They say that his death was due to significant changes in his brain. Some said he was schizophrenic and that he craved all the fame and attention that he received earlier in life.
He was on the cover of German Vanity Fair after all.
But I don’t think that’s what killed him. Lack of fame and attention isn’t fatal. This picture is proof of that.
But it’s scary to think that bears can be schizophrenic. Schizo people are scary enough but bears?! Thinking about that makes me want to brush up on my bear attack survival skills.
One survival tip not mentioned in that helpful and informative video is if you’re being chased by a bear, try to run down hill. Bears back legs are shorter than their front legs so they can’t run as fast down hills. But the bear will still probably catch you. Most bears can run about 60 kilometers an hour and a schizo bear has the added power of being mental.
File Photo: Schitzo bear washing you down with Pepsi.
I wonder how fast bigfoots can run? I bet they’re pretty fast. I’m going to find out.
Question 31:How fast can bigfoots run?
Magic Internet Answer:The simple answer to this highly stupid question is that bigfoots cannot run at all as they do not exist. There is no credible documented evidence that states otherwise. But for the sake of your pitiful blog I will give you an answer based on the questionable evidence that some claim is real. The most common and well documented bigfoot evidence is photographs and castings of their footprints.
If these are to be believed we can estimate the average size of a bigfoot as being 8 feet tall and that they possess a measured stride of 3 to 4 feet. There is also possible evidence of a mid-tarsal break. This coupled with the strength of the animal would suggest that a bigfoot could run at a speed of 55 to 65 kilometers an hour. Which is about the same average speed as a bear.
They also both like fish!
Cool Magic Internet but there’s one theory you didn’t review when you came up with your answer. The theory that bigfoots are alien built robots like the one the Six Million Dollar Man faught.
Christmas is almost here and you know I’ve been thinking a lot about Santa. When I was little I was pretty obsessed with Santa Claus. I remember I used to set up elaborate traps on Christmas Eve to catch him. I don’t really know why. I think I just wanted to see him. I suppose I regarded Santa Claus as being akin to E.T. or Bigfoot.
I never did catch Santa and my parents told me that if I did I wouldn’t get any presents and neither would any other kids. So I eventually abandoned my Trap Santa initiative and moved on to obtaining Santa’s Autograph. For several years each Christmas I would draft up this strange document on lined paper with Santa’s name and the names of all his Reindeer. Next to the names I’d have lines for them all to sign their autographs on. Yes, even the reindeer. I’d put this piece of paper next to the milk, cookies and carrots that I used to leave out on Christmas Eve. On Christmas morning I’d wake up to find the milk and cookies gone, the carrot nubs out on the back lawn and my autograph document signed by Santa along with 9 little hoof prints. I think one year I even asked for a nose print from Rudolph. (I bet my folks wished I’d go back to trying to trap Santa after that one.) I guess I went from thinking of Santa as a mythical creature to some sort of celebrity. Kind of like Paris Hilton.
Mommy! Daddy! Santa was here! Santa was here!
I don’t remember when I stopped really believing in Santa Claus. I guess it was when I started taking a more realistic, cynical view of the world in general. But what if Santa was real? How could he bring joy to all those kids in just one night? Is it even scientifically or mathematically possible? He’d have to be faster than Google! Hey, that gives me an idea. Why don’t we ask the Magic Internet?
Question 19: What would happen if Santa Claus was real?
While it’s revving up, please enjoy Count Floyd singing Reggae Christmas in Transylvania.
Magic Internet Answer: Ah yes, Santa Clause. Formerly Saint Nicholas, your obese annual gift man. I won’t make the pretension of comprehension in regards to your human infants’ belief in such a creature but the internet does contain a vast amount of data regarding Santa Clause.
Some of it you would be better off not knowing about.
What I believe you are asking of me is that I suspend disbelief of the existence of Santa Claus and calculate the probability and outcome of his annual task. Well that I can do. Let us first look at the task its self. Let us assume that this Santa Clause only visits the homes of legal children. That is only children under 18.
File Photo: Disqualified.
There are currently approximately 2 billion persons under the age of 18 living on this planet. However those of Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist and Jewish faiths do not recognize Santa so they can be excluded. This reduces the number of children down to a much more manageable 378 million. Next we must factor in the number of children per household. The current census average is 3.5. Santa only visits the good children but if we take the innocence of youth into account we can assume that each household should contain at least 1 good child. This means that Santa must visit 91.8 million homes. No small feat, especially when he must visit them all in one night. That is what we will look at next. If Santa traverses the globe from east to west to take advantage of the earth’s rotation and time zones he will have 31 hours of Christmas night in which to complete his deliveries. This means Santa must visit 822.6 homes per second. That gives him 1.2 milliseconds to park his sleigh, slide down the chimney, deliver his gifts, eat the cookies and milk left for him (and sign your stupid document) and then move on to the next house. Perhaps he could make up a millisecond here and there visiting apartment blocks but that would definitely be used up for a bathroom break. (Let’s see you eat cookies every 1.2 milliseconds for 31 hours and not have to stop for a shit.)
File Photo: Santa poop.
Of course we are also assuming that each home is an equal distance apart with little to no backtracking. If we factor in ocean crossings that’s about 78 miles per household for a total of 71.6 million total miles to be traveled in a 31 hour period. This means that Santa will need to be traveling at a speed of 650 miles per second. That’s 3,000 times the speed of sound!
Still not fast enough to get me away from the sound of this.
A conventional reindeer can run at an average speed of 15 miles per hour. But Santa’s reindeer can fly. Biologists believe there are still some 300,000 species of living organisms yet to be classified so we can assume these flying reindeer are some sort of undiscovered species.
Like Bigfoot! God I love this picture.
Let’s turn our attention now to exactly what these flying reindeer will be pulling. If every child on Santa’s list gets an average sized present, say 2 lbs then the reindeer are pulling 321,300 tons of presents plus a sleigh and hefty Santa. A conventional reindeer can pull around 300 lbs and even if this undiscovered species of flying reindeer can pull 10 times that amount 9 reindeer still would not be enough.
What if this guy helped?
That still wouldn’t be enough. Santa would need at least 214,200 of his special flying reindeer to pull his sleigh. This brings us to the scientific outcome of all of this.
214,200 flying reindeer pulling Santa Claus and a sleigh carrying 321,300 tons of gifts attempting to reach a speed of 650 miles per second would face so much air resistance that they would heat up much like a spacecraft reentering the earth’s atmosphere. The resulting friction would cause the chain of reindeer to combust like the wick of a firecracker. Santa and his slay would be subjected to centrifugal forces 17,500 times greater than gravity causing him, the sleigh and all the toys to explode instantaneously.
Kind of like this but with more red and green.
Bummer!
Oh well. Who needs Santa Claus when we’ve got you Magic Internet. You always deliver the best presents. Like this:
Did you hear about the woman in B.C. that had a marijuana grow-op. guarded by bears?
B. T. the Bear
See now this is news. This is what I want to see when I open my newspaper every day. This is what I’m all about.
And this.
Now I’m no criminal but if I were to grow marijuana, you better believe no one is taking my future stash. First I’d have it hidden so no one could spot it from the air. Like that fake pool that Cheech and Chong had in Nice Dreams.
Or better yet I’d hide it in an inactive Volcano like Blofeld had in You Only Live Twice where James Bond gets in that little helicopter and tries to find it but then the SPECTRE guys come in their helicopters and then there’s a helicopter fight and James Bond’s helicopter fires missiles and all the little buttons on his helicopter are labeled with an old label maker and Sean Connery looks ridiculous and cool all at once and it’s awesome.
First zapped and now this. Why aren’t movie posters cool anymore?
Except I’d be the one flying the little helicopter to and from my grow-op. and if I catch you trying to steal any of my plants you’re going to get the flamethrower. Only it won’t be fire that comes out because I don’t want to burn down my plants so instead it will just hose you with methhead puke. And trust me, you don’t want that.
Fill ‘er up with premium, dude.
Only I can’t be flying around guarding my weed plants all day. I’m a rich drug dealer now. I have things to do. I’ve got to sit by my pool and watch bikini girls swim, get flames painted on the side of my little helicopter, buy oversized gold rope chains and let Hightimes take pictures of my weed for hippies to jerk off to.
So I need some sort of guards. Not bears though, that’s been done. Maybe I could get some of those radioactive boars radoactive boars from Germany. Or better yet bigfoots! Yes, bigfoots. A team of them to patrol my volcano base. And they’d all have crossbows.
Silent and deadly. You’d only catch a whiff of their stink and then thud, a crossbow bolt would be in your head. I’d have nine of them. Nine bigfoots and they’d all have names and they’d all wear a special hats so I can tell them apart and they’d all have specialties and the first letter of each of their names would spell out CHEWBACCA.
Roll call!
Name: Charlie.
Special Hat: One of those wicker Vietcong hats.
Specialty: Booby-traps.
Favorite food: Pizza.
Name: Hector.
Special Hat: Giant Sombrero .
Specialty: Knives.
Favorite food: Meatball sub.
Name: Eli.
Special Hat: Von Dutch Trucker Hat.
Specialty: Invisibility.
Favorite food: Garbage.
Name: Willy.
Special Hat: Solar Powered Fan Hat.
Specialty: Demolitions.
Favorite food: Foot long corndog .
Name: Barry.
Special Hat: Buffalo Wing Hat.
Specialty: Smashing things with a big rock.
Favorite food: Pizza.
Name: Albert.
Special Hat: Ferrari Hat.
Specialty: Completely shaved for extra creepiness.
Favorite food: Popcorn Shrimp.
Name: The Chads.
Special Hats: They share a Pith helmet.
Specialty: Gymkata.
Favorie Food: One likes Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups the other likes Pizza.
Name: Arnold
Special Hat: Got Poker visor (to show off his pompadore).
Specialty: Communications/Demolitions
Favorite food: Chunky Beefburger Soup
There. Try to steal my weed. Try it. I dare you. In fact I want you to try. Team CHEWBACCA, if you need me, I’ll be in the tub.
I’m not much of a gambler. And there’s something about that look of desperate hope in those sad faces in line at the lottery kiosk on a Friday night that makes me pat the five bucks in my pocket and laugh. You’re never going to win! I find it extra funny when the jackpot gets really high and the lineup gets 10 times as long.
$10 million you say? Bah, not worth my time. I only leave my one bedroom apartment for the big money.
But if I did win a million dollars, how would things around here change? Let’s have a look at a day in the life of Johnny the millionaire.
7:30AM
Get up and have a shower. I’d like to say that my shower is now a baby elephant that sprays me with water from his trunk but that seems kind of gross.
Good way to get rid of your Christmas tree though.
I’d probably go for one of those showers with multiple heads so it’s quicker. Showering is boring. Let’s get it over and done with. Oh and a bench in there too so I can read the paper.
Now we're talking!
7:45AM
Get dressed. What does a millionaire wear? Whatever he wants! And I want to wear that black ninja gi with the silver face mask that the bad ninja wore in Revenge of the Ninja.
If it doesn’t fit I have some pieces of denim off an old pair of jeans that I can sew on as extensions.
8:00AM
Now that I’m suitably attired, it’s time to walk Mutton.
Guess what? Even when you’re rich your dog still poops.
8:30AM
Time for breakfast and I want Cheese Beanos.
Like this but with a cheese slice on top.
But instead of toast I want it on top of an original Action Comics Number 1
Then I’ll film myself eating it and send the tape to Nicholas Cage.
9:00AM
Time to hit the road. I have a plane to catch. Every filthy rich person has to have a fly ride, right? Well I’m no exception. I would like to have a limousine made out of four Austin Mini’s welded together. And not new Minis either, they have to be originals.
Like this but longer and more ram-shackled looking. Maybe weld two of these fuckers together.
I’d also like my personal driver to be Manute Bol.
Oh wait. He’s dead. Fine, just get me a really fat guy instead.
No one’s riding shotgun in my Mini Limo.
10:00AM
At the airport to catch my flight to British Columbia. Even though I’m rich I still have to go through security.
What? They only give you one free drink on the plane!
Once I’m in the air I can catch up on all my media viewing with this baby.
That’s right, a portable TV! And I’ll have it specially fitted so I can hook a DVD player up to it. Eat your hearts out proletarians!
What am I watching? Videos of the guys from Jackass pulling pranks on people I don’t like. Then videos of my hobo army taking dumps in front of fancy restaurant windows while wearing t-shirts with my face on it (with picture in picture close ups of the diners disgusted faces).
3:00PM
I’m on the ground in BC. Now I don’t ski, I don’t smoke weed and I hate hippies, so you’re probably wondering what I’m doing here. Well now that I’m rich I can retire early. And my dream retirement idea has always been to become one of those weird guys that hunt Bigfoots.
Now I don’t want to kill any Bigfoots. I just want to find one, take some videos of him, take some samples of his fur to prove he’s real and maybe give him a pair of shoes actually worn by Shaquille O’Neil that I bought at auction with my riches.
But if Bigfoot wants to rumble and it’s me or him, he better think twice because I’ll be packing some serious heat.
That’s right. The M124 mini gatling gun. Just like the one Jessie “the Body” Ventura used in Predator. No scratch that. I’m a millionaire so it will be the one Jessie “the Body” Ventura used in Predator.
And just to make sure Bigfoot goes down I’ll have special ammunition in it made out of melted down rocker rings.
5:00PM
Alright, now that Bigfoot has been photographed or mowed down into hamburger or whatever I’ve got to get back to Toronto. No time for conventional transport so I’ll just have to take my solid gold, bronze plated Steampunk jetpack (Craigslist).
7:00PM
Dinner at Hooters with Quinton Tarantino on a non-wing night (ohhh, the decadence). Rich people only dine with other rich people and I want to pitch him my movie idea about a romantic comedy set in the competitive eating circuit where a guy falls in love with a robot that has a human stomach. The working title is Fat Circuit.
9:00PM
Come home and give my Monkey Butler an extra banana for walking Mutton.
Then right some crazy ramblings about midgets and hotdogs for my blog.
10:00PM
Go down to my basement and wake up Tom Hanks and the rest of the crew to perform (yet again) all of Bachelor Party live in my bedroom as I drift off to sleep.
Come on guys. I know you’re tired but who’s paying you the big bucks here?
Either that or I’ll watch that secondhand copy of Road House I got for $5.00 at the BMV last week. I’ve already watched it once but it’s got guest celebrity commentary by Kevin Smith and a mini documentary called What Would Dalton Do where they interview real bouncers about how much they love the movie Road House.
Hey, five bucks really can make all your dreams come true.
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