You just made my list!

Shit, where will I buy my fanny packs and shiny disco leggings now?

Ironic hipsters and flat-chested teen runaways (AKA future American Apparel models) the world over are freaking out because dressing like a fucking asshole is about to get a little harder. Seems that Dov Charney’s business model of sitting around masturbating all day and rehashing every fashion mistake of the 80s is not working out too well.

You’d think a company that sells satin jackets and features vaginal penetration in their ads would be around longer.

Bye bye now.

Fuck you, showoff!

Oooooh look at me, I’m too good to be normal mustard, I’m filled with honey from a bee’s vagina.*

I know you are anxious to say “No way bro, honey mustard is the shit.” Well, you are almost correct, just remove the word “the.”

Good old fashioned yellow mustard is the Police and honey mustard is Sting. In other words, classic yellow mustard is America’s Funniest Home Videos with Bob Saget and honey mustard is AFV with Tom Bergeron. What I’m trying to say is that yellow mustard is Swayze in Road House and honey mustard is Swayze in Dirty Dancing. Got it?

*I’m not 100% sure that honey comes from a bee’s vagina but I’m pretty sure it does.

Honey mustard belongs on fucking Mars!

Fuck me.

From as far back as 2008, the entertainment world has been clamoring to find a talent impressive and worthy enough to appear side-by-side with the always impressive Guy Fieri. Well, I don’t know how they did it or what kind of crazy backroom deals went down but they finally found a personality to rival the great Fieri. I am speaking, of course, of the Aflac duck.

Not since Lennon & McCartney, Scorsese & De Niro, Bert & Ernie or Zack Morris & A.C. Slater has the world seen such magical chemistry explode all over its face from an on-screen duo. Imagine if David Lee Roth and Jesus Christ formed a band… Yeah, it’s THAT good.

I have to admit, I never thought I would ever see anyone match the staggering charisma of Sir Guy Fieri but that duck manages to somehow hold his own and, dare I say it, he even manages to out-act Fieri in a few scenes. I know, I know, it’s sacrilege to suggest anyone’s talent could equal Fieri’s but please understand, I’m not saying Guy Fieri wasn’t brilliant in this commercial, I merely have to give credit to the duck for a truly brave performance.

Hey Guy, Billy Idol called and he wanted to let you know the Stray Cats called and they want their bowling shirts back.

You know how at the age of 10 we would all fill in Mad Libs with witty and intelligent responses like “farty” and “boobs” and “bloody tampon?” Well, we were all infinitely funnier than Lisa Lampanelli and her lazy insult “comedy.”

In fact, constructing a Lisa Lampanelli “joke” is not unlike filling out a Mad Lib. You simply need to follow this boring formula…

“You sir, in the front row, what are you a fuckin’ [racist ethnic term]? Is that [derogatory term for a woman] your date? You’re a lucky lady, I want to bang your [racist ethnic term] boyfriend because after we [overly shocking sexual activity] he will [commit a stereotypical ethnic crime]. Oh sorry, you don’t like it, I hope you get [fatal medical condition].”

Genius!

Fans of this hack will argue that I’m “overly sensitive” and “too politically correct” but the truth is I gravitate to offensive fringe comedians and it’s not easy to offend or shock me. Shocking is great as long it’s FUNNY! In fact the only thing shocking about Lisa Lampanelli is how utterly unfunny she is. She has got to be one of the least clever comedians in the history of comedy.

I would sit through 100 Carrot Top shows before I would endure even five minutes of this tedious bore. I would rather spend a night in Las Vegas with Guy Fieri declaring everything he sees is “money” than allow even one more farty joke from that bloody tampon to enter my boobs.

I’m writing this from my phone because Comcast is shoving the internet up its own ass! I’ve been without an internet connection for over 14 hours now and it’s seriously cramping my style. How will I keep up with every single cute thing my Facebook friends’ kids say? Don’t even get me started on an ENTIRE DAY without porn! I hate you Comcast, I want my porn back!

I’m going to keep this short for exactly 2 reasons.

1) I got home late after dinner and drinks at the latest trendy hipster whiskey tavern (more on that later).

2) My neighbors are going apeshit because we won the Stanley Cup and there’s a good chance our apartment will burn to the ground by morning.

3) There’s only so much to say about these assholes.

4) It’s late, I’m tired and I hate blogs.

Sooooooooo anyway. Tonight was my second trip to the latest hipster hangout in Chicago. It’s more saloon than “bar” and the amount of waxed handlebar mustaches and suspenders holding up tiny pants is staggering. Apparently now it’s cool to look 90s… 1890s. Just ask loyal reader of this amazing website, Erica, about the transportation of her coworkers.

My point is this… FUCK YOU, YOU RIDICULOUS BORING HIPSTERS.

My point is also this… I have coined a phrase for this new breed of precious turn-of-the-century hipster and all I ask is that you spread it and make it catch on. The “Urban Howdy Doody.”

Good night.

Finally there’s a way I can also not care about what your baby is doing.

Let’s see if I can describe this new invention without killing myself. Twoddler may look like your average Playskool activity center but this little piece of shit is hooked up to Twitter so every time little Susie moves the plastic piece with your face on it a tweet is sent to you saying something like “Hey asshole, look what I can do… randomly touch things.”

Am I the last sane person on this planet? If this takes off I’m moving to a cabin in the woods. I don’t want to live in a world where babies keep me up to date every minute of the day. “I C poopies on da floor. LOL.” Come to think of it, how can you tell if a tweet is from a baby or an adult with the ridiculous way people write these days? I’m guessing a baby could tweet something just as intelligent as, say, Miley Cyrus.

Let’s see if you can guess which of these tweets (I fucking hate that term) are from babies and which are from adults…

“jus ate sum soup”

“spendt da day on da couch in PJs – LMAO”

“life is a jurney, U just half 2 take the furst step”

“yo, yall need to see ma new crib”

See? What’s the difference? It’s all inane, utterly useless bullshit nobody needs to know.

Nap time!

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.