Friday, February 25, 2011


The one thing that bothers me about this advice column is that there’s a two-week lag on answering you folks. I’m the son of God. I can do better. To remedy this situation, I’ve decided to answer ALL OF YOUR FUCKING QUESTIONS NOW! This way, if you ask me something today, you will have your response in exactly ONE WEEK. You are welcome. Now . . . ON TO THE MAIL BAG!

Our first question actually comes via text from Rico, who asks: “Who would win in a fight? FBJ or Ricodoz? Put that on your website and drink it.”

Future Booze Jesus says: You fool! There is no question of my victory over a swine like you! You’re a shell of a man with no drinking ability whatsoever! While I am busy doing grand, messiah-type things, like turning water into booze and crippling Amazonian warriors with the sheer size of my Jesuscock, you are passed out and puking all over yourself! BEHOLD!

Even if you somehow managed to gather your wits about you, I would D-Dolla’ Holla’ you into submission. NEXT QUESTION!

Purple Rain asks: “I enjoy taking bubble baths all the time. Sometimes while in there I think of my co-workers. Is it wrong to tell people at work of my post curricular activities at home and show them pictures of it?”

Future Booze Jesus says: Shit. Who hasn’t emailed a picture of their junk to a loved one? If we had photography in my day, I would have done it all the time. My cock has a halo and is a thing of true beauty. Anyway, bubble baths are fun, especially if you make your own bubbles. I encourage this activity, especially if you’re thinking of D-Dolla’ when you’re waxing the weasel in the tub. I think you should tell him about it. In great detail. And gently touch yourself as you do so. NEXT QUESTION!

Iceman asks: “Is it true Val Kilmer hasn’t been hired on for any future movies because no one is willing to fork over the dough for the enormous craft services it would require?”

Future Booze Jesus says: How dare you sully this advice column with your vicious lies? Val Kilmer is like the hottest chick at the party. You know the type; she’s so beautiful that she intimidates guys, who then don’t get the guts to ask her out. Kilmer’s talent is so overwhelming that not even Jerry Zucker can stand to look him in the eyes. He drove Nic Cage to tears in BAD LIEUTENANT 2. He made Karl Urban—Judge fucking Dredd himself—feel like a lesser man in COMANCHE MOON. He makes Chuck Norris doubt himself! Ever notice that Kilmer was never invited to play a role on WALKER? CHUCK HAS THE FEAR! So Kilmer has resorted to making his own movies, starting with his forthcoming Mark Twain masterpiece. “Bible and sword!” NEXT QUESTION!

Tina asks: “What does a nuclear explosion taste like? I’ve always thought it’d be a bit salty.”

Future Booze Jesus says: It tastes like Mary Magdalene’s asshole. For her day, she was pretty hot, but she just didn’t keep herself clean. We didn’t have toilet paper back then, you see, and she was too busy bathing my feet with her hair than to actually take a bath herself. Big events must have extreme tastes. Birth tastes like wet pussy, and death tastes like an unwiped butt hole. NNNNNNNNNEEEEXXXXXXTTTTTT QQQQQUUUUUEEEEEESSSSSTTTTTTTIIIIIIIOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNN!!!!!

OsamaFan69 asks: “I got stopped in customs at O’Hare. My genitals were groped by a large bald man, and then he found the weapons grade plutonium I had hidden up my ass! Can you break me out of prison?”

Future Booze Jesus says: Enjoy the cockmeat sandwich you’ll be getting at Git-Mo, you fool! We all know how he found your nuclear nugget! When he touched your dick, you got hard! You rubbed his bowling ball melon, and he invited you back into the office where he tried to give you a much needed prison hug! You would never have been caught if you hadn’t encouraged the pig! There’s some good news, though; considering plutonium’s half-life, you probably won’t survive for much longer. You might even be dead by the time you read this. Next time send the plutonium through snail mail via lead envelope. NEXT QUESTION!







Roy asks: “My dad caught me jacking off in the bathroom!!! Now he thinks I’m gay because I was looking in the mirror while I did it! What should I do?”

Future Booze Jesus says: You must kill your father. Sorry Roy, but there’s no other way. He knows your secret, and he must be silenced before he tells anybody. First he’ll tell your mother, and then his drinking friends. Rumors of your homosexuality will be spread around his place of employment. Hell, by the end of the week his bowling team might know about it. All of their kids go to school with you (they are the next step in the equation, after all), and you will be the laughingstock of your class. Nip this in the bud immediately and murder him. And next time, lock the fuckin’ door, will ya’? NEXT FUCKING QUESTION!

Well, actually we have no more questions. We do have a few comments, though. I see the Palp has stopped by to say hi, and to you sir, I say welcome. I can’t wait to see what Machiavellian maneuvers you will try here.

P says: “HAHAHAHA . . . . I don’t have a question, I just stopped by to laugh my ass off at that bubble bath question and commend you, Future Booze Jesus, for being the free-minded individual that you are who simply DOESN’T GIVE A FUCK :)”

Thank you, P. But I am no one special. Anyone can do this, provided they get hammered enough to let their inhibitions go. Give it a try sometime.

Angela Rutherford says: “Can’t wait to see you at the apocalypse! You’re soooo hot FBJ!!! Just look for the blonde with big tits wearing a cross around her neck!”

We don’t have to wait much longer, Angela. To quote a great man, “The future’s uncertain and the end is always near.” When we finally see each other, I will adorn you with a pearl crucifix.

My nemesis, Future Booze Satan stopped by to leave me with these words: “Hey FBJ! Suck my rancid asshole! Yo momma was a slut, all the fly gods stuck it in her! Face!”

Future Booze Jesus says: You are hilarious. I wonder how you can talk with that cock in your mouth all the time. And isn’t it hard to type when you’re jerking off your ladyboy brother with one hand and fisting yourself with the other? May your days be filled with dildo accidents and your evenings with dripping, syphilitic goat dicks. I wish all the joys of being sodomized with a chainsaw on you and yours. Good luck with the rape trial!

Well, that’s all I have for this week. Post questions below and pray for an FBJ 6. And remember: drink of my cum and eat of my cock, for these are the only things that will get you into Heaven. No, really. It’s in the Bible. Look it up.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

COOL SHIT 2-24-11

AMERICAN VAMPIRE #12:  After Stephen King left this title a while ago, the story has kind of lagged a little bit.  It never became unreadable, but at the same time it didn’t have much of an effect on me.  And then this issue came screaming down the pike.  Skinner Sweet, sadistic gunslinger turned American vampire, is in a nostalgic mood, so he goes to a Wild West Show.  Some of the performers are people he used to know in the old days, but they’re aged beyond recognition and sporting origin stories with more lies in ‘em than a penis enlargement commercial.  He’s so disappointed by this drivel that he starts to leave when he hears the owner say that one of the performers, Dolly (an ex-sweetheart of Skinner’s), actually turned her beloved in to the law.  This is news to Skinner, and he decides to bring the “good ol’ days” back in a rather gruesome way.

In an unrelated note, am I the only one excited about Avatar’s forthcoming CALIGULA?  Jesus Christ, I’m so fucking hard my erection’s holding up my gut.  Avatar is the ONLY company with the guts to do a book like this.  And the commander-in-chief, William Christensen, is smart enough not to give it to someone like Garth Ennis or Warren Ellis.  They are the finest writers in the industry, but they would put too much thought and philosophy into it.  David Lapham, who has been doing an absolutely hedonistic run on CROSSED, is the perfect choice to write this book.  He’s not afraid to get down and dirty with unacceptable amounts of sexual gore, and as far as I can tell, he does it only for the shock of it.  Normally, that would turn me off, but Lapham has recently been turning his work into roller coasters of meaningless obscenity.  Who else could perfectly write CALIGULA?  (And don’t say Gore Vidal.  He did a wonderful job, but remember that he was working for Penthouse.)  I can’t wait for this one to hit the shelves, and neither should you!  I’ll be at C2E2 this year, and I hope the Avatar booth has a preview!

Tuesday, February 22, 2011



At age fifty-four, Finnegan was no lad

Gray, puffy, and balding, but still he had
Enough lead in his pencil to write a book
Or at least a short story, by hook or crook.
But some days are limp
He’s feeling less pimp
He hates being such a gimp.

For such days he keeps on hand
A little bottle of blue pills and
The phone number of a good whore
Who always leaves him begging for more.
He gives her a call
He’s excited to ball
He’s ready to give it his all.

Finnegan! It’s your final day on earth!
Give this man a very wide berth!
Does he have bad or good luck?
Who knows? It’s time for Finnegan’s fuck!

He pops a blue pill in his mouth
And feels a tingling down south
But it’s going too slow
Can’t go with the flow
He takes two more
And sits at the door
Waiting for his favorite whore.

Finnegan! It’s your final day on earth!
Give this man a very wide berth!
Does he have bad or good luck?
Who knows? It’s time for Finnegan’s fuck!

Finnegan tears her clothes asunder
And plugs her up with a cock of thunder
He rides her with ferocity
And moves with such velocity
His heart rate soars
He’s on all fours
Wishing he had more whores.

His groin is scorched and his heart is numb
It spreads to his left arm and he knows how dumb
He was to take so many pills
But it was worth the thrills
If he could cum
Before his bum
Ticker could turn to chewing gum.

Finnegan! It’s your final day on earth!
Give this man a very wide berth!
Does he have bad or good luck?
Who knows? It’s time for Finnegan’s fuck!

His heart has stopped in his chest
And he squeezes her left breast
One last time before he’s through
At least he’s able to squirt his goo
At the last
He stops moving fast
And even in death he’s at half-mast.

Finnegan! It’s your final day on earth!
Give this man a very wide berth!
Done in by his naughty trouser snake.
And now it’s time for Finnegan’s wake!

Friday, February 18, 2011


They beat me. They whipped me. They put a crown of thorns on my head, and they crucified me. Shit, you saw THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST. You know what they did to me. But they failed to kill me. Why? Because I’m a drunkard, and I have too much alcohol in my blood to allow mere mortals to kill me. And so I am here to answer your questions. So let’s get to it. I’m a messiah, and I don’t have a lot of time to fuck around.

Rico asks: “FBJ, what will next week’s winning Lotto numbers be? And when I win, what should I buy you as a thank you?”

Future Booze Jesus says: Everyone except Rico: LOOK AWAY RIGHT NOW. This knowledge is too dangerous for the likes of you. Okay, Rico, wait a minute . . . we’re almost there. Right! We’re one on one. The winning numbers are: 5, 10, 15, 27, 34, 48, and the bonus number is 12. You may buy me Wild Turkey 101, and make it a handle bottle. Nothing else will satisfy me. On your way.

Is he gone? Good. Everyone else can come back now. I lied to Rico. He’s a slimy degenerate, and I can’t stand the thought of him having a lot of money. For the good of the world, I had to deceive him. Do not play the numbers above, unless you want to waste a dollar. NEXT QUESTION!

Big Sal asks: “What happened to my puppy after she was kidnapped by terrorists? Do they know what kind of food she likes?”

Future Booze Jesus says: I’m sorry, but they weren’t very concerned with food for your puppy. They were too busy raping every orifice she had, and then they made new ones to rape. By the time they were done with your puppy, not even Charlie Manson wanted anything to do with it. But because of your sacrifice, Egypt will be safe. NEXT QUESTION!

Dr. Samuel Furnterb asks: “Future Booze Jesus! Why doth we live, sir?! Why?!”

Future Booze Jesus says: This is a pointless question. We live, obviously, because we want to fuck your mother. All generations of human beings, past, present, and future, exist to fuck the shit out of the vagina from whence you came. Do you have any idea how flexible she is? I’ve never seen a woman eat herself out before, and she’s one of the only people I know who can accommodate the D-Dolla’ Holla’. You should give her a shot. Maybe then you wouldn’t need to voice this silly quandary. NEEEXT QUUUEEESSSSSSSSTTTTTIOOOONNNNNNNNN!

Ben Hernandez asks: “I have made love to an unclean woman. I now have a small tongue growing from my anus. Can you help me fix this?”

Future Booze Jesus says: First of all, whatever you do, DO NOT EAT ANYTHING WITH YOUR ASSHOLE. I can’t stress this enough. If you encourage this new growth, the tongue in your mouth will become obsolete. Do you see yourself gobbling a cheeseburger down through the ol’ balloon knot? I didn’t think so.

The next step is more difficult. Grab the secondary tongue and pull it out as far as possible. Sever it as close to the base as you can. If done correctly, the root will retreat and after time become ineffective. It will rot and fall out with the rest of your feces. If you fail, though, it will grow back. Then you will have to core out your asshole, which is very unpleasant, and you will probably not survive the procedure.

The final step is to STOP FUCKING WOMEN WITHOUT CHECKING THEIR ANUSES! You must do this carefully. Vigilance is the only thing standing between you and sexually transmitted body parts.

That’s all the time we have for this week. Don’t forget to post your questions in the comments below so we can keep this advice column going for as long as we can. Until next time: watch where you put your dick, and remember to fuck Dr. Furnterb’s mother. It’s the best pussy Dad ever made.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

COOL SHIT 2-17-11

THE BOYS #51: I’m seriously starting to think I have to ban this title from Cool Shit. It’s too consistently good, and I know I’ve got to be boring you by blathering on like a fan boy. I can’t help it, though. Butcher’s a busy guy this issue, getting blackmail information on not one but two of his opponents. In Rayner’s case, it’s kind of sad, even though she completely deserves it. Monkey, on the other hand, continues to be one of the darkest comedy relief characters in the history of comics. The true star of this issue, however, is Ms. Bradley’s simulation. If the Boys ever went head to head against the Seven, only two people would certainly live, and a third is in question. If you think about it, you won’t be surprised by this result. Still, I wonder what circumstance they considered. By the way, a giant bulldog fucking an impotent athlete-cripple-fetishist is ALWAYS funny. Mr. Ennis, you once made the promise that this book would “out-PREACHER PREACHER.” Today, you delivered. Hats off to you, sir.

G.I. JOE/COBRA #13: As I predicted, this is indeed the last issue. Of all the Joe books, this was my favorite. It was a hard, ugly piece of work, but its chill always managed to find the core of my bones. I’ll miss it, but the ending is so perfect that to continue afterward would be nothing less than a betrayal of the story. Remember how on the cover of #12 they said that a major character would die in that issue? #13 rendered the teaser moot, considering how many major characters died in this one. (Shakespeare’s tragedies had more survivors, to give you an idea.) This one ends with a bang. Literally. Not to say that action took the center stage. As always with this title, philosophy underlies every thrown punch, every fired bullet. Every explosion triggered starts with an idea (and maybe a bit of Machiavellian maneuvering).

As a side note, IDW has a kinda-sorta sequel for this series planned. Now that Cobra Commander is dead (from last issue; I wouldn’t put THAT big of a spoiler in Cool Shit), there is a power vacuum, and everyone in Cobra wants to fill it. COBRA CIVIL WAR probably won’t be as awesome, but G.I. JOE/COBRA fills me with faith that it will at least be awe-inspiring.

Friday, February 11, 2011


Am I the only one out there who desperately hopes to find himself on I hope not. I scoured that site, and none of you thought to post anything from my debauchery there. Fuckers. Anyway, good news! There are more questions for FBJ, so there will indeed be a fourth installment next week! In the meantime, if you have anymore questions, please post them below. For now: your questions, FBJ’s answers . . . .

Rico asks: “Who would win in a fight, you or Ace from Mullen’s?”


Future Booze Jesus says: This is a foolish question. Ace would never stand a chance against your drunken messiah. I appreciate his love of booze, but the man has no control. If it came down to a karaoke battle, he would probably beat me. But I take shits bigger than him, and my cock is ten feet long and bulletproof. NEXT QUESTION!

That Guy asks: “If alcohol allegedly kills all these brain cells, how come it never kills the ones that make me want to drink all the time? I mean come on, what are the odds that they are ever killed off? I am starting to think this whole brain cell killings is a great lie.”

Future Booze Jesus says: Welcome to a more enlightened caste. If alcohol killed brain cells, I’d be a retard by now. You too, probably. Instead, I rise above you with my steaming messiah genitals, ready to save the world with my powers. Anyone can do this; you just need to drink as much as I do. Spread the word and help the world throw off its yoke of sobriety. Only then can we, as a species, evolve and make the world a better, more fun place. NEXT QUESTION!

Worried About the Womb asks: “I tried to strangle my cousin’s baby with its own umbilical cord last night but was unsuccessful. Do you think the kid will grow up to hate me?

Future Booze Jesus says: You fool! I hate you, and I am the messiah! How could you have failed to strangle a child? And where the fuck did you get the umbilical cord?! Is your cousin’s baby still attached to your cousin? If so, I’m impressed by your audacity. I wouldn’t worry about it, though; babies are stupid, and they have the memory of an empty can of Icehouse.

Well, that’s all the questions we have for now. Join us next time, when we find out what next week’s winning Lotto numbers are, how good terrorists are at taking care of puppies, what to do if a tongue starts growing from your anus, and why we exist. Please help Future Booze Jesus continue handing out advice by leaving your queries in the comments below. For now, all I can say is: next question . . . ?

Thursday, February 10, 2011

COOL SHIT 2-10-11

THE TRANSFORMERS #16: Ultra Magnus vs. the new, improved, more-powerful Megatron. Thundercracker vs. Starscream. Brawn vs. Starscream. Bumblebee and Gears fucked up beyond all recognition. And humans attacking all Transformers, regardless of their affiliation. Things are cooking up in this book, folks. All right, fine. No one ever truly dies in the world of Transformers. They always find a way of coming back. Alliances have been shaken up, though; things may never be the same.

INCOGNITO: BAD INFLUENCES #3: It’s not often that we get a look into the heads of the other characters in this series (aside from Zack Overkill, of course), and Ed Brubaker gives us a peek in this issue. Though we don’t learn who he is through his thoughts, we learn a bit about the villain, about his attitudes and how he views the human race. We also learn a bit about Zoe’s past and how her father tried to instill optimism into her. “Everything begins with a wish.” We even get a vague walk through of Simon Slaughter’s thoughts.

But as always, Overkill is the star, and he makes a spectacularly bad mistake in this issue. This is what nostalgia gets you: broken promises and a lot of battered and broken bodies around you.

Friday, February 4, 2011


Welcome back to the Future Booze Jesus advice column! Very soon, FBJ will be available for children’s parties, so keep your appointment calendar nearby! He does not charge money, but he will expect to be paid in Wild Turkey 101. And believe me, you won’t find a better teacher; he will make sure your kids learn how to drink lots of shots and put their peers to shame! Sure, five-year-olds probably weren’t made for games like Edward 40-Hands, but with the help of FBJ, they will be ready for their high school and college years! Now, for questions and answers . . . .

Joey asks: “What the fuck is Yoda? You never see any other members of his species in STAR WARS. Is he a mutant?”

Future Booze Jesus says: Yoda was born 856 years before we met him in EMPIRE. Jaffa the Hutt, an ancestor of Jabba, had stomach problems after an evening of eating nbinriwoprfnit, and he shat out a turd about three feet tall. It turned out to be a sentient shit, and it soon learned the ways of the Force. After 113 years of being called Turd by his peers, he moved to the Dagobah system, where he reinvented himself as a great Jedi master. He named himself Yoda and waited for his peers to die off and for the world to forget him. He then re-emerged and quickly gained respect as a holy man. Oddly enough, Salacious Crumb was born the same way, but he took a different path. NEXT QUESTION!

Work Wife asks: “Will I ever find the mythical unicorn? And if so, will I be disappointed?”

Future Booze Jesus says: You fool! You will never find the mythical unicorn! Myths don’t exist! However, you will find a non-mythical unicorn on the eve of your 96th birthday. Unfortunately, it will be dead and very disappointing. You will bury it in your backyard, and three thousand years later, an alien culture will dig it up and find only the horn. The aliens will then masturbate furiously with it. NEXT QUESTION!

Potsy asks: “There was once a time, I think it was called HAPPY DAYS, when all the kids respected their parents and enjoyed malts and stuff. Will there be a woman president in the next 20 years?”

Future Booze Jesus says: Technically, no. But there will be a transsexual president elected in 2020, and “she” will present herself as a woman. It will actually be the actor who played Ralph Malph. There’s a lot you don’t know about that guy, Potsy. A lot. But that’s OK. In 2020, YOU will be the First Gentleman of the US, and by then, you will understand.

That’s all we have time for this week. Tune in next Friday for what will probably be the final advice column, unless we get more questions, of course. You can post them in the comments below, if you so desire. Next time, we’ll find out the true nature of alcohol and the brain cells it supposedly kills and what happens when you try to strangle an infant relative.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011


Many different military units have been forgotten by all but history buffs for one reason or another. Alexander the Great’s rape troops who sexually violated men on the losing side of a battle. The Buffalo Soldiers of the American West. And now, the rarely researched midget troops of the U.S. military. Very few “little people” served together at the same time, but their likes have a distinguished history of service in various wars. It is unfortunate that their courage and honor have been ignored, but this will be the case no longer.

The earliest known midget to enter service was Napoleon Keene, a performer in a traveling medicine show until he joined the Army in 1862. According to records, the recruiting officer laughed at young Mr. Keene and attempted to turn him away. Keene was not one to be trifled with, as an arrest record would show (over the course of two years in three different states, he’d been arrested seven times for brawling), and he proceeded to batter the recruiting officer with his fists. He was arrested by soldiers, but when the matter came up in court, it was decided that Keene would be put to better use in a Union Army uniform.

The road to Gettysburg was difficult for Keene, who was barely over three feet tall. He could not keep up with the other men and was soon relegated to the care of Thomas “Strongman” Burns, a seven-foot tall giant known for his prodigious strength. He carried Keene in a harness on his back until occasion for battle came upon them.

It was at Gettysburg where they met their demise. Burns was decapitated by a cannon ball, and Keene was shot down coming to the aid of a drummer boy named Henry Smith. The midget was posthumously commended for this act of bravery, which spared the young boy’s life, but memory dimmed too soon, and he was forgotten by all but one.

In World War I, twin midgets, Daniel and Donald O’Leary, whose older, normal-sized brother died fighting the Germans, decided to lie about their age (sixteen) to enlist in the fight against the Kaiser. If they’d gone to any other recruitment office, who is to say what might have happened? But the brothers met with an aged veteran of the Civil War by the name of Henry Smith, who remembered well the midget who had saved his life at Gettysburg. He had no difficulty in accepting the brothers O’Leary into the United States Army.

They fought the Germans bravely, and to everyone’s surprise, both emerged alive at the end of the war and heavily decorated to boot. Daniel, however, was never able to cope with the horrors he’d seen, and after a long struggle with alcoholism, he shot himself in 1927. His brother lived a long and happy life which ended in 1962. He was survived by two sons of average height, twins, who were proud of their father’s heroism.

Timothy Duff had no Henry Smith to aid his recruitment in 1941. Eager to defend his country in the wake of Pearl Harbor, Duff attempted to enlist and was promptly turned away because of his height. He was tenacious, however, and he tried many other branches of the military. The Army said no, the Rangers laughed at him, the Navy politely refused him, but he managed to convince the Air Force he’d be an excellent machine-gunner. His size made him a perfect fit for the planes, and he was soon flying missions in German airspace.

Unfortunately, his plane was shot down in 1942, and all traces of him ceased until 1945, when American troops discovered documentation of his extermination in the ovens of Buchenwald.

Duff was not the only American midget to serve in the Greatest War. William Takeshido, a Harvard graduate and master of theatre and languages, was recruited by the U.S. Government to spy on Hirohito. At first he protested this honor due to the treatment of his parents in a Japanese-American concentration camp, but he accepted the offered challenge provided his mother and father were granted their freedom. The government agreed and was true to its word, and Takeshido was bound for Tokyo, where he quickly gained Hirohito’s trust. Unfortunately, a bodyguard became suspicious, and the ruse was soon discovered, as no record of Takeshido’s birth or citizenship could be found. He was swiftly beheaded by the Emperor’s bodyguard. The head, it is rumored, is still traveling Japan as a curiosity, now pickled in a jar.

It wasn’t until 9/11 that another midget sought service with the U.S. military. Josh McQueen, lifetime resident of New York City, was there to see the Twin Towers fall, and he was one of the first to join the hunt for Osama bin Laden. The recruiters, desperate for soldiers, asked him no questions and sent him immediately to Afghanistan, where he still serves as an American soldier.

“I’m going to get bin Laden myself if I have to,” McQueen says. “That son of a b***h killed my countrymen. I’ll die before letting him walk free.”

Good luck, Sgt. McQueen. Your country depends on you.