Check out Mags and Mrs. Brown for the same topic.
I'm going to do a little list because I can't think of one, overall, THING except maybe weird sexual practices and I feel like I'm not allowed to talk about those.
1. I am hot. Like, really hot. Seriously, you don't even know. You should see me in knee socks and nothing else. Actually, you shouldn't if you want to live past that moment because you'd melt and die from the sheer hotness. I mean, Mr. Brown just took a picture of me and I wasn't ready, but I'm not concerned because it's going to come out fantastic because I am so hot.
2. I don't really like mac n cheese. Just kidding! I fucking LOVE mac n cheese. The real number 2 is I am a goddamn laugh a minute.
3. I am terrified of everything. I don't keep my fears a secret, but they're way more intense than even I make them out to be. Sometimes I jump up when I'm in bed alone and go turn on the light because, in the light, the scary things can't get me.
4. I believe I am wholly responsible for Princess Diana's death. This is the first time I've ever said this outside of my head. Never even written it to myself. I know, I'm a freak, but I totally believe this. So, here's the story:
I've had phases of being extremely superstitious. When I was ten I was going through one of those phases. When I was that age I was also dabbling in other kinds of beliefs and was really interested in witchcraft and sombre poetry and the like. You know, regular kid stuff. Anyway, I distinctly remember being in the living room, sitting on the couch, it being very quiet, and I was thinking. Really hard.
And I wished myself dead.
I wasn't unhappy in the least, and immediately afterward I took it back. I think I did it because I was interested in what happened after living and that junk. So I quickly took it back because, obviously, it was going to come true because I'm just that powerful and there was some all-powerful entity just waiting to bow to the every whim of ten-year-old me. And then, what feels like seconds later in my mind, but could have been days, I learned about Princess Diana dying. So many people were so upset. And then I realized that my wish was too powerful to just disintegrate, but it couldn't be used on me because of course, I had overruled it, so whatever force was going to grant my wish HAD to use it on someone, and that someone was her.
I killed the Princess of Wales. Killed her dead.
And, to this day, I still believe that. I still wish now that I had been quick and thoughtful enough to take back my wish-o-death and protect everyone, but I wasn't. I was a dumb kid, playing with a power I couldn't fathom. And for that, all of England had to suffer. And I've never told anybody except for you, internet.
So, number 4 is really I am totally, bat shit crazy.
10.17.2010
Badass Of The Week
This is something I posted on a blog a while back and just felt like reposting today.
The following is an imitation in the style of badassoftheweek.com as that is a legitimate form of writing, I swear.
Interest in bicycling peaks annually some time in mid-summer when all of America tunes in to one of the twelve hundred ESPNs to catch a glimpse of a single-nutted American hero fly past all those beret-wearing, baguette-eating, complete-scrotum-having Frenchies in a blur of yellow and wheels, and they probably should because Lance Armstrong really is sweet like that. But what those couch potatoes watching him on television from the comfort of their sweet little suburban homes fail to realize is that Colleen Brown, who could end Lance Armstrong’s existence with a nonchalant, sideways glance, reducing him and his Trek Madone SL to mere skid marks that Alberto Contador wouldn’t even notice, is actually the most badass cyclist to ever set wheels to the motherfucking pavement.
Born in the Appalachian Ohio wilderness amongst man-eating mountain lions and equally-human-consuming bears, Colleen’s ability to kick wildlife ass and reach speeds exceeding eighty miles an hour were ingrained from the moment she popped out of the womb, which, by the way, she did all on her own. With a whopping seventeen brothers and nineteen sisters, the necessity for Colleen to fend for herself was, needless to say, intense; however, she managed to care for them all while still developing her own badassitude to the highest levels. She went on to mother two daughters of their own notable badassery, and grandmother a pirate. That’s right, I said a freaking pirate. The American government has even recognized her skills as she’s been employed by the state to kick the asses of jerk offs who are less than responsible caretakers of their elders. Also, she’s earned a black belt in tae kwon do. Three fucking times.
But our story does not deal with the adolescence nor general sweetness of one Mrs. Colleen Brown despite how earth-shatteringly awesome the tales of her life are and how mindfucked you would be at hearing them. Oh no. The events that prove her to be the badass of the week took place on the balmy morning of Monday, August 9th, 2004.
Whilst riding along the quiet and often uninhabited bike trails of Nelsonville, Ohio with her husband and partner in badassery, David Brown, there occurred a moment that will live forever in badass history. You see, Colleen is not like the aforementioned sofa spuds who tune in and turn off when televised sports blow up. Colleen blows up. In the metaphorical, becoming active sense, of course, but she could literally not-so-spontaneously combust too, if she wanted, as she is a ninja and learned that skill during her tutelage under some white-bearded Korean martial arts master whose name I won’t repeat to you unless you actually want to be hunted down in your sleep and have your life stripped away three days after the fact from the kwon su ping which loosely translates to “palm fist of death by diarrhea.” And Colleen would take you all down with her if she chose to do so while blowing up, but she will allow you to go on living your measly little existence for now because she’s gracious like that. So, Colleen bikes. Not wussy, go for a ride every week or so bikes; Colleen hardcore, spandex shorts, thousand dollar bicycle, millions of miles every day bikes. And she doesn’t break a sweat. Or get tired. It’s just what she does.
On the aforementioned date, Colleen was minding her own business, riding down the trail and just generally being awesome when some motherfucking, batshit crazy, envy induced calygreyhound ran out of the brush and attacked her. That’s right, the mythical medieval beast you only heard of just now. Turns out it’s real, and you didn’t even know it fake existed, did you? Well, it does, real exist that is. The calygreyhound is one fucked up amalgamation of some of the craziest animals on earth with a wildcat’s head with throat-ripping fangs, a stag’s body for speed and antlers for bowel shredding, both eagle claws and ox hooves, and a lion’s tail just for good measure.
This thing went fucking nuts on Colleen because, while most people don’t know anything about the calygreyhound, even less know that it has an insatiable thirst for awesomeness. Residing solely in the sparse forests of Oxford, England and feasting on the snaggletoothed crumpet-guzzlers the British Isles are forced to pass off as “awesome” but really only qualify as “sub-par okay,” this calygreyhound, later found to be named Pete, was drawn to Ameri-fucking-ca and the one and only Colleen Brown when it caught a whiff of awesomeness in its purest form.
Now, while bikes are wonderful modes of transport, when a thirteen hundred pound legendary monster powerhouses into the side of one going upwards of one hundred and fifty two miles an hour as Colleen usually does, it’s bad news. Colleen was thrown from what became a rolling mass of spikes and titanium into the pavement. Her hip was immediately shattered, shoulder separated, a joint was popped out of place in her spine, and she suffered the expected bumps and bruises that come along with assault by fabled beast. But that wasn’t stopping her. Colleen stood on her broken hip, thrust her shoulder back into its socket without even a grimace of pain and spat out a tooth like some cinematic action heroine. On crack. That calygreyhound messed with the wrong badass and it was time for some calygreyhound ball-crushing carnage.
In a flash, Colleen had ripped the now tangled spikes from her bicycle and fashioned a modern cyclist’s dream weapon of crazy pointy metal, delivering what can only be described as a cock-punch to the neck of the calygreyhound, slitting his throat open and showering the surrounding area in blood and bile. Pete didn’t even get a word in edgewise, not that “I’m lamer than a three-legged, blind kitten and a total douche bag to boot” would have subdued the skull-crushing rage Colleen mustered up at the sight of her destroyed two-wheeler. She was like a Tarantino version of Beowulf on acid or some shit, only sweeter because she’s a woman and has spiky hair. Innards were all over the trail and hanging from tree limbs SyFy Channel, overblown, B-list movie style, only it was real because, as everybody who knows knows, when the calygreyhound is decapitated, his insides spew from the newly made wound in a last, feeble attempt at revenge which Colleen stood against, a mangled mess herself, like it was a gentle spring shower and not a fucking torrent of legendary guts and gore.
David Brown stood there, amazed, knowing she didn’t need any help all along. He too suffered the shower of calygreyhound intestine and related juices but was mostly unharmed, the sheer greatness of Colleen’s dick-devastating action enough to bolster anyone’s spirits, even when covered in what is essentially monster corpse. He later made her the sweetest cookies that had ever been produced from any oven that you or I could ever imagine thanks to his comfort with his own masculinity and crazy ability to rock your fucking face off.
Now with two titanium rods in her back causing slightly limited mobility and occasional bouts of chills, the result and proof of her run in with Pete, Colleen lives and kicks asses in quiet, rural Ohio on the edge of the woods with her family, knowing she is all that stands between them and the carnivorous beasts of the wild. However, she’s not bothered, cautioning any creature that dares make its way up her porch steps with their own tailored version of a calygreyhound smack down be they wolf, gryphon, fire-breathing unicorn, or, the greatest predator of them all, raptor. You thought I was going to say “man” didn’t you? Well, no–raptor’s are fucking nuts and there’s no two ways about that. But just below them is certainly not “man”; that spot is reserved for Colleen Faherty Brown, total fucking badass.
The following is an imitation in the style of badassoftheweek.com as that is a legitimate form of writing, I swear.
Colleen Faherty Brown
Those glasses are for your protection.
Interest in bicycling peaks annually some time in mid-summer when all of America tunes in to one of the twelve hundred ESPNs to catch a glimpse of a single-nutted American hero fly past all those beret-wearing, baguette-eating, complete-scrotum-having Frenchies in a blur of yellow and wheels, and they probably should because Lance Armstrong really is sweet like that. But what those couch potatoes watching him on television from the comfort of their sweet little suburban homes fail to realize is that Colleen Brown, who could end Lance Armstrong’s existence with a nonchalant, sideways glance, reducing him and his Trek Madone SL to mere skid marks that Alberto Contador wouldn’t even notice, is actually the most badass cyclist to ever set wheels to the motherfucking pavement.
Born in the Appalachian Ohio wilderness amongst man-eating mountain lions and equally-human-consuming bears, Colleen’s ability to kick wildlife ass and reach speeds exceeding eighty miles an hour were ingrained from the moment she popped out of the womb, which, by the way, she did all on her own. With a whopping seventeen brothers and nineteen sisters, the necessity for Colleen to fend for herself was, needless to say, intense; however, she managed to care for them all while still developing her own badassitude to the highest levels. She went on to mother two daughters of their own notable badassery, and grandmother a pirate. That’s right, I said a freaking pirate. The American government has even recognized her skills as she’s been employed by the state to kick the asses of jerk offs who are less than responsible caretakers of their elders. Also, she’s earned a black belt in tae kwon do. Three fucking times.
Thinking about who's getting the smackdown next.
But our story does not deal with the adolescence nor general sweetness of one Mrs. Colleen Brown despite how earth-shatteringly awesome the tales of her life are and how mindfucked you would be at hearing them. Oh no. The events that prove her to be the badass of the week took place on the balmy morning of Monday, August 9th, 2004.
Whilst riding along the quiet and often uninhabited bike trails of Nelsonville, Ohio with her husband and partner in badassery, David Brown, there occurred a moment that will live forever in badass history. You see, Colleen is not like the aforementioned sofa spuds who tune in and turn off when televised sports blow up. Colleen blows up. In the metaphorical, becoming active sense, of course, but she could literally not-so-spontaneously combust too, if she wanted, as she is a ninja and learned that skill during her tutelage under some white-bearded Korean martial arts master whose name I won’t repeat to you unless you actually want to be hunted down in your sleep and have your life stripped away three days after the fact from the kwon su ping which loosely translates to “palm fist of death by diarrhea.” And Colleen would take you all down with her if she chose to do so while blowing up, but she will allow you to go on living your measly little existence for now because she’s gracious like that. So, Colleen bikes. Not wussy, go for a ride every week or so bikes; Colleen hardcore, spandex shorts, thousand dollar bicycle, millions of miles every day bikes. And she doesn’t break a sweat. Or get tired. It’s just what she does.
On the aforementioned date, Colleen was minding her own business, riding down the trail and just generally being awesome when some motherfucking, batshit crazy, envy induced calygreyhound ran out of the brush and attacked her. That’s right, the mythical medieval beast you only heard of just now. Turns out it’s real, and you didn’t even know it fake existed, did you? Well, it does, real exist that is. The calygreyhound is one fucked up amalgamation of some of the craziest animals on earth with a wildcat’s head with throat-ripping fangs, a stag’s body for speed and antlers for bowel shredding, both eagle claws and ox hooves, and a lion’s tail just for good measure.
Artist rendition of the calygreyhound as this ass is too much of a puss to be caught on film.
This thing went fucking nuts on Colleen because, while most people don’t know anything about the calygreyhound, even less know that it has an insatiable thirst for awesomeness. Residing solely in the sparse forests of Oxford, England and feasting on the snaggletoothed crumpet-guzzlers the British Isles are forced to pass off as “awesome” but really only qualify as “sub-par okay,” this calygreyhound, later found to be named Pete, was drawn to Ameri-fucking-ca and the one and only Colleen Brown when it caught a whiff of awesomeness in its purest form.
Now, while bikes are wonderful modes of transport, when a thirteen hundred pound legendary monster powerhouses into the side of one going upwards of one hundred and fifty two miles an hour as Colleen usually does, it’s bad news. Colleen was thrown from what became a rolling mass of spikes and titanium into the pavement. Her hip was immediately shattered, shoulder separated, a joint was popped out of place in her spine, and she suffered the expected bumps and bruises that come along with assault by fabled beast. But that wasn’t stopping her. Colleen stood on her broken hip, thrust her shoulder back into its socket without even a grimace of pain and spat out a tooth like some cinematic action heroine. On crack. That calygreyhound messed with the wrong badass and it was time for some calygreyhound ball-crushing carnage.
In a flash, Colleen had ripped the now tangled spikes from her bicycle and fashioned a modern cyclist’s dream weapon of crazy pointy metal, delivering what can only be described as a cock-punch to the neck of the calygreyhound, slitting his throat open and showering the surrounding area in blood and bile. Pete didn’t even get a word in edgewise, not that “I’m lamer than a three-legged, blind kitten and a total douche bag to boot” would have subdued the skull-crushing rage Colleen mustered up at the sight of her destroyed two-wheeler. She was like a Tarantino version of Beowulf on acid or some shit, only sweeter because she’s a woman and has spiky hair. Innards were all over the trail and hanging from tree limbs SyFy Channel, overblown, B-list movie style, only it was real because, as everybody who knows knows, when the calygreyhound is decapitated, his insides spew from the newly made wound in a last, feeble attempt at revenge which Colleen stood against, a mangled mess herself, like it was a gentle spring shower and not a fucking torrent of legendary guts and gore.
Comforting this small child after choking out that croc with her bare hands.
David Brown stood there, amazed, knowing she didn’t need any help all along. He too suffered the shower of calygreyhound intestine and related juices but was mostly unharmed, the sheer greatness of Colleen’s dick-devastating action enough to bolster anyone’s spirits, even when covered in what is essentially monster corpse. He later made her the sweetest cookies that had ever been produced from any oven that you or I could ever imagine thanks to his comfort with his own masculinity and crazy ability to rock your fucking face off.
Now with two titanium rods in her back causing slightly limited mobility and occasional bouts of chills, the result and proof of her run in with Pete, Colleen lives and kicks asses in quiet, rural Ohio on the edge of the woods with her family, knowing she is all that stands between them and the carnivorous beasts of the wild. However, she’s not bothered, cautioning any creature that dares make its way up her porch steps with their own tailored version of a calygreyhound smack down be they wolf, gryphon, fire-breathing unicorn, or, the greatest predator of them all, raptor. You thought I was going to say “man” didn’t you? Well, no–raptor’s are fucking nuts and there’s no two ways about that. But just below them is certainly not “man”; that spot is reserved for Colleen Faherty Brown, total fucking badass.
10.02.2010
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