... is Sweatpants Money!

Trader Joe's juice box riots

2010-02-11T16:03:00.000-08:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Well, well, well... it's certainly been a little bit of time since I brought you visual devastation. Fear not though, loyal blog-followers, Is Sweatpants Money! lives on! Today, I received this absolutely fantastic image sent courtesy of Jd White, who has made his very own appearances on this blog resulting from a gnar-gnar staph infection.

This time around though, Jd is not the victim. No, friends, it was an unfortunate co-worker at the Trader Joe's on NW 21st here in gray-ass Portland, OR who suffered perverted doom unsuspectingly. The young lady's name is Meredith, and this little wound came after a nasty bout with a box of juice and a box cutter. Five stitches later, and Meredith is the newest addition to Is Sweatpants Money!

I don't exactly know what the fucking deal is with all of these goddamned kids busting their flesh open on box-cutters. This is, if I'm not mistaken, like the fourth time that we've covered a mishap involving this everyday tool. The idea, people, is to FUCKING CUT BOXES. When you turn it on yourself, you end up looking like some mouse-faced fourteen year-old whose greasy black hair can't get out of her face long enough for her to look at the Joy Division posters on her bedroom wall. What I really wish was that this picture also included the standard Trader Joe's signature Tommy Bahama Hawaiian print shirt. Jd has like two hundred and sixty of them in his drawers at his house. I've seen them.

This new little slice of heaven has prompted me to wonder what the fuck the rest of you have been up to recently. What, did you all stop drinking and biking or something? Are you wearing helmets now? Suck a fuck and hurt yourselves already. This blog isn't gonna write itself.

Italian dog bites

2010-01-12T13:02:00.001-08:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

There are a lot of stereotypes about the country of Italy, and they're pretty much all true. Pasta and meatballs litter the windy, brick streets and at any given point, there is a fat man in a mustache signing "That's Amore" no more than ten feet from your person. Further, everyone there does drive a Vespa and men kiss each other on the face when they meet. It's a regular old carb-loaded gayfest over there. One of the things though that they're not going to tell you about on those heinous "Euro-Traveler" bullshit shows on the Discovery Channel is that Italy is also filled with hideous, rabid sheepdogs who want nothing more than to take a bite out of your hand like you're crime and they're McGruff.

Take, for example, this little shithead:

Aaron Abbott is no stranger to being bitten. He's taught high school photography for several years in downtown Phoenix, AZ. He and his lovely wife were vacationing over the holidays in Italy when Aaron stumbled across the flea-infested cock ravager that you see above. Thinking that it might be a nice dog (of which there are a total of three on the entire planet), he reached down and paid the motherfucking piper. Holy Jeez.

Keep 'em coming.

And just for fun, here's one more reason to hate both police AND dogs!

Drunken sleepwalking down the stairs

2010-01-11T11:24:00.001-08:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Happy 2010! The New Year would not be complete without some mega-doom wipe-outs and absolute gnar-bar injuries. Did you get hurt over the holidays? I bet you did... traveling back to the Midwest to visit your family in a blizzard and slipping on ice because you're a bitch ass West Coast kid now. I've gotten a few lovely submissions over the break and am pleased to be back in full Sweatpants Glory in this, the year of our Lord, 2010. We here at Sweatpants Money are only gonna refer to it as "Ought-Ten" from now on. And if you have problem with that, then start your own fucking blog.

The classy holiday image that you see above is of none other than Ms. Holly Haight. Yeah, her last name is just as burly as her injury. According to Holly, she decided to get up black-out drunk in the middle of the night for no apparent reason and got into a punching match with the staircase! I hope that she was headed down to reheat some green bean casserole or some legit shit like that. If she was headed to the bathroom, I'd have advised her to just piss the bed.

From Holly:

Dear Sweatpants Money,
Two days ago I allowed myself to become that dumb drunk bitch that has to be carried out of the bar.
Once I made it home and got two hours of sleep down, I apparently thought of something very important I had to do. I crawled out of bed, attempted to fight a flight of stairs, and fell down to the bottom, where my brother found me lying face down in a pool of blood shortly thereafter. I have no recollection of any of this whatsoever.
Today I went to the doctors and found out I fractured my cheekbone.
In short, all I want for Christmas is to spend my sweatpants money on a fucking eye patch.
Thanks man.
-Holly

Damn, girl. That's some brutal action and we're pleased that you've decided to share it with the world. In unrelated news, Boedi showed me this video yesterday that apparently has been around for over three years and has been viewed like a billion times already on YouTube. Why I have not seen this before, I have no fucking clue. It's like my best friends don't know shit about internet memes and totes forgot to send me a link. Anyways, for your entertainment and consideration, behold:

DRINKING OUT OF CUPS

Christmas time PISS performances

2009-12-23T17:01:00.001-08:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Happy Holidays, folks! Well, December has been a busy month for me and I must admit that I've been slacking off on bringing you the raw, brutal imagery that you need during these winter months. But fear not! I've received a few choice images over the past week and now have nothing but time as I drink myself stupid in the snowy land of Northern Michigan. No, not in the U.P. I'm in Traverse City, where I was born!

Fans of the blog are no doubt familiar with performance/metal band PISS. If you're not already aware of who these vile men are, the band consists of Patrick J. Rock of ROCKSBOX Fine Art on vocals, Portland artist Matthew Green on guitar, and the ever-savage and always stylish Jason Powell (AKA Double-Plaid) on drums. A few posts ago, I brought you images from PISS's Icelandic "tour" where Rock fell victim to his own on-stage debauchery and managed to completely mangle the tendons in his foot on glass that he himself had smashed. Well, call it a coincidence or the hand of God, but the most recent PISS performance once again resulted in the destruction of a foot! It wasn't a band member though this time. No, it was Portland artist Chelsea Linehan (of www.openwidePDX.com)who suffered the maniacal antics of Rock.

Chelsea was kind enough to send us along an image of her foot. Read on, and hear about how a true Is Sweatpants Money devotee neglected her own safety and risked disgusting infection in order to keep the wound pumping blood until she found a satisfactory camera:

So I thought I would send you the picture of the foot for the site. I was standing in front at the PISS show at ROCKSBOX and Rock smashed a beer bottle by my feet. I was wearing open flats and glass flew across the ground. By the end of the show my shoe was full of blood but I didn't want to clean it because I had forgotten my camera and wanted to take a picture of it. We ended up going to a party after where people were telling me I needed to clean it but I kept telling them I had to wait to go home and take a picture of it because it was probably sweatpants money! My shoe was pretty sticky by the time we stumbled home and got some shots. It turned out to be only a small cut that just bled a lot.

Enjoy!
Chels

If you haven't seen the absolute awesomeness that is PISS, check out this video of their performance at Ditch Projects in Summer of 09.

Ditch Projects: Complete video of PISS performance from OPENWIDEpdx on Vimeo.

More Streetcar track endos

2009-12-07T13:36:00.001-08:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

And once again, Ms. Anna save the day by providing legitimate documentation of more brutality. Seems that her buddy did an all too famous PDX fuck-up: the old "crossing the Streetcar tracks incorrectly" routine!

Anna shared some information about the event:

yo DAWG! so my boyfriend's roommate, aaron, ate the shit outta some shit the other night.

see, we were all sitting around reading some magazine thingy that our friends Tom and Ada had stuff in. We text them to be like "bitches, when be the next edition?" and they're like "dunno, fools, but get your ass to this hipstravaganza!" so we all head down to portland secret hipster society meeting of 2009 and proceed to eat donuts, sammies, and air fingerbang into the wee hours of the morning.

aaron rides home and even leaves before we do, so when we get home and he's not there we're like WT hipster F? A couple minutes later, a-rod walks in the door, covered in grease and looking all sorts of cranky. "Yeah, so I totally ate shit and it hurts like a bitch." He pulls up his sweatshirt and has a lady palm-sized wound across his hip/tummy. Apparently he'd hit the tracks at, like, a 60 degree angle instead of the oh-so-square 90 and had concrete for an early thanksgiving face stuffing session. And, to boot, he said a hobo saw him. And laughed. (as well he should have - falling is FUNNY.)

Anyway, then he pulls up his sleeve and shows an equally epic shiner on his forearm, too.

it's been about two weeks and I still get scolded if I go in for the good ol' christian side hug.

Hot shit!

Unruly dogs

2009-12-04T13:59:00.001-08:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Yeah, further proof that dogs completely and totally suck. My cat has never once in his furry life pulled some shit like this on somebody. Special thanks to Todd Tawd for sending this along. Keep scrolling down for this explanation... that is, if you haven't already vomited all over your keyboard.

Hope you aren't eating...

My friend was invited into her friend's house and walked in with them. After a minute, they're otherwise friendly dog unleashed a fury of teeth, creating these beauties in her leg.

There was no drinking at the time of incident (unless the dog was drunk), but there has been much drinking since... Especially the brave (and gloveless I might add) drainage tube removal.

Enjoy this feast of carnage!

tt

This shit can't be real.

You know what people need more of? A sense of humor!

Drunken ass-spanking contests

2009-11-24T12:12:00.000-08:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Today we bring you the 50th post to Sweatpants Money. Who knew that this much debauchery could be compiled in only a few months' time? Granted, a few of the posts were not necessarily of injuries, but they certainly warranted some blog time as they cataloged Juggalos, children in costumes that depict Barack Obama as a jihadist, and Portland party jabs.

This little image came to me by way of Katie. Here is her explanation for how such an atrocious bruise found its way onto her ass:

hey sean, got wind of your blog through some fellow pnca-ers, not sure if we've been properly introduced but i figured i'd submit either way.

it's not the worst injury to be sent in, but hey, there's a girl's ass. so that's got to count for something, eh?

essentially the bruise is a result of a stupid fuckin drunk ass spanking contest. i'm not sure who won, if anyone. i am ashamed and it hurts to sit, but still feel i need to share my pain and backside with the internet. the flash doesn't do the thing justice, it looks a lot worse in person. you'll just have to use your imagination, i guess.

thanks and love your shit,

-katie.

Thank you kindly, Katie, for your submission. Surely some of you have also experienced similar spanking contests, right? Send them in!

TOP TEN

2009-11-19T11:06:00.000-08:00

Top Ten Things Overheard at a Portland House Party:

10. I can't believe I fucking got fired.
09. I don't think he's cute at all, but he has really good cocaine.
08. Can you smoke weed in this house?
07. How late is Montage open?
06. Oh shit, I forgot my bike lights.
05. Who haven't I fucked here?
04. Is there another band playing?
03. I think he works at Tube.
02. Are any of these girls straight?
01. Do you know if the nachos are vegan?

Seriously.

2009-11-18T21:26:00.001-08:00

gotfredson.com

What the fuck?

2009-11-18T11:09:00.000-08:00

Check out this horrible spam message that I received this morning:

Hello,
This is Shiela from ThumbJointPain.net.
We stumbled on your blog while searching for Thumb Joint Pain related information. We operate the largest Thumb Joint Pain website featuring more than 30,000+ blogs. Our site averages 200,000+ unique visitors per month. As a kind note We have featured your blog at http://ThumbJointPain.net/blog_awards/index.php?id=1162 We would be grateful if you could add the following details to your blogs main page.
Thumb Joint Pain
Looking forward for your confirmation.
Thanks
Shiela
ThumbJointPain.net.

What the shit is that? Thumb Joint Pain related information? Granted, this site's all about pain, but I ain't once featured shit about somebody's thumb... not yet, at least. So I followed the link and it went to what is possibly the most retarded site I have ever seen. Check it:

Click Here

Drunk + Birthday + Breadknife

2009-11-17T14:14:00.000-08:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

This is, I believe, the third posting of a wound resulting from some drunken cutting of carbohydrates. Emily's and Boedi's sad tales should have served as a warning to the fans of the blog, but I think that we all know that a little alcohol goes a long way in giving us balls that we might not otherwise have. And so today, I present you with gruesome graphics courtesy of Yolanda, whose birthday party took a turn down Blood-Fuck Lane when she decided to cut some bread and share it with her friends as a tribute to the Last Supper!

Yolanda e-mailed me this photos after I saw a little preview on Facebook. Here is her brief description of the gnar:

The skin is not attached to my finger at all It is only attached to my fingernail but I'm trying to see if my skin will grow together again? And my fingernail was cut too deep to cut it off anyway. I forgot how much I really use that finger. At least it has been inspiring for new drawings. Mutilated hands.

I don't know if it's because so many people have birthdays in November or what, but out of nowhere, I've been getting shit tons of injury photos. This is good news for everybody, especially in this economy! I hope that you all continue to live in a brutal fashion and share the results with the world.

More Midnight Mystery Ride wipe-outs

2009-11-16T15:20:00.000-08:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

From my dear friend Anna:

This is from the Midnight Mystery Ride, I think it was in September. Josh fucked up his hand and Alex Lamm tried to fix it by pouring bourbon on it. He said it stung like a motherfucker and I swear he almost cried, but we were high and drunk and having the time of our lives so we just told him to buck up because we wanted to RIDE!

So here's the story behind the wound: Josh and Drew needed beer replenishment. Josh decided to save time by getting beers out of Drew's backpack while still on bikes... in the dark. Already been dranking. When he was closing up the backpack his ass fell doooooown. Booya! But he didn't spill his beer! BOOM!

So then, we get to the final resting place (a cemetery for old bus stop shelters and trash cans), and take these pictures. We all (Erew, Alex, and I) pretty much wanted to puke because this thing was so fucking nasty looking and josh was being so fucking foul with it, but we took a couple pictures JUST FOR YOU.

I'm sort of the constant house marm and I had some Neosporin and Band-Aids with me, so I made josh let me "dress" him. But I kinda accidentally put on too much Neosporin and Josh says that the dressing made a sort of squirtsch-squirtsch sound for a whiiiiiile. Then I ran into him at da club a few days later and this shit was pussy as FUCK. No Neosporin, OF COURSE, jewsh, so I squirted him with Neo again and he had to endure another day of squirtsch squirtsch.

THE END. Hand is all better. So far as I know...

Excellent! Not only do we have wonderful wound photos here, but the victim is also playing with his own gash! This is true Sweatpants Money, people. I want more!

Leviathan wart growths

2009-11-12T12:56:00.001-08:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

This is a new level of insanity. I'm not kidding. When this juicy little .zip folder found its way to my inbox, I don't think that I was even remotely prepared to understand the complete and total devastation waiting inside once Stuffit Expander had revealed its Satanic contents. In days of old, when medicine was still in its infancy, we might have assumed that these lesions were caused by a small gnome dwelling within the foot of the victim. Certainly, in the age of modern science, we would laugh immediately at that prognosis and point out that it is obviously the result of premarital sex or homosexual fantasies. We're all familiar with one of the most famous Bible verses ever:

"And thus spake the Lord Almight, 'He that allows the member of another to enter his mouth and deposit semen, or she that engageth in scissoring with another wench shall forever be cursed with the mark of shame. The wart of Sodomy.' And Abraham relayed this to his bretheren, and there were no more gay people. Ever."
- Leviticus 13: 4-6

I'm always super appreciative when people submitting to the blog give me their side of the story. Kittie Krivavic, who found her way to contacting me via a mutual friend named Pilar, defended her own growth and seems to deny that it is the result of engaging in premarital sex or homosexual deviance. Yeah, right - God doesn't bullshit.

A few months ago I noticed a distasteful growth emerging atop my foot. It was merely a dime sized area of red, discolored skin that rested below my big toe and beside my bunion. Now, I used to be a ballet dancer so I have seen far worse. And long ago, I accepted the fact that my feet would forever be more on the grotesque side. It was an unpleasant sight, but not so unsightly that I thought to do more than ignore it. Well before I knew what hit me, the thing exploded. Within one month, it had quadrupled in size, raised itself above foot-level, and turned white and grainy looking. It was horrifying. I asked around and the consensus was....WART.

But this is more than a witch wart. The thing was so big and tired of growing upwards, it drilled itself downwards, and the wart manifested on the bottom of my foot. Not kidding. So, naturally, I went to the dermatologist and had him take a look. You think dermatologists have seen it all, right? Well even HE cringed! BUT to my astonishment, instead of taking a knife to it, or some sort of wart-saw, he prescribed me some cream and told me to put it on the wart before I went to bed every night! When I wake up in the morning I am to take a pumice stone to it. So basically, I am removing the wart MYSELF by sanding it down once a day?!?! This thing is a monster. I don't know if a pumice stone can take this one down. We shall see. I just started with the process a couple of days ago. I attached some pics for your viewing pleasure/horror. If this monstrosity was not on my foot I would be giddy with fascination and I would laugh - quite a bit. (My roommates make fun of me daily...and have been for the past few months.) I'm hoping to get some publicity, maybe amuse a few folks, OTHER than my roommates. Let me know what you think.

Kittie, it is no too late to accept Jesus Christ as your savior and abandon your wicked ways.

Unintentional Iggy Pop reenactments

2009-11-11T16:35:00.001-08:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Is it a direct result of the recent complete economic collapse of their entire economy? Or the fact that they're such an isolated island nation that they all essentially look like the master race? Your guess is as good as mine, but I learned recently that Icelanders like to FUCK SHIT UP.

PDX Bad Boys Patrick Rock, Matthew Green and Jason Powell recently traveled to Iceland with two missions in mind:

1. Serve up some horseburgers out of a homemade stand through their artist group AMERICAN MEAT, LLC.

2. Rock the living shit out of the locals through the aural debauchery that is their heinously outrageous and punk as fuck band PISS.

From the legends that I've heard and the images that I've seen in the aftermath, they did just that. Apparently, they performed a couple of different nights in Iceland where the curfew for drinking is as non-existent as their atheist God. Greener smashed a flying V guitar. Powell puked numerous times off of a bunk bed. And the locals smashed so many bottles under Rock's feet during a performance that his poor puppies were torn to mere ligaments and blood. See below:

The boys got back this last weekend, and it sounds like they had nothing short of a completely out-of-control experience. Congrats to them on getting funding from the US Government to go and do such a badass endeavor. Check out more info about them at:

ROCKSBOX FINE ART

Hot shit.

"Obama is a Radical Jihadist" Halloween costumes

2009-11-03T15:03:00.001-08:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Giggity giggity goo! Halloween is a treasured day of the year, celebrated by everyone with the exception of Jehovah's Witnesses, Mormons and the Amish. In years past though, fundamental Christians have also opted out of participating in what is is, without a doubt, the most kick-ass holiday on your Jonas Bros wall calendar. They accused the day of fun as being born of the sweaty loins of Lucifer; a hedonistic and grotesque celebration of the macabre and ethically fucked. But like all Christian stances, they only held this one long enough for the Harry Potter craze to die down. They've got bigger fish to fry now... Black, presidential fish!

This particular blog has served as many things: an archive of brutal wound photos, a place to meet your life partner, a catalog of drunken mishaps, and even a great primary source for any well written doctoral dissertation. And because the information age moves so quickly, I've decided that this blog must progress as well!

We interrupt this rant to bring you... THIS!

What a cute pair! My good pal Brandon Bosch forwarded me these images this morning. Turns out, these are his extended family members who no doubt live some place like West Virginia! I'm particularly fond of pondering how exactly the Obama w/ Gun costume came to fruition. Did this 11 year-old boy propose this to his excitable parents? Or did they suggest it to him? Either way, it makes no difference at all because it's just too fucking good to be true! These people are real!

SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO TIGHT!

What I'm proposing here is that while this blog is dedicated with all its heart to showing you epic bails and broken teeth, the winter season is, admittedly, a little bit slower on the bike wipe-out scene. Strange, considering that the conditions would lead one to believe more accidents would occur, but people just don't do as much drunk this time of year as they do in the summer. So for now on, this will be a place where you can gross out your friends, or just get educated!

For instance, learn this:

A joke told to me by JD White...

What do 9 out of 10 people enjoy?

GANG RAPE!

Wowzers! That's some crazy shit!

And yet another blackout

2009-10-12T16:47:00.001-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

You know, I feel a certain pang of empathy for those pictures that I get sent to me via e-mail with the simple explanation, "I don't know what happened." This blog began almost exclusively as a result of this exact scenario happening to me, which you can see documented in that lovely photo to your right where my eye is all bandaged up. Dom sent these to me on behalf of the lovely Ms. Sally who, despite all of her beauty, wit and charm, can be a motherfucking wreck from time to time. She's got absolutely zero recollection of how exactly her knucks got all fucked up. I'm banking on either a girl-on-girl fight, or possibly a really intense game of quarters with some Filipinos while cocked on mescaline. And yes, that is the correct spelling of "Filipino," you ass-clown. I even looked it up on Wikipedia.

It's really odd to me how almost every injury featuring a female looks almost identical to a VICE Dos and Don'ts image. Sally's first picture is begging for some kind of sarcastic comment, but the one above is sort of graceful in its own way, right?

BONES!

Pearl District hand mutilations

2009-10-08T14:17:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

This lovely tale of doom comes to us from none other than Mr. Daniel Williams, a Portland artist and Juggalo-fanatic:

I was tending bar at Bay 13 (don't judge me) on First Thursday, the busiest day of the month where all of Portland's douchiest form together like Voltron and infest the place. Three hours into the unholy shift as I was shaking up a cocktail for the Ed Hardy set, a pint glass shattered into my palm. I looked down and saw fat cells right before the blood started gushing and knew my night at work was over. I pushed my way out of the bar and through the crowd pumping blood all over the floor.

The first aid box at work contained only a rescue blanket and several q-tips. The GM shrugged and handed me a tampon to "stuff into my gash" as he so eloquently put it. A coworker drove me up to Good Sam were I waited an hour and a half for the doc to stitch me up, slowly saturating the dish towel with blood as I had nicked a minor artery. After x-raying my hand to determine there were no large pieces of glass still hiding inside me they flushed out all the tiny shards and glass dust from the wound. That is when I took out my phone and started taking pictures (the first two pictures in the album are between saline flushes). I got a tetanus shot, eight stitches, and a little take home pack of Vicodin. I was at home with a beer in my hand and a pizza in the oven by midnight, truly the best first Thursday ever.

None of my coworkers felt one ounce of pity. You know it's time for a new job when you would rather spend two hours getting stitched up in the ER than working first Thursday. I actually felt guilty in the ER because I knew my night was infinitely better than theirs. The best part is that I'm on a ten day vacation with workers comp on the way.

A special thanks to Daniel for taking one for the team. The rest of you better start getting hurt more often, I'm trying to keep this shit fresh.

Bailing out of a Dan Brown plot

2009-09-28T12:23:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Symbologist Matthew Wilson wasn't looking for an adventure; but he found one anyways. Invited to speak on his most recently published book examining Pagan and other symbols at a conference in Paris, he was looking forward to a week of fine wine, gourmet cheeses, and the opportunity to effeminately hold a cigarette whilst sipping Perrier (something he is not permitted to do in his native New Jersey). He had plans to meet renowned Parisian curator Jacques Saunière for dinner on his third evening, but Saunière never showed. The following night, he received an urgent phone call from Paris police, urging him to come immediately to the Louvre.

He arrived there and was escorted to the West Wing by Bezu Fache, a detective with the Direction Centrale de la Police Judiciaire (DCPJ). Once there, Wilson understood the urgency of the situation; Saunière had been murdered. His body lay upon the cold floor of an even colder institution, meticulously arranged into the same position as Leonardo da Vinci's Vitruvian Man. Wilson could not believe what he was seeing, and was only broken from his trance by the unexpected entrance of a voluptuous vixen named Sophie Neveu. He would eventually deduce that she was the granddaughter of the late curator, but that they'd been estranged for quite some time as a result of a bizarre Pagan sex ritual Sophie had mistakenly walked in on as a child. The sexual tension between Wilson and Neveu was palpable immediately, and the air was ripe with the stink of both of their brooding loins.

This was potentially the beginning to an investigation of massive proportions, uncovering a plot centuries old between the Catholic Church, Parisian governmental officials, and art that isn't relevant anymore. The conspiracy was ready to be blown wide open, unveiling a cryptic trail of symbols developed by da Vinci that elevated biblical slut Mary Magdalane to the rank of Chris-fucker. Further, a burgeoning romance between Wilson and Nevue seemed imminent. This could be the single greatest achievement of a man of his time, an adventure in the truest sense complete with requisite romance and espionage.

But Wilson got bored and flew back to Jersey and blacked out on well whiskey and has no idea what the fuck happened to his face.

Juggalo flash-mobs

2009-09-25T13:05:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Nooooooooooooooooooo! Growing up in Michigan, I was quite accustomed to seeing groups of Juggalos standing around, being fat at the mall. However, I thought for sure that living in PDX would mean that I would never have to see another chubby douche in clown make-up any place besides the internet. It would appear that I was a bit presumptuous, because just this past Wednesday...

ICP CAME TO TOWN!!!

Take a gander at some of these fine specimens that I met outside of the Roseland Theater. Now, I know that this blog is supposed to document injuries and such, but I honestly think that this fucking qualifies as a terrible wound on the proverbial face of all humanity. These kids are sooooooooooooo gross!

I bet they have some pretty interesting sex with one another. Which is odd, considering that their group is constantly chanting, "FA-MI-LY!" It might be safe to assume though that along their family tree, incest was never frowned upon (maybe even encouraged). So the idea of fucking your family members doesn't seem as absurd when you really think about it.

This stupid fuck got Faygo Red Pop all over me when he and another portly lad decided to spray the volatile shit all over each other and scream, "WOOT WOOT!" I wonder how many of these kids are up all night trying to figure out if the mental growth offered by a graduate program in philosophy is equitable to the debt incurred for enrolling in said program.

It's my understanding that these kids suck ass AIDS. And my understanding is right!

And just for good measure... JNCO SWEATPANTS MONEY!!!

So fucking rad. You can check out the rest of the pictures, including the fattest fuck you'll ever see at:

THE DARK CARNIVAL ON FACEBOOK

Tidal wave doom crushings

2009-09-23T14:36:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

It's not often that Is Sweatpants Money receives images of people who fall victim to acts of God. More often than not, the injuries contained herein are the result of drunk hipsters making epically bad decisions. For instance: every single time that I've ever been hurt since I was 9. But today, I bring to you a tale told by a good friend of mine named Alex Lamm, whose very own injury you can see here. It's one of my more favorite stories to reach my inbox, mainly because of the mental image that I have of a man being thrown into the belly of the sea for no good reason at all. Kind of makes you feel all nostalgic for the Old Testament God, the one who used to smite the people's ruin just cause they were having a little bit of the drink and the sex, right?

dude. I am soooo sad about this photo. although it is nice looking, it really doesn't capture the epicness of what happened to this kids legs.

I met homie at this wedding I went to a few weeks ago. he had a beautiful open wound the length of his calf and on the other leg as well. stupid diana camera didn't capture that. anyway, this fucking kid was standing on one of those rocky jetties by the ocean. just standing there, minding his own business when a giant fucking wave like 30 feet high or something ridiculous came crashing down on him out of the blue! the wave swept him a mile out to sea where some surfer saw him and rescued him. it was so rad!

anyway, this picture is lame cuz you can't see the pus and the blood. boooooo! but I thought you should know about it anyway. ha!

Artistic wipe-outs

2009-09-22T13:46:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

First of all, Liz is the shit. This girl is tough as nails, and if you went toe to toe with her you'd get your goddamned throat ripped out. What's that? You've never been doom-grabbed by the trachea and had your windpipe ripped from your body in front of your parents? Then you don't know nuffin'. Go listen to Morrissey with Wiggles and weep like a willow. P.S. Kick-ass alliteration.

All Liz was trying to do was to shoot a video of somebody running, but even in the woods, you can't escape the evil spirits of Sweatpants Money. As you can see in the video, she took a digger right on the trail and managed to have it captured FROM THREE DIFFERENT FUCKING ANGLES! Take note, kids, this is a real, dedicated Sweatpants Money fan, know what'm saying? Scope the woundage:

This is our very first time-based Sweatpants Money moment. The rest of you need to get on top of your shit and start taping yourself when you're doing dangerous deeds.

Oh, and who keeps checking out the blog in Brazil? I was looking at my Google Analytics, and it lists the top countries that my visitors come from as being:
1. United States
2. Canada
3. Brazil

If you're from Brazil and checking this out, please e-mail me. I'd love to get some South American bails on this piece!
seanjpcarney@gmail.com

Doom potential

2009-09-18T11:15:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Sweatpants Money is off to Seattle for the weekend. Sweatpants Money will be ripping fixed on the hills of the city where Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan boned. Sweatpants Money is gonna try to drift through the entire Pike Place Market. Sweatpants Money could be in for becoming Sweatpants Money! Sweatpants Money hopes that Sweatpants Money takes a dead serious digger and comes back to PDX with new photos. Sweatpants Money loves you. Sweatpants Money is gonna skitch on trucks like this fool:

Sweatpants Money out!

Montana kickball strawberries

2009-09-17T14:27:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Yeah, so you might've heard a while back on the blog about this dood named Caesy who once lived in the PDX, but then left us here and went out to Big Sky Country. Well, in Montana, Missoula specifically, it's like 200 degrees below zero for ten months of the year. It's not at all uncommon to invite a moose that you meet on the street over to your house for dinner, only to ambush him with your kids decked out in full camo with bowie knives and hack the fuck out of him. The best thing is, it doesn't matter if your family can take down a whole moose in one dinner because your entire backyard is basically a walk-in freezer!

In the months when it is not customary to murder a moose with your children (June and July only), most Montanans spend their free time getting completely fucking housed on cheap beer and trying to find minorities to harass. When they inevitably realize that there are absolutely ZERO minorities in Missoula though, they turn to their favorite summer pastime: KICKBALL!

Literally the entire population of Missoula (1,013) comes out to the Missoula Community Sports Complex to get hammered and kick a red rubber ball at one another while observing the basic rules of baseball. Caesy is usually the star of the game. I mean seriously, the kid did his BFA thesis about athletics! And stars know that there a snowball's chance in Brooklyn that they're gonna let some amateur-hour catcher tag them out at home plate when they're rounding third and they feel a juicy turd. Caesy might have ended up with a slight strawberry on his bottom from this particular encounter with a catcher, but you should have seen said catcher's right fucking arm. Too bad he was too much of a bitch to send the documentation to us; he could've had his own day to star on the blog.

In other news, Barack Obama has just deemed Brooklyn "America's Foreskin," citing that in order to maintain general hygiene, it should have been cut off a long time ago. Put that in your blog and post it.

Stigmata-inducing skate-wrecks

2009-09-16T13:10:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Listen, Mark could probably eat your entire stomach in like two minutes if provoked. It's not that the kid is mean; in fact, he's quite agreeable. But look into those eyes and you'll know the feeling that the Australian douche in Jurassic Park had right when he whispered, "Clever girl," before his bowels were torn out by a fucking velociraptor. It would be inaccurate to classify Mark as a nihilist because MARK DOESN'T EVEN FUCKING BELIEVE IN NIHILISM!

I guess the other day, Mark and Wiggles went out for a little hesh-sesh in NoPo. Oh, you should probably understand this for context: Mark lives under the stairs and has to give fat people coffee for a living. But he plays a mean-ass blues guitar and stuns ladies left and right. So, you can fuck the fuck off. Anyways, so Wigs and Mark are shredding the asphalt jungle when Mark takes a real digger. Like the kind that don't even hurt for a few minutes because your body doesn't quite understand how to deal with the trauma. Check out his hand:

Yup, those are perfectly proportioned stigmata wounds. But does he look like he's even phased???

Naw, he looks chill as fuck. He was kind enough as well to not even wash off the blood until after he got home so that Dizzle could document it for the blog. Now, that's a goddamned friend. I don't know about all of you other honkeys out there who get hurt and don't even send me a photo, but Mark is the kind of guy who you know will help you bury a hooker's body, no questions asked. One thing Mark learned in prison? His hand NEVER shakes. A pretty decent trait if you need somebody to help you toss a 110lb bundle into a pig pen.

His shoulder caught a bit of the mess as well. But this kid, this kid right here, this kid is DOOM-INCARNATE.

So delicious. So relevant. So sweatpants.

Trent's left foot

2009-09-15T12:35:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Everybody's seen "My Left Foot." And if you haven't, you're a pretty shitty Irishman. But it's time to introduce you to somebody who doesn't eat corned beef, doesn't suffer from Cerebral Palsy, and isn't being played by (super dreamy) Daniel Day-Lewis. Troy's left foot has some problems of its own after a weekend of debauchery that included falling out of a tree. Seriously.

Straight from the horse's mouth:

This isn't too bad but might be Sweatpants Money! I fell out of a tree while walking home from the bars Saturday night. It was an avoidable incident. But I know few people who would have been able to pass this tree up without getting their paws a little sappy and impressing their friends with a quick shimmy to the top. It was that perfect tree. I imagine I was not the first to attempt its summit.

It was at the top of this tree that I became overly confident and with my friends' encouragement, I decided on a one-armed swing. It wasn't until the middle of this one-armed ape swing that I realized I was a bit higher than I thought. There is a distance that one can drop onto concrete and by a performing a shock-absorbing maneuver land without injury. I was above this distance and too drunk to perform the maneuver anyway. I panicked and dropped. Like most intoxicated fuck-ups, there was little pain that night. But as I strolled through Fred Meyer's today looking for some Kombucha drink, I felt as if my left foot was colliding with jagged rocks on every step. A deeply bruised left-foot is a bit of a conundrum for a full time valet in the concrete jungle. "I apologize for the delay, Sir, it took me awhile to gimp-shuffle two fucking blocks to the garage where your BMW was."

Yeah, yeah, yeah... The hand injuries aren't so bad, but his foot looks like Purple Drank!

Coral reef Turf-Dance slips

2009-09-11T14:19:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

When he's not wearing giant Osiris rainbow shoes and cutting himself in the kitchen, Boedi is known to get loose as a goose. Dizzle had been planning a trip to Hawaii with this slag he was dating for a while, until things went belly-up. So, did Diz start looking for a new lady friend to accompany him to the FUCKING PLACE WHERE THEY SHOOT THE BEST TELEVISION SHOW EVER CALLED LOST??? No, he invited his roommate.

Dizzle and Boedi hopped a plane for a romantic week-long getaway in the land of hula dancing and pig roasts. Upon arrival, they met a local boy named Miki-Laka, who promised them that he would find them the most potent chronic in all of the Pacific. Salivating at the mouths, the boys followed Miki-Laka through Honolulu and out across worn dirt paths that carved through lush, overgrown mountainsides soaked with morning dew. They came to a small hut, no more than ten feet in diameter, which had a crudely hung Oakland Raiders towel as a door and emitted small curls of smoke from a tiny hole atop its thatched tiki roof.

Pulling aside the towel, Miki-Laka motioned for Boedi and Dizzle to enter. They took a deep breath, and mentally prepared themselves for an experience that no mainland weed could ever provide. Their eyes slowly adjusted to the dimly-lit interior of the hut, and when they had finally focused, their jaws dropped to the floor. They'd not considered that perhaps their Pacific Northwest slang might be slightly different than that of other cultures. In ancient Hawaiian traditions, the term "chronic" is used to describe a male prostitute under the age of 11. The hut was filled with chronics, rolling around in sweaty, tan piles, their childish loins hidden only by wraps made of cheese-cloth and held together with safety pins.

As a pair of worldly men, they chose not to offend the natives and put their assumptions and conservative beliefs aside. For hours, Boedi and Dizzle rolled aimlessly with the little chronics, sweat pouring from both of the elders' mustaches and into the open, eager mouths of the children. It is also tradition in Hawaii that after a man turns a chronic into a man as well that they both walk nude, hand in hand to the beach and make love until the tide envelopes them both. It then carries their intertwined bodies out to a vast, pink coral reef where the chronic teaches his John how to "Turf-Dance."

Boedi, being an amateur at the art of the Turf-Dance slipped during one careless attempt at doing "The Jerk" and split his foot open on the reef.

"Fear not, papi," said Boedi's little chronic, "In our culture, the splitting of the foot on the reef is a sign of good fortune! It means that you will remain strong of loins and turn many boys into men."

Smiling, Boedi walked back to the beach and lay softly in the white sand. At morning, he awoke and was alone. But he would always have the scar to remember his one passionate night in Hawaii. He would have liked to have thanked Miki-Laka, but he had mysteriously disappeared from the town. When Boedi and Dizzle returned that night to the hut for a second helping of boy-meat, it, too, had vanished.

Don't know what Turf-Dancing is? Check it:

Formal wear crutches accompaniments

2009-09-10T14:26:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Jake and Ellen look pretty snazzy in this picture, until you realize that in addition to a stunning blue dress and black cardigan, she's also sporting a pair of crutches and a boot! As one who has spent ample time on crutches, I know that she's using the cardigan to act as a buffer between the crude rubber pads and her armpits. After a night of salsa dancing with Rickety-Cricket legs, your pits will be rawer than a Black Lips show. Oh man, can you fucking imagine being on crutches and having to live in Brooklyn? Gaaaaaaaaaawd, that would suck taint! It's like, "Oh, I wanna get off this disgusting island for a couple of hours and go drink a 40 at Ground Zero." Then you realize that you have to crutch down mad stairs at Bedford just to get on the fucking L-Train - WEAK!

While I don't have all of the bloody details on this foot trauma story, I think that I remember Jake telling me that Ellen had foot surgery (read: abortion). If you wanted to get rid of the baby, Jake, you didn't have to shove her down a flight of goddamned stairs, they have these neat things now called FUCKING DOCTORS. It's practically fashionable these days to have your baby sucked out of you in the 13th week, right when the fingernails start to appear. In latin, it is called Fetus deletus. Get a clue, pumpkin, and quit beating the shit out of your girlfriend. You're not Ike Turner.

Airsoft gun ballet face-plants

2009-09-09T11:15:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Many of you may have heard of the "Airsoft Gun" phenomenon. It's been growing in popularity steadily over the years, and enjoys an intriguing "loved by adolescent males" / "hated-on by bitchy moms" dichotomy that is paralleled only by Metalocalypse, internet pornography, and Midwest Juggalo culture. For those of you without precursory knowledge of the "sport," I have undertaken the laborious endeavor of hitting "Command-C" and then "Command-V" to bring you Wikipedia's definition:

"Airsoft is a game in which participants eliminate opponents by hitting each other with spherical non-metallic pellets fired from a compressed-air gun (or airsoft gun) powered by propane, compressed air, manual spring-action, or an electrically powered gearbox."
Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Airsoft

They come in some pretty elaborate models:

Last year, some of my classmates at our graduate studios spontaneously decided one day to turn the large warehouse into a microcosmic version of Bosnia and began unloading rounds on unsuspecting art kids. Two of these purveyors of somewhat mundane violence can be viewed below:

Code Name: Andy Pilarski
Skills: tall, able to consume entire bottles of Beam, wearing AC/DC shirts

Code Name: Matt Wilson
Skills: being from New Jersey, animation, falling asleep at bars

Their reign of banal terror did not stop at the MFA studios though. They continued to hunt friends for sport, and their blood-lust only grew stronger with each squeeze of the trigger.

Enter: Nate

Apparently, these three boys were having some kind of insane shoot-out that ended up culminating in a series of dives and bullet-dodging akin to a production of Swan Lake. Attempting to maneuver himself out of harm's way, Nate miscalculated his distance from the ground and ended up taking a major digger. While he was initially reluctant to share his photos with the world, he has since made a generous gesture and sent them into my inbox so that you can understand that just because a gun has an orange nozzle, that doesn't mean you can't still get fucking wrecked.

It's kind of weird, but with that swollen eye, he sure does look a lot like that guy from Stephen King's "Sleepwalkers," right?

Birthday party cankle swells, continued

2009-09-09T11:13:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

We've just received a follow-up image from a fellow party-goer of Beth's hideously deformed cankles! This stuff is spreading across the web like wildfire.

Birthday party cankle swells

2009-09-08T10:47:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Yucky. So this past Saturday night included a gathering of the minds in observance of the birth anniversary of one Michael Boedigheimer (whose very own ...is Sweatpants Money! moment you can view here) . If you're just a stupid dummy-face, that means a birthday party. Needless to say, it quickly escalated into a full on shit-show. At one point in the evening, I found myself inside of a laundry dryer in the hostess's basement, folded in neatly like some kind of denim product at your favorite chain boutique, The Buckle. Shortly thereafter, said hostess, one Beth Myrick, attempted to execute what is colloquially referred to as the "Double Piggy-Back Mount." Dizzle and I were engaged in a fantastically homoerotic dance session involving my use of him as an impromptu jungle gym. As Beth threw herself recklessly atop of our already twisted ball of bromance, she toppled the man-tower and fell victim to gravity's cold, humorless power.

As you can see evidenced in the resultant photographs, the primary point of impact during her bail was the ankles. Within a couple of hours, her ankles had swollen into what are commonly called "Cankles."

From Urbandictionary.com:

The area in affected female legs where the calf meets the foot in an abrupt, nontapering terminus; medical cause: adipose tissue surrounding the soleus tendon, probably congenital, worsened by weight gain and improved in appearance only by boots. From the English "calf" meaning wide portion of the lower leg, and "ankle" meaning slender joint of leg with foot.
If I didn't have cankles, I might be able to wear those Prada loafers with my capri pants.

Naturally, Beth possesses an unfair advantage over most women who fall victims to cankles: She has a tattoo of Biggie on her leg. This creates an illusory feeling for the viewer of proper proportions in terms of calf to ankle terms, yet be cautioned, it is indeed only illusory. I think that Biggie himself sums it up quite eloquently:

"Just tryin' to keep it real and all-black. Just bangin', you know?"

Yes, yes I do know. And Biggie, we know you were (sadly) from Brooklyn, but we're down to party & bullshit with you forever in dreams despite the obvious geographical folly of your birth experience.

Purple-drank ligaments

2009-09-07T14:39:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Remember a couple of weeks ago when we all learned about our little anarchist TWON and his drill mishap? Well, it appears that the fun didn't stop there!

Now, granted, I certainly think that the drill through the thumb image was more captivating than this little guy, but as one whose gotten his leg wrecked, I understand that the real pain is inside and invisible (which is, I believe, also a song by Morrissey). If I would have seen TWON's leg like this, I would have rushed out to buy some cream-cheese frosting with the rainbow sprinkles, spread it all over the bruise and between his toes, and then systematically and carefully licked his entire foot clean while a high school marching band scored the event with a rendition of Danzig's "Mother." Something about a foot bruise just gets your panties wet, know what'm sayin?

This has nothing to do with anything, but is probably the dumbest thing that I've ever seen. I'm serious, this is why when Americans go to Europe they put Canadian flags on their packs. It's quite literally exactly a result of this specific kid:

Yummy bubble burns

2009-09-04T14:27:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Well, well, well... I just received some nasty imagery from my old friend Pat from Michigan. The photos are of his brother's hand after a little run-in with a wok filled with scalding hot oil. I prefer to have hot oil massaged onto my buttocks, as opposed to having it maim my extremities so they look like Darkman, but to each his own.

From Pat:

"alright man,
so i have been looking at your blog now and then and i haven't really looked at older posts but i haven't seen any post from the good ol' land of TC. so i'll give you the rundown on this:

let me start buy saying that i've been working in kitchens since i was 14 and i have seen some fucked up shit happen... cuts, burns, knives falling off shit and stabbing through feet... the list goes on. so i don't know why but my brother is cooking for a living now as well and this is from a summer he spent working at amical. that place fucking sucks dick, but what are you going to do, right? anyway, i was is san francisco when this happened, but i guess what went down was he was using a wok and it was on the burner for a long time he grabbed it without realizing that there was oil in the fucking thing and it went up the back and then sloshed up and over the handle side right on to his hand. i've never had one this bad before but i can tell you that when a good amount of hot oils hits you skin like that, you don't really feel it right away because your nerves just got bitch-slapped in the face. he said that his skin bubbled right away and part of it seemed to melt right off. i'm not sure what degree of burn it was but it look like about at least a second to me. haha, shit. he had to change the bandage three times a day, and could not smack off with his right hand for a month!!! so yeah that's the mike evans wok burn... hope it works out for you. let me know what you think."

I'll let you know what I think, Pat. I think that your brother is the bee's fucking tits! Check out this image of brutality:

I'll be leaving for New York in exactly four weeks. Get ready, BROKElyn.

Telling knee-pads to go to Hell

2009-09-02T12:08:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Git yer minds out of the gutter, you sickwads. This isn't supposed to be a "sexy" post or make some kind of grossly misogynistic joke about women in the arts. Naw, naw... this is some real shit. The kind of real shit that only photographers know about. Oh, you paint? Who cares? Maybe you could put a couple of your gouache, ink and acrylic pieces up at Bushbaby on Fulton and have your friends make fun of them behind your back. What's that? Oh, you're into video appropriation? Sweet, there's still soooooooooooooooooooo much left to say about user-generated content on YouTube. Seriously, nobody's even thought to address that yet. Whatever, get a clue, you dick farmer.

Ms. Sarah forwarded me this epic image from a day spent in the life of a photographer. No social practice artist ever ended up with knees this raw or a soul so twisted by the epic reality of capturing human aura on film. You don't know shit about life until you've spent 15 consecutive hours editing in LightRoom, bro.

From Sarah:

your blog is really gross, but JD pointed out that this is crying out to be included...

these are my knees, after a photoshoot!
this happens to me pretty often!
the bruises start as a deep red, almost a burgundy, and then proceed to purple, brown, and finally yellow.
it's really lovely.

this happens because I feel like FUCK A TRIPOD and I climb all around and crawl on the ground to get good shots.
one time I was walking on a log, carrying a gigantic and expensive studio camera in my arms, and I fell off.
did I break my fall?
Hell no! That would have mean dropping the camera!
I went over like a bowling pin, and my precious lens was still safe. I have no pictures of those bruises, but they were cool too.

thinking about kneepads...

Idiots with cars from Vancouver, WA

2009-09-01T11:38:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Usually, I attempt to put some kind of a humorous spin on the tales of doom that find their way to my Gmail inbox. You know, like instead of just saying, "Boedi cut his finger with a knife," I prefer to really give it some gusto and take a poetic angle. For instance, a more interesting way to say that would be, "Little did Boedi know that the bread knife he'd been lovingly hand-washing for the last three years had just recently conspired with the cutting board to ambush the boy as soon as life found him intoxicated and desiring carbohydrates." It just sounds better, right? Walt Whitman ain't got shit on is Sweatpants Money!

But I ain't in the mood for telling jokes after this story. Wayne was riding his bike home at night and some inconsiderate fuck in a car (I know, redundant) up and clipped him, sending him hurtling through the air to land on his face and knock him out. Oh, and surprise, sur-fucking-prise - they took off!

All of the fat fucks from Vancouver, WA who sweatily pack their fat fuck wives into their fat Ford Explorers with Washington plates and cruise down to "the city" for a weekend night out on the town can get date-raped by Kobe. Two weeks ago, a friend of a friend was FUCKING DRAGGED BY HIS COLLAR FIVE CITY BLOCKS BY TWO REDNECKS WITH WASHINGTON PLATES BECAUSE HE ASKED THEM NOT TO DRIVE SO CLOSE TO HIS GIRLFRIEND'S BIKE.

Hey, Vancouver, WA: GO FUCK YOURSELF.
You make Coney Island look like fucking Paris, France.

I used some variation of "fuck" seven times in that post... Oh, fuck, I mean eight! Ha ha, now it's niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!

Kitties in cities

2009-08-31T11:22:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

I am so sorry... Seriously, I'm so so so so sorry. I didn't take this picture. I had nothing to do with it. Damn it, Olivia, why did you send me this? It's supposed to be people, friends of mine, getting injured. And then she sends this totally, completely fucked image of a cat that she found near her house that Animal Control told her to put in the trash. This is getting out of hand - I am a terrible person.

But when life gives you lemons, you make...

LOL CATS!!!!!

Amateur-hour knife acrobatics

2009-08-28T14:10:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

*Editor's Note: despite its visual similarity, this is an entirely different finger accident than Eliza's. However, both Eliza and the photographer who took this image went to PNCA for art school. Sooooooooo diverse in their shooting styles.

So there's this kid named Caesy Oney. Dude's pretty alright, maybe even kinda tight. Then he decides he's gonna move from the PDX to Missoula, MT. Yeah, I know, right? Anyways, dude's made it back to the NW twice since taking off to Big Sky Country - the latter of the two journeys having only just recently been undertaken. On his first big day back, the FHB (Failing House Boys [Wiggles, Dizzle, J, Boedi & Mark]) decide to throw a badass Monday BBQ in his honor. Let's just say shit got fuzzy. Not warm and fuzzy, like "I can't see your goddamned face or my own feet" fuzzy.

Inside the kitchen, Boedi's whipping up some snacks for the grill and is already like 63 beers deep. I know, I'm in the future, too.

Boedi +
Drunk +
Kitchen Knife +
Art-Fags w/ Cameras Ready
--------------------------
Sweatpants Money!

Oh, and here's an interesting little morsel completely unrelated. Sweatpants Money will be making a motherfucking journey to none other than New York in early October. We'll have the cameras on hand the moment we get off at the Bedford Stop of that L-Train. Hipster homicide, brah.

Hey, Brooklyn: watch your back. Naw, hey, Brooklyn: watch your front, too.

Face explosions

2009-08-27T15:52:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Goodness gracious. This sad tale of allergies from Hell comes from Alena in Arizona:

"I have allergies.. usually they are under control with the various medications I take.. but sometimes they are explosive. About a year ago I worked for a wealth management firm, scheduling meetings and working with the President on his schedule. It was a corporate job and I was expected to be the face of the firm. He was having a huge meeting with several potential clients and I was to set everything up and assist with anything they needed. About 20 minutes before the high net worth clients arrived, my eyes began to itch. It wasn't severe at first.. but within moments, I felt like my face was on fire."

"One hive turned into three.. into eight.. and then into a general swelling that took over my face. My eyes became swollen shut and I was forced to go home. I could barely see.. and the 45minute drive home was an accident waiting to happen. Sneezing came in multiple bursts. There was snot, tears and the occasional violent swerve."

"Turns out, I'm allergic to everything that grows in Arizona. Sweet."

Drill to thumb combos

2009-08-26T14:45:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Back in his community college days, TWON didn't spend a lot of time "following the rules." He was super into the Refused and liked to drink iced soy chai and bemoan the decline of institutional and financial ethics as a direct result of capitalism's overarching class-rape. Some days, sipping his bevvy and leisurely perusing printed-out PDFs of Malatesta's La Questione Sociale he'd downloaded from Onebigtorrent.com, he'd fantasize about bringing his waterfall of radical political ideologies to life. Over winter break one year, he entered the office of the registrar at his college with one mission in mind:

TO TAKE A FOUNDATION SCULPTURE COURSE

It wouldn't be some cake-walk though; TWON was smarter than all of those trust-fund yuppie-spawn who wasted tens of thousands of dollars in private four year institutions. He knew that despite the lackadaisical approach employed by most second year college students, his personal motivation and distaste for the bourgeoisie would drive him to produce work that could change the way in which men perceived the world around them. This wasn't some game; it was TWON's anarchic destiny.

Assignment 1: Create a sculpture based on a popular media image

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," TWON cursed to himself. Who did this jackass community college art prof think he was? Had he even completed a graduate program? Most of his classmates chose obvious symbols to skewer: the McDonald's arches, an Exxon logo, the Nike swoosh. TWON had just recently devoured Arendt's Eichmann in Jerusalem and knew a thing or two about "the banality of evil."

"I'll create an unassuming sculpture of the everyman; the one whose mind is so quickly swayed by the politics of those in power and the words of lying swine the world over that he unknowingly turns into a systematic cog just by his own ambivalence!" he jotted in his moleskin. He knew that his sly social commentary would put the B in subtle - none of his classmates would understand how he'd "based" this sculpture on popular media and he'd then have to elaborate his incredibly deep understanding of social philosophy to them. Perhaps he'd discuss Debord, and when they didn't follow he'd sigh and resort to explaining that Debord was basically an intellectual, French version of Abbie Hoffman. When they didn't follow that, he'd explain that Abbie Hoffman was basically a funny, American version of Sacha Baron Cohen.

Class: "Who?"
TWON: "Borat, Jesus fucking Christ."

He began to work diligently on the life-size wooden sculpture. The irony of creating an Anglo-saxon rendition of the Cigar Store Indian made him chuckle to himself in the studio. One evening though, as the thought passed through his head again, he snickered a little too liberally and the power-drill he was using to create rudimentary hatch-markings to denote the man's cheaply tailored sport-coat slipped awry and bore through the very thumb that separated TWON from his ape ancestors. Screaming, he stepped back, the drill making a fantastically loud clap and whine as it crashed to the floor and spun viciously into circles, a living entity with no regard for the man who was only moments before its master.

Cautiously, he yanked the power cord from the socket and the drill fell lifeless and limp on the concrete floor of the community college's wood shop. Stunned, TWON reached down with his good hand and picked up the tool that had so quickly turned into an unpredictable weapon. Fragments of his thumb-bone lay stuck into the thick layer of blood clogging the drill's cold metal threading. TWON's eyes quivered for a moment, rolled back behind his eyelids, and he delicately fainted onto the blood-soaked floor peppered with sawdust.

They don't teach you that at CUNY.

Letting drunk people tattoo you

2009-08-25T13:28:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

OH, COME OOOOOOOOOOON!
Alright, this is just officially disturbing. I mean seriously, outrageously, completely dripping with sweat and made of cotton pants! Edgar let his friend tattoo his hand after they drank a bathtub full of gin and snorted thirteen Adderall apiece - which usually has much more pleasant consequences! Yeah, I'm talking about your friends dressing up like the characters from the Fruit of the Loom commercials, setting fire to Park Slope and then their parents get all bummed and are like, "You never should have majored in Gothic Literature at Pratt, where are you gonna work when you graduate???"

Don't sweat MY balls, grandma. I'm too busy getting inked by Steve "Amateur-Hour" Woblonski on a fucking Tuesday night. And don't even get me started on your cat and his stupid mustache. I'm so beyond bored with his irony at this point... It's like he doesn't even know when he's even being ironic anymore! You wanna talk about Sweatpants Money with me? With THE SWEATPANT CANDYMAN??? Naw, boy. Barely.

So Edgar, after telling grandma to quit anal-sexing his balls, had to spend the better part of a week taking antibiotics and watching "Hard Day's Night" on repeat. Not never.

Cyborg hand mutilations

2009-08-24T13:07:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

When I used to snowboard, I always remember thinking how much more secure I felt than when skateboarding. Granted, snowboarders take major diggers, but they're covered in all kinds of snow-gear and have soft boots and mittens. Falling off a skateboard pretty much guarantees open woundage. But then there's the case of Bozeman semi-pro snowboarder Cameron McDonald. Or should we say, Cameron "Titanium-Skeleton Hand" McDonald (holy shit, that was brilliant - and it just came out totes organically!). I got the low-down from my bro-hound Jeremy. He sent me an e-mail with some pictures and this lovely little narrative:

"Yea, it's a bad one. Cameron was snowboarding up at Moonlight Basin, hung up on a down box and pimp slapped the shit out of it... he more or less put all of the weight of the fall into his wrist. All of the tendons in his wrist snapped and recoiled back up his arm, re-shifting all of the bones in his hand. His hand stayed attached to his arm thanks to his skin... but after the incident, he technically didn't have a hand. Bozeman Deaconess Hospital had never seen anything like that before... so they sliced him open, pinned all of the bones back in order... and reattached all of this tendons. His hand is fine now... it was crazy ass shit though... he's one of the best snowboarders I know."

More like one of the best MOTHERFUCKING CYBORGS YOU KNOW!!!!!!! Somebody in Brooklyn just read this and had to pause their MGMT CD just to soak in the magic of a blog-burn to the Nth degree.

I bet X-ray machines pretty much only listen to doom-metal. Seriously, what if every time that you looked at somebody all you saw was their skeleton? Nobody with bone-vision ever went to a fucking Pinback show before. I like this next photo 'cause you can kind of smell the scuzz coming out of Cameron's wound.

*Stay tuned, blog-fans, tomorrow we've got a little lesson on what happens when you let a friend tattoo you drunk! Can you say, "Gangrene?"

Surfboard bitch-slaps

2009-08-21T10:30:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

As if living in Southern California wasn't bad enough already. You've got massive concrete freeways for a sky, and boiling hot black asphalt for the earth. It's like God is trying to smote their ruin 24/7. That God, he's so vengeful!

Anyways, the worst part about SoCal (as the natives call it) isn't just the obnoxious pollution, fake breasts, and skeezy bro-joes. In the last few years, it's become completely socially acceptable to bitch-slap your friend in the mouth with a surfboard as a sign of disrespect. You know, up here in the Pacific Northwest, we don't go around hitting our friends with surfboards. On the contrary, we're a highly evolved species of hipsters; when our friends offend us, we inform they that we are "bummed." Saves a lot of split-lips and shit-talking.

Grow up SoCal, nobody's into you anymore.

Lookin' like a VICE Dos & Don'ts

2009-08-20T13:21:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Apparently, the blog has been attracting the attention of Brooklynites lately. Today features the second submission from a resident of "Diet Portland" to reach my digital mailbox in only the last couple of weeks. What does this mean for you, Portlander? Not nuffin'. You know why? Their rent is so much that they'll never be able to scrape together enough cash-money to quit their leases and move here! It's like some kind of voluntarily attended hipster Purgatory.

IRREGARDLESSLY (yeah, it's a word - check it)... We got a submission yesterday from Caroline. Now, granted, she was living in Boston at the time, but that's still pretty fucking East Coast for my taste. Her story was so compelling, that I can't bring myself to edit it:

From Caroline, Aug 19, 2009:
So a few years ago I was living in Cambridge MA and really hating my life because the Boston area generally sucks. Nothing fun was ever happening and my roommate just wanted to smoke weed all the time while I considered myself to be a bit more a lush (I had the guys at the corner store selling me 3 bottles of cheap wine for $5).

Anyways the one perk of living in that miserable place was that I lived about 2 blocks from the Middle East which had some pretty cool bands coming through it some of the time. So on one particularly cold and depressing winter weekend night my hippie roommate suggested that we go and see the super psychedelic band Black Mountain down the street. Seeing as I had nothing better to do (there was nothing better to do) I agreed. Her and her hippie cronies got stupid high before hand and I faced a bottle of wine.

So we get to the Middle East and I remember the two things I hate more than anything in the world: hippies and psychedelic music. But I'm trying to make the best of the situation, I had already paid the stupid cover, so I just headed over to the bar and started to play drinking games w myself and the $2 pbrs (how many of these can I drink during this 7 minute song?)

Anyways after like 10 beers I decided things weren't going to get any better no matter how much I drank. and I really had to pee. Seeing as we lived so close to the venue I decided to just walk home and not use the gross bathroom that was there. So I take off storming down the street with my hands in my pockets because it was Boston freezing times. About halfway home I started to really have to pee so my slow trot was accelerated to an awkard gallop, but it was cool because it was warming me up and my house was rapidly approaching.

Anyways. Then I tripped. Ate Shit. Faceplant. Right on the fucking sidewalk. I kind of laid there on my face for a second in shock before I picked myself up to eye my bloody knees thanking god my nose wasnt broken. Then I ran my tongue along the inside of my mouth and realized that 1/2 of one of my front teeth was broken-- on a diagonal. I looked half vampire. The terribleness of the situation hadn't really set in yet so I kind of sifted around in the gravel around me until I found what I thought was the other half of my tooth and put it in my pocket and slowwwwwly walked home.

So I got home and looked in the mirror and realized that I had made myself the ugliest person alive and that the thing that I had picked up thinking was my tooth was in fact a small white pebble, so of course I start bawling. Its around 1:30 in the morning and I did what made the most sense--- called my mom hysterical about my disfigured mouth. While im on the phone all the hippies get back from the concert and find me sitting at the kitchen table and are like "hollllly shit what happenend to you" and I just glared at them. Anyways. They felt it necessary to document the moment with this picture. I guess I'm glad they did now. It serves as a permanent reminder. No more hippies. No more psychadelic music. No more living in Boston.

Staph updates

2009-08-19T14:35:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

If you haven't been keeping up on JD's recent staphylococcus infection, then I honestly don't know what you've been doing with your life. I've been checking this thing daily and am about ready to throw up my own butt just from the putrid reality that is his complete lack of hygiene. Hear ye, hear ye: a tale of caution for those about to Tonali (look it up, real life).

Follow the mayhem here:
thestaph.tumblr.com

Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawd. This shit bums me out so hard I want to move to Park Slope and get some Raybans. I don't even know where to begin. It's like every time I close my eyes this vomit-inducing image has been burned into the back of my eyelids. The worst thing of all is that this kid is like taking this infection all over Portland like it's his hipster baby in a fixed-stroller. I'm not kidding. He's taken it out for fish n' chips, on a bike ride, to a hipster bike night at Someday, and even into Trader Joe's where he works. Keep that in mind the next time you want to get some racist ass "Arabian Joe's Middle-East Feast" for a quick lunch out of the office.

This needs to stop. My blog is about getting hurt and having fun. To hear what JD's is about, you're gonna wanna visit the most trusted information source on the fucking planet:

www.prettymuchthetruth.com

Champagne + high heels + ice

2009-08-18T13:07:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Yeah, I know. It should have read "= Sweatpants Money!" but we're trying to keep this as professional and consistent as possible over here. Now, normally, I make sure to relay the story of these epic/brutal bails in my own words to try to spice up the tale. But in the case of Sydney Kim, her e-mail explanation was too priceless to change at all. Verbatim:

they're already scarred from many a childhood injury, mostly from rollerblading and getting pushed into a sandbox. one time, in 6th grade, i was checking our mail at the end of our cul-de-sac (weird community mailboxes). i went down the hill on my blades and couldn't make the proper turn at the bottom. ATE SHIT. my mom was watching from our house and laughed at me.

this time, though, i just got really drunk on free champagne at my friend's 21st birthday. while walking home, i slipped on some new ice/snow. i was wearing a sexy outfit at the time and drunkenly decided i would take photos of myself. it's kind of an up skirt shot, weirdly enough.

Chill out, bros. She doesn't like dudes. You're looking at shit you'll never get.

Second-degree soup burns

2009-08-17T12:25:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

One time I met this guy who was talking about gnarly jobs. He was like, "Dude-brah, I have had like a million of the most gnar-gnar jobs you ever heard of." Yeah, right, bro. He said he was a rodeo clown for six months in Austin, where he broke eleven bones and received over one hundred stitches all in one bull-on-man throwdown. Tight, dude. I broke like seven bones in grad school, and I've never even BEEN to Austin, so you could totally be lying to me. I don't even think they have rodeos in Austin. Isn't everybody there too busy postering for SXSW and talking about how they might move to Brooklyn for a masters program at Pratt? Janky.

Anyways, the point of this is that this guy was a buster. Just because your job involves taunting a leviathan doesn't mean that you rule the block. It means you're asking for damage. Serenity wasn't asking for nuffin when she tried to walk into the staff kitchen. See, Serenity works in the library, where one might assume oneself safe from possible bodily harm. But no, death comes ripping for us all at some point, librarian or not. Somebody came bursting out of the kitchen with boiling hot soup and ran smack into Serenity. Needless to say, soup doesn't fuck around. Check out the detailed image below, which basically looks like somebody tattooed a map of Williamsburg on their arm.

Brutality. One blog post at a time.

Keep them images coming. We're a clumsy-ass crew for sure.

Table-saw foot combos

2009-08-14T10:32:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

A special thanks out to Mike-stache for this outrageously inappropriate wound documentation. Legend has it that a young man named Matt was working diligently on a table saw, trying to cut into lengths pieces of a frame for a full-scale Trojan Horse. The purpose of this horse was to mask itself as a peace-offering from the City of Portland to the residents of Brooklyn. Basically, the horse would arrive at Coney Island sometime during the summer after having been transported by ship all the way down the American west coast, past Mexico, around the lowest nipple of South America, and then north by north-east all the way to the shitty shores of Brooklyn. After being dropped off, it would sit innocently for weeks, tempting the local youth to dance around it like some kind of leviathan May-Pole. The plan was, as soon as one of those little shitheads threw up the first tag on its surface, its belly would burst and millions, literally millions of Portland kids would tear forth from their wooden womb. Coney Island would be torn to shreds in a matter of hours, as Bianchi fixed gears skidded this way and that, causing general pandemonium and striking fear into the hearts of all Ratatat fans.

This shit never happened though. See, Matt turned his head for one moment and the saw blade flew from its axis unexpectedly. It sought the comforting enveloping of warm flesh, and bit straight into dude's left foot.

You got fucking lucky on this one, Brooklyn.

Naked streetcar track endos

2009-08-13T10:14:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Road rash is one thing when you're decked out in a full on Canadian Tuxedo (denim three-piece). It's a whole different animal when you're only wearing the Jersey Tuxedo (velour two-piece). I don't even want to think about the results when one has only donned a pair of Chicago Bears sweatpants. But this shit here, this shit right here, this takes the pie! Did you ever wreck in the streetcar tracks, drunk as the entire city of Hoboken, NJ while on the PDX Naked Bike Ride???

Let's be honest, it's not like they don't warn you:

Katie's no fluff-chauncey either. This girl came STRAIGHT OUTTA MICHIGAN (like the Dayton Family, Ted Nugent and the bank that gives out shotguns with checking accounts from Bowling for Columbine). She took a digger like a champ, no clothes, no problems. And in the process, scored a serious conversation starter. She's all like at a party and then it's like:

"Whoa, girl, where'd you get them purple drank scurbs at, mang?"
"Oh, I just happened to have flipped endo-style on my whip during the Naked Bike Ride."
"Oh, word?"
"Word."
"For real word?"
"F'riz."
"Naw, girl you got a mouth fulla bow-shit."
"You don't know me, mufucka. This ain't Brooklyn."
"BITCH, I DON'T KNOW YOUR LIFE."
"Sweatpants money."
"Troof."

I'd like to see the Mac gurus at MAXIM airbrush out this purple haze:

It looks like somebody's got an iron deficiency! :) LOL :) LOL :) LOL fuckyou.

Box-cutter accidents

2009-08-12T10:02:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

There comes a time in every art student's life, scrambling at 3am to put the finishing touches on a piece that is to be critiqued at a 9am studio seminar but will never EVER go further than that whatsoever out into the world, that mistakes happen. Eliza learned the hard way that cutting corners can lead to cutting fingers. A word to the wise: box-cutters were invented to cut boxes, not photographs or plexi-glass or paper. The tool you're looking for when slicing and dicing C-prints is going to be called an "X-acto Knife."

I know, right? I looks like raspberry jam! But I can assure you, this was no sweet putty to spread across no fucking white bread. This was real life. REAL TALK. Did you ever see a person get stitches THROUGH THEIR FINGERNAILS???

This next image though kind of reminds me of when I was a young lad trying to learn how to draw perspective in my amateur comic books. All the dudes are like, "Brah, I totes remember that shit!" You'd draw like the fingers on a hand gigantic to mean that they were comin' right at ya. Then the arm would be medium sized and the body tiny. It's fucking art, people.

I can't even make fun of this next image... It made me cry for the first time since those cocksucking bees killed Thomas J. in My Girl 1.

This has been an excellent week for the blog. Many of you have sent me outstanding images of absolute brutality. Keep them coming; without you getting hurt constantly, there is no sweatpants money for anybody.

Baguette mishaps and loose shelves

2009-08-11T15:19:00.000-07:00

emilywolfer.com

...is Sweatpants Money!

Here's a story (literally) straight from Brooklyn! No, for real. Emily the Mad was never one to play it safe, especially when it comes to slicing up some bread for olive-oil dippin'. On this particular night though, she was too lit to tell her palm from the loaf and sawed right through her own hand with a gigantic bread knife! Wowzers. And since she couldn't afford to buy paper towels because of the astronomically out-of-control Brooklyn rent costs, she ended up using a French baguette to mop up the bloody mess!

It didn't stop there though for this young lady. Shortly after, while attempting to move around some items on a shelf in her miniature apartment, the entire shelving unit came crashing down onto her skull! Epic bummer or what? If nothing else, Emily's got an eye for a photo opportunity, even when seeing double from a concussion and managed to get these aesthetically striking pieces as a result.

Today's lesson: Always have your camera. You don't know when the bleeding might suddenly stop.

Tandem double-diggers

2009-08-11T10:53:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Skeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet! Yesterday, I shared with you the total face-domination that occurred when one drunk from Beantown tried to show up the mufuckin' Midnight Mystery Ride. Well, let's just say that ol' Boston ain't the first one to take a digger on the MMR.

Case in point: above, you can see the mangled elbow, knee and shin of Ms. Alex when she and Dude-Rad got a little too cocky on a tandem bike and went down like the goddamned economy. First of all, it's never a good idea to even hang out with any of the people who live in what is commonly referred to as the "Clown House" off Alberta. These two ladies though didn't listen to common sense, and actually took it one step further and accepted an offer from the Clowns to ride a tandem tall-bike. I hate to say it, but it sounds like maybe they had it coming. Am I right? Yeah? Am I right? Ha!

To make matters worse, not only did they hang out with Clowns (read: hippie Juggalos), Alex destroyed a brand-new Adidas track jacket and earned herself a couple of wicked scars. It is said though that later that night, she and Dude-Rad made a secretive dart to the local 7-11, scoring nachos and a copy of Penthouse Forum.

Brooklyn sucks.

Face sushi

2009-08-10T13:58:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

So brutal. So fucking epic. So... Jesus, I don't even know. When Dude-Rad sent me this photo, she was so hysterical that she actually invented a new word to describe it: RARD
Yeah, that's "rad" with an extra "r."

Every summer in Portland, we give the finger to Williamsburg and throw-down bike events drunker than Irish dock workers on payday. You see, in Brooklyn, there's no such thing as "hanging out" because everybody's working 90 hours a week trying to pay their $1,100 of rent money for the room that they share with some skeezer they met on Craigslist. We in PDX understand the value of solid hang-out time, and therefore devote an entire week plus to our two-wheeled transporters. It's called Pedalpalooza, and it can't be fucked with. Sorry, I shouldn't have ended that in a preposition. Let me rephrase: It's called Pedalpalooza, and it is impervious with which to fucking. Never mind.

Regardless, there is one event in particular that officially proves this city's complete disregard for safety and complete embrace of carelessness: The Midnight Mystery Ride. Something like 16 million bikers gather at some bar that you'd never go to and mob off at precisely midnight to a destination known only by a select few. This grand display shuts traffic down all over the city, prompting sweaty fat people visiting for a weekend night out from Vancouver, WA to honk their fat horns and wave their chubby meat-wad arms out their windows in futile protest. This past summer, the trip took an interesting jaunt to a bluff above some crazy church where hedonism rained down upon participants like the flaming sky of Sodom and Gomorrah. That's right: kids were smoking weed.

This new kid from Boston or something shows up with an agenda. He's blacked-out on margaritas before the ride even starts and subscribes to James Hetfield's suggestion about keeping one eye open. It's debatable whether or not he even knows what he's doing on a bike at this point, but the people of PDX know better than to come between a drunk man and his whip. At the end of the night, the Crunk Kids Crew makes the precarious descent down the horribly steep asphalt drive that wraps up the giant hill above the church. Yup, you guessed it: kids skid-skiddin' all the way down (with the girls on mountain bikes squeezing their back brake the entire way, afraid of doing an endo). This Bostonian, bent on showing off how they ride in Beantown comes flying up the left side of everyone, bombing this shit like it's Dresden. The sound of the roadside weeds slapping against his bare shins is probably the last thing he remembers.

There's a girl at the bottom of the pitch-black hill waving her arms back and forth screaming, "It turns to gravel!" Boston doesn't give a fuck and blows by her. Suddenly the asphalt beneath his wheels turns to loose sand and gravel and he slips off his pedals, crotching himself on the cross-bar hard as his bike starts to fish-tail. As if that weren't enough, the gravel turns momentarily into a sidewalk before dropping a foot and a half down to the parking lot. Boston gets another shot to the taint as he flies off the curb, only to cross three handicapped parking spaces and slam top speed into the curb on the other side of the parking lot. I've never seen a dude fly off a bike like this before. He went sailing, completely ambivalent to the destruction that was about to rip off his face. Arms hanging limply down, he crashed onto the concrete at an incredible speed and ground off half his face. The sidewalk looked kind of like when you use a shitty, dirty eraser some guy has used to clean out his earwax on a fresh sheet of copy paper.

Dude just lays there. Everybody's running around him, freaking out. He hears somebody mention an ambulance and jumps up promptly. Two girls faint from the sight of his ghastly mug. It looks like the cover to a George Romero VHS. Boston ain't got no health insurance, but he's got one fucking hell of a concussion. He refuses to go to the hospital, and Dude-Rad ends of having to take him home in a cab and stay up all night with him.

BTW: Dude's bike literally cracked in half. Epic.

Slow-pitch Softball

2009-08-10T12:57:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Sometimes you start to get older and the idea of playing legitimate sports seems completely too intimidating. As a result, groups of near middle-aged men have found a solution: Slow-pitch softball! It's pretty much like Tee-Ball for drunk guys except that simply holding the ball up in the air once you've fielded a grounder in right-field does not mean that all runners must stop (note: this is not the case in Brooklyn leagues, where the runners do indeed have to stop when the ball is raised, only they must stop and do a track-stand on a fixed gear).

The problem with this "sport" is that about half-way through the game, the beer-bellied bro-hams partaking in the game forget that the only people in the stands are their drunken whore girlfriends who are spending all nine innings texting their ex-boyfriend from undergrad who ended up working for Google and making a fuck ton of money. As the competition becomes more fierce (and the infield errors skyrocket to epic numbers), these fat assholes start actually running harder than they have in years, making completely unnecessary head-first dives into second base when the ball hasn't even reached the cut-off man.

Plays at home plate are absolutely embarrassing, as it's a fucking scientific fact that no slow-pitch softball catcher has EVER caught a Hail Mary chuck from center field and managed to tag out the wheezing sack of shit rounding third. Nonetheless, that sack of shit is going to slide into home EVERY time. I'm serious, go to a slow-pitch softball game and then tell me that every single run that comes in doesn't kick up a goddamned tornado of gravel as the ball sails over the catcher's outstretched mitt and crashes into the backstop, momentarily startling the runner's girlfriend as she looks up from her cell phone guiltily. More often than not, these slides into home plate result in minor scrapes and abrasions which the player will proudly show off on Monday morning at the office, bragging to the guy working in HR that he was drunk off his ass and still had 6 RBIs.

You'll also notice that no slow-pitch softball game has ever ended without one team scoring in excess of 17 runs. This is not because the batting line-up is stacked as fuck; rather, it is because no one who has ever played slow-pitch softball has even the slightest fucking clue how to navigate a play in the infield with grace or nuance. As they field a ball, it is a guarantee that every single time they'll immediately throw it five times harder than necessary to the first baseman (who will assuredly miss said throw and then reenact the exact same error-scenario by hurling it over the third baseman's head). Nearly every single hit results in approximately 11 infield errors and at least two runs batted in. This isn't up for debate, it's fucking statistics.

Being a traffic cone

2009-08-06T16:31:00.001-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Dude-Rad needs to learn that Toms ain't no kinds of fucking shoes to be stealin city property and trying to be a whirling dervish!

City of Portland: 1
Dude-Rad: 0

Waking up on pillows covered in blood

2009-08-06T16:21:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Did you ever go to a Social Practice art show, crush the living shit out of an IPA Keg, drink a bottle of scotch in the middle of Denver Ave, decide you're biking for the entire night, strangle a friend at a BBQ for throwing a full beer at your skull while you were pissing, steal 8 beers out of a kiddie pool at said BBQ, go to the Alibi, sing karaoke "Holy Diver," tell a kid named Jake to fuck off, pull at Irish good-bye, black-out, and wake up in a bed covered in blood from a ripped open eyebrow with no recollection of ever hurting yourself?

No?

Then buy some fucking denim!

Fireworks in your eyes

2009-08-06T16:10:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

Sometimes you go to a Halloween party and that kid you know from Montana shows up wearing a goddamned XXL tie-dyed Muu-muu with tassles that brags about being from New Mexico. Then the kid sits next to you and slams tall-boys of PBR while all his friends throw fucking fireworks into a fire and then they burn off your eyebrows.

Staph infections

2009-08-06T15:57:00.000-07:00

...is Sweatpants Money!

JD WHITE HAS A STAPH INFECTION!

the staph blog

That's the fucking story on page 1 of the hipster-fuckface news feed! Apparently, JD tried out his first ever TONALI* on a bitch and wrecked hard!!! Now he goes to his HMO every week and gets pricked and drained harder than your youngest sister at the tail-end of a 40-man gang bang on the Yellow Line MAX at 5:30pm on a Thursday.

Use the link above to follow his progress. ...is Sweatpants Money will be all over this like white kids on Bedford. Which reminds me, FUCK BROOKLYN.

*Tonali: (verb) to finger a girl on the rag through your t-shirt