Here at NFI, we’ll occasionally be trotting out a column wherein we recognize those who have exhibited special aptitude in the field of Manliness. This column is known as the Hall of Men, and it will surface roughly once a month. We could explain further, but we’d rather let the Hall speak for itself. So with out further ado….

The First Man. Powers Boothe… if chins could kill.

Okay, to start, his name is ‘Powers’ so we could probably close the case there.

If you need further proof, he starred in a movie called Southern Comfort and there’s no way being in a movie named after a liquour isn’t sweet. Espescially SoCo. Because SoCo is wild. Period. The producers of this movie clearly knew they had Powers Boothe on their hands, not Stallone or Elliot Gould, so naturally they cast him as a no-nonsense, shit-talking Texan. As talented as an actor as he is, he doesn’t even need to act to play a shit-talking Texan, part of a bunch of Louisiana National Guardsmen who are hunted down by Cajun hillbillies in the bayou. Of course Boothe advocates shooting the lunatic squadmember who goes nuts and incites the hillbillies to violence, a ruthless and manly decision if anything.

He also rocks the shit on Deadwood too. Plus he was in a TV series where he played Philip Marlowe, the private eye (more on Raymond Chandler later,) MAN-tastic! Man-Boothe broke a SAG strike in the 80’s to pick up his Emmy and while i can’t say i’m really for strike-breaking, telling your co-workers to go fuck themselves so you can pick up your hard-earned loot is ballsy as hell. And manly.

As such, we at THOM feel Powers Boothe should set up a phone company. This company would consist of phone booths (or rather, boothes,) aptly titled “powers boothes” which would be located in all major cities. Upon entering the boothe, no matter what number you dial, you are connected to the nearest available, hot bitch that you will then make the beast with two backs with. And then fuck. Why, you ask? Cause there may be things wrong with Texas, but none of them are Powers Boothe.

Verdict: Man-ness revealed.

The other day, I was having what started as a friendly conversation with an acquaintance of mine. She’s one of those girls who drinks a lot of tea and does yoga, but she laughs at my jokes so she’s alright with me. Or she was alright. Until the other day. Now I hate her.

Hate’s a strong word? Is that what you said? Go back to kindergarten, you pussy. I don’t really hate her. I was joking. Take it easy. Sit down. You’re making a scene. You had to bring that up, didn’t you? Forget it. Forget I said anything. No, I’m not going to finish the story now. You really want to hear it? Okay, fine.

We were talking about The Rolling Stones. Great band, right? The thing is, we like them for different reasons. She likes them because they’re from the 60s and remind her of her dad. I like them because they did a lot of drugs and sang about street fights and Satan. Anyway, she was telling me about how she saw them in concert and how “magical” it was. I almost projectile vomited my chai latte all over her Birkenstocks.

Something about that word makes me want to kill a family of unicorns in front of Drew Barrymore. It was “magical”? Really? Here’s a list of things filthy vegans have used that word to describe over the years:

Dinosaurs
Intercourse
Photosynthesis
Slam poetry
Freedom Writers
The sun
Gandhi

LISTEN: Unless you see a smurf shitting out rainbows, it’s not fucking magical. Does the word “magic” even mean anything anymore? David Blaine standing still for a week counts as magic these days. You want to hear about real magic? Read the Torah. It’s the greatest American novel of all time, and it’s got the dopest magic you ever heard. Raining frogs, talking bushes, angels who want to wrestle you, and the killing of Egyptian children: that’s magical!

-Calvin Coolidge

NO MORE MIXTAPES, LADIES.

I’ve decided to stop making mixtapes for girls,  because frankly this is getting ridiculous. For those of you who aren’t in the know,  a mixtape is this great  gift  to a person you love(or whatever),  wherein you let more talented, poetic people speak for you because you are a trite philistine who can’t string together two words unless they are  “Hamburger now”. Done right, it’s one of the most personal gifts you can give, and its a great way to remind that special someone that you aren’t into  Nickelback. Plus, it doesn’t cost anything. So far, so good, right?  The problem I keep running into, however, is that the mix acts like an iron-clad contract that you enter into with the songs. Their existence is now irrevocably linked to the person that the mix was made for. So when it goes south with the lady ( not to be confused with south of the border), this thing happens where I feel like shit whenever i hear them. Now, I can deal with general, standard-issue heartbreak.  What i can’t deal with is never being able to listen to “If You Want Me to Stay” ever again. Not if I can help it. Those songs were mine and I want them back. So yeah. You know what I’m gonna get my next girlfriend? A puppy. That way, when it all inevitably goes wrong, I’ll be able to take solace in the fact that my charming, romantic gift is probably pooping everywhere and eating her shoes.

-Martin Luther King Jr.

PS. Sorry to go all Emo-blog on y’all. Efforts will be made to ensure that the next several entries of NFI focus on our plan to solve the energy crisis by inventing a muscle car that runs on pornography.

If you did, good for you. shut up and go to school. Here’s the rumpus: The other day I was at a ballgame and I found myself craving a hot dog. How could I not? what, my fellow citizens, could beat a sizzling frank, perfectly apportioned with ketchup and mustard? Only a few, significantly more expensive things, that’s what.  I made the decision and reached for my wallet, all the while experiencing that uniquely American sense of pride that comes with acquiring hot dogs.  But my ebullience was short-lived. The harsh realities of our times set in, and I was hit in the face with the realization that I was completely broke and there would be no hot dogs. My sense of defeat was momentarily leavened, however, as i reasoned that I could go home to mine very own fridge and make a hot dog there. Hell, I could make like 4 of those bastards if I wanted. Why not? It’s a free country.  What a thing. But not so much. There was absolutely no way in hell I wanted a hot dog at home, thank you kindly. I asked myself why, and I realized something which shook me to my core: Hot Dogs only taste good outside on sunny days. A hot dog outside is a succulent beefy morsel, an earthly delight which easily justifies spending 3 dollars. A hot dog indoors is an entirely different specimen. For starters, it tastes horrible. The fact that you are eating a cow’s anus becomes much more relevant than it was at you last outdoor bbq, where your uncle Gus got drunk and set his wife on fire and everybody laughed because secretly they all hate that horrid succubus.  You think about it and you feel sick. But hotdogs indoors don’t just taste bad. Eating a hot dog indoors is like having all of your life failures for lunch. It’s the ultimate manifestation of I could do better than this. But I’m not gonna.  With every bite,  you feel a growing sense that when your ancestors came to these golden shores, this is absolutely not what they had in mind for their progeny.  Also, it’s completely unacceptable to eat scrambled eggs twice in one day. Try it and you’ll see. In summation, I haven’t been to a baseball game in 9 years and i fucking can’t stand the sport.

-J. Edgar Hoover

The collective of prisoners, thieves, and cynics hereafter referred to as The Chief Heroes and Internet Executive Friends (CHIEFs) set out one summer afternoon to create an outlet at which all aspects of the world shall stand trial. Several months later, they agreed that the best venue for this was probably a tumblr page. Finally, in the twilight days of September they committed a blood sacrifice, as well as a burrito sacrifice (it should be understood that the burrito  sacrifice was in lieu of a blood sacrifice, as nobody had any blood at the time). And thence, Notes From Internets was born (were born? will be born?). Our express aim is to obfuscate the traditional world of cybotrigonometric-cryticism via a miasma of ethereal posts and unassailable truths that we will reveal in due course. Basically what we’re saying is “Hey, Print Media, YOU’RE FUCKED”.

If Klaus Kinski existed as a webpage, he would attempt to strangle Notes From Internets. If Tom Waits went to the top of a bell tower and shot digital truth bombs at the unwilling (albeit guilty) citizens below, that tower would be Notes From Internets. If you lost your virginity to your 9th grade Spanish teacher, your homework assignment that night would have been Notes From Internets.

Resign your mind to the fates, and your body to the nearest willing participants, for you are now living within the Notes From Internets.

One Love,

The CHIEFs