A new month means a new re-release, and this time, The Hitchhiking Crash Course has gotten a makeover. Much like with Trolling for a Living, I’ve had my friend Matt at Unlucky Devil create an awesome new cover, and I also re-did the interior of the paperback edition, but I didn’t simply slap a pretty new image on this one.
To be honest, the original edition of Crash Course was a substandard product.
I swear to God, I don’t seek these things out; they come to me. In this case, I was rifling through the flyers hanging up on my hostel’s bulletin board when I found an advertisement for the Museum of Sex, conveniently located in the Flatiron District in lower Manhattan. I figured it would be the usual leftist faux-subversive drivel—“Oooh, look at us, talking about sex and saying ‘cunt’ and flipping off Middle America! WE’RE SO EDGY!”—but since I prefer to go off the beaten track whenever I visit new places, I decided I’d check it out anyway.
I wouldn’t exactly call the Museum of Sex a must-visit, but if you’ve got the time, it’s worth a couple hours of your day.
Be forewarned: this article is really not safe for work.
I was in eighth grade in my second period computer class, learning how to use Microsoft Office under the direction of a mustachioed nun, when the news came over the loudspeaker. The nun immediately dropped everything and waddled over to the TV. Flipping on CNN, we saw the Twin Towers smoking, an image that was permanently seared into our brains. Our teachers didn’t even bother trying to educate our young minds that day; we just drifted from class to class watching TV in a state of shock and confusion.
We didn’t know it then, but that was the day the American Empire died.
As I’ve mentioned before, I’m heading to New York City next Wednesday (November 6) for a week of “workcation” (so called because even when I’m on vacation, I’m always stuck working on something). I had floated the idea of a semi-organized meetup two months ago, and while some people expressed interest, I’ve had to scuttle the idea due to the hordes of haters who are no doubt looking to stalk me.
Nonetheless, it’d be cool to meet up with some of my readers and fellow bloggers.
The black guy was hobbling after me, clad in a plaid shirt and dirty jeans; the bum’s uniform. I hopped away, not wanting to scuff my nice shoes. Around us, the rain had gone from a sprinkle to a shower, soaking my blazer and pants.
Fuck you very much pal. Go find someone else to hustle.
I’ll be visiting New York City for the first week of November, roughly from the 6th to the 11th. Since the single largest share of my readership hails from New York City (with London and Los Angeles dueling it out for the number two spot), since I won’t be able to make Mitch and Doctor Illusion’s meetup in Vegas next month, and since it’s fucking New York, I’ve decided to float the idea of a meetup.
NOTE: I’ve reached deep into the In Mala Fide archives to bring you this post all the way from August 31, 2010, about my tour of a Canadian military nuclear fallout bunker near Ottawa. I had thought this post lost because I had thought I’d accidentally deleted the pictures that accompanied it, but I was cleaning out an old hard drive of mine the other day and found them. Enjoy.
I imagine most of you are spinning in your swivel chairs laughing your asses off at the above picture. “Whut did Kana-duh have to do whit the Cold War? Dey just a bunch of elk pelt-sniffin’ wannabe ‘Mericans!”” Quite a bit, surprisingly. As a founding member of NATO, Canada was at risk of Russian nuclear attack, which prompted the government to construct a series of bunkers across the country to safeguard government officials in the event of World War III. The largest and most important of these Diefenbunkers (named after John Diefenbaker, Prime Minister of Canada from 1957 – 1963 and under whose government the project was initiated) was located in Carp, Ontario, about twenty minutes west of Ottawa, designed to shelter the Prime Minister, Governor General and other members of the federal government.
NOTE: This article was originally published at Bronan the Barbarian! on October 12, 2012. I’m re-posting it here as the site is now defunct.
Greetings from the heady hinterlands of North Dakota, where jobs are plentiful but housing is scarce. That means a lot of folks signing up for gym memberships solely so they can cleanse their filthy carcasses in the locker room. Should you ever find yourself in the Bakken, here’s my handy guide to the kinds of weirdos you can expect after a hard afternoon’s lifting.
This is an excerpt from my book The Hitchhiking Crash Course.
The vast majority of states outlaw hitchhiking on Interstates by virtue of outlawing pedestrian traffic on them period. This is ostensibly for safety reasons: at speeds of 55 miles per hour and up, you’re guaranteed roadkill if you get hit by a car. Most states define the highway as including the grassy median separating the lanes as well as the grass on both sides of the road (up to where the highway is fenced off), so you can’t circumvent this law by staying off the pavement.