thehaberdasher CN domain and keyword

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We are a Network Service Company which is the domain name registration center in Shanghai, China. On Sep 26, 2016, we received an application from Ketong Holdings Ltd requested "thehaberdasher" as their internet keyword and China (CN) domain names (thehaberdasher.cn, thehaberdasher.com.cn, thehaberdasher.net.cn, thehaberdasher.org.cn). But after checking it, we find this name conflict with your company name or trademark. In order to deal with this matter better, it's necessary to send email to you and confirm whether your company have relations with this Chinese company or not?

 

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New York, New York big city of dreams...

What's happens when the west coast [Tauwan Patterson] meets the east coast[New York City]?

COMING SOON.

Hold on to your underwear

So a few months ago when I posted some old battles
Bruce slaughtered my repeats like they were old cattle
Apparently he has BEEF with reusing cold prattle
Hence the reason he dumped me in shit creek with no paddles
So if I may respond to (and I use the term loosely)
This "gentleman" who slammed me in verse so profusely
I'll counter these charges of lame repetition
And leave y'all with the comeback for which you've been wishin'

So yo, here we go. Hold your breath while I flow
Oh so slowly at first, then lookout below as I blow
Just like ol' Smithy at the knob slob convention
Who says taking homo—I mean, home—the gold is his only intention
But that's beside the point. We're not here for Fat Mike
We're here to jeer at the queer with a major in Psych
So Bruce, here's a question: Is it difficult to type
While giving hand jobs for brand jobs? Because I've got a gripe
With that crock of poo stew you guys use to make "hype"
It's time somebody taught you to bend over and wipe
And speaking of brands, I think if Bruce had his own
It would either be "Bland" or "Lonely Hand on a Bone"
Or perhaps simply "Flav" because B's clearly got no Flavor
People skip past his quips so they can hurry up and savor
Every bite that I spice like I’m Emeril, Lord and Savior
Of the Week. And your weak, sickly rhymes have to quaver
And waver when confronted with mine
Hell, yours should have to sign a waiver to share space with mine!

Yeah your cocky pop is straight poppy cock
So I hope you're sweatin' balls like a sloppy jock
For being so full of crap. And it seems like this rap--
Well, it's turning into a rout
And thanks to Huckins, Bruce's caboose is so loose that the poop just falls out
Which leaves him so pooped he just sits there and pouts
And that's my third reference to feces, so peace G's. T-Mac out!
(Like Bruce in 2008 when the Dem's regain power
And he's no longer afraid to admit that he showers
With men at the gym, where he hangs out for hours
Dropping the soap and then hoping for flowers.)
But enough with the gay jokes; they're no longer original
Unlike the story about Mike and the pigeonhole
Which I used to think was just a figure of speech
Until I saw a tape of him doing a bird breach
And then spinnin' those tail feathers and doing a bird reach
Around. Guess Smithy loves the feathery peach
I bet the sex tape's even hotter than the one made by Screech!

But enough, I digress. Bow your head to the best
Then stand up and man up and admit that this test
Of wits between twits should be laid right to rest
Because there's clearly no match for my rapier jests
Respond if you must, but I'll still be the victor
Because my skills can only be measured by Richter
Though on a scale of 1 to 10, I give you a 4 Bruce
Because you were right about how my dink's infected with whore juice
You just picked the wrong whore, so here's my last bomb
My case of VD? Yeah, it came from YOUR MOM!

Boomshackalacka Mothafacka

To quote a line from REM...

It's the end of the world as we know it...and I feel fine. If by "fine" you mean "shitty and depressed." Why the bleak outlook folks? Well, how about this: I have officially joined the ranks of practical asshole adults everywhere.

"How?" you innocently and homosexually inquire.

"By trading in my 1974 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible for a--drum fuckin' roll please--2003 Chevy Cavalier," I condescendingly and handsomely reply.

I know. I'm a goddamn sellout. Worse, I'm a hypocrite.

The thing is, I really thought I was above it all. Honest to Vishnu, after skating through high school and turning college into little more than an extended Super Snack meets Netflix, I had actually fooled myself into thinking I could trump the world's petty pragmatism with my own brand of rebel narcissism. I eschewed traditional employment, laughed at summer internships, and scoffed at a continuing education, and what did it get me? Some wannabe corporate douchebag's four door Sedan. A FOUR DOOR SEDAN. I went from the pimpinest car in the world to a nondescript monkey turd on wheels. And for those of you wondering if it's possible to hate a car that you don't even officially own yet, the answer is FUCK YOU. Wanna know something else? The car's coloring is officially labeled as Desert Sand Mica. Not gold, not tan, DESERT SAND MICA. What the hell kind of preppy snatch-sniffery is that? Seriously, the way my life is going right now, inside of a month I'll be working in a cubicle and living in some upscale suburbian apartment. All that'll be left to do then is change my name to Bruce Schollard Courtney and permanently fuse my thumb inside my sweaty rectum.

Life. What a cock grenade.

(Note: For a more in-depth--and less vulgar--polemic on the above subject matter, check out the column I penned for the North Shore Sunday: Trevor vs. the Real World)

The Ho-Ho....Ho-berdasher? This subject line sucks, and I apologize.

Greetings, friends. I hope this season finds you well, whether you celebrate Christmas or any holiday of sin that is not officially endorsed by our lord and savior Jesus Christ. And if you're struggling to row upstream on the old man river of seasonal stress, don't fret; I've exhaustively researched some Christmas jokes that are sure to have you chuckling and guffawing, hooting and howling, chortling with deep thunderous belly laughs of Santaic proportions, before you can sing "The 12 Days of Christmas" 37 straight times at one-quarter tempo. (Yes, I just used the word "Santaic" as an adjective meaning "In the style of St. Nick." But let's move on.) With your permission, I'd like to dust off the following old Christmas chestnuts:

Question: What do you call people who are afraid of Santa Claus?
Answer: Claustrophobic.

Question: What do snowmen eat for breakfast?
Answer: Frosted Flakes.
Question: Why does Santa have 3 gardens?
Answer: So he can ho-ho-ho.

But enough about those jokes. They suck, and I don't know why you idiots got so excited about them. But the following is something that needs to be read. Let's turn to the age-old tradition of science destroying humanity's faith in phenomena that can't be explained by numbers. I'm serious, this is hilarious, and Trevor, if you're still reading this, I suspect you will enjoy this most of all. Without further adieu...

IS THERE A SANTA CLAUS?
(Spy Magazine, January 1990)

1) No known species of reindeer can fly. BUT there are 300,000 species of living organisms yet to be classified, and while most of these are insects and germs, this does not COMPLETELY rule out flying reindeer which only Santa has ever seen.

2) There are 2 billion children (persons under 18) in the world. BUT since Santa doesn't (appear) to handle the Muslim, Hindu, Jewish and Buddhist children, that reduces the workload to 15% of the total - 378 million according to Population Reference Bureau. At an average (census) rate of 3.5 children per household, that's 91.8 million homes. One presumes there's at least one good child in each.

3) Santa has 31 hours of Christmas to work with, thanks to the different time zones and the rotation of the earth, assuming he travels east to west (which seems logical). This works out to 822.6 visits per second. This is to say that for each Christian household with good children, Santa has 1/1000th of a second to park, hop out of the sleigh, jump down the chimney, fill the stockings, distribute the remaining presents under the tree, eat whatever snacks have been left, get back up the chimney, get back into the sleigh and move on to the next house. Assuming that each of these 91.8 million stops are evenly distributed around the earth (which, of course, we know to be false but for the purposes of our calculations we will accept), we are now talking about .78 miles per household, a total trip of 75-1/2 million miles, not counting stops to do what most of us must do at least once every 31 hours, plus feeding and etc. This means that Santa's sleigh is moving at 650 miles per second, 3,000 times the speed of sound. For purposes of comparison, the fastest man- made vehicle on earth, the Ulysses space probe, moves at a poky 27.4 miles per second - a conventional reindeer can run, tops, 15 miles per hour.

4) The payload on the sleigh adds another interesting element. Assuming that each child gets nothing more than a medium-sized lego set (2 pounds), the sleigh is carrying 321,300 tons, not counting Santa, who is invariably described as overweight. On land, conventional reindeer can pull no more than 300 pounds. Even granting that "flying reindeer" (see point #1) could pull TEN TIMES the normal anoint, we cannot do the job with eight, or even nine. We need 214,200 reindeer. This increases the payload - not even counting the weight of the sleigh - to 353,430 tons. Again, for comparison- this is four times the weight of the Queen Elizabeth.

5) 353,000 tons traveling at 650 miles per second creates enormous air resistance - this will heat the reindeer up in the same fashion as spacecrafts re-entering the earth's atmosphere. The lead pair of reindeer will absorb 14.3 QUINTILLION joules of energy. Per second. Each. In short, they will burst into flame almost instantaneously, exposing the reindeer behind them, and create deafening sonic booms in their wake.The entire reindeer team will be vaporized within 4.26 thousandths of a second. Santa, meanwhile, will be subjected to centrifugal forces 17,500.06 times greater than gravity. A 250-pound Santa (which seems ludicrously slim) would be pinned to the back of his sleigh by 4,315,015 pounds of force.

In conclusion - If Santa ever DID deliver presents on Christmas Eve, he's dead now.

~~

Have a Merry Christmas. Just know that Santa is, without the slightest rational doubt, dead, vaporized into thin air in a freak high-velocity accident of "big bang" physical consequence.

Much love,
The Schollard

You all wish you were little French schoolchildren

I recently discovered possibly the most amazing thing about France--there IS a Santa Claus.

Well, at least, you can write a letter to Santa and stick it in the mail and it will get sent to Wambrechies (59), some random town in northeastern France, where there are some 50 to 60 "assistants to Santa" waiting on hand to receive and REPLY TO your letter.

So for years, little French boys and girls have been writing to a Santa located in northen France, asking for toys, money, and mommy and daddy not to get divorced, and have been getting responses.

Think about all the poor little boys and girls across the pond who write similar letters and send them to the North Pole and never get a response, think about all that wasted postage, all those letters thrown in the mail by uncaring postal workers.

My roommate and I have decided to write to Santa this year. I would NOT let an opportunity like this pass me by.


France, upholding childhood myths, one letter at a time.

The greatest and best tournament in the world. Tribute.

As you may know, I consider myself something of a Rock Paper Scissors enthusiast. I am a card-carrying member of the World RPS Society, and I co-founded a high school team which had several impressive accomplishments: getting featured on the Nickelodeon network; achieving recognition as a chartered school organization; and most importantly, making kickass t-shirts. My blood, sweat, and tears went into the varsity team, and my subpar performance in AP European History reflects this prioritizing. But after high school, my activity in the sport declined. Perhaps because no collegiate circuit existed at Bowdoin. Perhaps because I decided it would be wise to keep my love of a game that most people outgrow by the age of five on the DL if I ever wanted to get laid. The reason's not important. The point is that my true passion was sidelined, and for four years I wandered through life with neither purpose nor direction.

...Until recently, when my friend Mike and I competed in the International Rock Paper Scissors Championship in Toronto, Canada. We each took a day off to allow for travel to our hometown of Buffalo, then relaxed for a day before leaving our fair city for the forgotten tundra of America, Jr.

The events that ensued can be described only as a complete and utter shit show. I have no idea how in the hell so many people could exist with a passion such as ours (even with our custom-made shirts we were among the more normally attired participants), but I do know that about 500 RPS athletes from around the globe competed in the tournament. We met people from England, Norway, and Australia, and the night was beyond insane. Mike and I were both eliminated in the first round. He lost to a guy from England who ended up winning the whole tournament (!) and I lost to some random girl who happened to be pretty attractive, and as it turns out, I always lose when I RPS against hot girls. But perhaps the losses were a blessing in disguise, as they allowed us to devote the remainder of the evening to consuming exorbitant amounts of ale and playing street RPS with the various crazies who attended the event. (Street RPS is an unofficial match in which you bet official World RPS money on best-of-3 games. We won a ton of them, and proceeded to rub the cash all over our faces and bodies, much to the chagrin of our recent victims.) To make a long story which we don't really remember short, it was pretty much the greatest thing that has ever happened. Period. A few choice pics:

Yep, the greatest thing ever. RPS is back, baby, and next year I intend to not only win the tournament, but also... well, I plan to win the tournament. But even if I don't, as long as there is beer and guys like the one above with mullets and giant "Shock 'Em!" foam fingers, I'll be a happy man.