Postcards from the Pug Bus                
   
   

postcards from the pug bus

  
lifting a leg on popular culture since 2004
Reparations? Isn't that just a fancy word
for "welfare handouts"
an excuse for taking money from people
who never owned slaves
and giving it to people
who never were slaves?
Elizabeth Warren loves to tell business owners,
"You didn't build that."
We say to reparations queens,
"You didn't earn that."
STAFF PICKS
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Whether you do it doggie style or scissors, sister, we've got suggestions for what to read when you're having a cigarette or a blunt afterward ...

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The Book of Daze℠
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Who gives a shit about National Bubble Bath Day? We don't. National Take Your Grand Kid Out to Lunch Day? Fuck that, and your grand kid, too. For the really fun days, the ones that nobody else has the imagination to celebrate, days like National Ain't Woke, Do Not Disturb Day℠, National Ignore the Ban on Plastic Straws Day℠, and others visit . . .  The Book of Daze℠.
 
 

Your Virtual GanjaScope
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A half-century's worth of smoking pot/hash/shatter/live resin carts has led us to conclude that horoscopes are more fun and more accurate when you're stoned...and they're even better when the person who wrote them was stoned, too. If you're looking to turn over a new leaf, visit GanjaScope.


The Grammar Prick
 
Meaner than a 250-pound lesbian Language Arts teacher, The Grammar Prick will split your head if you split an infinitive, dangle a participle, or dare to misuse penultimate. Visit The Grammar Prick.


There's a Saint for That
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There's a saint in every pot, and a prayer card for every condition. Just tell us where it hurts you, and we'll tell you whom to call and where to send your donations. Let us pray.



      
image of iconic screaming person
      
two lions having it off
      
The Who shortly after pissing on a tall wall
      
American Freedm Party
      
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subliminal Coca-Cola advert
             
image of worldwide web on computer screen
     
image of bicyclist
  
image of handicapped parking sticker
      
man on his knees fucking a tail pipe
      
fly agaric mushroom

Here's to a Brighter Day
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Brights neither seek nor accept any supernatural "explanations" for life. If that sounds like a bright idea to you, click here.


              
The Pug Bus Blogs On
seven pugs looking out the back of a Dodge Caravan whose hatch is raised
Our editor in briefs holds forth on why he doesn't want to be called a white person; the evil that is Mick Jagger; the rise of the alt-middle; and more!"

Yesterdays' Papers
image of a bunch of newspapers
Read any two of these classic articles from May 2005 and get the third one for free. Pay only for shipping and handling. Offer good while supplies last.

US Prepared for Flu Pandemic Says Bush
A case of deja vu in reverse or what?

Johnny Depp to Read at Hunter S. Thompson Memorial
Johnny wore a wife-beater then he became one.

Mena Suvari Seeks Separation from Mira Sorvino
So who'd you rather . . . or rather not.

Local News
West Chester University Golden Ram  image
West Chester, PA, is home to a public-embarrassment Jackass has-been; a woke university; and the goddamn QVC shopping headquarters. That should be good for a mean-spirited, condescending local news story from time to time.


Pug Bus Quizzes 'n' Polls
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No rhetorical questions allowed. No penalties for guessing wrong. Find out just how much you do know about Schrödinger’s cat and other neat shit."



Postcards the Book
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The book that inspired a website was written by someone who was actually raised by pugs. Postcards is a welcome addition to any nightstand.

Sample chapters . . . -1- -2-




You Can't Photoshop This
 

Some photos cannot be shopped. They are perfect just the way god made them. Such perfection does not happen by accident, and wise, indeed, is the man who says "you can't photoshop this."

 

The Pug Bus Interview
image of phil maggitti, the pug bus editor
Enjoy the interviews nobody else has the sack to do. We aren't afraid to stop totally at the surface, because no matter how beautiful a person might be on the inside, you've still got to look at him or her when you're speaking to 'em..Read on.


 
   

image of a gun Trigger warning! The content of this website may cause raging panic attacks in hypersensitive snowflakes who suffer from androphobia, galactophobia, emetophobia, corprophobia, claustrophobia, fear of taints, and other psycho-sexual maladies too numerous to mention.

 
 
  An Open Letter to the Rolling Stones
        Sep 10, 2011 - 3:36
       
an image
Dear Mick, Keith, Charlie, and the New Guy,
I have learned recently that you geezers might be touring next year. Please don't. In the name of all that's wrinkled, wizened, and way past its prime—namely you sorry git—take a minute to stop and think about what you're doing. You look like shite; you sound like shite. Indeed, I don't think Brian Jones looks any worse than you wankers do these days.

You'll appear a right bunch of twats if you proceed with this sad, ego-driven scheme. To be honest you've looked like a right bunch of twats for the last two decades at least. You haven't really been the same since Mick Taylor left the band. He was not only the best-looking member of the group but also your best player, and you go and replace him with a worm who has gotten further on less talent than any "musician" save Ringo Starr.

The first time I saw you guys perform was in the fall of 1969 at the Olympia theater in Detroit. In those days a person could drive by a venue, see a sign proclaiming "Rolling Stones Tonight," and get a decent ticket. Those were also the days when you guys were considered dangerous, a quality that no rock band should lack. You were the guys who pissed on petrol station walls, got busted for drugs, fucked each other's girlfriends, made a film called Cocksucker Blues, and struck fear and terror into the hearts of parents.

Nowadays parents, most of whom clock in at 15 stone or better, take their kids (and even their fucking grandkids) to see you. That must be mortifying. Once you prowled the stage, commanding an ocean of ripe young breasts that were yours for the asking. Now you look out over—if you can bear to look—a bunch a Lane Bryant types whose chins are where their tits used to be and whose tits reach their navels. I don't envy you that sight. Oh sure, many of those walking heaps of cellulite might still be yours for the asking, but not even you sorry lot of sheep shaggers would ask. Would you?

After that fine night in Detroit, I saw you guys in 1972, 1975, 1981, 1989, and once or twice in the '90s. That's when I snuffed out my one-hitter. The crowds kept getting frumpier; you guys kept getting frumpier; and then the inevitable occurred: you morphed into a Rolling Stones tribute band—and not a very good one at that. Only your most delusional fans, like your butt boy, Jann Wenner, could get it up for the kazillionth rendition of "Satisfaction."

So do yourselves a favor. Stay the fuck home. It can't be any fun lugging those hyperbaric chambers and defibrillators around the world. Jesus! Your carbon footprint must be the size of fucking Missouri. The Earth will thank you; I'll certainly thank you. Besides, as you once sang— when you could still touch your toes without popping a hemorrhoid—"Who wants yesterday's papers?"
   

© The fine fucking print: The editorial content on this page is fictional. It is presented for satirical and/or entertainment purposes only. We cannot be held responsible for the actions of anyone who takes this sort of shit seriously. We also do not wish to be held responsible for any copyrighted material that sneaked onto this page when we weren't looking. If you can prove that anything on this page belongs rightfully to you, we will happily take it down and return the unused portion. No questions asked.

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