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Bat Country Blog

Why are you reading this? You can’t stop here, this is the Bat Country Blog.




These are dark times.

And yet, there is a voice in the darkness, deep in the heart of Bat Country. The Bat Country Blog.

Champion of the downtrodden, crusader for the fringe, voice of the forgotten.

Once, the press acted as the defender of the common man. Now, news corporations and advertisers have muzzled our watchdog, leaving us helpless.

We are fed a constant stream of humanity's bile, gossip and rumors and celebrity "news." Yes, it shows the dark side of human nature, but we are trained to see it as entertainment.

We at BCB aim to change that. We don't profess to have the power necessary to make a real difference, but we will try all the same. Perhaps, with your help, there is another way.

Mahalo.

Contact BCB: thebatcountryblog@gmail.com

Follow BCB on Twitter: “batcountryblog1”

This blog pays homage to the gonzo writing style of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson.



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  • Please, say draw

    Some other commercials that really grind my shit: (surprise!) the entire Bud Light “Drinkability” line with the dudes drawing on the air.

    One of my least favorite of these already vomit-inducingly bad ads is the one that starts with a guy bouncing a paddle ball he apparently drew using his magic finger. I honestly don’t remember the reason why, but he decides to draw a random ass door in the air. Long story short, he and his buddy end up in an Old West-style saloon. All of the surly bearded cowboys stand up and look vaguely menacing.

    Bud Light dumbass 1: Draw another door.

    Bud Light dumbass 2: Don’t say draw.

    That’s just great. I get the whole “draw” joke, ha ha. Unfortunately, you said it again, dumbfuck, so if this was actually the Old West and not a feeble excuse for a television commercial, it’d be your ass that got smoked.

    I’d like to film an alternate version of this ad, in which both assholes say “draw” to each other until they both get riddled with bullets dispensed from every Remington revolver in the entire bar.

    The narrator then goes into his little pitch about “drinkability” and my blood pressure starts to return to normal. But wait, those bastards want to make it spike just once more. The camera cuts back to the saloon, where Mr. Magic Finger is sitting at a table, playing cards with the surly cowboys. He lays down a hand of shittily-scribbled “cards.”

    Bud Light dumbass: Seven aces.

    He’s worried about getting killed when his buddy says “draw,” but he has no problem cheating blatantly at cards during an era when that was probably the easiest way to commit suicide?

    There’s nothing I want more than to see that mouth breather shot right in the face.

    Posted on July 1, 2009

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