Oh Lord, it’s me. Shitty Ted. Well, uh, I guess you’d know me as Theodore Linus. That’s the name they christened me under. But most people just call me Shitty Ted.
Lord, I’m here today on bended knee to ask forgiveness for all the awful things I’ve done. I’ve squandered my life spittin, cussin, drinking and gamblin; and well, I’ve known my fair share of women, Lord. Now not all of them were hookers. One or two of them were top notch broads. Real scores for a guy like me. You see, I’m not the best looking guy in the world. In fact that’s something I wanted to talk to you about, Lord. If you were to make me tall dark and handsome I’d quit my evil ways. I’m sure of it. With my new found confidence I’d do away with the lot of my sins. Only ugly people spit and curse and I’d never need to spend a dime on a promiscuous woman. In fact, the beautiful girls would be climbing on their hands and knees for a chance to be with me. Speaking of women, Oh Lord, bless the beautiful girls. Bless their lips, their hips, and their...You know, it’s probably best you didn’t bless them Lord. In fact, turn em ugly. Yes, if you love me Lord turn them ugly. If there ever was a prodigal son, it’s me and I’m asking you to forgo the fatted calf and turn them ugly. Turn their teeth upside down and iron them flat. It’s the only I hope I have. I could return to your heavenly flock if you could do only that.
I know what you’re thinking. “What about the booze, Shitty?” Well God, the booze isn’t the problem. There’s wine all over the bible so it can’t be a sin. If you want to get caught up in semantics I guess I can switch the whiskey for the wine. Seems awfully petty to me though.
And isn't life one big gamble? Hell, there's more death and poverty on a city block than any roulette wheel. And most guys in the gutter got there because some big wig took a chance and lost. I'm layin my cards down, Lord, because if there's one thing Shitty Ted is it's honest. And this here prayer is a gamble and it's a gamble I'm willin to take and I'll be taking more. Shitty Ted doesn't fold pocket kings and he's not afraid to go all in with Jack-Ten suited. I'm all in Lord, do and say what you'd like. I'm listening.
I thank you for your time, Lord and I’ll be seeing you in church just as soon as I find a service that starts closer to noon and farther from the first crack of dawn. You see, I have a thyroid condition. Until then, this is Theodore Linus signing out!
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Friday, December 16, 2011
"Jim and Peg there just had a dozen novelty t-shirts, they're trying again for two tickets to the superbowl."
In a cup on my dresser, in the ashtray of my car (unless that petty bastard probably Mexican thief took them again) I have many quarters. I don't do much with them but it's nice to know they are there. If I were still 14 I would not have many quarters. I would have diabetes.
Quarters meant quarter pops. Quarter pops meant a walk to the grocery store for off brand refreshment after stand still ollies and playing N64 with my shirt off. I remember, or made up, a day exactly like the one I've described. Having made it to the vending machine, my friend and I, we noticed a mystery button. Right underneath Grape. My soda of choice back in the day. We pushed the hell out of that button. He got a Vanilla Coke, a real Vanilla Coke. Fuckin A, I might get a Welch's. I got a can of carbonated water.
The next day, I got a creme soda and a diet cola. I stopped pushing the mystery button. But if that machine is still there and that button is still there it's getting pushed. People love surprises, there's an appeal to random. It is gambling's caffeine to heroin, these mystery buttons on soda machines and turnstile prize boxes. Wherein you might get a tiny rubix cube but you'll probably get a sticker with Jesus on it. Boring Jesus too, not "Holy shit what happened to him?" "He died for your sins that's what." Jesus of yore.
People also love getting laid and having babies. But babies are expensive. And not just for their parents. The whole world pays for that baby. As does the environment and the collective consciousness because it'll probably grow up to be a shithead. Overpopulation is a very real and a very serious problem. It's of the utmost importance that a solution is found. I'm not a sadist so I'm not going to suggest sewing vaginas shut or making the poor sterile. I don't want to limit people to having two children and impose a death penalty on a potential third. But if you have more than five you can fuck right off. You don't have enough love or money for that many and you know it.
Here's my idea. People should still get laid and get pregnant as much as they want but they shouldn't always have a baby. Anytime someone gets pregnant you ask what they're having. They answer and you act surprised. They either have a boy or a girl or one hell of a decision to make. Fuck that. Have a pie. Don't buy blue shit or pink shit, buy a fork and some ice cream.
I'm tired of a sperm and an egg always making a baby, jazz it up. Are you pregnant and not ready for a child? Oh well, maybe you get lucky and have dog. Hell, maybe you're really lucky and get a dog that can whistle. You could get a voucher for a free hot dog, you could get keys to a new car and try like hell for the rest of the thing. And sometimes you could get a tiny human being.
Pregnancies can be exciting again. People are going to be so busy being fucking stoked they won't realize that there's nobody left to carry on their mediocre family name and that pollution is down, the poverty line is down, the economy is up because people are making a bunch of free shit themselves and having sex to do it. Stock in condoms might drop a little but they'll stay afloat because sometimes you just have too much stuff.
Quarters meant quarter pops. Quarter pops meant a walk to the grocery store for off brand refreshment after stand still ollies and playing N64 with my shirt off. I remember, or made up, a day exactly like the one I've described. Having made it to the vending machine, my friend and I, we noticed a mystery button. Right underneath Grape. My soda of choice back in the day. We pushed the hell out of that button. He got a Vanilla Coke, a real Vanilla Coke. Fuckin A, I might get a Welch's. I got a can of carbonated water.
The next day, I got a creme soda and a diet cola. I stopped pushing the mystery button. But if that machine is still there and that button is still there it's getting pushed. People love surprises, there's an appeal to random. It is gambling's caffeine to heroin, these mystery buttons on soda machines and turnstile prize boxes. Wherein you might get a tiny rubix cube but you'll probably get a sticker with Jesus on it. Boring Jesus too, not "Holy shit what happened to him?" "He died for your sins that's what." Jesus of yore.
People also love getting laid and having babies. But babies are expensive. And not just for their parents. The whole world pays for that baby. As does the environment and the collective consciousness because it'll probably grow up to be a shithead. Overpopulation is a very real and a very serious problem. It's of the utmost importance that a solution is found. I'm not a sadist so I'm not going to suggest sewing vaginas shut or making the poor sterile. I don't want to limit people to having two children and impose a death penalty on a potential third. But if you have more than five you can fuck right off. You don't have enough love or money for that many and you know it.
Here's my idea. People should still get laid and get pregnant as much as they want but they shouldn't always have a baby. Anytime someone gets pregnant you ask what they're having. They answer and you act surprised. They either have a boy or a girl or one hell of a decision to make. Fuck that. Have a pie. Don't buy blue shit or pink shit, buy a fork and some ice cream.
I'm tired of a sperm and an egg always making a baby, jazz it up. Are you pregnant and not ready for a child? Oh well, maybe you get lucky and have dog. Hell, maybe you're really lucky and get a dog that can whistle. You could get a voucher for a free hot dog, you could get keys to a new car and try like hell for the rest of the thing. And sometimes you could get a tiny human being.
Pregnancies can be exciting again. People are going to be so busy being fucking stoked they won't realize that there's nobody left to carry on their mediocre family name and that pollution is down, the poverty line is down, the economy is up because people are making a bunch of free shit themselves and having sex to do it. Stock in condoms might drop a little but they'll stay afloat because sometimes you just have too much stuff.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
House Sitters
I had to go away once. I asked my friend, Simon, to house sit for me. He's one of those people that are always taking things apart and putting them back together. He wants to know how everything works and if he's worthless or not. He is also manic depressive.
When I returned from my trip the front door was unlocked and my house seemingly unoccupied. I was not upset because I noticed he had fixed my stereo. I knew because he'd left it blaring Billie Holiday's Gloomy Sunday in the kitchen.
Almost everything in my living room had a green sticker on it. Which meant Simon had taken apart the object and reassembled it and that it was in working order. When I walked into my kitchen to turn off the restored stereo I saw where the depressive side of Simon's disorder had kicked in.
There were screws and circuits everywhere. All of my appliances had been gutted and abandoned. But I wasn't too worried about it. I knew what I was getting into when I asked Simon to house-sit for me. I also knew he'd come back with a pad of green stickers and return everything back to it's original condition or better.
Then I found my dog.
Woofy Howelson was only the second thing in Simon's life that he dismantled permanently. The first being his marriage. I found him later in the bathroom. He had covered himself in red stickers and wrote very bad poetry on the walls with his watery shit. He had not had a solid bowel movement since the divorce.
Two weeks later I was asked to attend a conference in Manhattan. I asked Simon's brother, Stoney, to house sit as Simon was busy at therapy. Stoney is an obsessive compulsive kleptomaniac. He has to steal everything 3 times and return it twice. He's never been caught. Making him the greatest living thief. Possibly the greatest of all time.
I gave Stoney the job as house sitter knowing that he was also the world's biggest coward. That's why he can be the greatest living thief and poor enough to eat Chairman Meow's cat food for breakfast. I asked him once, "Why don't you get rid of the cat and save some money?" He said without him he'd starve to death.
Stoney is afraid of death. That's not what makes him a coward, that's what makes him human. He's also afraid of bees, the dark, prime time television, viral marketing, men in cheap suits that speak in tongues, and most of all prison. He'll never take anything worth more than fifteen dollars.
Knowing this I slept soundly each night I was gone. Sure that I wouldn't even miss whatever Stoney had taken.
I vomited in the taxi that took me home. As soon as it stopped I started. Stoney had stolen my front door. I'm not sure who stole everything else. I was kicked out of the cab and around the head a bit.
I woke up the next morning exhausted and sore. I looked up from my lawn and felt relief beyond explanation. There, right where it should be was my front door. It was all a dream and everything would be fine. I picked myself up, opened the door, and began to vomit.
It was the most surreal part of my life. I was unsure of the whereabouts of my belongings and my consciousness. The door was gone, the door was there, there door was gone, an aggressive transient was there, the door was back!, Stoney had done it again and left me a blubbering mess of a man questioning his reality and whether I had been raped or seduced by Florence the Boxcar King.
When I returned from my trip the front door was unlocked and my house seemingly unoccupied. I was not upset because I noticed he had fixed my stereo. I knew because he'd left it blaring Billie Holiday's Gloomy Sunday in the kitchen.
Almost everything in my living room had a green sticker on it. Which meant Simon had taken apart the object and reassembled it and that it was in working order. When I walked into my kitchen to turn off the restored stereo I saw where the depressive side of Simon's disorder had kicked in.
There were screws and circuits everywhere. All of my appliances had been gutted and abandoned. But I wasn't too worried about it. I knew what I was getting into when I asked Simon to house-sit for me. I also knew he'd come back with a pad of green stickers and return everything back to it's original condition or better.
Then I found my dog.
Woofy Howelson was only the second thing in Simon's life that he dismantled permanently. The first being his marriage. I found him later in the bathroom. He had covered himself in red stickers and wrote very bad poetry on the walls with his watery shit. He had not had a solid bowel movement since the divorce.
Two weeks later I was asked to attend a conference in Manhattan. I asked Simon's brother, Stoney, to house sit as Simon was busy at therapy. Stoney is an obsessive compulsive kleptomaniac. He has to steal everything 3 times and return it twice. He's never been caught. Making him the greatest living thief. Possibly the greatest of all time.
I gave Stoney the job as house sitter knowing that he was also the world's biggest coward. That's why he can be the greatest living thief and poor enough to eat Chairman Meow's cat food for breakfast. I asked him once, "Why don't you get rid of the cat and save some money?" He said without him he'd starve to death.
Stoney is afraid of death. That's not what makes him a coward, that's what makes him human. He's also afraid of bees, the dark, prime time television, viral marketing, men in cheap suits that speak in tongues, and most of all prison. He'll never take anything worth more than fifteen dollars.
Knowing this I slept soundly each night I was gone. Sure that I wouldn't even miss whatever Stoney had taken.
I vomited in the taxi that took me home. As soon as it stopped I started. Stoney had stolen my front door. I'm not sure who stole everything else. I was kicked out of the cab and around the head a bit.
I woke up the next morning exhausted and sore. I looked up from my lawn and felt relief beyond explanation. There, right where it should be was my front door. It was all a dream and everything would be fine. I picked myself up, opened the door, and began to vomit.
It was the most surreal part of my life. I was unsure of the whereabouts of my belongings and my consciousness. The door was gone, the door was there, there door was gone, an aggressive transient was there, the door was back!, Stoney had done it again and left me a blubbering mess of a man questioning his reality and whether I had been raped or seduced by Florence the Boxcar King.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
HATE HATE HATE
Haters gonna hate and behind every successful person there's a pack of haters and U mad bro? - Mary Shit-tits Roberts and all her shitty friends, and all your shitty friends, obnoxious family members, communists, anarchists, religious fanatics, people that romanticize outer space and forget to pay their light bills, and every other assfuck out there "likes this".
What else do they like? Almost anything you put in front of their blank faces and dead eyes. It doesn't sound so bad, everybody liking everything but it's destroying the world. It's creating a giant void of individuality. People are turning into a gigantic, but unimposing, off-white blob. This is dangerous for two reasons. The first, blobs have neither tits or ass. Without these things Man is sure to go crazy. The second, it makes it so much easier to hate.
Hate is obviously a bad thing. But why? Because it always leads to death. Not normal death, which is terrifying and awful in it's own right, but abrupt ugly death. Death that leaves you with a rotten stomach and a bad taste in the back of your mouth. Or the front of your throat for that matter. Homicide. Genocide. Suicide. He hated me. He hated them. I hated me and them. Hate and more hate.
Now I'm a tie it all together right quick. Or attempt to. I've never really hated an individual. I've disliked a hell of lot to varying degrees. But never full on hate for a specific person. But I have hated groups. Sixteen college kids with giant white teeth that are surrounded by thin lips, pink gums, and sick tongues. Their laughter too loud to be genuine. Their arms holding to each others backs and hips. Seven Injun kids. They should be in school but instead they are barefoot and beating a dog with a stick. A cluster of stars that shaped a heart on the loneliest night of my life. I felt real hate towards all these things for a brief second. Then I felt sick. If I'd have caught one of them alone they'd be fine. Especially the dog. But they were too close and too similar.
So for fuck's sake stop liking so much stupid shit on facebook.
What else do they like? Almost anything you put in front of their blank faces and dead eyes. It doesn't sound so bad, everybody liking everything but it's destroying the world. It's creating a giant void of individuality. People are turning into a gigantic, but unimposing, off-white blob. This is dangerous for two reasons. The first, blobs have neither tits or ass. Without these things Man is sure to go crazy. The second, it makes it so much easier to hate.
Hate is obviously a bad thing. But why? Because it always leads to death. Not normal death, which is terrifying and awful in it's own right, but abrupt ugly death. Death that leaves you with a rotten stomach and a bad taste in the back of your mouth. Or the front of your throat for that matter. Homicide. Genocide. Suicide. He hated me. He hated them. I hated me and them. Hate and more hate.
Now I'm a tie it all together right quick. Or attempt to. I've never really hated an individual. I've disliked a hell of lot to varying degrees. But never full on hate for a specific person. But I have hated groups. Sixteen college kids with giant white teeth that are surrounded by thin lips, pink gums, and sick tongues. Their laughter too loud to be genuine. Their arms holding to each others backs and hips. Seven Injun kids. They should be in school but instead they are barefoot and beating a dog with a stick. A cluster of stars that shaped a heart on the loneliest night of my life. I felt real hate towards all these things for a brief second. Then I felt sick. If I'd have caught one of them alone they'd be fine. Especially the dog. But they were too close and too similar.
So for fuck's sake stop liking so much stupid shit on facebook.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Bukowski is a bad influence.
"'Wow, it's Friday night, what are you going to do? Just sit there?' Well, yeah. Because there's nothing out there. It's stupidity."
"Who does like people? You show me him and I'll show you why I don't like people. Period." ~ Charles Bukowski
There's nothing out there. It's stupidity. Bukowski had it wrong, there's plenty out there and it is beyond stupid. It is mind numbing, ball squeezing, Dear Lord fuck me back in to consciousness retarded. People fucking love it though.
Yeah, lets say it is Friday and Rebecca Black was abducted in Cabo before she could become an internet sensation. There are co-workers, there are friends from high school, there is your crippling sense of social responsibility. The herd instinct pushing you to run with people you don't like and can't trust. I'm sure there was a time when a person greatly benefited from such notions but no longer. Somewhere along the way we changed. Unfortunately our metamorphosis was left incomplete. As interrupted and forgotten as the porn mags that were kicked under my bed the moment my internet was installed. What are we now? Grizzly Bears. Or something less dramatic. Fuck it, more dramatic. Jaguars draped in buffalo skins. We're running, God knows we're running. If we had any sense it'd be from each other but we can't break from the pack.
And so we go out. Bad music is played loudly on poor speakers. Partly because it's like that in the movies but mostly to stifle conversation. And thank God for that. I'd hate to miss out on the well dressed moron that can't understand that it's possible to be obnoxious and boring at the same time. Keep yelling you poor bastard because the second you stop you disappear. He's a small part in the whole thing.
There's that guy. He's always been too nice to anything with a vagina. He heard somewhere that laughter is the way to a woman's heart. He's told knock-knocks and why'd they cross the roads? He has entire SNL skits memorized. Now he blurts out, "I love lamp!" and scans the room with frantic hungry eyes. Oh yeah, and this one time on The Office....
Girl, you're looking fine. Your make up is a bit heavy, I guess your proactive isn't working quite as advertised. Music? Pretty much everything I guess. Books? Who knew wallflowers had so many perks? You're la tabla rosa, an empty vessel into which I can pour my hopes, my dreams, and my seed. You could be my everything darlin, I'm sure I could be something to you too, but I really don't feel like thinking of all the ways I could fix you while you're wiggling on top of me screaming Daddy.
“Boring damned people. All over the earth. Propagating more boring damned people. What a horror show. The earth swarmed with them.”
Bastard always says it better than I does. Uses less words too.
"Who does like people? You show me him and I'll show you why I don't like people. Period." ~ Charles Bukowski
There's nothing out there. It's stupidity. Bukowski had it wrong, there's plenty out there and it is beyond stupid. It is mind numbing, ball squeezing, Dear Lord fuck me back in to consciousness retarded. People fucking love it though.
Yeah, lets say it is Friday and Rebecca Black was abducted in Cabo before she could become an internet sensation. There are co-workers, there are friends from high school, there is your crippling sense of social responsibility. The herd instinct pushing you to run with people you don't like and can't trust. I'm sure there was a time when a person greatly benefited from such notions but no longer. Somewhere along the way we changed. Unfortunately our metamorphosis was left incomplete. As interrupted and forgotten as the porn mags that were kicked under my bed the moment my internet was installed. What are we now? Grizzly Bears. Or something less dramatic. Fuck it, more dramatic. Jaguars draped in buffalo skins. We're running, God knows we're running. If we had any sense it'd be from each other but we can't break from the pack.
And so we go out. Bad music is played loudly on poor speakers. Partly because it's like that in the movies but mostly to stifle conversation. And thank God for that. I'd hate to miss out on the well dressed moron that can't understand that it's possible to be obnoxious and boring at the same time. Keep yelling you poor bastard because the second you stop you disappear. He's a small part in the whole thing.
There's that guy. He's always been too nice to anything with a vagina. He heard somewhere that laughter is the way to a woman's heart. He's told knock-knocks and why'd they cross the roads? He has entire SNL skits memorized. Now he blurts out, "I love lamp!" and scans the room with frantic hungry eyes. Oh yeah, and this one time on The Office....
Girl, you're looking fine. Your make up is a bit heavy, I guess your proactive isn't working quite as advertised. Music? Pretty much everything I guess. Books? Who knew wallflowers had so many perks? You're la tabla rosa, an empty vessel into which I can pour my hopes, my dreams, and my seed. You could be my everything darlin, I'm sure I could be something to you too, but I really don't feel like thinking of all the ways I could fix you while you're wiggling on top of me screaming Daddy.
“Boring damned people. All over the earth. Propagating more boring damned people. What a horror show. The earth swarmed with them.”
Bastard always says it better than I does. Uses less words too.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
What is Love? Baby don't hurt me.
I don't buy this love thing. I don't think it was meant for me. I can't draw hearts, never liked the color pink, and I flinch whenever someone touches me. The more I learn about love the less I like it. It seems more of an illness than an emotion. When you're in love you can only think of the person you love. You miss their face, their laugh, their ass, their smell (another reason I don't think I'm cut out for love; nobody misses the smell of Sizzler sweat and broken dreams), you also have to wash your hands four times and clap twice or you'll get AIDS and Hitler is reborn.
For fucks sake it's hard to listen to somebody wax poetic about this heavenly plane of existence without feeling pity. It's like they awed themselves retarded. If you stare at the sun you go blind, if you gape open mouthed at dark haired women and their hints of flesh you go completely fucking mental.Talk to one of these lovesick morons. They don't make sense. “If you love somebody, let them go. If they return, they were always yours. If they don't, they never were.” No, if you let them go they're fucking gone. They're off with some guy that will say the same shit you said and fucks way better than you could dream of.
I forget to see the love and beauty in everything.
I forget that loving is easy, but forgetting to love is easier.
I forget to love love, because it is love.
I just forget alot, and I don't want to forget anything about love.
I don't want to forget that loving alone makes a person happy.
There is so much harmony in love.
There is so much PATIENCE in love.
There is so much peace in love.
AND THERE IS SO MUCH LOVE IN LOVE.
-Courtesy of some girl I went to high school with
You couldn't ask for a more roundabout way to say nothing.
This Valentine's Day, when you're eating pizza by yourself like the morose bastard you are, don't pine for chronically ill couples. Smile because you're alone and you can jack off as much as you want.
For fucks sake it's hard to listen to somebody wax poetic about this heavenly plane of existence without feeling pity. It's like they awed themselves retarded. If you stare at the sun you go blind, if you gape open mouthed at dark haired women and their hints of flesh you go completely fucking mental.Talk to one of these lovesick morons. They don't make sense. “If you love somebody, let them go. If they return, they were always yours. If they don't, they never were.” No, if you let them go they're fucking gone. They're off with some guy that will say the same shit you said and fucks way better than you could dream of.
I forget to see the love and beauty in everything.
I forget that loving is easy, but forgetting to love is easier.
I forget to love love, because it is love.
I just forget alot, and I don't want to forget anything about love.
I don't want to forget that loving alone makes a person happy.
There is so much harmony in love.
There is so much PATIENCE in love.
There is so much peace in love.
AND THERE IS SO MUCH LOVE IN LOVE.
-Courtesy of some girl I went to high school with
You couldn't ask for a more roundabout way to say nothing.
This Valentine's Day, when you're eating pizza by yourself like the morose bastard you are, don't pine for chronically ill couples. Smile because you're alone and you can jack off as much as you want.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Get Her Back or Get Over It
According to Socrates, Poverty raped Plenty and gave birth to love. I personally believe that a product of rape is impossible to love so I shouldn't have to pay child support, but we'll put my feelings aside and focus on the bull shit. So, Love has two parents that don't have anything common and never felt anything for each other. Love is confused as fuck and will drag you down. Everyone falls in love and everyone gets their ass kicked. I'm tired of people quoting Brand New songs and sighing, so I'm going to help you get her back or get over it. I'll give you something to do and the pros and cons of that thing. Fuck eloquence.
Start a Band
Getting her back.
Pro: You get to write a song with the girls name in it. Pretty hard to fuck up, you can get her back.
Con: Everyone else in the band will fucking hate that song.
Getting over it.
Pro: You get really into groupies and forget all about her.
Con: The song you wrote for her eventually catches on, becomes a hit single and it all comes flooding back. Heroin becomes your sandbags.
Suicide
Getting her back.
Pro: Dude she'll definitely cry at your funeral.
Con: Firstly, it doesn't matter because you're dead. Secondly, you just made her that much more dependent on the new guy.
Getting over it.
Pro: It's impossible to feel things when you're dead.You couldn't be more over it.
Con: No more masturbating.
Masturbate
Getting her back.
Pro: You're masturbating!
Con: If she finds out she's going to be pissed.
Getting over it.
Pro: You can think of anyone in any situation. This is the freest your mind will ever be.
Con: You might accidentally think of her, realize how lonely and pathetic you are, and then find out it's impossible to finish whilst sobbing.
Tell her how you really feel about her
Getting her back.
Pro: She's probably been waiting for you to do this the whole time.
Con: Nope, now you've got a restraining order.
Getting over it.
Pro: You get it all out of your system that you're making this bitch a hell of a lot better than she is.
Con: Totally counter productive.
Juwana Man
This one needs a little clarification. If you can't be the man in her life, be her beast girlfriend. Cross dressing solves a lot of problems in movies so you might as well try it.
Getting her back.
Pro: She falls for it and can't figure out why the female you(Juwana)brings up all the old emotions she had for the man you. She confesses her love for you (Juwana) even though she's never been lesbian before. You take off the wig and flattering dress spew a bunch of romantic/creepy shit and she's all yours again.
Con: She doesn't fall for it and now you're creepier than the guy fucking his cousins. Never get sex for free again.
Getting over it.
Con: If you're dressing up as a woman you have zero chance of getting over it.
Start a Band
Getting her back.
Pro: You get to write a song with the girls name in it. Pretty hard to fuck up, you can get her back.
Con: Everyone else in the band will fucking hate that song.
Getting over it.
Pro: You get really into groupies and forget all about her.
Con: The song you wrote for her eventually catches on, becomes a hit single and it all comes flooding back. Heroin becomes your sandbags.
Suicide
Getting her back.
Pro: Dude she'll definitely cry at your funeral.
Con: Firstly, it doesn't matter because you're dead. Secondly, you just made her that much more dependent on the new guy.
Getting over it.
Pro: It's impossible to feel things when you're dead.You couldn't be more over it.
Con: No more masturbating.
Masturbate
Getting her back.
Pro: You're masturbating!
Con: If she finds out she's going to be pissed.
Getting over it.
Pro: You can think of anyone in any situation. This is the freest your mind will ever be.
Con: You might accidentally think of her, realize how lonely and pathetic you are, and then find out it's impossible to finish whilst sobbing.
Tell her how you really feel about her
Getting her back.
Pro: She's probably been waiting for you to do this the whole time.
Con: Nope, now you've got a restraining order.
Getting over it.
Pro: You get it all out of your system that you're making this bitch a hell of a lot better than she is.
Con: Totally counter productive.
Juwana Man
This one needs a little clarification. If you can't be the man in her life, be her beast girlfriend. Cross dressing solves a lot of problems in movies so you might as well try it.
Getting her back.
Pro: She falls for it and can't figure out why the female you(Juwana)brings up all the old emotions she had for the man you. She confesses her love for you (Juwana) even though she's never been lesbian before. You take off the wig and flattering dress spew a bunch of romantic/creepy shit and she's all yours again.
Con: She doesn't fall for it and now you're creepier than the guy fucking his cousins. Never get sex for free again.
Getting over it.
Con: If you're dressing up as a woman you have zero chance of getting over it.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Food goes in the mouth and shit out the ass, you're doing it backwards.
My food is like my cock, it'll make you close you eyes and go "Mmmm" when it goes in your mouth. Another thing the two have in common is that they never go near vegetarians. As much as I'd like to take a giant shit on those twisted fucks they're still recovering from the last vegetarian blog post.
There are few things in this world as powerful as food. You eat it all fucking day every fucking day. It can ruin your date and your marriage. With all that said, people need to shut the fuck up about it. Oh my God, hearing a bitch moan about how great her trendy fusion salad was is one thing. Hearing her talk about, "the balance of flavors" or anything doing anything to her palate is unforgivable. Why is she a woman? Because I'm sexist, mother fucker.
Foodies will wax poetic for hours about shit they know nothing about. That's all well and good if you're talking about women or politics but food is something I care about so you keep it out of your whore mouth. The idea of these squash shaped assholes sitting at a keyboard with their weird t-rex arms beating off to Andrew Zimmern makes me sick.
Everyone knows a foodie, they're the people that sigh or scoff when you want a Big Mac and a big ass coke. Don't take their shit, you know that Taco Bell isn't really Mexican food but that doesn't stop it from being delicious. Street tacos are great and eating at the new restaurant up the street is the closest you'll ever get to Vietnam I'm not denying that. I just think foodies should shut the fuck up. It's not going to happen, the only thing that would surprise me more is if the cooked something edible they didn't steal a recipe for.
This blog was brought to you by; Andrew Zimmern the lip smacking idiot, the Julie part of Julie and Julia, Remy in the first half of Ratatouille, people that put "Sushi." as their facebook status, and all those stupid blogs I stumbleupon.
There are few things in this world as powerful as food. You eat it all fucking day every fucking day. It can ruin your date and your marriage. With all that said, people need to shut the fuck up about it. Oh my God, hearing a bitch moan about how great her trendy fusion salad was is one thing. Hearing her talk about, "the balance of flavors" or anything doing anything to her palate is unforgivable. Why is she a woman? Because I'm sexist, mother fucker.
Foodies will wax poetic for hours about shit they know nothing about. That's all well and good if you're talking about women or politics but food is something I care about so you keep it out of your whore mouth. The idea of these squash shaped assholes sitting at a keyboard with their weird t-rex arms beating off to Andrew Zimmern makes me sick.
Everyone knows a foodie, they're the people that sigh or scoff when you want a Big Mac and a big ass coke. Don't take their shit, you know that Taco Bell isn't really Mexican food but that doesn't stop it from being delicious. Street tacos are great and eating at the new restaurant up the street is the closest you'll ever get to Vietnam I'm not denying that. I just think foodies should shut the fuck up. It's not going to happen, the only thing that would surprise me more is if the cooked something edible they didn't steal a recipe for.
This blog was brought to you by; Andrew Zimmern the lip smacking idiot, the Julie part of Julie and Julia, Remy in the first half of Ratatouille, people that put "Sushi." as their facebook status, and all those stupid blogs I stumbleupon.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
An Ode to the Good Ole Days: When a Man was a Man and a Woman was something he owned.
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.
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.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
My Mental Health Is Fine...But Mine Is Pretty Bad
The United States is a beacon of hope for people around the world. Middle-class Berliners, impoverished Afghans, and gay-hating elderly Southern couples all see this fine country as the leader in freedom, liberty, and American patriotism. Except for the liberals. They won't be satisfied until your teenage daughter is forced to trim her pubic hair to resemble Stalin's mustache.
The USA is on the forefront of personal freedoms, internet usage, and infanticide. There is, however, one area where the US of A falls behind on the world stage: mental health. Our status as the fattest and least educated country has been jeopardized by other nations, but we still kick ass at being crazy.
Picture it: you're in a car on a date with a sixteen-year-old. If you're fifty ignore the spine-tingling jailbait factor for the duration of this scenario. As you try to text message, change lanes, and drink a bottle of the overpriced piss that is Gatorade, your date fiddles with the radio. Things seem to be going dandy, and you may set a record for violated child endangerment laws, when she turns down the radio volume from 11 to 10. The fuck is this, man? Either you can hear it or you can't.
"I'm sorry, I'm just kind of OCD about this kind of stuff," she laughs, "I can't stand it when the volume is on an odd number."
This happens all the time and nobody ever calls someone out on it. You've probably said it before without thinking twice. Maybe you didn't think once. It's a nice way of saying "I'm a controlling cunt and deciding the volume of the guy with mantits from Train's voice is all I can do right now. You're operating the motor vehicle and I'd prefer it was me who was tipsy and almost running over hidden roadside Nigerian joggers." Obsessive-compulsive disorder is one of the few illnesses, along with alcoholism and orgy-style syphilis, that we feel the urge to brag about. Nobody fails a college exam and says, "Whoops, that's just my phenylketonuria talking. Now get that fucking gum away from me."
It's not even about self-diagnosis to excuse your character flaws that is infuriating, it's the lack of effort to maintain consistency. At least try to seem mentally ill. Break into your neighbor's apartment and arrange the dildo collection in their top drawer by size. Go all the way and visit a doctor about your problems. He'll give you a questionnaire to examine your head and hopefully a rectal exam involving a cinder block.
The only other disorder that even comes close on the mental health wishlist is attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. Teenagers, especially today's myriad hipsters, love using ADHD as an excuse for their flaws. So do their parents, siblings, and ex-Presidents. You can't read the fine print on your credit card statement but you can meticulously maintain an internet farm? Fifty years ago your behavior would have been labeled annoying and you'd be stuck head-first into an unflushed toilet. Now everyone in a 500 foot radius knows your mental disabilities are the reason you're quirky and unpredictable. It's, like, so cool you're not like those dorks who read books and file their own taxes. You can only focus on doing something for a few minutes at a time? Great! You and four friends can get your shit together and come landscape my yard. I'll make sure to rotate your jobs every few minutes.
Friday, September 24, 2010
An Open Letter To Vegetarians (Please do not eat this)
Vegetarians and vegans (heretofore referred to as veganterians, also leafpoopers) are a special brand of completely wrong. They are wrong not simply for their ideology, and not even for their execution, but their very concept. The foundation upon which most meat-deniers have built their diets is fallacious--a sandy ground which happens to resemble the texture of their feces. Grass-fellatiators have become rampant, and I feel it is my civic duty to tell them that when every girl who has ever loved them told them to "eat shit and die," they did not have to take it literally.
Cabbage-masticators do not realize that in achieving their very goal, they are hypocritically becoming more damaging than any meat industry could be. Let me first define what the evil (anyone who cannot enjoy a salisbury steak is evil, check Leviticus) veganterians want. What they desire is to smugly not eat what has been part of our diet as a species...ever since we've been a species. And they are not content to merely gnaw upon our endtables in peace. No, they hope to spread the disease, they hope to inseminate us with their filthy love of soy, a material so vile that even Stephen Hawking twitches ever so slightly at the sight of it. They want us...to become like them.
And why do they desire it? Because they pity the animals. They deplore the brutal endgame employed by the livestock industry- the maturation, followed by the slaughter, of their poor little darlings. And so they aim to have us eat moss and lichen, to chew upon bark and to eat whatever the hell that red soupy stuff is. In short-- to murder our mouths.
But what if they were to get their wish? What if every rotund, heartily-sated patriot of a man, and every round-bottomed porterhouse steak of a woman, were to suddenly submit to our anemic overlords, and convert our meaty loins into withered collared greens? If the world stopped eating meat, what would happen to the noble chicken, the proud pig, and the hilarious emu?
Perhaps these soy-based organisms have not had sufficient mental energy to piece together the consequences of turning our wonderfully brown sewer system permanently green, but I have thought for them, just as I have been eating several times the appropriate amount of meat for them for the last several decades.
If tomorrow, soy replaced all meat, and all meat-related delicacies, not only would we become really irritating douchebags that smell faintly of rye bread and excrement, but instead of free-grazing animals, there would only be soy. The chicken old farmer dan had in his old rusty coop? Gone. Replaced by a small patch of soy and marijuana. Because we had to legalize marijuana if we were getting rid of meat-- can't have the entire world killing itself, can we?
So what would happen to the animals that the veganterians wanted so badly to protect? They would cease to be--cease to exist. Populations of enormous densities, densities higher than even the heads of the Bristolest of Palins, would be wiped out. Cows would belong in zoos-- their presence in a field would now be considered an act of vandalism, and they'd be forced to pick up garbage by the side of road in orange jumpsuits. But their hooves would not be able to properly work the pointy sticks and it would waste everyone's time, although the legal weed would make the whole process a lot funnier to watch.
And so by hoping to save these animals, the leafpoopers would destroy them! Now I ask you: What kind of activism is that?
The leafpoopers might rebut me-- "It is better to not live than to suffer as greatly as these animals would have had to suffer in captivity," they may utter, as their teeth fall out due to malnutrition, and perhaps awl To that I say this: Oh really now? Is that the logic by which you hope to protect your position? Transferring this principle, I suggest we attach a nuclear bomb to some fried chicken and deploy it upon the continent of Africa. After all, their conditions are so deplorable, that it is better not to live than it is to suffer their indignities. They shall die as they have lived; stereotypically eating fried chicken.
Thus, I have demonstrated the absurdity of the veganterian movement, the futility of its cause, and the insanity of its proprietors. But fear not, veganterians. Although I have beaten you savagely, I do not wish to do the same to the animals you have loved. I am an advocate for the improvement of livestock living conditions.
That is why, when we put you, the veganterians, into small cages, I propose that we change your lettuce dishes several times a day, and change your diapers regularly so as to prevent finickiness. We must remember, you're almost people.
Cabbage-masticators do not realize that in achieving their very goal, they are hypocritically becoming more damaging than any meat industry could be. Let me first define what the evil (anyone who cannot enjoy a salisbury steak is evil, check Leviticus) veganterians want. What they desire is to smugly not eat what has been part of our diet as a species...ever since we've been a species. And they are not content to merely gnaw upon our endtables in peace. No, they hope to spread the disease, they hope to inseminate us with their filthy love of soy, a material so vile that even Stephen Hawking twitches ever so slightly at the sight of it. They want us...to become like them.
And why do they desire it? Because they pity the animals. They deplore the brutal endgame employed by the livestock industry- the maturation, followed by the slaughter, of their poor little darlings. And so they aim to have us eat moss and lichen, to chew upon bark and to eat whatever the hell that red soupy stuff is. In short-- to murder our mouths.
But what if they were to get their wish? What if every rotund, heartily-sated patriot of a man, and every round-bottomed porterhouse steak of a woman, were to suddenly submit to our anemic overlords, and convert our meaty loins into withered collared greens? If the world stopped eating meat, what would happen to the noble chicken, the proud pig, and the hilarious emu?
Perhaps these soy-based organisms have not had sufficient mental energy to piece together the consequences of turning our wonderfully brown sewer system permanently green, but I have thought for them, just as I have been eating several times the appropriate amount of meat for them for the last several decades.
If tomorrow, soy replaced all meat, and all meat-related delicacies, not only would we become really irritating douchebags that smell faintly of rye bread and excrement, but instead of free-grazing animals, there would only be soy. The chicken old farmer dan had in his old rusty coop? Gone. Replaced by a small patch of soy and marijuana. Because we had to legalize marijuana if we were getting rid of meat-- can't have the entire world killing itself, can we?
So what would happen to the animals that the veganterians wanted so badly to protect? They would cease to be--cease to exist. Populations of enormous densities, densities higher than even the heads of the Bristolest of Palins, would be wiped out. Cows would belong in zoos-- their presence in a field would now be considered an act of vandalism, and they'd be forced to pick up garbage by the side of road in orange jumpsuits. But their hooves would not be able to properly work the pointy sticks and it would waste everyone's time, although the legal weed would make the whole process a lot funnier to watch.
And so by hoping to save these animals, the leafpoopers would destroy them! Now I ask you: What kind of activism is that?
The leafpoopers might rebut me-- "It is better to not live than to suffer as greatly as these animals would have had to suffer in captivity," they may utter, as their teeth fall out due to malnutrition, and perhaps awl To that I say this: Oh really now? Is that the logic by which you hope to protect your position? Transferring this principle, I suggest we attach a nuclear bomb to some fried chicken and deploy it upon the continent of Africa. After all, their conditions are so deplorable, that it is better not to live than it is to suffer their indignities. They shall die as they have lived; stereotypically eating fried chicken.
Thus, I have demonstrated the absurdity of the veganterian movement, the futility of its cause, and the insanity of its proprietors. But fear not, veganterians. Although I have beaten you savagely, I do not wish to do the same to the animals you have loved. I am an advocate for the improvement of livestock living conditions.
That is why, when we put you, the veganterians, into small cages, I propose that we change your lettuce dishes several times a day, and change your diapers regularly so as to prevent finickiness. We must remember, you're almost people.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Because Sauntering Is Sacred
Sauntering is the best means of conveyance. It's cool, it's confident, and it's most definitely not for orphans. Let me explain. Today my saunter was in full effect, my arms were swinging, I was a-whistlin, and my feet were in rhythm when lo and behold a child appeared. His saunter was immature and sloppy but I could tell his heart was in the right place. "Where are your parents little guy?" I inquired. "I don't have any parents. They died when I was a baby." Well then fuck you, little guy. Get off my street, go back to your understaffed federally funded hellhole, and start writing dark poetry. You're a mother fucking orphan. What are you doing outside alone? I mean, I get why you're alone but why aren't you as lonely as I am? None of this makes sense. Everything is wrong. And do you know why? I'll tell you why. The got-danged media.
Batman is an orphan. He grew up bitter and full of hatred and started kicking ass. Now Batman showed that orphans could grow up and kind of contribute to society, (not like that pussy criminal Oliver!) but also that they were still totally unrelatable. Nobody with parents would dress in a giant bat suit and be best friends with a butler because that's fucking stupid. Then Harry Potter happened. All of a sudden orphans were hot shit and it went right to their heads. They feel like they can do anything-- from combating dark wizards to opening successful small businesses and everything in between. If we aren't careful, they'll start politicking their way to the top. Before you know it they'll be demanding equal rights and you know what that means. Marriage. Orphans only want to get married so they can murder-suicide and create more orphans. They'll keep doing it until being an orphan is the norm and we'll all be godless heathens, fighting crime, solving mysteries, and/or singing our way into billionaires' hardened hearts. I refuse to let this happen.
Today I stole a child’s ice cream cone, scuffed his knees, and reminded him he has no one to kiss it better. I did my part, now do yours.
--Contributed by SoulPatch
Batman is an orphan. He grew up bitter and full of hatred and started kicking ass. Now Batman showed that orphans could grow up and kind of contribute to society, (not like that pussy criminal Oliver!) but also that they were still totally unrelatable. Nobody with parents would dress in a giant bat suit and be best friends with a butler because that's fucking stupid. Then Harry Potter happened. All of a sudden orphans were hot shit and it went right to their heads. They feel like they can do anything-- from combating dark wizards to opening successful small businesses and everything in between. If we aren't careful, they'll start politicking their way to the top. Before you know it they'll be demanding equal rights and you know what that means. Marriage. Orphans only want to get married so they can murder-suicide and create more orphans. They'll keep doing it until being an orphan is the norm and we'll all be godless heathens, fighting crime, solving mysteries, and/or singing our way into billionaires' hardened hearts. I refuse to let this happen.
Today I stole a child’s ice cream cone, scuffed his knees, and reminded him he has no one to kiss it better. I did my part, now do yours.
--Contributed by SoulPatch
Friday, September 17, 2010
A Trip In The Woods
The winds tore through the wilderness below an intimidating full moon. Some people believe in the “Butterfly Effect.” Those who don’t need not worry on this foul night. Those who do, however, would have been very frightened by the fart that slipped out of a camper’s sleeping bag that evening. Mother Nature’s gassy visitor was not awakened easily, perhaps due to his many years on board an all-male aircraft carrier. Unfortunately he remained asleep when the caped hero entered his temporary dwelling, nude from the waist down except for two brown, knee-high socks. Tonight would be an easy victory as long as the black bears remained asleep.
The visitor crept into the tent, after successfully minimizing the noise of the outer zippers, and silently watched his prey. Tonight was a perfect night for his game he enjoyed playing with hikers along the Appalachian Trail. He got into position and knelt over the slumbering man’s face, the beard lightly tickling his buttocks, and imagined himself in his happy place. By imagining himself in a shoe factory in a South American free-trade zone, and by practicing meditation, he was able to relax his stomach and intestines. The monochromatic form of a bat glided across the side of the tent like a warship crossing the Pacific; he knew he wasn’t the only predator in this neck of the woods.
To prepare for tonight’s activities he had eaten a hearty meal which featured a steak, beans, chili, a mountain of mashed potatoes, and a chocolate milkshake. A Peloponnesian battle ravaged his bowels – it was time. The quartet was playing in the woods this evening: his heavy breath, the violent wind, the flapping of his winged companion, and the rustling of leaves. He released his soft-serve-like excrement onto the face of his victim. His beard was transformed from black to brown as the sludge made its way into the crevasses of his neck. Tonight’s activities were going splendidly well and it was almost time to depart. The final obstacle was using his weak leg muscles to push himself up and away from danger.
What was that noise? It must have just been the leaves; one tends to become paranoid when their man-eggs are inches away from twenty-something sharp teeth. The wind would allow him an effortless exit from the foul-smelling tent. Ah, shit (no pun intended). That can’t be the leaves. Suddenly the brown-faced, bewildered gentleman screamed and made a Herculean effort to sit upright. His nose became lodged in the caped crusader’s anus causing both men to scream as loud as their post-pubescent bodies could permit. This was, without a doubt, the worst night of both of their lives.
When your evening involves feces, a cheap Walmart tent, a pretentious camouflage sleeping bag, and a total stranger your mind tends to go into overdrive. Your weaker senses grow stronger as your eye muscles atrophy due to the ensuing chaos. There was another soul stirring at this ungodly hour. Someone, perhaps a nearby camper hoping to provide assistance or some laxatives from his first aid kit, was making their way towards the Turd Tent.
Suddenly something swiped through the side of the tent and the camouflage was stained with blood. The bears may have arrived black, but one can be certain they departed the foul tent stained brown.
--Contributed by Kyle
The visitor crept into the tent, after successfully minimizing the noise of the outer zippers, and silently watched his prey. Tonight was a perfect night for his game he enjoyed playing with hikers along the Appalachian Trail. He got into position and knelt over the slumbering man’s face, the beard lightly tickling his buttocks, and imagined himself in his happy place. By imagining himself in a shoe factory in a South American free-trade zone, and by practicing meditation, he was able to relax his stomach and intestines. The monochromatic form of a bat glided across the side of the tent like a warship crossing the Pacific; he knew he wasn’t the only predator in this neck of the woods.
To prepare for tonight’s activities he had eaten a hearty meal which featured a steak, beans, chili, a mountain of mashed potatoes, and a chocolate milkshake. A Peloponnesian battle ravaged his bowels – it was time. The quartet was playing in the woods this evening: his heavy breath, the violent wind, the flapping of his winged companion, and the rustling of leaves. He released his soft-serve-like excrement onto the face of his victim. His beard was transformed from black to brown as the sludge made its way into the crevasses of his neck. Tonight’s activities were going splendidly well and it was almost time to depart. The final obstacle was using his weak leg muscles to push himself up and away from danger.
What was that noise? It must have just been the leaves; one tends to become paranoid when their man-eggs are inches away from twenty-something sharp teeth. The wind would allow him an effortless exit from the foul-smelling tent. Ah, shit (no pun intended). That can’t be the leaves. Suddenly the brown-faced, bewildered gentleman screamed and made a Herculean effort to sit upright. His nose became lodged in the caped crusader’s anus causing both men to scream as loud as their post-pubescent bodies could permit. This was, without a doubt, the worst night of both of their lives.
When your evening involves feces, a cheap Walmart tent, a pretentious camouflage sleeping bag, and a total stranger your mind tends to go into overdrive. Your weaker senses grow stronger as your eye muscles atrophy due to the ensuing chaos. There was another soul stirring at this ungodly hour. Someone, perhaps a nearby camper hoping to provide assistance or some laxatives from his first aid kit, was making their way towards the Turd Tent.
Suddenly something swiped through the side of the tent and the camouflage was stained with blood. The bears may have arrived black, but one can be certain they departed the foul tent stained brown.
--Contributed by Kyle
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Fuck These Tubes
A person need only look at history to see what a depressing shit hole this place is. Kennedy was shot, Lizzie Borden whacked, and giant snow storms swept across the Midwest forcing families to leave their shitty states in hopes to find paradise only to discover that rural Kansas was really the best they could do. Not to mention all the mayhem the White Devil caused. White power my ass. Anyways, you can look at all that and wonder, "how could it get any worse?" The mother fucking internet.
Do you know how long it's been since I've been outside? How many 16 year old boobs I've seen? That the ratio of computer boobs to real life boobs I've seen is 795:1? That I'm masturbating to illegally downloaded porn in one tab and listening to a person getting quartered in a third world country in another whilst I type a blog riddled with spelling mistakes? I'm not the only loser typing his life away. I'm not even the most pathetic (I'm not the worst looking either, ladies) but I'll be damned if I haven't gotten so used to facebook chat that I have to consciously refrain from whipping my dick out five minutes into a conversation with a flesh and blood female.
If I could, I'd go back to the time when the only memes were hard work and domestic abuse. Sure it'd be harder to find a Brazilian midget that wants something in every orifice but I wouldn't know what I was missing. Also, Coke would cost a nickel.
--Contributed by Soul Patch
Do you know how long it's been since I've been outside? How many 16 year old boobs I've seen? That the ratio of computer boobs to real life boobs I've seen is 795:1? That I'm masturbating to illegally downloaded porn in one tab and listening to a person getting quartered in a third world country in another whilst I type a blog riddled with spelling mistakes? I'm not the only loser typing his life away. I'm not even the most pathetic (I'm not the worst looking either, ladies) but I'll be damned if I haven't gotten so used to facebook chat that I have to consciously refrain from whipping my dick out five minutes into a conversation with a flesh and blood female.
If I could, I'd go back to the time when the only memes were hard work and domestic abuse. Sure it'd be harder to find a Brazilian midget that wants something in every orifice but I wouldn't know what I was missing. Also, Coke would cost a nickel.
--Contributed by Soul Patch
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
An Immodest Proposal
I don't know what compels a man to kill, but it might involve the sound of women laughing. I don't know what cultural segregation, what devilish evolutionary trick, or what creator-based ironic twist has made women the way that they are: unable to appreciate humor. I don't know how many times I've told a Mitch Hedberg joke to a girl that's gotten a blank stare in return, how many brilliant TV shows a doe-eyed waterheaded female has said they "don't get," or how many times a well-faceted yet crushingly hilarious observation I've uttered has sailed past the female listener's head like so much jism arced over her by a male far less clever than I.
So when women do laugh, when they do allow their throats to be used for more than singing top 40 radio hits, uttering stupid cliches, or swallowing penis, it is always at the most mundane, tittery, empty rhetoric available to them. "I went to the beach and got sunburned," should not be followed by "oh my god, hahahahahaha that's sooo saaaad." It should be followed by a quick slap to the area worst affected by the burn. That's humor, bitches. It was humor when you decided that moisturizer must double as sun-block. It was humor when you decided that you should go to the beach to lay on sand and sun-bathe, a practice that is so stupid it is beneath even you.
At the risk of sounding even more misogynistic, women should all be sent to concentration camps for funniness. Now, I'm not talking about holocaust-stuff. I wasn't ever at a holocaust site, so I can't speak to that with authority. I'm talking about a posh concentration camp. An internment camp, let's say, like those lucky Japanese-Americans got during WWII. They were only upset the Americans did that because most of them WERE spies. I know it's true, I've seen pictures. If they were innocent, they wouldn't have had such shifty eyes. Now that's exercising good judgment, President Roosevelt.
An internment camp for all the women who think that Sex in the City is a comedy. Inside it, instructing the females, will be all gay men. Because it's an internment camp. Not a rapeatorium. I will know them to be gay by their inability to immediately recall the female cast of Saved By the Bell in order of least to most attractive (the answer is Jessie, Lisa, and Kelly, and I'll accept no further argument). And these gay men, though perhaps a little more kitschy and snarky than ideal, will be able to teach these women the meaning of the punchline, and I don't mean the homosexual sex act.
They will watch during the daylight hours only reruns of the finest television shows, shows that will teach them to laugh when things are appropriately funny. Shows like Arrested Development will not qualify, because fuck them they don't deserve it. And they shall watch. They shall watch or they shall die.
And at night, there shall be pillow-fights. Because that's one of the good things girls do.
Those that survive will be stamped across the lower back. The stamp will be of a butterfly pooping. Because that's much funnier than anything currently on a girl's lower back, except for Steve Carell's semen.
And it is thus that I plan to metamorphose a woman's laughter from a thing of terrible destruction into an object d'arte, a marvel of pleasant social interaction. I, and you, my fellow men, shall now be able to jizz in a woman's eye without fear of reprisal, instead able to expect adulation and many high-fives for your self-control and hand-cock coordination.
And we, as a gender, shall rejoice and celebrate with a cold beer on a hot night, gathered around the TV, watching footage of the internment camp girls in the shower, because nobody ever said re-education can't be sexy.
So when women do laugh, when they do allow their throats to be used for more than singing top 40 radio hits, uttering stupid cliches, or swallowing penis, it is always at the most mundane, tittery, empty rhetoric available to them. "I went to the beach and got sunburned," should not be followed by "oh my god, hahahahahaha that's sooo saaaad." It should be followed by a quick slap to the area worst affected by the burn. That's humor, bitches. It was humor when you decided that moisturizer must double as sun-block. It was humor when you decided that you should go to the beach to lay on sand and sun-bathe, a practice that is so stupid it is beneath even you.
At the risk of sounding even more misogynistic, women should all be sent to concentration camps for funniness. Now, I'm not talking about holocaust-stuff. I wasn't ever at a holocaust site, so I can't speak to that with authority. I'm talking about a posh concentration camp. An internment camp, let's say, like those lucky Japanese-Americans got during WWII. They were only upset the Americans did that because most of them WERE spies. I know it's true, I've seen pictures. If they were innocent, they wouldn't have had such shifty eyes. Now that's exercising good judgment, President Roosevelt.
An internment camp for all the women who think that Sex in the City is a comedy. Inside it, instructing the females, will be all gay men. Because it's an internment camp. Not a rapeatorium. I will know them to be gay by their inability to immediately recall the female cast of Saved By the Bell in order of least to most attractive (the answer is Jessie, Lisa, and Kelly, and I'll accept no further argument). And these gay men, though perhaps a little more kitschy and snarky than ideal, will be able to teach these women the meaning of the punchline, and I don't mean the homosexual sex act.
They will watch during the daylight hours only reruns of the finest television shows, shows that will teach them to laugh when things are appropriately funny. Shows like Arrested Development will not qualify, because fuck them they don't deserve it. And they shall watch. They shall watch or they shall die.
And at night, there shall be pillow-fights. Because that's one of the good things girls do.
Those that survive will be stamped across the lower back. The stamp will be of a butterfly pooping. Because that's much funnier than anything currently on a girl's lower back, except for Steve Carell's semen.
And it is thus that I plan to metamorphose a woman's laughter from a thing of terrible destruction into an object d'arte, a marvel of pleasant social interaction. I, and you, my fellow men, shall now be able to jizz in a woman's eye without fear of reprisal, instead able to expect adulation and many high-fives for your self-control and hand-cock coordination.
And we, as a gender, shall rejoice and celebrate with a cold beer on a hot night, gathered around the TV, watching footage of the internment camp girls in the shower, because nobody ever said re-education can't be sexy.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Press Button, Receive Bacon.
It's pretty bizarre how much our standards for food have shaped our society. The Bible gives us dominion over animals because we figured out animals can be dominioned. The Jews didn't eat pork because it would so often spoil and make people sick that they decided that the animal was "unclean." The Muslims won't eat pork because really, they do what the Jews say but grumble about it and on occasion, explode. We've subconsciously stratified all the animals from dumbest to smartest, then decided it's okay to eat the dumb ones, because it would be cruel to eat smart animals. Except dolphins. But hey...honest mistake, that. They get caught in the nets and also they taste like tuna. And pigs. But how were we supposed to know they were intelligent?! Babe wasn't so smart, it was that whore spider doing all that shit for him. So we pretend that we don't eat elephants and dogs and cats because they're too intelligent to be eaten. But really, it's because they're bad cuts of meat.
That's pretty much why we don't eat people, too. In areas where eating humans is biologically necessary, it's done. Magically, it's not considered evil, either.
But what if we didn't taste bad? What if women, instead of squirting blood and sloughed-off uterus from their vagina monthly...what if they dispensed bacon for 5 days out of the month? How different would life be?
"Honey, you better not be pregnant. You know how I like my eggs in the morning. With a glass of orange juice, and 3 strips of your uterine wall. I swear to Christ if you're with child I'm going over to your mother and having her cook for me. I don't care if it comes out a little bit hairy."
Imagine a world where that is the only significant change. That an 11 year-old's first menstruation is salted, cured, and Oscar Meyer is branded above her clitoris to discourage rustlers. That Jews and Muslims alike could legitimately make a case that cunnilingus is against their religion.
Familial bonds would fall apart. Hungry 5-year olds, too old to reach for the teat, would fist their mothers, expectantly peering into their slimy yet empty hands as the mother explained to them that she's sorry, little Timmy, but you're going to have to wait until the 12th. But not to worry, because this time she can feel that it's going to be a particularly heavy flow, and that Timmy could perhaps invite his friends for a nice cookout and sleepover once it was ready.
Censorship would be completely thrown off. We could no longer censor vaginas because they'd be so darn appetizing. Instead we'd have to selectively choose body parts that are not longer available for perusal. The FCC would have to strictly enforce its "no back of the knees" policy on women, which Janet Jackson would bravely flaunt at a Superbowl halftime show, showing the backs of her knees while Justin Timberlake dances around her, pretending to be interested in vagina for reasons beyond bacon.
Sexual fetishism would be wildly different, with a new and alternative focus on vaginafood. You could no longer seductively use strawberries, whipped cream and chocolate syrup to dine at the Y. Too sweet, too desserty. Bread panties. Lettuce tampons. Kielbasa dildos. Hot pink buttplugs because goddamn it, if you don't buy them, who will? The possibilities are endless.
And that's just one, tiny, minor, foodstuff. I haven't even gotten started on crap brulee. Or semensicles.
That's pretty much why we don't eat people, too. In areas where eating humans is biologically necessary, it's done. Magically, it's not considered evil, either.
But what if we didn't taste bad? What if women, instead of squirting blood and sloughed-off uterus from their vagina monthly...what if they dispensed bacon for 5 days out of the month? How different would life be?
"Honey, you better not be pregnant. You know how I like my eggs in the morning. With a glass of orange juice, and 3 strips of your uterine wall. I swear to Christ if you're with child I'm going over to your mother and having her cook for me. I don't care if it comes out a little bit hairy."
Imagine a world where that is the only significant change. That an 11 year-old's first menstruation is salted, cured, and Oscar Meyer is branded above her clitoris to discourage rustlers. That Jews and Muslims alike could legitimately make a case that cunnilingus is against their religion.
Familial bonds would fall apart. Hungry 5-year olds, too old to reach for the teat, would fist their mothers, expectantly peering into their slimy yet empty hands as the mother explained to them that she's sorry, little Timmy, but you're going to have to wait until the 12th. But not to worry, because this time she can feel that it's going to be a particularly heavy flow, and that Timmy could perhaps invite his friends for a nice cookout and sleepover once it was ready.
Censorship would be completely thrown off. We could no longer censor vaginas because they'd be so darn appetizing. Instead we'd have to selectively choose body parts that are not longer available for perusal. The FCC would have to strictly enforce its "no back of the knees" policy on women, which Janet Jackson would bravely flaunt at a Superbowl halftime show, showing the backs of her knees while Justin Timberlake dances around her, pretending to be interested in vagina for reasons beyond bacon.
Sexual fetishism would be wildly different, with a new and alternative focus on vaginafood. You could no longer seductively use strawberries, whipped cream and chocolate syrup to dine at the Y. Too sweet, too desserty. Bread panties. Lettuce tampons. Kielbasa dildos. Hot pink buttplugs because goddamn it, if you don't buy them, who will? The possibilities are endless.
And that's just one, tiny, minor, foodstuff. I haven't even gotten started on crap brulee. Or semensicles.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Why Jumping Up Your Own Ass Will Solve The Economic Crisis
The economy is failing, and people have lost sight of why failing happens. It's not the sub-prime loans. They're what happens when the economy's already failed.
An economy is geared towards producing goods. Snapple. Styrofoam cup lids. Hot pink buttplugs. A product, something to bring to market and produce cash flow. But what happens when you get really, really good at making hot pink buttplugs? You produce way more of them than what you can sell. Now what? You fire most of the guys that make hot pink butt plugs, and those guys have to go into the unemployment office with a resume title of "Ass Connoisseur." And unless he can make the unthinkable crossover into Vaginal Regent, he's up shit creek without a paddle. Buttplugs aren't so unique. The same thing is going on with a lot of the goods produced in America, but on a far greater scale. Turns out that indigo anal beads are way cheaper to produce in China, long as you don't mind purple lead up your ass.
So when you downsize and export all of your industry, what are you left with? Servicing those industries. There don't quite exist buttplug repairmen (despite my petitions), but there are a bunch of rectal surgical specialists that depend on ass tearing to make their livings. I wouldn't want to be a rectal surgeon's wife. He'd come home smelling like the job every day.
And so with the economy switching from production to service, there's a consolidation. You need a lot of people to produce things. Not so many to keep them working. One IT guy can run a dozen asian porn sites, if he could stop shame-jacking it for long enough to update the description for the movie of the week from what it's been for the past 34 weeks: "I bet you guys could meet this sexy little schoolgirl in a dark alley behind a safeway. Fujiko gets fucked by a behemoth four (!!!) inch penis in the hottest of all the positions: missionary. Don't worry, perverts, she's got enough bush to completely destroy America's standing with the rest of the world. You'll get to watch her sexily scream at the top of her lungs until Jet Li blows a load all over her eyelidless face. I highly recommend." Actually, that doesn't need updating. It's probably the porn that could use it.
With consolidation comes shortage. So to keep the economy flowing, you have to invent jobs to keep people employed, which corporations love to do, since expansion must mean forward progress. Like "Corporate Head Hunter." That job makes no sense. They basically work for a company, looking for guys to hire. Which is clearly unnecessary. People act as their own headhunters. You don't need to look for people that are in turn, looking for you. I wonder if that guy who had to carve off his own arm to escape it being crushed under a boulder, when he was was found by a search team, he was like "Oh thank God I found you guys, I was worried sick. Let's get you warm and get some food in you. BTW, would one of you mind terribly taking me to a hospital, because I think I'm dying."
That's all well and good when the economy is fluid. When everything's rolling, jobs become overstaffed, and frivolous jobs are created. The problem is when there's a dip, and a company realizes that firing the guy whose sole job it is to hire people for more jobs that the company can't afford to staff, is probably a good idea.But first, let's just lie to the shareholders or something.
And everyone ends up fired. And who suffers? Our anuses. Gone are the hot pink buttplugs of yesteryear. Replaced, are they, by the splintery wooden dildos of reality. Our already suffering industry, due to the lack of cashflow, goes from bad to worse.
It's pretty much what happened with the financial market, too. Sub-prime loans can be viewed as products, and the derivatives as a service. The derivatives are these bundles of sub-prime loans bundled together, and banks would simply place bets upon whether or not the sub-prime loans would be paid back. It's the Harvard equivalent of horse racing. The problem is that you can't fire the money like you fire the people. Instead, we had the American people pay the banks for losing the bet.
And that, all 6 of my readers, is why jumping up your own ass will solve the crisis.
Become your own buttplug. Roughly paraphrased, these are the words of Karl Marx. Very roughly paraphrased.
Marx thought that owning the means of production, or in other words, making the product yourself, was vital to an economy. Turns out that the crazy Russian bastard was right. Maybe not about the whole "forget the free market thing, we'll just be real real nice to one another and hope sharing works." But with this, he's got something. We've got to stop trying to crank more efficiency out of processes that are wholly sufficient enough. Stop outsourcing by imposing outrageous taxes on American companies importing their products from a factory overseas. And for the love of god, stop teaching Indians to speak English.
So please, take one for the team, and leap into your anus. At the very least, it might fix the quickly sinking rectal surgery market.
An economy is geared towards producing goods. Snapple. Styrofoam cup lids. Hot pink buttplugs. A product, something to bring to market and produce cash flow. But what happens when you get really, really good at making hot pink buttplugs? You produce way more of them than what you can sell. Now what? You fire most of the guys that make hot pink butt plugs, and those guys have to go into the unemployment office with a resume title of "Ass Connoisseur." And unless he can make the unthinkable crossover into Vaginal Regent, he's up shit creek without a paddle. Buttplugs aren't so unique. The same thing is going on with a lot of the goods produced in America, but on a far greater scale. Turns out that indigo anal beads are way cheaper to produce in China, long as you don't mind purple lead up your ass.
So when you downsize and export all of your industry, what are you left with? Servicing those industries. There don't quite exist buttplug repairmen (despite my petitions), but there are a bunch of rectal surgical specialists that depend on ass tearing to make their livings. I wouldn't want to be a rectal surgeon's wife. He'd come home smelling like the job every day.
And so with the economy switching from production to service, there's a consolidation. You need a lot of people to produce things. Not so many to keep them working. One IT guy can run a dozen asian porn sites, if he could stop shame-jacking it for long enough to update the description for the movie of the week from what it's been for the past 34 weeks: "I bet you guys could meet this sexy little schoolgirl in a dark alley behind a safeway. Fujiko gets fucked by a behemoth four (!!!) inch penis in the hottest of all the positions: missionary. Don't worry, perverts, she's got enough bush to completely destroy America's standing with the rest of the world. You'll get to watch her sexily scream at the top of her lungs until Jet Li blows a load all over her eyelidless face. I highly recommend." Actually, that doesn't need updating. It's probably the porn that could use it.
With consolidation comes shortage. So to keep the economy flowing, you have to invent jobs to keep people employed, which corporations love to do, since expansion must mean forward progress. Like "Corporate Head Hunter." That job makes no sense. They basically work for a company, looking for guys to hire. Which is clearly unnecessary. People act as their own headhunters. You don't need to look for people that are in turn, looking for you. I wonder if that guy who had to carve off his own arm to escape it being crushed under a boulder, when he was was found by a search team, he was like "Oh thank God I found you guys, I was worried sick. Let's get you warm and get some food in you. BTW, would one of you mind terribly taking me to a hospital, because I think I'm dying."
That's all well and good when the economy is fluid. When everything's rolling, jobs become overstaffed, and frivolous jobs are created. The problem is when there's a dip, and a company realizes that firing the guy whose sole job it is to hire people for more jobs that the company can't afford to staff, is probably a good idea.But first, let's just lie to the shareholders or something.
And everyone ends up fired. And who suffers? Our anuses. Gone are the hot pink buttplugs of yesteryear. Replaced, are they, by the splintery wooden dildos of reality. Our already suffering industry, due to the lack of cashflow, goes from bad to worse.
It's pretty much what happened with the financial market, too. Sub-prime loans can be viewed as products, and the derivatives as a service. The derivatives are these bundles of sub-prime loans bundled together, and banks would simply place bets upon whether or not the sub-prime loans would be paid back. It's the Harvard equivalent of horse racing. The problem is that you can't fire the money like you fire the people. Instead, we had the American people pay the banks for losing the bet.
And that, all 6 of my readers, is why jumping up your own ass will solve the crisis.
Become your own buttplug. Roughly paraphrased, these are the words of Karl Marx. Very roughly paraphrased.
Marx thought that owning the means of production, or in other words, making the product yourself, was vital to an economy. Turns out that the crazy Russian bastard was right. Maybe not about the whole "forget the free market thing, we'll just be real real nice to one another and hope sharing works." But with this, he's got something. We've got to stop trying to crank more efficiency out of processes that are wholly sufficient enough. Stop outsourcing by imposing outrageous taxes on American companies importing their products from a factory overseas. And for the love of god, stop teaching Indians to speak English.
So please, take one for the team, and leap into your anus. At the very least, it might fix the quickly sinking rectal surgery market.
Friday, July 30, 2010
I Wouldn’t Like Me If I Were You
Why don’t you just give up?
You ever figure out that the entropy of the universe is so much greater than the work you put into gathering all the pieces back up? That no matter what you do, you cannot prevent the eventual collapse of yourself, those you love, and in the larger scope, civilization, life as we know it, and the earth?
This is the realization I come to every day, when I try to comb my hair.
Hairstyles are misnomers. Their real name should be hair-lies. My hair doesn’t look like this, ladies. My hair looks like I’ve spent the past decade in a humid vagina. Sure, I’d like to have, but that’s just what it looks like. And ladies, this work is all for you. But let’s make a deal. You can stop shaving your legs, and I can stop lying to you with my hair. Excellent. Now for the cuddling.
Ow. Ow. OW.
Alright, old system’s better. Shave your goddamn legs.
And that's what entropy does to us. It makes our asses sag and our hearts fail. It makes our hair grow where we'd rather not have it grow. Disorder is the natural state of things.
Maybe I’m crazy, but I simply don’t like trying to pick up the pieces of my rapidly failing body. I’ve got dandruff, eczema, and my bellybutton smells like my asshole. And last week, I had a fingernail just…fall off. Not the whole thing, just the piece that needed to come off, did. I’m pretty sure I’ve never been happier in my entire life.
It’s just beyond me how anybody can reasonably expect to dedicate hours, and in the long run, years of your life, trying to fix what’s been broken since birth. A smelly armpit is nature’s way of telling you to get the fuck out of the sun. Dandruff tells you that wearing dark-colored shirts is the Devil. Flaky skin is God’s way of informing you that nobody will ever, ever love you. Can’t we, as a society, take the hint?
No? Then can we at least make the "cures" efficiently attainable?
When I was a teenager, I had acne. It wasn’t as bad as my syphilis, but still, I felt like I should do something about it. So I went to the pharmacy, where the only acne creams available, worked under one principle: “don’t like your face? Why don’t you SLOWLY BURN IT OFF WITH THIS ACID ?” No thank you, Acne-cleanse, now with 3.9% Hydrobenzyl 3-burntoacrispone, 6-AHHHHHHHHHHH, acid.
So I went to the doctor, and I told him that I preferred not to sand-blast my face into a new shape with creams. He told me, “Well then, Accutane’s the answer. Just take this, 2 times a day, for the rest of your life, and your acne will go away.” That’s amazing, I thought. “How the hell does this stuff work?” I asked him.
“Oh I don’t know. Nobody knows. It just sort of works.”
“Oh, alright, how did they find that out?”
“Well, it used to be a chemotherapy agent, and then they noticed that patients who took this stuff never got acne.”
“Oh,” I said, with my balls in my throat. “Is that before or after they figured out it can be used as a packing material for 17th century muzzle-loaders?”
“There is a downside,” he stressed. “You might die.”
“What? It can kill me?” I asked him.
“Well, not really. It just makes you so depressed that you want to die, and you might do it to yourself.”
“Yeah, whatever, but it won’t make my cock flaccid or anything, right?” I inquired.
“Oh, it almost definitely will.”
It’s a medication that murders bacteria AND people. I got a name for a medication like that. It’s called fire. Jesus.
Accutane fixes what was broken, by virtue of breaking everything else. You can try to fix the problems Accutane, and every product like it, causes, but you're just going to end up with more. And this is the kind of hamster wheel that won't even get you in shape. It'll get you looking like Michael Jackson, painted and grotesque.
The state of vanity in today’s world is insane. It’s so far beyond the pail that it’s actually bejeweled the pail and is now calling it a goblet. But changing your actual appearance isn't worth the hassle. There's got to be a better way. The first dude to figure out what that better way is will be the richest man alive.
Here’s my own proposal: real-life photoshop. You put a pair of high-tech glasses on your face, and it photoshops everyone on earth to look like all the waxen models that the mass media has convinced you that humans look like. It would be based on the same technology used to make Andy Rooney look like he's still alive.
That Madonna –looking prostitute too veiny for you? Poof, fixed. Oh, that WAS Madonna? Still, fixed.
Don’t like the baggy pants on those black guys on the corner? Poof, fixed. WHAT BLACK GUYS ON THE CORNER?
Don’t like the muffin top on that homosexual gentleman wearing hot pants? Poof. No, I’m not doing the photoshop trick, I’m just calling him a poof.
It would sell faster than hot pants for the distinguishing homosexual gentleman.
But just because that product doesn't exist, stop harming yourself chasing your youth. If you just wait a while, you'll forget what your youth ever looked like. And on that day, you can join me in the nursing home, and we can eat some pudding together or something. I'll do my best to not get skin-flakes in your pudding cup.
You ever figure out that the entropy of the universe is so much greater than the work you put into gathering all the pieces back up? That no matter what you do, you cannot prevent the eventual collapse of yourself, those you love, and in the larger scope, civilization, life as we know it, and the earth?
This is the realization I come to every day, when I try to comb my hair.
Hairstyles are misnomers. Their real name should be hair-lies. My hair doesn’t look like this, ladies. My hair looks like I’ve spent the past decade in a humid vagina. Sure, I’d like to have, but that’s just what it looks like. And ladies, this work is all for you. But let’s make a deal. You can stop shaving your legs, and I can stop lying to you with my hair. Excellent. Now for the cuddling.
Ow. Ow. OW.
Alright, old system’s better. Shave your goddamn legs.
And that's what entropy does to us. It makes our asses sag and our hearts fail. It makes our hair grow where we'd rather not have it grow. Disorder is the natural state of things.
Maybe I’m crazy, but I simply don’t like trying to pick up the pieces of my rapidly failing body. I’ve got dandruff, eczema, and my bellybutton smells like my asshole. And last week, I had a fingernail just…fall off. Not the whole thing, just the piece that needed to come off, did. I’m pretty sure I’ve never been happier in my entire life.
It’s just beyond me how anybody can reasonably expect to dedicate hours, and in the long run, years of your life, trying to fix what’s been broken since birth. A smelly armpit is nature’s way of telling you to get the fuck out of the sun. Dandruff tells you that wearing dark-colored shirts is the Devil. Flaky skin is God’s way of informing you that nobody will ever, ever love you. Can’t we, as a society, take the hint?
No? Then can we at least make the "cures" efficiently attainable?
When I was a teenager, I had acne. It wasn’t as bad as my syphilis, but still, I felt like I should do something about it. So I went to the pharmacy, where the only acne creams available, worked under one principle: “don’t like your face? Why don’t you SLOWLY BURN IT OFF WITH THIS ACID ?” No thank you, Acne-cleanse, now with 3.9% Hydrobenzyl 3-burntoacrispone, 6-AHHHHHHHHHHH, acid.
So I went to the doctor, and I told him that I preferred not to sand-blast my face into a new shape with creams. He told me, “Well then, Accutane’s the answer. Just take this, 2 times a day, for the rest of your life, and your acne will go away.” That’s amazing, I thought. “How the hell does this stuff work?” I asked him.
“Oh I don’t know. Nobody knows. It just sort of works.”
“Oh, alright, how did they find that out?”
“Well, it used to be a chemotherapy agent, and then they noticed that patients who took this stuff never got acne.”
“Oh,” I said, with my balls in my throat. “Is that before or after they figured out it can be used as a packing material for 17th century muzzle-loaders?”
“There is a downside,” he stressed. “You might die.”
“What? It can kill me?” I asked him.
“Well, not really. It just makes you so depressed that you want to die, and you might do it to yourself.”
“Yeah, whatever, but it won’t make my cock flaccid or anything, right?” I inquired.
“Oh, it almost definitely will.”
It’s a medication that murders bacteria AND people. I got a name for a medication like that. It’s called fire. Jesus.
Accutane fixes what was broken, by virtue of breaking everything else. You can try to fix the problems Accutane, and every product like it, causes, but you're just going to end up with more. And this is the kind of hamster wheel that won't even get you in shape. It'll get you looking like Michael Jackson, painted and grotesque.
The state of vanity in today’s world is insane. It’s so far beyond the pail that it’s actually bejeweled the pail and is now calling it a goblet. But changing your actual appearance isn't worth the hassle. There's got to be a better way. The first dude to figure out what that better way is will be the richest man alive.
Here’s my own proposal: real-life photoshop. You put a pair of high-tech glasses on your face, and it photoshops everyone on earth to look like all the waxen models that the mass media has convinced you that humans look like. It would be based on the same technology used to make Andy Rooney look like he's still alive.
That Madonna –looking prostitute too veiny for you? Poof, fixed. Oh, that WAS Madonna? Still, fixed.
Don’t like the baggy pants on those black guys on the corner? Poof, fixed. WHAT BLACK GUYS ON THE CORNER?
Don’t like the muffin top on that homosexual gentleman wearing hot pants? Poof. No, I’m not doing the photoshop trick, I’m just calling him a poof.
It would sell faster than hot pants for the distinguishing homosexual gentleman.
But just because that product doesn't exist, stop harming yourself chasing your youth. If you just wait a while, you'll forget what your youth ever looked like. And on that day, you can join me in the nursing home, and we can eat some pudding together or something. I'll do my best to not get skin-flakes in your pudding cup.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)