You just made my list!

Yeah, that creepy poster of a baby dressed as corn is really going to brighten up your beer-soaked, double-wide trailer. IT’S SOOOOO CUTE!

I think I hate Anne Geddes because I’m jealous of her. I mean could there be anything easier than plopping some stupid babies into a giant salad and snapping a few photos? Put a baby in a bunny suit and get ready to start counting your money. BITCH!

The only people worse than Anne Geddes are the tasteless dolts who eat this shit up. I honestly can’t comprehend looking at one of these posters and thinking “Oh yeah, I love that. I love it when babies dress in cactus outfits. I NEED that!” I like children, but this shit makes me want to do a Geddes-style poster of a baby dressed as a golf ball that’s about to get whacked by a giant golf club.

And can we all just PLEASE agree to stop taking black and white photos of tiny babies being held by hairy shirtless men? OK, we get it, life is precious and fragile and babies look small in big hands and look how strong those hands look and we have to protect babies and the circle of life and kumbaya and peace on Earth and that scene in Ghost where Patrick Swayze fucks Demi Moore on a pottery wheel and Sarah Palin, and Jesus and Blue Collar Comedy and Walmart… Lord, take me now!

No problem, paint your horrible face while you drive. As long as you got an additional two minutes of sleep this morning, it’s worth running over a few kids on your way to your sad, grey cubicle.

And don’t worry about me, I’ll just go ahead and drive through this Dunkin’ Donuts so that you may drive in every lane. I was in the mood for a “Today’s Special” anyway. Hey that reminds me…

Why the fuck has the Dunkin’ Donuts “Today’s Special” been the same God damn doughnut for all of my adult life? Don’t get me wrong, a glazed doughnut covered in chocolate frosting and half covered in sprinkles from Dunkin’ Donuts is awesome, but I think they are confused about the word special. Unless they are trying to say this doughnut is retarded, they need to mix it up a bit. And what’s up with the half sprinkles? If I wanted an abstract work of art I would… well, I wouldn’t want a piece of abstract art so I don’t need your creative sprinkle configuration either. Knock off this under-achiever attitude towards sprinkles and throw some other doughnuts into the mix. That would truly be special.

Just when you thought the “singing bass” phenomenon of 1998 that swept its way through every trailer park in America had finally gone away.

Recently I received a Bed Bath & Beyond catalog in the mail proudly selling this HILARIOUS singing fish and the ad read “From the hit McDonald’s Commercial.” I can already hear Michael Ian Black’s snarky comments about this “hit commercial” on I Love The 2010s.

But why go all the way to Bed Bath & Beyond when you can pick this gem up at the local drug store during your weekly visit for Slim Jims, diarrhea medicine and cigarettes?

Please explain to me why a fish would be irate that someone stole his fish sandwich. Why the fuck is a fish eating a fish sandwich in the first place? Or is the Filet-O-Fish he is lamenting over actually one of his family members who could not escape McDonald’s fishing boats? Is this actually a tragic song sung by a grieving fish fighting to retrieve the corpse of his dead mother? Is the real tragedy that this poor fish is desperately appealing to any shred of humanity left in our souls to help with his quest to give his mother a proper burial but all we do is laugh and sing along like a bunch of masturbating monkeys? And most importantly, what could this “bonus track” possibly be? AND most importantly-er, why do I ever leave the house?

At least this fish lip-syncs better those Celtic Thunder dick heads.

There I was, minding my own business, when all of a sudden, Celtic Thunder takes a big ol’ Irish shit all over my TV!

Well, at least I now know why Irish Dancing is popular… people in Ireland are RETARDED! You heard me Ireland, get your shit together!

I was once like you. Well, I was like a more awesome version of you. Anyway, I once roamed the planet without any knowledge that on that very same planet a group of drunk (I’m assuming) lip-syncing Irish assholes were prancing around on stage like some sort of evil tampon commercial directed by Walt Disney. And the audience is eating this shit up like it’s free cabbage. Do Irish people eat cabbage? I’m assuming they do.

This has got to be one of the most horrifying things ever created by man. These turds make Hitler look like Mr. Rogers and Haiti seem like a perfectly good spring break destination. I’m serious, this is the worst thing I have ever seen.

You know, I’m half Irish but after discovering Celtic Thunder I’m thinking about cutting myself in half and letting some dogs eat the Irish side.

Never has an unplugged guitar rocked so hard.

Caution: This will make you grow a vagina. If you already have a vagina, get ready for another, more vagina-y, one!

We’ve all been there. You’re staying at a hotel with one of those wall-mounted mirrors and you decided to extend it from the wall and take a look at yourself. You think, “Not too shabby, I’d fuck me. I would give myself a handjob at the very least.” This is where the story should end, but we all have that sick fascination with the other side of the mirror. The evil side. The dark side. You know the outcome of this little experiment of yours and yet you still take your dumb hand and flip the mirror over to reveal the most disgusting thing you have ever seen… your own face!

Suddenly a combination of Mackenzie Phillips and Edward James Olmos is staring back at you and every zit you have ever had in your entire life is visible again. Hey look, there’s that zit that ruined prom! Every pore looks like a cat’s butthole and your eyes look like rivers of blood held in place by spaghetti.

The nightmare is far from over though. A sane person would push the mirror away, allowing it to smash against the wall, but you are drawn to this horror show like a fly to shit. Oh no my friend, you lean in for a closer look. Sicko.

Not only is MY birthday ruined, I’m sure Corey Feldman is having a pretty shitty day too. This is one of your all time boners, God!

True story… I was in a movie with Corey Haim and spent the better part of a day with him. It was the most beautiful day of my life. What is it going to take for God to kill Guy Fieri and leave the good ones alone?!? God is a douchebag.

If you have never seen Corey Haim’s self-produced video “Me, Myself and I” I suggest you find a copy and spend the day in bed watching it. Unfortunately, it looks like that is how I will be spending my birthday.

Throw it to Lucas, in heaven.

Today is my birthday, so you are lucky I am even taking the time to write about this creepy bullshit.

Do you know what a “dakimakura” is? If you answered yes to this question and then looked across the room to see your pillow girlfriend sitting on the couch watching TV, I kindly ask you to drive to Home Depot, buy a chain saw and mutilate your entire crotch area. God damn it, I don’t want to live in a world where men marry pillows. Global warming can’t come fast enough.

Sure, I dated a few tube socks in high school, but I never took them to prom or bought them flowers. I may have made out with my pillow a few times in junior high while watching scrambled porn on channel 44, but that was just young love. It never went further then heavy petting and casual dating. To be honest, I had a fear of commitment back then. How could I be sure this was THE pillow I was meant to be with for the rest of my life? I was young and there were lots of linens out there to explore. OK if you want the truth, I had my heart broken by a pillow when I was 16 and I don’t really feel like talking about it!

My birthday is officially ruined.

Fuck you.

Chef Daniel Angerer wants you to know he’s cool and the only way he could think to convince you is to milk his wife like a cow and start churning titty milk into boob cheese. Keep your disgusting hooter cheese to yourself, you douche.

The female breast is meant to be soaked with icy water and judged in Mexican bars, not used as an Easy Cheese can. God made boobs so young girls have a way to acquire beads and T-shirts, he never intended them to be used as nacho cheese fountains.

On his blog, Angerer rambles on about some hippie bullshit and wanting to donate his wife’s excess milk to Haiti, but somehow that morphed into sweater cheese. This guy craves attention even more than I do!