub, and fondle, his staff and city workers.

"Thhaaaanngfrrruh brrouuguudr mn," Menino said.

He added: "Myafghbffffffffffsh."

The mayor reflected, from what we could discern, that mayonnaise goes exceptionally well on frozen hot dogs.

"Iiiaaaanglyu frragh grsbf," Menino said. He promised to "HYYYANNFGEDUR" for his afternoon speech.

Original story

Now read it again, with our patented Walkenization System engaged by clicking here: Walkenize

Don't know how to do it? Well, fuck, you are stupid, aren't you? Here's a handy checklist to get you through the truly miserable ordeal you're about to experience. Feel free to print it out and carry it with you all day to keep track of your progress.

        ☐ Go to your voting place
        ☐ Pick the person you want to be President
        ☐ Pick the other people you want to be other things
        ☐ Leave your voting place
        ☐ LIVE ON AS A TRUE AMERICAN HERO

You know what, fuck it. You can even skip step four if you want. Just collapse right there on the floor of that gymnasium in a fit of pure democragasm. That's alright, it happens to the best of us. The best of us, of course, being those who vote. Because, as everyone knows, those who do not vote, are the fucking worst of us.

What's that? You don't know where to go to vote? Oh, well, you're right. That truly is a completely insurmountabl-- OH FUCK WAIT NO IT'S NOT 1912 ANYMORE WE HAVE THE INTERNET NOW.

Fig 1. An example of a thing that is not fucking hard to figure out.

You think you can handle that, genius? No? Can't figure out the complicated form? That's okay, Google's got your dumbass back, and they don't even need you to type your address, because they already know where the hell you live.

I was talking to the ghost of Teddy Roosevelt the other day, and he told me a story about a guy who didn't vote in the last election. He told me, "Pope, I just straight up bitch smacked that man about the face with my both massively erect and somehow still-corporeal democra-penis^[2] for a good seven hours. I just couldn't help myself. I mean, for god's sake. The man didn't vote. What a stupid asshole." I agreed with the ghost of Teddy Roosevelt. People who don't vote deserve to be smacked around by the genitals of an American legend.

We give voting: 9001 FUCKING GO DO ITs out of I SWEAR TO GOD JUST VOTE FOR SOMEONE HOLY SHIT.

[1] If you're not a US citizen, go vote whenever you people vote. Whatever, I'm not your mom.
[2] Democra-penis only available to those who vote. Get yours while supplies last.

Let's begin with high school. Many people look back on these years nostalgically, remembering them as some of the best they've had. These people have shitty lives, and should seriously consider faking their own death and starting over. There is nothing about high school that makes it any more significant than middle school before it, or elementary school before that. Every day you report to hypervigilant chaperones who guide you through the often-referenced-but-rarely-defined "curriculum" of basic sciences and overrated literature. ESPECIALLY overrated literature. I'm just gonna go ahead and say it: I fucking hate the Catcher In the Rye. I don't want to discuss it, I don't want to give it a second chance, and I don't want to hear about the rich metaphors or relatable coming of age story. I hate it and J.D. Salinger should feel bad about that. Or whatever the equivalent emotion is for people who are already dead. Decomposition I guess.

After high school, many people choose to pursue a degree of so called "higher learning." College is the first real opportunity many young men and women have to leave the nest and fend for themselves. Free to pursue a major more suited to one's personal interests than "introductory everything," many late bloomers finally come into their own in this environment. Many others drink themselves to death, develop a drug addiction, get pregnant, and/or wind up in jail. Possibly all four in one night if you're especially clever about it. It's an unfortunate fact of life that when given free reign, a certain percentage of the population will immediately wrap those reigns around their throat, set themselves on fire, and jump from the highest point they can find. One of the first lessons to be learned at college is how to identify these people, and where to stand so as to avoid area of effect damage. These are not so much fellow students as they are people-shaped sacks filled with a heady mix of napalm, AIDS, and cop pheromone. Fun to watch, smart to watch from a distance.

Upon completion of this fairly standard course of schooling, some students choose to pursue further education. These "grad students" are an interesting group with a wide variety of motivations. Some choose to work towards one profession in particular, and hope to attain a higher level of academic enlightenment in pursuit of this goal. Others look upon their future with uncertainty and trepidation, and so return to the safety of college in hopes of delaying the inevitable. Some just want to continue drinking heavily and plowing freshman sluts without it being considered socially abhorrent behavior. No matter what brings the student back into the realm of expensive books and extensive busy work, or which field he or she has chosen to specialize in, it's only a matter of time before the ultimate realization sets in: I'm somebody's bitch. It's alright, just remain calm and let it sink in a bit. If it makes you feel any better, you've been somebody's bitch all along. It's just harder to recognize in a lecture hall of 300 than in a lab of 4 where your job is "beaker decontamination supervisor," or "culture incubation monitoring drone #3." Just thank god you weren't designated "commissioner of knob gobbling," get your stupid degree, and get the fuck out.

No matter which path you choose for your journey, the destination is of course to finally acquire a "grown up job," which can best be summed up as: "I like having money. But I'm really lazy." Apparently it's not acceptable to live in your mom's basement writing fanfiction for /y/ of Kirk and Spock handling the daily business of the Captain's Log. Not that I would do that if it were, mind you. That's preposterous. Mine would be about Picard teaching Data to be more human. The wonderful world of gainful employment is harsh and unforgiving; it is constant fight between the forces of "I WANT A NEW LAPTOP" and "I WANT TO SLEEP UNTIL 3 PM". Jobs are one of the few things in the world that everyone desperately wants to have but wishes they didn't have to. There are the lucky few who find true joy in their work: the space dinosaur cowboys and condom stress testers of the world. And, of course, Joe Biden. But for every one person getting a paycheck for their dream job, there are another 50 of the straight guy toiling away writing the penis detection software for Chatroulette. That's right, all the hard work you've put into your entire academic career up to this point builds up to filing TPS reports and figuring out how to read Reddit covertly, so that your boss doesn't notice that your output is only simulated productivity, and that's just an imgur link, not actually the Q3 projections. Congratu-fucking-lations.

We give School a whole lot of excessive drinking that's probably only hindering the overall learning experience.

Sleep is how the human body recharges itself after a long, hard day, preparing us for another new day of work, school, or furious masturbation. Or, all of the above for a few of our more intrepid readers who are otherwise unconcerned with things like "continued employment" and "not being in prison". It's how we prepare for the next day. Or at least that's what they tell me. What it really sounds like to me is a ripoff. Spend eight hours a night laying down with your eyes closed in an unconscious state? Eight hours is an entire third of a day. What a massive waste of time. I'm a busy man. I have important things to do, like eating and looking at pictures of cats with captions and touching myself inappropriately (Unrelated to the other two tasks. Usually); I just plain don't have eight hours to waste with my eyes closed.

Some people have been so brainwashed by The Man and are so hellbent on getting "enough sleep" that they even take special drugs that force their bodies to fall sleep and stay that way all night. Not letting yourself sleep after taking such a pill often results in ridiculous hallucinations that rival your average drug trip. That's complete bullshit. I can achieve that without any pills or sleeping. I mean, I just stay up for three days, and it's like my body starts producing its own free, natural LSD. All you people are getting ripped off. I know, that donkey agrees with me.

Science has proven time and again that well-rested brains function with a much greater effectiveness than tired ones, acting more intelligently and retaining more knowledge. But as we all know, most science is a myth created by the American auto industry to convince us to buy more tires. Pounds per square inch? Hah, you're not fooling anyone with your made up "measurements". Next you'll be trying to tell me that I shouldn't fill my gas tank with whatever liquids I can find, and only gasoline should ever be put in there. "Then why is it called a gas tank?" you'll say. "You're a sweaty pirate hooker who is also adopted after being abandoned by parents who didn't want you," I'll say. Checkmate. I mean, if humans really needed sleep, then why do we have Reddit? Think about that one, Hans. That's like handing a dog a chew toy and expecting him to go to sleep instead of humping it for hours upon hours. Spending hours reading the same story about a Jolly Rancher over and over is a much better use of my time than sleeping ever could be.

I bet you don't even remember the last time you didn't bother sleeping, do you? Sheeple need to wake up and smell the boiling rhubarb. By letting ourselves sleep every night, we're just allowing our fate to be handed over to the lizards in charge of this kingdom. While you read the back of your eyelids and dream about sausage-making, Mitt Romney and his sons are wide awake, digging through your garbage to find old shirts that don't fit anymore. And you're just letting it happen, thinking that the dumpster is safe and secure, awaiting the milkman's morning delivery of koala shits. Someday soon, however, you're going to wake up and find that he left you absolutely nothing, because your shirt supply is empty, all the while Tagg Romney now has six inch thick cotton armor, and he'll be the one Sumo wrestling your dad instead of you.

We give Sandwiches one fifth of that clown car over there with thes ebufibj k,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

If you've never been to either of these establishments, then you are clearly new to this planet. Welcome! Please do not murder and/or probe us. Well, maybe just a little probing... you know, on the weekends. In any case, I can almost guarantee that you will find at least 3 of both coffee dispensaries on any given main street, often directly across from one another. In cities like Boston, many streets are prevented by zoning ordinances from leasing property to anything but Starbucks or Dunkin'. If you have in fact come from another world to murder us all, I'd like to volunteer to be your Dr. Breen. As a show of good faith, I will provide you with the following human eradication pro-tip: poison the coffee supply for both of the aforementioned establishments. By 11 AM, your opposition will be either dead or suffering from an intractable case of the Mondays. Also, I'd just avoid New Jersey altogether if I were you. Trust me on this one.

As a rule, I like names that mean what they are. In the language that I speak. After extensive research, I have concluded that the Starbucks naming scheme for drink sizes makes no goddamn sense. We start with "Short" which, while not an entirely inaccurate description, does not effectively convey a sense of the beverage's true dimensions. Sure, the cup is relatively short, especially compared to most professional athletes, buildings, and astronomical objects. However, this says nothing about the girthiness of the cup. For all I know, this thing could be 2 inches tall, but 30 feet in diameter. "Well, okay," you think. "I'll just see what the other sizes are like and guess what they mean using context clues, just like my second grade teacher always wanted." FUCKING WRONG. Next up is "Tall" which offers just about the same amount of helpful information, after which we reach the point where the Starbucks menu artists seem to have run out of appropriate adjectives in the english language. The coffee sages, in their infinite wisdom, chose "Grande" and "Venti", meaning "big" and "20" in Italian, respectively. So we have small, tall, big, and 20. Fucking stellar. At this point, the man behind the counter has been patiently waiting for me to decide what I'm ordering, and all I've given him are the confused looks and high pitched whines that are the precursors to a complete nervous breakdown. I can't tell you how many times I've been dragged out of a Starbucks, screaming "I JUST WANT A GODDAMNED MEDIUM" while hurling scones and Reduced-Fat Banana Chocolate Chip Coffee Cakes at innocent bystanding hipsters. [ed: There are no innocent hipsters.]

While both establishments share some similarities (I'm like 80% sure they both sell coffee), their many schismatic differences have lead to tremendous variation in their respective customer bases. The average Starbucks patron is wearing thick-rimmed glasses, an ironic t-shirt, skinny jeans (jorts if it's hot out), and a scarf (even if it's hot out. Especially if it's hot out). He or she arrives on a fixed-speed bike or pastel-colored moped. The average Dunkin' Donuts customer on the other hand has recently run down the average Starbucks patron in their fuel-inefficient vehicle. They can often be heard complaining about a "wicked dinger" on the front of their truck.

In the time it takes to get your no-fat grande white mocha chip soy iced latte with extra foam and seven Splenda on the side, I already ordered my medium coffee, drank it, and got the fuck back to work. What have you done, you freeloading hippie? Oh, that's right, I forgot that table in the corner is your office where you spend all day working on your screenplay. No, no, don't mind me. Keep writing. I'm sure you're absolutely right about the fact that what Hollywood really needs to get it out of this slump is a coming of age story about a young man who finally finds his place in the world (Scarf II: Revenge of the Fixed-Speeds, The Quest for the Lensless Thick-Rimmed Glasses).

As always, we here at Drunk Reviews are working hard to make the world a better place. In order to save us all from the inevitable destruction wrought by this conflict, we have decided to declare, once and for all, a winner. The clear victor here is Dunkin' Donuts. I suppose if you're really into coffee, DD kind of blows. But you're still a fannybandit.

We give Dunkin' Donuts about 440 pounds of sugar out of a box of munchkins, and Starbucks a half-caf organic Venti on the pretentious-ometer.

CATS

Cats is a musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber, based on a book of poems origina-- wait what are we talking about? Cats? Seriously? The animal? Who the hell comes up with these ideas?

CATS, LIKE, THE ANIMAL

Cats are one of the most commonly kept pets in the world, and are often well known for being as cute as all fuck, and the main medium of communication on the internet. They are smart and adorable and furry, but I suspect them of harboring some dark ulterior motives.

THE GOOD

Cats often come with large, white, all-capitals statements or questions attached to them, commonly referencing cheezburgers. These "captions" have been adopted by the World Wide Web Consortium as the main carrier system for all messaging protocols that currently power the Internet. The proliferation and ubiquity of cat pictures with captions has far outpaced such old concepts as TCP/IP and HTTP, rendering cats the most widely used web technology in the world today. The adoption of the CHZBRGR protocol has had a number of outspoken opponents, especially in the computer science world, all of which 4chan has quickly hunted down and framed for possession of child pornography, leaving CHZBRGR the unchallenged standard of the web. In layman's terms, all the data passed from one web server or client to another is first encoded, then attached to one of the aforementioned "captions." The cat then adorably gets up and walks away to find the destination and deliver the message, where it is decoded, and the cat is scratched behind the ears. This has been an exceptional challenge for NASA scientists to determine ways in which to communicate between orbiting sattelites and astronauts while preventing the cats from dying horrible deaths before relaying their messages.

Cats are relatively smart creatures, especially compared to their canine counterparts in the domesticated pet world. Where your average dog has no idea what kind of demonry/wizardy it is that gets food to appear in his bowl, your average cat will probably find a way to break into where you keep it and feed himself whenever he so pleases. They also continue to regularly outsmart us in an impressive display of getting what they want. Or maybe that's just me. But seriously LOOK HOW CUTE HE IS AWW I'LL JUST GIVE HIM THE CHEESEBURGER HE WANTS SO MUCH AWWWWWW

Well, they're usually smart.

THE BAD

These little fuckers are covered in fur. It's like hair but softer and less gross/awkward when you refer to it as "soft" and "comfortable". Fur causes a number of problems, like getting all the hell over your stuff and making you look like you have your own fur, getting in your food and making it taste like it has its own fur, and generally floating around nearly invisibly, waiting to strike its victims. I'll save you the guessing at what exactly my problem is and just come right out and say it: I'm allergic to cats. When I was younger, being around them for any extended period of time would cause my face to break out in hives, equal in both appearance and itchiness of a stripper's vagina, but with less lost wedding rings inside it. Lately my body has seemingly adapted to my typical response of pounding a bottle of Benadryl, and started naturally producing its own. I skip the allergic reaction part and go straight to ready to pass out on the floor. While I can't blame them for the fact that my personal biology doesn't agree with their existence, I can blame them for being small, portable, and relentless fur generators. And that's close enough for me.

As previously mentioned, cats are all kinds of intelligent, but also comes with a downside. They know too much. the only reason they tolerate our insistence that we are in fact their masters and owners and not the other way around is because of their lack of thumbs and a serious case of laziness. If for some reason we decided to stop feeding them and giving them warm laptops to sleep on, we would very likely find ourselves in the middle of a destructive reacquisition of power that will surely end in the demise of the human race as a whole.

CONCLUSION

I'm going to go play with my dog who doesn't make me sick or plot my unfortunate yet accidental demise behind my back, so suck on that, internet.

Cats get three dead mice on your doorstep out of one meme that will literally outlive the entire Internet.

We here at DrunkReviews have carefully analyzed the arguments and available information on this subject, and come to a deeply well-informed opinion. Not to put too fine a point on it, but

SOPA CAN GO FUCK ITSELF.

AND THE PIPA IT RODE IN ON.

You'll notice that the rest of the site is "blacked out." If SOPA passes, it won't just be a clever redirect to a petition site, and it won't just be for a single day. It'll be impossible for sites like ours to even exist anymore.

No, seriously. Click here to learn more and do something about it.

The Good
The fly is expansive, allowing ample and convenient junk access at the urinal. For those of us with large and in charge dangly parts, this solves a common problem of the men's room. For those, like Cwayne, who are working with subpar equipment, it would provide a more comfortable experience when searching down there for the elusive and tiny penis they are rumored to possibly have. All in all, a larger zipper makes for an easier time in accessing one's apparatus.

The primary advantage that they have over pants is that they aren’t pants. And when it’s between 80 and 768,000 degrees outside, pants are the last thing I’m going to be interested in. My delicate leg hairs require a certain amount of freedom, or they begin to revolt and destroy me from the legs up. They will accept the confines of pants in the winter, but only for so long as the pants don’t encase them in boiling death.

I carry around a lot of shit. Not, like, actual shit. That would be weird. Mostly I carry around keys and phone and first aid kit and weapons and emergency waffle iron. You know, essentials. On average, these things take up a large amount of space, and ever since those mean guys on the bus made fun of my fabulous messenger bag, I’ve had to make do with whatever built-in options my clothing offers. In the winter, my coat provides a labyrinth of hidden pockets within pockets, in which I can store all manner of goods and materials, but in summer, coats make you look like you’re trying to hide the fact that you’re masturbating in public. And, since I’m not always doing that, I need a warm-weather alternative. These shorts provide more than sufficient space to hold even the least portable of zombie dismemberment devices, while remaining relatively wearable, and unlikely to become a major hindrance when running for dear life from flesh-devouring creatures. Or trying to make it to the bus before it leaves. Either way.

They’re shorts colored. What more do you want? Wait, what? Shorts come in different colors?! Now you’re just fucking with me, aren’t you.

The Bad
I know they’re called “shorts” but it’s supposed to be a relative term, and relative to pants, pretty much any length is short. These shorts, however, sometimes like to take matters into their own hands and become the missing link between comfortably long and awkwardly short. Take sitting on the bus, for example. There is rarely enough leg room for someone like me, and that causes them to occasionally bring out the stark whiteness of my thighs for all to see, instantly blinding the driver with their reflection in the sunlight, potentially bringing all us passengers to an untimely, shorts-related death. Shorts that are too short are a serious safety hazard, and this pair often finds itself on the wrong side of safe.

They have stupid retard laces on the inside that often get caught in the aforementioned massive junk access terminal, creating an awkward fabric-dick illusion. I don't want to be walking around with a string hanging out of my dick-area. If anything is going to be hanging out of there, it'd be my massive penis, to let all the ladies know where their next orgasms and children will be coming from. The laces serve no practical purpose. Drawstrings? What are we, savages? That's why our lord and savior James Earl Jones gave unto us the button/zipper assembly found at the crotch of most modern clothes.

They aren’t pants. It’s cold when it’s cold.

Conclusion
They’re pretty cool, I guess. If you’re into shorts. If you’re thinking about buying these shorts, well then stop thinking about something so retarded. I don’t even know what brand they are or where they’re sold, and I’m sure as not selling this pair to you, asshole. What would I wear to work? Pants? Well, I see someone hasn't been paying attention.

I give them one half of one single pant.

See Also: Brad’s Review Of My Shorts!