When someone's hyperactive little brother punches a hole in the drywall because he can't have hot cheeto's for dinner, a man starts to pine for simpler times and long sleeved shirts that hide bruises well. Nothing seems substantial anymore. The house I live in could be destroyed by ornery senior citizens wielding over ripe vegetables, so can my mental well being and my girlfriend's chastity.
The house I grew up in however was built by my grandpa and made of brick and spite. That house lives on. As does the spite, before my grandpa passed away he sold the surrounding property to a private school that wanted to expand it's campus. He sold 3/4 of his land knowing full well that the school would need the entire lot to build. The school can either eat the money it spent on the 3/4 or spend a hell of a lot of money for the remaining property. So there his house stands blocking education to spoiled fuckers state-wide. I loved that bastard.
What happened to brick houses, steel cars, and a fat Drew Carey? When did the world decide to become one giant parody of itself? It's starting to feel like Laurence Fishburne got mixed up and slipped me a red pill in my drink instead of a roofie. Didn't stop him from raping me though.
Instead of just bitching about all this like I normally do I figured out a solution. Balls. Somehow someway we lost our balls and the world turned to shit. I'm personally going to blame 1920 for the tragedy. I encourage every one that reads this to reach down their pants, find those droopy dick grapes you've got tucked up your ass, and squeeze them until the juice starts running again. Once that's done don't go running to Facebook, you've still got work to do. I don't know what that work entails but it damn well better be based on logic and testosterone. The one-two punch that built Rome and coat hanger abortions. Remember, there's nothing more pathetic than a person that smells like ass just by sitting on it. You should either be getting it or building your fucking kingdom.
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