Trader Joe's juice box riots

...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

...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

...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

...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

...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

...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

...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

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.

gotfredson.com

What the fuck?

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

...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

...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

...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

...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

...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

...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

...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

...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

...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

...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

...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

...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

...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

...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.