Friday, July 31, 2009

The Baron on Vacation

Just a heads up:

Next week, The Baron will be touring the Belgian Congo from zepplin and autogyro and will not be posting.

If you need a fix, just stare into Quigley's glorious stache and consider all that might be.......

Touche Touche

To whomever sent The Baron a huge syringe full of "male rhodes scholar/ model semen" ,

Touche

Touche

And pretty hilarious that sent to work.

The Baron was positive it was a dildo when he saw the box.

But no, just a dildo sized syringe full of bust

Great Facial Hair in History: Tom Selleck in Quigley Down Under

Bow your heads commoners for you are standing in the presence of true greatness. For today, we will discuss a modern legend in mustache implementation and maintenance, the one, the only Tom Selleck.

A man who dared to have a mustache decades after their popularity waned, Tom Selleck has managed to become one of hollywood's most bankable and charismatic movie stars (even fucking the likes of Elaine when she had the hotter haircut).

Today however, The Baron would like to highlight his mustache's most famous role, the blockbuster, revisionist, cowboy epic, Quigley Down Under. Now for those of you who haven't seen this masterpiece of cinematic art, either buy it today, or leave and never come back (also if you look back at The Box, you'll turn into a pillar of mouse testicles; because The Baron is more creative than the real "God").

Anyway, let's have a look at this iconic mustache:


Talk about handlebars! You could grab onto those things and your fingers wouldn't touch on the other side. That's the kind of mustache that's meant to be dragged up the backs of supermodels while they writhe and arch in ecstasy.

But you're saying, "what about the goatee?". The Baron will tell you. That's not really a separate swath of facial hair at all, it's the mustache's nut sack. Yeah, that's right, Tom Selleck's mustache has testicles, and they're huge.....obviously!

Without a stout mustache, balls hanging free in full glory, a man can accomplish only piddling feats. So today The Baron salutes you mister Matthew Quigley for having the courage to punch Timothy Dalton in the face, and also throw him through a window all while having one of the greatest mustaches of all time..

Thursday, July 30, 2009

The Baron Told You So Files: Organic Food Not Healthier Than Cheaper Food

Ha! What did The Baron tell you? The organic food craze is nothing but more corporate bullshit. A study released this week concerning the eating habits of thousands of consumers over 50 years has found that organic food is no healthier than the regular baby seal-raping kind.

What's that hipster? Are you confused and frustrated? What will you buy now to prove you're morally superior to The Baron? A mac book made out of orphan's smiles?

HAHAHAHAHA!

For those of you who didn't see this coming let The Baron explain to you the difference between organic and regular food:

One employs the latest farming technology in a manner which optimizes the food production per acre of arable land distilling millennia of agricultural experience into a sustainable, ever evolving system to feed the world's population.

The other uses pre-victorian cultivation techniques to yield roughly 1/3rd of the crops on twice the amount of land. The farmers then add extra nutrition in the form of a 300% surcharge and send it off to whole foods. Oh yeah, and every day at noon they march 50 Somalians into the barn and slap the crap out of them with food they will then throw away in front of them.

See if you can guess which one is which.

Oh yeah, and organic farming can't come close to feeding the world's population. It's just a horseshit marketing campaign.

The Baron really doesn't know how hippies are going to deal with this... The Baron on the other hand is going to grill up a whale steak tonight to celebrate his victory.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

The Baron's Mailbag 003

The Baron,

Regarding your 6/9 outline of The Ultimate Men's Room, what are your thoughts on equipping the Throne Omega with a deli scale? For more accurate weight measurements, could splurge for a turlet-bowl-mounted triple beam balance.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile.


1903: The Wright brother fist fuck the sky.

1969: America slips the moon a roofie.....and then the shocker.

2009: Anonymous emailer lays plans for the TTBB, the Turlet Triple Beam Balance.

This might be the best idea The Baron has ever heard. It's so simple, how didn't The Baron see it sooner!

Really, how is one to judge his fellow man's turds? By size alone? What if a person is known for taking huge fluffy dumps the consistency of whipped cream? Obviously there needs to be another form of evaluation, and that form is weight, in decagrams.

Once Throne Omega is equipped with a TTBB there will be no dispute as to who is the king of shitters.

Why the hell else did we learn to use those damn scales in high school? To better prepare us for a future of science? To learn how to measure out methamphetamine for our clients? Of course not!

Thank you anonymous contributor for the patent of the century. The Baron of course would be willing to split the massive profits that are going to be generated by this project. You've just made The Baron's day sir.

Now if you'll excuse The Baron, he has to go drop about 70 dg on a shiny metal platter.

Monday, July 27, 2009

Stupidest Song Lyrics Ever 001

Anna Nalik 2Am: "...Life's like an hourglass glued to the table..."

Holy fucking god! This has got to be the single worst lyric in any song....ever. And, The Baron is including caveman music here. This is what happens when retarded people think they're a philosopher just because they can flail at a guitar while pretending to be deep.

The Baron vomits with rage every time this fucking song comes on the radio. And, for some reason a ton of people love it. Worst of all, they think that the above line is brilliant. Are they fucking kidding The Baron?!

Let's pick it apart:

First of all, if you put 25 apes in a room and asked them to write a lyric about how life is a one way journey, by the time you turned your back, 23 of them would have already scrawled the above gem in feces on their desk surface (assuming they have desks) and the other two would be aggressively porking.

Anna Nalik has taken the most common tenet of ancient philosophy and thrown together an ape-shit-smear of a line, and at the same time, she's patting the bejesus out of her own back. The fact that people seem to love this song (there is an entire blog dedicated to this abortion of a line http://chrissilvey.com/weblog/?p=39) makes The Baron both sad and furious, furious with rage.

People who like Anna Nalik are the same type who think the moon landing was faked, who think irradiated food is radioactive and they are the reason that N (for nuclear) had to be dropped from the acronym NMRI (Wait, nuclear! I watch 24 so I'm an expert on nuclearism and I'll be damned if I'm letting that thing scan my brain tumor).

Don't take The Baron's word for it, have a look at what these assmasters have to say.

Russ said,

on September 4th, 2007 at 7:37 pm

I love this song
Lifes like an hourglass glued to the table says it all to me you cannot turn it back and every day that you live should be lived to be happy it is to short.

Really Russ? First maybe you should go back to first grade and learn how to write a sentence that makes sense. The Baron doesn't even think this rambling word sandwich has a subject, good greasy fuck! Second, "that you should be lived to be happy it is to short". Dear lord, is that what your thoughts sound like?


Jenny said,

on June 21st, 2008 at 5:37 am

Omg, I felt the same way. I heard just this morning, and the other day I’d been keeping an eye out for quotes that I wanted, and then I heard that line!

And then her last chorus! I can totally hook to that because my poems are the same thing for me, and her song is pretty much a poem.

You'd better be hot Jenny. "Omg...I can totally hook to that..." Jesus....fucking....christ. The Baron dropped from demi-god to savant on the intelligence scale just from reading that post. And, surprise, surprise, she writes her own poetry about similar themes. That right there is enough evidence for The Baron to conclude she is fat, very, very fat.

Need The Baron say anymore?

Friday, July 24, 2009

Spam email translation: Lustful whores farm adventures here!

The Baron received a truly intriguing spam this morning and he would like to translate it for you.

cairn communicant

Hmm, had to look up what cairn means: a mound of stones piled up as a memorial or to mark a boundary or path. Ah The Baron thinks he's gotten the gist of this one. Cairn communicant = Boob talker

to rent ready to watch a baby just popped

So apparently you can rent a video of a baby popping which The Baron figures is either like that scene in Total Recall or License to Kill where a baby is exploded under low pressure......or, the baby popping refers to baby juice or man batter.

any campaign matter what to swine flu since to Japan A house is equipped with this has been new commercial a measure to be lengthy illness,

What does the swine flu matter, since in Japan (it is implied that the porn in question is filmed there) a house is typically equipped with measures to prevent a lengthy illness. So in essence your farm baby popping bestiality porn is being filmed in Japan so you have nothing to worry about in terms of illness interrupting the filming or contaminating the DVD case.

according from Asahi Ted goes out on Newsnetz-Designs allein im Tumpel

According to
Asahi (a Japanese beer company) Ted goes out on (some gibberish in German) it is translated as: New net Design alone in the Tumpel. So basically Ted, according to a Japanese beer company (who must be sponsoring the porn filming) goes out to look at some new net designs alone in the Tumpel. So they must use the nets to catch dangerous animals (Tumpels maybe?) for the porn stars to have sex with back in Japan at the Asahi brewery.

This sound like an intriguing film!

Thursday, July 23, 2009

The Baron's Mailbag 002

The Baron,

The frequency at which you frequent the MRH (Men's Room Hopper) has become a subject of lore. Will you please publish the diet that affords such divine regularity?

Signed,
Backed Up in Boston

Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile



For those of you that don't know, The Baron enjoys a gastric schedule of incredible regularity and frequency. On an average day he will produce between 3 and 6 baby crocodiles at a tempo you could set your watch to. The typical times and descriptions are as follows.

615AM: An often massive and overpowering dump. The 615 train has been known to wake The Baron before the alarm goes off like a stoat trying to escape from his rear hatch. This breakfast burrito is usually facilitated by an infusion of coffee which ratchets up the threat level from orange to chestnut.

1030AM: An optional second dump with lower intensity and urgency. Often a small pile of breakfast sausages.

130pm: The post lunch dump. Not 5 minutes after the conclusion of the meal, The Baron is grimacing and kicking like the turlet was strangling him from behind. Classically this log takes the form of a long, thin kielbasa.

430pm: Another optional, often a truncated lincoln log.

7 pm: The post dinner dump. Not a whole lot of substance, often very floaty and loose.

So what does The Baron eat to achieve this level of rectal greatness? It's simple.

coffee for breakfast

peanuts, a sandwich / cereal and a banana for lunch

a snack of cheese nips at 330pm

A dinner often consisting or large amounts of rice, beans and cheese or vegetable fajitas.


The Baron firmly challenges anyone to try and match these feats, but he warns you to buy some cotton TP. This rough work stuff is ravaging his BK.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

The Baron's Mailbag 001

Dear Baron, My friend and I were having a heated debate over whether Lithuanians or Italians are the superior race. I pray that you will be able to shed some of your infinite wisdom on this topic. Yours in glorious beer, The Jet



Wow, The Jet, you're not off to a very good start. Notice anything about that sentence THE Jet. That's right The Baron didn't slay the Queen's vagina and earn his baronentcy to be called Baron.

Anyway, The Baron digresses. The question of Lithuanian versus Italian superiority is a complex legal and social issue. Lithuanians are tall and stately gentlemen with preposterously large genitals while Italians are pizza chefs and video game plumbers with pot bellies and mustaches (their only redeeming quality).

But don't take The Baron's word for it. Have a look at
the Italian flag: Hmmm, kind of bland. Could probably use some sort of ferocious animal like an eagle, or a game hen, perhaps eating a snake of some kind. Oh wait, someone beat Italy to the punch. You'll never guess who. Ok, The Baron will tell you: it's Mexico! That's right, Mexico has the better version of the Italian flag. Good lord!Now let's have a look at the Lithuanian flag: A ferocious tiger and some hoots! Wow! Now that's what The Baron calls a flag. Run that thing up a pole and some bitches are going to get pregnant. The Baron thinks that pretty well settles the argument.


The Baron and the Mystery of the Overtopped Urinal

The Baron wishes to report an event as mysterious as it is impressive. Some being managed to place several drops of urine............NEATLY ON TOP OF THE URINAL!Now to ladies, this may not sound too impressive, but understand that this is not as easy as simply wrestling one's massive schlong into a vertical orientation.

For you see, if the mystery pisser had altered trajectory mid piss, there would be streaks on the wall and a hell of a lot more than 5 perfect drops on top of the pissoir.

Alternatively, if pissman had waited until he was nearly empty, the pressure would have been inadequate to deposit said droplets. This leaves 4 options, each more terrifying than the last.

1) The perp waited until his weiner was nearly empty than spastically shook it, throwing a few droplets to the top of the urinal. This seems both dangerous and tactically difficult and so has been deemed unlikely.

2) The pissmaster wizzed in a cup and used an eye dropper to place the liquid orbs. This also seems unlikely, unless he intended to baffle the pissing public, e.g. Feats of Micturation as public art.

3) The villain from Inner Space somehow survived his injuries within Martin Short, traveled to The Baron's rest room, and pissed on top of the urinal with his miniature dong. This theory seems plausible as The Baron loved that movie.

4) A supernatural creature, a God or Demigod (perhaps Bacchus, the God of Getting Shithoused) used his/ her / its powers to somehow piss lightly on top of the urinal. If The Baron was a betting man, he would place his Zepplin, Asian harem, and heavily thumbed, signed picture of Rachel McAdams on the line in favor of this option.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

The Baron's Mail Bag

If you have a question you feel only The Baron is qualified to answer, a new feature has been added to the box.

In the upper right corner above the ticker, you will find The Baron's Mail Bag and The Baron's email address TheBaronsBox@gmail.com.

Feel free to ask any question of The Baron and wait with bated breath as he decides how best to ridicule and demean you.

A fine 1000 page loads to you all!



Baron Comics 003










Monday, July 20, 2009

How Fat Does Someone Have To Be Before It Doesn't Make Sense For Them To Move Out Of The Way When They're Blocking A Train Door?

This question has been haunting The Baron for so long that it seems like exactly 2 days. It started last Saturday when returning from a battle against alcohol in Boston's stereotypically Italian district.

The Baron decided upon the green line as his mode of transportation. This is the train that looks like a bus on rails and handles like a shopping cart. In addition, it's always full of douchebags and fuckwits. But, The Baron was lazy, and also slightly drunk so he climbed on board.

There was the usual preponderance of assmasters falling all over themselves and laughing in a way that let The Baron know they considered the inability to hold onto a handrail to be charming and / or cheeky. The number of times The Baron almost vomited at the content of their conversations reached nearly a baker's dozen in the time it took that creaky cunt-box to traverse two stations. Conversations such as:

"Ah, like, I totally want to move to California."

and

"You know what? I feel like I'd fit in better in California.'

and of course the

"I decided right then and there, in LAX, that I'd move to California if I got a chance because the airport was hella cool."

The Baron's weiner shudders to think of it even now, but, this cursed trip would ignite one of the most poignant philosophical debates The Baron would ever have with himself:

"When is a fat person, so fat that it doesn't make sense for them to move out of the train door because they're only going to block up another part of the train and / or they can't physically get out of the way because of the constraints of modern public transportation."

The topic arose as The Baron prepared to debark from the vehicle and found himself hemmed into a corner by a woman at least 5 feet in girth. Her docile expression told The Baron he had nothing to fear in terms of being eaten alive, but this fact did not facilitate his getting the fuck out of the rolling box of shitfucks.

She stood there implacably, not even making an attempt to move to the side as a sea of clutching fuckholes surged around her. The Baron finally managed to squeeze by, but his shirt became transparent from the grease that rubbed off of this Leviathan.

Could she have moved out of the way?

It was a more challenging question than The Baron could ever have imagined and it would consume his entire Sunday. After hours of intense cogitating, he finally came up with this equation to decide whether a fat person should move out of the way of an open train door. Behold!

X = (D x A)/ (W x G x C)

Where D is the width of the door in fathoms,
A is the assmaster titer in cringe units,
W is the width of the fatty in cubits,
G is the greasiness of said fatty in McD's
and C is the crowding of the train car in BMU's (Baron Murderousness Units).

If X is greater than 1, the walking lipid repository should move his / her ponderous ass.

If X is less than 1, it should stay put because moving will have no appreciable impact on how fast The Baron can exit the train car.

Finally someone's putting math to good use right?

Friday, July 17, 2009

Things I Hate Installation 6: The SBJ-Walk

Today's update concerns one of the most assmasterly of all scumbag moves, the scumbag-J-walk.

You're driving along, minding your own business and obeying all the traffic rules that make sense. Without warning a skinny, rat-looking fellow begins to cross 4 lanes of traffic, in the middle of the street, without yielding, and without the benefit of a crosswalk.

Not wanting to be accused of murder, you slow your vehicle to allow him to make it to the other side. The fucknut looks to see that you're slowing down, then rather than continuing in a straight line to the curb. He begins to flatten out his trajectory and approach the sidewalk asymptotically. You can't continue on until he leaves the street or falls down a manhole and dies choking on shit and rat carcasses, yet he continues on, undaunted, metaphorically pissing in your face and wiping his dick with the American flag.
Animals who pull this move deserve to die. The Baron would feel no sympathy whatsoever if the perpetrator was annihilated by a bus and reduced to a fine, bloody mist. These fuckers share a lot of characteristics with Butt-Scroungers and may actually be one in the same creature. Ecko hoodies are almost a prerequisite for the SBJW and can serve as an early warning.

If confronted with a SBJW initiating the infinite cross, floor the accelerator and try to come as close as possible to the cankerous shit. If all goes according to plan, you will succeed in trapping the shitfuck in the middle of the road. Hopefully it will slowly starve to death and be picked clean by vultures and bleached by the relentless sun.

Don't be a victim, be a hero.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

The Baron Is Never Talking To A Person On The Street Again, Lest They Be Rachel McAdams

So The Baron was walking in to work today at the Vagina Factory and Test Track, when he happened to glance at a fellow pedestrian. Being the polite fellow that he is, The Baron tipped his 4 foot tall top hat and cocked his benevolent head slightly.

The man approached and inquired whether The Baron had a cigarette. Aghast, The Baron managed to stagger back a few steps before heroically setting his half dozen assorted hounds on the man. As the ragged corpse was dismembered and consumed, The Baron sat on a nearby stoop shaking his head with dismay.

Why did the man assume that he, The Baron would have any cigarillos, and more importantly, considering the 9000% tax on said tobacco items, why would he expect that his excellency would deign to share one with a reeking peasant?

As a public service The Baron now presents, 3 scumbag street moves and how to deflect them.

1. Can I borrow a butt?

These people are the scum of the Earth. They drag their sorry asses around the street doing worthless shit all day long, they maintain a disgusting habit, and, AND, they expect you to subsidize them. What the fuck are you, the government? Buy your own goddamn cigarettes assmaster! Oh wait, I forgot! You can't buy booze and butts with food stamps. Well maybe you should get a goddamn job then.

And you know what, that's not as unreasonable as it sounds. The Butt-Scrounger or Fag-Master, is generally not homeless despite the fact that they look and act like it. The way you can tell the butt-scrounger from a common bum is that they generally do not smell like anything but cigarettes and tend to dress in expensive, urban wear like ecko hoodies. Actually, they are almost universally dressed in ecko hoodies, even in the fucking summer.
The best response to their inquiry is as follows:

"I have a pack of cigarettes, but I kind of feel like throwing them away."

Then toss them into a river or some other nearly inaccessible place. Hopefully they'll dive right in after them and drown, or be torn to shreds by C.H.U.D's. Either way, you've won the fight!

2. I need money to catch the bus / train home.

These fuck-asses are some of the worst. They'll sit on the same cock-sucking corner every day for literally years waiting for a rube to walk by. If you even so much as glance at them, they'll launch into a pitch.
"Ah hey man, I really hope you can help me out. See, I got kicked out of my house and came into the city for the night and it's the damnedest thing, but I ran out of money. Can you spot me bus fare to get back home?"

Proper responses include

"I really hope you can get the fuck out of my face."

"Hold on a second, my Anxious Bowel Syndrome starts to act up around bullshit."

"I'm going to give you to the count of ten to get your dirty, yella, no good keister out of my sight before I pump you full of lead. One, two...ten . (cackling sounds and the report of a Thompson SMG).

The Baron actually hopes these people die. If there were a button that would kill all of them, he would be pressing it like he was waiting on an elevator to a 1000th floor restroom and was about to shit his pants.

3. I'm new in town, could you give me directions.....also can I have some change?

You're walking along minding your own business when a well dressed but somewhat trashy looking individual approaches you. They ask for directions to some place people would want to go. Then, they prove themselves to be a simpering sub-creature by asking you for change.

Usually, they ask for a whole dollar amount first
and then look disappointed when you refuse, like they were entitled to it. But wait! They will grudgingly accept change, preferably quarters. Lucky you!Here's a sample conversation:

"Oh, so I'm actually already in midtown? Thank you so much!"

"You're welcome."

"Say, you wouldn't happen to have 5 bucks I could borrow would you."

"Nope sorry."

"Really, geez, well I guess that's ok. How about 90 cents?"

(The hollow "schluck" of a claw hammer piercing a cranial vault followed by bloody gurgles)


Well there you have it. Some of the most dangerous scumbag ploys and how to deal with them. The Baron hopes this has been educational. Now if you'll excuse him, he's got a basement full of butt-scroungers who aren't going to torture themselves
.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

The First Scumbag of the Season!

Felicitations everyone!

The Baron has exciting news!

The first scumbag of the season has built a nest on The Baron's front porch! Look at the cute little fellow.

His striking coloration includes black nylon shorts, a somewhat ruddy looking, off blue thorax, a jaunty
bandanna, and a perpetually lit cigarette wafting in The Baron's windows!
What a great day to be a scumbag watcher.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Why Don't Hot Girls Excel at Sports Like They Excel at Satisfying The Baron Groupwise: Or, why are All the Girls in SI's Faces in the Crowd Pigs?

If you subscribe to Sports Illustrated you probably dance around the mailbox in breathless anticipation of each new installment, bursting at the seams with a whole week's worth of sports entertainment and condescending editorials rife with grandstanding and idolatry.

If you're like The Baron you only notice the next issue has arrived when there's something new to read in the shitter. The Baron ignores most of the magazine, instead flipping right to "Faces in the Crowd" in the fleeting hope that a hot girl will be among the honored few.

But The Baron is a modern day Don Quixote in this sense, hoping in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary that beauty will grace but one row of this depressing column of homeliness.

For you see gentle reader, the odds of finding a hot, female visage in Faces in the Crowd is about the same as being struck by lightning while getting helicoptered Terry-Tate-style by two great white sharks.

This is utterly baffling to The Baron because hot women regularly succeed in fields such as getting other people to do their work and establishing a series of doomed relationships with cardboard douchetards culminating in a torturous marriage with no chance of escape and 2.5 dysfunctional cumrag children destined to detract from humanity's achievements.

The Baron has a faint inkling that at some time in his distant past, perhaps during an epic bowel movement, he caught a fleeting glance of Venus in the pages of SI before passing out from the G forces, but he cannot confirm the incident.

Maybe the hottie was real, maybe she was a figment of The Baron's blood deprived brain, the world may never know. Regardless The Baron will keep dumping and hoping that the next time he spreads the pages of SI he'll encounter true beauty and not a sticky, poop sandwich.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Thursday, July 9, 2009

Underrated Beers: Schlitz

The Baron loves beer. You could say that The Baron is a Beer-fan then. And, just like a sports fan, The Baron loves to root for the underdog. In sports, that means most teams from philly or kansas city, in the world of hooch, that means cheap, oft derided beers.

Today The Baron would like to laud a brew that is near and dear to his heart, Schlitz.

Schlitz is a man's beer, an outdoorsman's beer and an almost unfathomably cheap beer. It comes exclusively in tallboy cans (TBC's) as far as The Baron can tell and tastes a dish. It has the faintly skunky aroma and flavor that an old fashioned, lady abusing, communist hating beer should have. Betcha can't have just one!

And then there's the add campaign. Rather, then there was the add campaign (The Baron is pretty sure Schlitz hasn't published an add since 1965). Old school, hand drawn frames and scenes that make The Baron wish he had been born 50 years earlier so he could have been a teenager in the 50's when pussies were beaten, women were obedient and cars weighed 4 tons and had wings.

Let's start with the can. Good lines, good color scheme, great cursive writing. There appears to be a seal of quality on there which is always a plus. And of course, what beer can would be complete without a slogan. "The beer that made Milwaukee famous........before people realized Milwaukee sucks." What a slogan!

Let's have a look at an add. Forget about the text. Focus on the man instead. Haircut you could set your watch to? Check. Knowing smile? Check. Artsy glass? Check. Flannel robe over collared shirt? Check. Sandwich of some kind? Check and mate! You'd have to fuck an alto saxophone to be as jazzy as this guy. And here The Baron though he was the only one who still ate a sandwich for dinner while wearing a robe. Touche Schlitz man, touche.

Take a pop top holiday. The Baron has never heard a better slogan for a slow weekend. And look at the vacationer. That jaunty hat with little Schlitz bottles almost kept The Baron from retching slightly upon beholding the gargoyle like visage of the man wearing it. No beer ad The Baron has ever seen has so aggressively marketed to the average man. If the ugliest man in the world can enjoy a Schlitz without being stoned to death, couldn't you?

The next ad falls into a specific category. The "why in the hell was life so much better in the 50's" category. Look at that fucker in the hammock. He mowed maybe 3 feet of grass and fell asleep while under a newspaper. And how is his smoking wife going to react when she sees him loafing about? By starting a prolonged campaign of passive aggression and implied slights which will last throughout the rest of his life? No, by bringing him a goddamn Schlitz on a fancy tray, in a fancy glass, with the bottle so that he can finish the pour competently and in a sweet dress! Now that's service. What the hell happened to chicks wearing dresses? Now the lazy bitches think they can get away with dumpy sweatpants and a sloppy shirt? Who are they fucking kidding. Hit the gym and then hit the dress store. And what about that car peeking out of the garage? Awesome! You could probably sleep 10 in that thing. The 21st century sucks ass.

Ah yes. A real classic advertising technique from the golden age of America. The wife fails at her one important job, providing a piping hot meal for her snappily dressed husband. But is he mad? Of course not. Look how cute she is crying and what not. And more importantly the Schlitz is ok. That doesn't mean he won't spank his wife for her transgressions, oh lord no! He'll still punish her plenty, but if she'd burnt the beer somehow he'd of tried for anal.

This is quite possibly The Baron's favorite Schlitz add of all time. It involves flannel, a serving wench with a tray of beers, fishing, and implied group sex. Let's be serious here. This group of good old boys probably goes fishing once every 3 weeks or so. They play rock paper scissors to see whose wife gets to cum along for the ride, and then they run train on that hosehound while they pound Schlitz's. The Baron can't imagine a better weekend trip.

So what is it about Schlitz that The Baron likes so much? It's actually quite hard to pinpoint. If The Baron were to sum it up in a single sentence it would go something like this: "Schlitz tastes like that first sip of beer your dad / uncle gave you when you were 12." It has that old fashioned beer taste and a sensibility lacking in other mass marketed intoxicants. Schlitz scream character, demands action and doesn't disappoint in the backstretch. A real man's beer.