When I heard that melty face Celine Dion spent millions constructing a water park in her back yard for her ONE child, Rene Charles, I immediately knew I had to write about it but I had a hard time finding a justification for hating it so much. Then I decided, fuck it, it’s obscene and wrong, simple as that.
I am not some dirty, tall bike-riding hippie who thinks nobody should be rich. By all means, get rich singing your shit songs, have a big house and a fancy car, but at some point I can’t stomach ridiculous displays of wealth. What fucking 9-year-old needs a private water park? I’m sorry, it’s just kind of sickening when you think about the fact that there are millions of kids who go to sleep hungry every night. Now this is where Celine Dion fans put down their doughnuts (a rare occurrence) and chime in with “Hey jerk, Celine Dion has given X amount to charity.” I don’t care, I will never be on board with shit like this.
Plus, what kind of a monster are you creating when you treat your kid like king of the universe? When I was a kid, all of my toys fit into one toy chest and my childhood didn’t seem to suffer. Somehow I found the strength to face each new day even though a miniature Mercedes with a working DVD player was not parked in my driveway.
I swear to God, if one person says that I am jealous I will hunt you down and I will destroy you with my incredibly potent farts. I wouldn’t mind being rich but I honestly could never live like Celine Dion.
Sorry this one wasn’t very funny. Sometimes I just have to deliver hard-hitting, award winning commentary.
Yeah yeah, I know… “You’re really phoning it in Listy.” Fuck off, I have a job and sometimes it requires me to blow off being awesome on this website that you worship so much. On the other hand, you are in for a real treat. My friend (also editor of this site) sent me one of these clips today and I am embarrassed by how much I enjoyed it.
So sit it back, snap into a Slim Jim and enjoy the only good thing about those fucking annoying novelty singing fish pieces of shit.
You can’t polish a turd but apparently you can take its picture.
God bless you for thinking some zitty kid at the mall can magically turn your nightmarish face into that of a mid-level 80s porn star. Don’t get me wrong, nothing turns me on like a woman with high hair in an acid washed jacket holding her collar with sausage fingers while giving me that “Do me on top of this cat calendar” look.
I just get so hot when I think about slowly removing your vinyl cropped motorcycle jacket from Walmart, ripping open your velcro fly jeans and making love to you on a pile of Star magazines while your Precious Moments figurines nervously watch the entire sweaty mess. I want to trace the curve (yes, the one curve) of your body with a jumbo Cheeto before placing it in your hungry mouth with my orange fingers. Finally, as we time our orgasms perfectly to verse 11 of “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” I will pour a two-liter bottle of Mr. Peepers (your favorite generic Dr. Pepper) all over our naked bodies right there on the dirty floor of your trailer.
Gallery of sexy women holding their collars
Spring is in the air which can only mean one thing… Six Flags will be entering your soul, Freddy Krueger style, while you sleep and filling your mind with nightmarish dancing bald things in tuxedos, all set to a torturous soundtrack of pumping Vengaboys music. Welcome to hell.
Why is Six Flags trying to get me to commit suicide? First they tried to break my spirit with Mr. Six, followed by the yelling mad Asian guy. When I came out of that experiment alive they instructed that dancing penis to talk! I somehow made it through that summer without chopping my own head off but I’m not so sure I can make it to June thanks to the introduction of Mr. Six’s baby(?) “Little Six.” What the fucking fuck is going on?!? I feel like I’m watching an incredibly well-dressed kid with Progeria have a seizure.
And kudos to their ad agency for getting right on that Austin Powers/Mini Me craze (of 1999)! Top notch work.
Take me now lord, I’m begging you!
There are times in life when we must balance comfort with money. Often times one’s financial situation wins this battle and you find a can of Milwaukee’s Best pressed up against your lips. But this is OK sometimes. It is entirely wrong, however, to find a stiff slab of cheap toilet paper pressed up against your butt lips!
There simply is no excuse for choosing toilet paper that feels about as soft as a lemon zester when perfectly good, triple ply quilted toilet paper is sitting right there on the shelf. What is this, Russia? The great thing about being American is that we can smear our feces on toilet paper so luxurious a princess would gladly sleep upon it. Not the feces… she would gladly sleep on the toilet paper!
Pooping is already a horrible experience as far as I’m concerned, so why turn an ugly situation into more of a nightmare? I don’t want to hear about your budget or the environment or blah blah fucking blah. Grow up, buy some real toilet paper and watch your life change, you dirty ass (literally) hippie.
What’s that you ask? Which brand do I allow to touch my sweet bottom? I prefer Charmin Ultra Strong or Charmin Ultra Soft. I mean look at this… you can drag a 3 pound block of shit across your table and it won’t even rip!
How could Tiger Woods cheat on his wife?!? Oh, I’m so mad at him!
Wait I forgot, that’s not why I’m disgusted with Tiger. I literally could not care less about his quest for pussy. That’s his business. But what does concern me is his quest for Nickelback. Yeah that’s right, did you hear that Woods chose a fucking Nickelback concert for his FIRST public social outing? First he offended women around the globe with his propensity for porn poon and apparently now he’s trying to offend people with ears.
I guess at the very least we can all forget about the mistresses and the dirty text messages now because compared to singing along with “Photograph,” cheating on your wife is nothing. I would forgive this guy for murder before I would for going backstage to hang out with those agents of Satan. Imagine how disappointed Tiger must have been when he realized he was backstage at a Nickelback concert, the one place on earth guaranteed to be void of vagina, except of course for those residing in the ripped blue jeans of the band.
Now, on to more important things. Are you aware a bonafide music legend left a comment on yesterday’s post? Every one please say hello to Randy Jones of the Village People and make him feel welcomed. He’s one of us.
You can have my eye-liner when you pry it from my cold, incredibly soft dead hand!
Howdy. Let’s get one thing straight right now partner… I love gay people, I have many gay friends and this has nothing to do with homophobia, but come on guys, let’s butch it up a bit.
How can I take you seriously when you are singing about beer and horses if the cowboy from the Village People makes you look like Isaac Mizrahi? It’s not even about looking “gay,” I guess it’s really more about looking like women while trying to act like tough cowboys. I want my country singers to exist solely on a diet of whiskey, pills, beer, beef jerky and cigarettes. I want a stinky cloud of body odor and hooker’s crotch to linger in the air when they walk out of a room and I want to feel like less of a man for even standing in their presence.
It seems strange that your average southern male country fan would kick the ass of any gay man but then turns around and worships these overly-groomed fancy lads who look they they just stepped out of a 1991 gay porno. Although, let me give HUGE props to Rascal Flatts for actually having the balls to write a song in favor of being who you really are, gay or straight. The song sucks donkey balls but it’s very cool that a hit country band with plenty to lose would have the guts to do such a thing.
So come on dudes, man up or Johnny Cash’s zombie corpse will rise up and kick you in your freshly waxed balls.
You hear that sound? That’s the sound of me sawing my own ears off with a steak knife.
Apparently the douchebags from Jersey Shore are programming the music in my gym now. I already despise working out but the constant assault of drum machines, auto-tuned vocals and the explanation of one’s monetary worth has taken my hatred of the gym to a new level. Look, I just want to blast my triceps in peace, if I wanted to see a bunch of guys holding their dicks I would go into the locker room. By the way, why do the guys with the worst bodies spend the most time walking around nude in the locker room?
Maybe I’m getting old (and whiter) but I literally can’t comprehend that this is considered music. And congrats on fitting every rap video stereotype, with the exception of jizzing Champagne on some fat asses, into this 4:57 torture video. Can someone buy these rappers a fucking tripod, I’m tired of watching them rap at me from the perspective of an ant.
I sound like Wilford Brimley and I think I like it.