Hey thanks leg, I was hoping that my innocent morning stretch would end with a pain so powerful it would cause me to piss my pants and scream into my pillow for mommy. I love to start my day by pooping my pants and whimpering like a lost puppy. What, you don’t pee and poop your pants when you get a charley horse? I do that and more. I cry and vomit too. I also sweat, sneeze, bleed out of my ears and ejaculate. It’s a real freaky scene, man.
I’m sure we have all been reduced to tears by a tiny foot cramp, but I can top you all. Your pussy cramps pale in comparison to what happened to me one morning. I don’t literally mean cramps you might get in your vagina, I was simply trying to imply that my worst charley horse could kick your charley horse’s ass! Anyway… one morning I was yawning and my motherfucking TONGUE cramped and stiffened like a brick. Do you understand what I’m talking about? I got a god damn charley horse in my mouth! A tongue boner!
The mission of the Klingon Language Institute, is to “bring together individuals interested in the study of Klingon linguistics and culture, and provide a forum for discussion and the exchange of ideas.” If you translate that into normal human language, their mission is to “never bring a vagina anywhere near their penises.”
When I think about how little extra time I have in my life to do worthwhile things, and then imagine these buttholes sitting around on a Saturday night with a 2-liter of Mountain Dew and a Klingon dictionary, it makes me want to… what’s the word… makes me want to tlhaw’ these nerds right in the DIrons!
Yeah that’s right, while strolling through the mall I have not only stepped inside this douche hole, I have PURCHASED a T-shirt there! In fact, I have purchased 3 shirts from Hot Topic and the shame makes me want to set myself on fire.
Occasionally while stopped at red lights in the city I see older “dad” looking guys walking into what is clearly a handjob massage parlor and it is obvious how desperately they don’t want to be seen by anyone, even strangers. They walk quickly, keep their heads down and try to hide behind the collar of their golf jackets. They are willing to suffer through this awkward walk because they want that happy ending! This is exactly how I feel as I quickly duck into the mall’s most shameful teen asshole store. I try to make it look like I accidentally tripped and fell into the store or the wind pushed me in. I’m sorry but I want that God damn Judas Priest shirt, I want my happy ending!
It’s not my fault they have a handful of kickass shirts sprinkled among the other bullshit shitty shit they sell. The problem though is that when I wear one of my Hot Topic purchases I live in fear that someone will know where I got it. I remember seeing a guy wearing the same Johnny Cash T-shirt I purchased at the Topic and I thought “That guy is a dork, he shops at Hot Topic. Oh wait, so do I.” Must be the same when a guy walking into the massage parlor passes a customer on his way out. A simple nod is exchanged that says, “We failed.”
No biggie, I didn’t want to actually WATCH the show I was watching. In fact, I would much rather watch the cute little animation of the Whorewives of Whoreville dance around like whores, getting their whore juice all over my TV. I would also like to thank you for reminding me what program I am currently watching. Sometimes I’ll be watching “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant,” but until my TV tells me I’m watching “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant,” I think I am watching The McLaughlin Group.
I know, we all have at least a couple of these unwanted little shits hanging around, but if there was ever proof that God is cruel, it’s skin tags! Their official name is “acrochorda” but you could call them “happy pretty sugar sacks” and they would still be just as disgusting. It’s not even that I think they are gross on other people, it’s more that when I find one on my body I feel like cutting my own head off.
I get happy pretty sugar sacks on my neck sometimes and usually don’t notice them until they get poked or snagged by my shirt collar. I can promise you this, the second they make themselves known I reach for the tweezers. Yeah, that’s right, I rip them off with all the subtlety of a wolf shaking a bunny to death. Do wolves eat bunnies?
You know those people in the Philippines and Latin America who flog and crucify themselves in an attempt to feel the exact pain Jesus Christ went through? Well, that’s nothing compared to the pain and horror of drinking water through a straw. If Jesus had to suck down a glass of water through a straw to save us from our sins I bet he would have thought twice about it.
“What’s it gonna be Jesus?”
“Um, hold on, I’m thinking. Is that nailing me to a cross thing still an option?”
This is a true story, I was once at lunch with a 5-year-old child who took a big drink of his water through a straw thinking it was soda. What followed was the most overt expression of disappointment I have EVER seen on a human face. He was literally on the brink of tears and who can blame him? The human brain is simply not equipped to handle such an assault, or lack thereof, on the senses. There is no doubt in my mind that this child will become a serial killer.
And while I’m on the subject of water… can you please stop putting a slice of lemon in my glass? I asked for water not the world’s shittiest lemonade.
Can all you douchebag chefs stop “reinventing” food that is already perfect?
There simply is no way to make the classic, basic cheeseburger better so stopping piling random shit all over it and telling me it’s better. This trend of trying to make greasy fast food into an expensive gourmet meal is lame. Not only do gourmet burgers not taste as good, they are always so tall you have to unhinge your jaw like a fucking python to take a bite. And stop making desserts with Cap’n Crunch crumbs. Ha ha ha (slow clap) we get it, you’re whimsical.
Stop thinking you are so talented that you can take something as amazing as a pancake or a cheeseburger and make it more awesome’er. You can’t. You can’t and your restaurant has a dumb name and is filled with douche wads
My opinions are flawless, just like cheap burgers.
I’m not talking about drummers. No, I am referring to the guy on stage directly to the drummer’s right. The guy with the perm from 1992 who’s wearing the vest and smacking the bongos with a level of excitement normally reserved for losing one’s virginity. Ironically this is not a joy most percussionists will ever know.
While drummers play an important and kick ass role in a band, it seems the sole purpose of a percussionist is to make that dreamy, twinkly sound during ballads by running a drum stick across the miniature chimes that they seem to have some legal obligation to own. Other than that what do they do? Hit cymbals at the exact same time as the drummer? You know what it sounds like when 3 cymbals are all hit at the same time? It sounds exactly like 2 cymbals hit at the same time.
These useless turds always have the same shit-eating grin on their face too because, unlike the core members of the band who had to work hard to get to the point where they can tour and afford to waste their money on a percussionist, they simply get plucked from their job at Guitar Center and placed on stage in front of the band’s fans. The thing is that these dicks always act like the cheering crowds are actually there to see them play their little setup of nonessential drums. The truth is they are there to see Sting suck.
