An Earthquake Shakes Delco

An Earthquake Shakes Delco

A magnitude 4.4 earthquake centered somewhere near Dover, Delaware literally rocked our world today. While I’m not necessarily excited about the event, I do think it’s cool that our little, stately brother to the south received some publicity outside of the usual “Heroin Addict Shanks Lover After Catching Sister Knuckle-Fucking Cousin” headlines. By the way, which one do you think was the lover? The sister or the cousin?

Delaware sucks. It could have been a magnitude 34 earthquake and nobody would have cared – because there’s literally NOTHING in Delaware. When you were a kid, did your parents have a designated “play room?” I don’t mean a “Christian Grey, I’m going to to shove these poisonous beads up your piss-hole while we watch Reading Rainbow and drink avocado smoothies” type of play room…. I mean a basement or family room that was empty – so when you and your hyper, little friends decided to reenact Royal Rumble 1998 and throw Nerf balls around like Bobby Hoying – you wouldn’t break anything. Delaware is America’s Play Room, except, not only is there nothing to break – but there’s nothing to play with either! That’s why Delaware loves NASCAR and snorting opium out of tax-free booty holes.

Speaking of booty-holes, when the last earthquake hit Philadelphia (Virginia, really), I was living in a sweet, off-campus apartment at Temple University. My roommate and I had the first floor and a finished basement. Four girls and a gay guy lived in the apartment above us. It was new construction, so knowing that college kids are assholes who like to scratch floors and jizz on walls, the contractor used the cheapest materials possible. That means our walls were paper thin. I recall laying in bed with my girlfriend (now my wife), trying to get some sleep after a long night of partying. Next thing you know, we could hear the pork-chop in the room directly above mine getting her ham-waffle absolutely destroyed by some frat boy. The bed was thumping. The floors sounded like they were going to burst. (Speaking of bursting, I’m about to shit myself on this SEPTA train). After going hog-wild on her hoo-ha for a few minutes, the wild raucous calmed. Then came the tears. I don’t know if she was upset that he slipped a nut-full of sticky, speeding ghosts past her goalie, if he ran out & left after a round of championship plowing, or if she was crying because her snatch was obliterated. Whatever the reason, I wouldn’t hear anything make those kinds of noises again – that is, until I watched the Liberal space cadets hysterically crying on live television once they realized the anti-Christ was about to lose to a guy who picks fights with Rosie O for fun… A guy who once felt the wrath of the Stone Cold Stunner on RAW… A guy with horrendous hair and a tiny cock….

Back to the hurricane…

I was laying in bed after class. I nodded off while “studying,” but I was quickly awakened as my walls and mattress started to rumble and sway. It was roughly 2pm on a weekday. Now, I’m all about getting some afternoon delight, but I couldn’t believe porky was getting violently stuffed in the middle of the day! Didn’t she learn anything from her one-night-stand with Eddie the double-earring, frat boy douche? (We all know an asshole named Ed). Then I realized, I didn’t hear any pigs squealing. There were no moans. No rhythmic-slapping of flesh. No crying. None of that was happening, but my bed was still vibrating like Matt Lauer’s dildo.

Was I dying? Was my body erupting from all the Hurricane High Grav 40s and U-Got-Munchies’ build-your-own-fries? Did somebody slip a Furby in my bed? What the fuck was happening?

It was an earthquake, and it was big one. I’ll always remember that day. Particularly, I remember that I had an interview scheduled with Marc Summers that day. I had to call to make sure we were still meeting, because a lot of the buildings in Center City had evacuated. I also remember that being the first time I used one of those green parking machines. While random, non-life-threatening earthquakes can be cool, I’ll also always remember the disappointment I felt when I realized it wasn’t some bro taking my sloppy neighbor to Pound Town. Those stories are fun to tell…

Ramble on, Delco!

Written by Rambo

Huff on My Philly Suburb Nutties

On the last episode of Rambo’s Delco Radio, the King of Cholesterol (Big Al) announced that RDR collectively whipped out our dongs and executed a big-dick takeover of the local sports blog and RDR radio affiliate, DelcoDelphia. So, lots of people have been asking me if this is true.


RDR is breathing new life into the DelcoDelphia sports podcast. The show will run on the RDR Network, on a regular basis, with some very familiar faces (and some new ones).


Big Al did not use his meat machete to force a hostile takeover. The original DelcoDelphia dudes are our homies and were gracious enough to give us the reigns to their brand of hometown sports commentary. We’re just going to doctor the brand up with some blue collar mushroom stamps.

Keep following us on social media for more details about our “new” show.

Now, let’s talk sports. No, let’s talk Philly sports. No, let’s talk about those friggin’ Eagles!

Some teams are good because of a few key players. These impact players are the difference makers in a ballgame, and when they aren’t in the lineup – their teams fail. The Philadelphia Eagles are good because of… well, they’re good because of everything.

Let’s start with Howie Roseman

This dude completely weaseled his way around the league over the past two years in an attempt to unfuck the damages sustained during the “In Chip We Trust” era. Well, fuck Chip Kelly and fuck anyone who chops up their cheesesteaks like ground beef. If I wanted a taco, I would have written this blog in Spanish. Señor Roseman gave this team a roster full of weapons larger and stealthier than Kim Jong-un’s dildo chamber. Howie Roseman, dilly fucking dilly!

Doug “the Dude” Pederson

I can honestly say that I was never excited by the Doug Pederson hire, but I also never hated it. He is a former player and was mentored by Andy Reid (good or bad). I’m critical of player performance and the effort players give on the field. I’m never critical of personnel moves and draft picks – because I’m not a professional. NFL scouts and GMs know football. I know shrinkage.

But here are the 2017 Philadelphia Eagles. They’re like the NWO of football. They issues relentless beat downs on a steady basis, and when one of their goons goes down, there’s another bad mother f’er ready to fill in. This team is confident – and they should be. But they’re not overconfident. They’re not complacent. They’re like rabid dogs foaming at their fucking mouths. Cam Newton on primetime? Feed them, they’re still hungry. “Trap game” with the 49ers? Throw them a bone, they’re still hungry. The “number one defense in the NFL?” They chewed them up and they’re ready to devour some Texas brown-hole.

The attitude, the work ethic, the dynamic play calling, their testicle fortitude… I give Douggie P all of the credit.  He seems like an awesome guy to play for. He’s chill, he’s real, and his post-game speech after the W over Denver brought tears to my eyes. This team makes me very emotional, but then again, so does pizza… But, whatever – I want to be on this team. I’m ready to dope my blood and tryout for the team, okay? Hell, I’m about to apply to be Lane Johnson’s jock holder. Whatever gets me in the organization, brah!

The Red Assassin

If Carson Wentz jarred his farts – I’d buy’em. Contrary to what jerk-offs like Skip Bayless and Colin the Coward believe, Carson Wentz is the real deal. I’m riding SEPTA right now, and the woman in front of me is picking through her weave – just like Carson Wentz picked apart the “number one defense” in the league. Notice my quotation marks around that phrase? Yea, fuck them. The only question reporters should have asked Von Miller during the post game is, “how do Carson’s nutties taste?” Sweet glasses, dude. They really complement the nut smear Wentz left on your face.

Carson Wentz improves with every game. Watching his performance against the Broncos was like watching Bob Ross paint happy little trees. It looked effortless yet beautiful. It was poetry in motion -the type of poetry that includes giant black dudes, white dudes, latino dudes, and maybe one Asian dude wearing tights – ready to rip faces off skulls. Carson Wentz is the impact player that I described earlier. He is, without a doubt, the number one threat to opponents. That said, it has been a full team effort.

Everybody Else

I’m getting tired of writing this blog and it’s all pretty obvious: the whole team is talented! As a unit, the Eagles are impressive. Every game has been a total team effort. The defensive line is viscous. The defensive backs are performing at surprisingly high levels. Linebackers are flying around making crazy plays. The kicker has a leg the size of Big Al’s dong. The running backs are emerging as a three-headed-monster thanks to the addition of that dude with the English-ish accent & a name I can’t pronounce. The big dogs are serving pancakes every play. The Eagles are flying, now bring on the Cowboys!

Ramble on, Delco…


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Podcast Link:



I’m writing this post from Suburban Station in Center City Philadelphia because adulthood has forced me into a life of rail-riding, corporate slavery. I’ve traded in my Clifton flannel for a dark grey, slim-fitted suit. Am I slim? No, I tie my shoes with my pants around my ankles (fat guy life hack #377), slam spicy pies on a regular basis, and consume Vitamin 33 (Rolling Rock) about three to four times a week. I wear a nice suit as an attempt to distract my bosses from the SAMCRO-inspired beard that shields my European mutt-face. Thanks to an incident on the SEPTA Regional Rails, I find myself dressed to the nines and diddling my iPhone while sitting in a puddle of bum urine on a red, metal bench.

The suit commands power and respect (from the homeless). I’ve been approached by numerous change-seeking, buck begging, city nomads wearing teal sweatpants (the kind with elastic above the ankles) and Starter jackets (it’s too warm for the pullover, but it’s part of the Subway Sasquatches’ uniform, so they rock those crusty bitches nine months a year). Thanks to this pissy, red bench – I smell worse than they do!

So, why am I still in Suburban Station, sitting in an ammonia bird bath, surrounded by dollar hollerers and half of Comcast’s IT department whose names are too hard to pronounce so they’re renamed “Dan” by some old, white lady from HR? Because my train is eighty fucking five minutes late! Why is it so late? An oh-too-common occurrence… An absolutely horrible event. A tragic yet frustrating…


I hope you read that in your best Mortal Kombat voice.

Before I continue, I am sincerely sorry and my condolences go out to the friends and family of the deceased. This is awful and no laughing matter, but…

You knew there was a titanic, triumphant, Earth-shattering “BUT” coming, right?

This is completely unnecessary. Whether this is a case of suicide (it usually is) or some hipster who got Brian Urlachered by a multi-ton, metal-forged, passenger train because [he/she/unidentified pronoun] obliviously crossed the tracks while distracted by the volume ten, alternative blues tunes blasting out of [his/her/unidentified pronoun]’s Apple headphones (but those hipsters are so anti-Corporation!) – this shouldn’t happen. But it does happen very frequently.

I don’t understand suicide & can’t fathom (nor do I want to) walking in shoes of somebody tortured by the demons of mental illness. The only question I have, although it’s too late to get any answers unless you believe in ghosts, is:


Oh, do I sound selfish while complaining about my delayed commute as a family grieves the loss of a loved one? Sure, I get it. But, do you now what else is selfish?


Do they say, “If I’m going out, I’m going to ruin everybody else’s day too?”

Are they thinking, “Fuck everyone of these thousands of SEPTA riders. They need to get to their jobs, families, and other important commitments on time? Fuck’em.”

Does Joey Jumpsontrax realize that the world goes on after his ends? A world that has to deal with the aftermath of his sick solution to life’s problems? The families are hurting. The train conductor is traumatized (for life). The passengers are distraught (and now very late). The emergency first responders are exposed to this. The SEPTA janitors who have to scrub the guts and pick the skull fragments out of the windows are emotionally destroyed and physically sick.


Ready for my Hannibal Lector writing transition? Let’s go from brain splatter to food…

As if I’m not hungry enough after a long day of faking my outlined job functions, this 85 minute delay is going to make me go Rosie O’ on a train-fuck (YUP) of greasy meat and fried potatoes. I’m so hungry, I’m hangrily typing this while contemplating trying Indian food for the first time (I’ve been inspired by the Dunkin-flavored aroma coming from the “Dans” sitting in my vicinity). Shit, I’m so hungry, I’m about to call Brad & Jamal to see if they’ll deliver some human haggis my way!

Well, it took me just about 85 minutes to write this. The Media-Elwyn is supposed to be here any minute, so before I succumb to my hunger and the homeless hobos of Philly, I have to promote one thing:

Rambo’s Delco Radio – LIVE – on Sunday, 10/22 starting at 9pm. Join us on Facebook Live, Periscope, &!

Ramble On, #Delco…


Amusement Diddling: Just Don’t Do It

Before I give you any commentary on this disgusting article, I have to warn you that the story takes place in West Mifflin, PA. I must also warn you that I have no idea where West Mifflin is and am too lazy Google it (that would be 3.7 seconds of my life that I’ll never get back).

We live in a time when diddlers are no longer confined to the clergy. They come in all shapes and cum on all sizes. Your sweet, innocent, 83-year-old neighbor is a diddler. Your son’s attractive, 25-year-old female teacher is a diddler. The tech geek who works at the cellphone repair shop is a diddler. Bill Cosby diddles, fat moguls in Hollywood diddle, and your favorite athlete is probably guilty of diddling too. Remember, diddling is bad – unless you’re diddling yourself. That’s okay – unless you’re diddling yourself while watching beastiality (can somebody spellcheck that for me?) or kiddie porn. That’s not okay. That’s disgusting and you should go swallow a solid, post-protein-shake turd.

Diddling yourself in public places is also wrong. You can’t diddle your meat while riding a SEPTA bus, you can’t diddle your pole while driving your silver Ford Explorer (you’ll crash), and you certainly shouldn’t diddle yourself in public places, like a fucking amusement park in West Mifflin, PA.

The guy in this Delco Times article has broken all the laws of diddling. He diddle-tugged his lil inker IN PUBLIC while following UNDERAGE girls at an amusement park… What the fuckity fuck?!? Seriously, he fluffed his bird in line, and when he got caught, he told the 13-year-old girls in front of him that he “has a problem” before running away. Luckily they caught this guy and “matched his DNA” to the human substances he squirted on the poor girls’ shoes.

Listen punk, I’ve got 99 problems, but throwin’ my man-loads (Spider-Man-style) at little kids while waiting in line for a rollercoaster ain’t one! I just don’t understand this shit. The Super Dooper Looper isn’t enough of a thrill? A nice sugar rush from a wad of cotton candy the size of Kaepernick’s fro isn’t enough of a buzz? He had to follow kids around and literally jerk-off until he nutted on them?

I understand that this dude probably has mental issues. He most likely carved incorrectly-spelled words into his desk while sitting in the trailer during his second attempt at seventh grade at West fucking Mifflin Middle School. He’s probably been abusing animals since he was three. He’s probably a volunteer firefighter. I get it…

But, fuck’em.

Perverts like this, whether born stupid or a product of inbred-shuffleboard-bathroom-fucking at the Ivy Inn, should not be allowed to reproduce. Snip off his inchworm and ship him off to live in Hollywood with all of the other brain dead diddlers.

I’m Rambo. Thanks for reading & ramble on!

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Buckle Up, Buttercups.

Classes cancelled so students can cope with the election results. People burning flags because they didn’t get their way. We’ve become a country of soft, self-entitled pussies! 

Trump didn’t win because we’re a country full of racist, sexist, gay-bashing pigs. He won because there’s a silent majority of Americans who are tired of the sugar coated bullshit. Your feelings are hurt? Fuck your feelings. It’s a big, mean world out there. Kicking and screaming, emotional safe-zones, & unicorn flavored cupcakes aren’t going to save you. Now it’s time to buckle up and get tough before we have to rename Freedom Fries to France is Now Tougher Than Us Fries. 

 Parents, stop letting your kids suck from the tit for so long. Slap your children when they act like little punks and bitches. Teach them you don’t always get want you want & how to deal with it. Growing up, my football teams weren’t always the best, but we ate fucking nails and crabbed up steep hills. Now, hills are illegal and King of the Ring is cancelled because the losers get too upset. Bullshit. Soft parenting equals soft children. Soft children grow up to be emotionally weak adults.

 This is America. We should be gnawing on raw bacon, devouring barrels of beer, and draping ourselves in Eagle-clad ink while we show the rest of the world our 8 ft. dicks. Instead, we’re bending over, showing them our soft, fleshy, red tube socks… 

If you’re still reading this, wow, thanks, & you must be bored. Ramble on, Delco. Ramble on…

Seats are for Pussies

Seats are for Pussies

Yo #Delco! Rambo here… Welcome to my first blog, you illiterate sons of parents.

Fortunately, I have a real job which pays me real money to do real work… Unlike Rambo’s Delco Radio, which is barely even a hobby and only pays me in frosty mugs at Ram’s Pizza Tavern every Wednesday at 8:00 for hosting Quizzo (pretty early in the blog for a cheap plug, butt fuggit. Anal sex.)

Unfortunately, this real job requires me to venture into the city of brotherly thugs 5 days a week. City wage tax is a loser. 4% of my hard-earned money? Where does that money go, other than painting the crosswalks like rainbows in the gayborhood?  You know what else goes on in the city? Piss-flavored bums who dress like women. That’s actually kind of entertaining, as long as they don’t: 1) ask for my money, 2) R-Kelly my semi-casual weekday khakis, and 3) blue waffles. But the real super villain of Philadelphia isn’t the large population of stray, ammonia-soaked hobos. The real super villain of Philadelphia is SEPTA. Actually, not so much SEPTA, rather the people of SEPTA.
Trains are late and very crowded. That blows, “but life’s a bitch so I deal with.” (Shout out to my homie Kid Rock on that one.) My real problem with the regional rail is directed towards the cowards who have little dicks dangling from their crotches, but sit and furiously type on their smartphones while ladies and the elderly stand in the aisles next to them. I know, I know – you’re tired! Well, time to man up my lazy, train-riding companions. Sitting behind a desk for 8 hours isn’t work. It’s a glorified school day, except the dollar bills flow the other way. There’s no way that a young male who works in an office environment all day should be chivalry-shattering exhausted. STAND UP & LET THE LADIES SIT! My father taught me about the word respect. His way of teaching me may have been blasting Pantera’s “Walk” on an old cassette player, but hell – it worked!

I’ll sit on a train, but only when there are enough open seats for everybody. And on the 5:33 train to Elwyn, the only way to ensure there are plenty of seats is by going to the very last train car. Except for yesterday…

Yesterday, I snagged a seat once I boarded, but the train car quickly filled at the next stop. Even though there was another empty spot next to me, I saw a few girls and a few older women (like 70-something-year-old Amelias & Gertrudes) waiting to get on the train, so I stood up. A rush of sardines crammed into the aisle as I stood, awkwardly sucking in my stromboli sack to let them squeeze by me. I turned around to make sure the women got my seat(s), and what sat before my eyes made my balls twist & fists clench in a fit of rage. When I looked at my former seat, I saw a young girl (good, I got up for her) and a fat, college-aged, tennis-playing, bamboo-chopin’, mother-sucking’ coward sitting there!

[Now, I’ll tell you how the rest of this story went down, but I want to hear your predictions. Comment on the Facebook post & tell me what you think I did.]


Thanks for reading & ramble on, Delco!


PS – I am waiting for and fully expecting some pissed-off, feminist shit bag to give me hell for offering my seat to her. What killed chivalry? Feminism.