Sunday, April 18, 2010

The Reason The Terrorists Hate Us: Lady GaGa

I knew it.

A lot of people asked "Why do they hate us?" and all the godless liberals could come up with is that our countless military incursions into foreign countries and aiding their bitter enemies for the purpose of advancing our policies and sphere of influence, but that's retarded. Everyone knows that the terrorists hate us because they hate freedom, which is why they deliberately lock themselves in small cages for long periods of time. They can't stand to think that we eat a sandwich made out of fried chicken filets, while listening to an iPod with 2,300 hipster songs, while skateboarding down to the local porn/general debauchery store, and being apathetic as our government gives guns to the people who rape their women and shoot their boys. They need to understand something, though. That's what we do.

Alright, that's a bit harsh. We also send our Irish rockstars to Ethiopia occasionally, and buy t-shirts where the proceeds go dying victims of natural disasters, and adopt abused kittens. Sometimes people even let you take their parking spot, like the saints they are. Just the other day, I saw a group of kids riding bicycles, laughing and smoking cigarettes, and I couldn't help but think "This country is great."

Yet they hate us, because of two simple words: Lady Gaga. Sure, she wasn't even born in America, but she symbolizes everything we are. She symbolizes those guys playing hockey across the street, and that hard-working alcoholic that toils at the soda-bottle plant, and the single mother of fourteen who may be getting her own reality show sometime but we're not sure, and that weird quiet guy who just stares at you at the coffee shop, and that ex-marine in the interweb chatrooms telling us that depleted uranium shrapnel made his arm fall off, and that fat guy who is fat, and the highschool girl selling overpriced candy bars and maybe something extra special if you buy enough of them... all of us.

Thank you, Lady Gaga. I salute you.

" Lady Gaga is a symbol of everything Jihadists hate about us. "

- Brett Stephens,
The Wall Street Journal

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

The Story of My Life: Part 1.0

... war was beginning ...

The doctors were frantically rushing around, engaged in various medical activities. I assure you, these activities were unbelievably medical. A child was being born, but not just any child; it was a white, middle-class child. There could be no room for error, and complications were out of the question. The Surgeon-Generalissimo was present to observe the operation. He was an imposing and intimidating man, sporting a dictator-like mustache and commanding a gaze that would turn Medusa into stone. "Someone get me a drink... make sure it's hard!" he bellowed, equating medical professionals to errand-peoples, because he was important, and an event was about to happen that would alter the course of this very universe, and several others as well.

I was about to be born.

My mother, now in the painful throes of laborious labor, began going through her pre-planned breathing patterns and so-forth overseen by a team of trained medical doctors and professionals, all trained by Dr. Hugo Dragonov (Yes, the Dr. Dragonov) himself for the specific task of ensuring that my entry into this dimension would be absolutely perfect. Religious figures from many different faiths stood in the room, praying to their various gods for well, godspeed. There was also an atheist among them who didn't pray, but asserted aloud that "There is no God, but I hope this goes okay." Armed guards protected the room, as protesters were everywhere. Trained snipers stood atop the roof to instantly gun down any potential troublemaker who dare to interrupt my birth.

My father and old brother just stood off to the side, saying little. "My little brother is going to be so much cooler and funnier than me." my brother remarked prophetically.

Suddenly, a fist smashed through the stomach wall of my mom and I yelled "Prepare ye selves!" then I finished my escape by doing a flying dragon kick to smash out into the world. I was naked, but I was born with a black belt around my waist. No one knew how it got there, but it was a miracle of medicine and this event was documented, if anyone wants to confirm it. I grabbed my umbilical cord and bit it in half with my teeth. The chunk that I chewed off I spat onto the floor, and it was immediately devoured by a nearby golden retriever. As soon I was born, I uttered my first words, which were "Where is my cake!? Incompetence!" and the doctors begged for forgiveness, which I granted them. The birthday cake was brought into the room, and a stripper burst out of the cake and she sang "Happy Birthday" like Marilyn Monroe.

Then, still naked and covered in birth fluids, I dove into the cake and began playing in it. I didn't eat any of it, because it was white cake, which I despise with a burning vengeance, so I opted to ruin it for everyone else. Just then, a protester burst into the room, pointed at me and yelled "Evil baby! Evil baby!" and I yelled "Who let this clown in here? Someone shoot him!" and a Catholic Priest threw a ninja star at the protester's crotch, and castrated him, which shut him up fairly quickly.

Just then, there was a complication. The doctors noticed that I had a number of extra body parts: a third eye on my forehead, two thumbs on my left hand, two penises, and six testicles. One thing was for sure: I had more balls than any of them would ever have. Fortunately, the doctors were able to remove the thumb and relocate the third eye to the back of my head, but my parents insisted that I get to keep my extra penis and testicles. Against the wisdom of the elders, who spoke against multiple penises in the ancient teachings, the doctors agreed with my parents, and I've had to wear adult-size underwear ever since.

Just then, Haley's Comet flew over in the skies and lightning struck in the distance. Polar bears roared in the distance, the bodies of many holy men were resurrected as brain-hungry zombies, and gymnasts did back handsprings. Finally, before I left the hospital, I received my birth certificate, which read:

Sunday, April 4, 2010

I Would Cheat on Sandra Bullock

"You're black and poor."

Imagine you gave me a million dollars. I know, I can't be trusted with a sum of money that large, as I would spend it all on overly-ripened nectarines, and then they would turn before I could make a huge smoothie to fill the Grand Canyon. But let's assume hypothetically, that I could be trusted with that money. You trust me, okay? Then you give me the money, and then I say "How quaint!" then I turn around and burn it. I just get out a lighter and gasoline and then I just burn it.

Does that make sense? Does anything make sense? Does Lost make sense, or did they just throw a bunch of dramatic scenes together into a nonsensical hodge-podge, making the whole thing up as they went along, just to deliberately confuse the audience, which they hoped would be perceived as plot depth?

You're absolutely motherfucking right; you're confused and nothing makes sense. That's why you have wise gurus of knowledge like me to explain things. Like Jesse James cheating on Sandra Bullock.

First of all, if I were Jesse James (and I'm not), I would do a few things: Act like I just took a bottle of Xanax 24/7, build motorcycles, ride motorcycles, dress like a cholo, and listen to hardcore rock. One day, I get famous and make a trillion billion billion dollars and I'm like "Holy shit!". Next, I can get any girl in the world, so I pick a Hollywood actress, and not a trampy trainwreck one like Tara Reid. However, despite my great success, obviously, there is a significant difference between Hollywood Actresses, who send their pets to spas, and Biker Dudes, who buy pets primarily as weapons. It's like a Muslim marrying a Danish Cartoonist. It's a volatile mixure. Next, Actresses work 18-hour days on movie sets and then travel around the country on a promotional tour, so they can't tend to their hardcore biker husbands. Aw.

Now, I don't support Nazism. I learned long ago through playing Wolfenstein 3D that Nazis are bad for the environment. So if given the chance, I would fight a cyborg resurrected Hitler in a roof-top kung-fu battle to the death, because that's just how I was raised, with my midwestern values. That's why I disapprove of Jesse James' choice of Michelle "Dykeshell" McGee as his Cheatee. If I were him, I would change the mistress to Iliza Shlesinger or possibly Sarah Simmons. The next thing I would differently is not get caught. An essential element to any decent obliteration of oaths you swore to the creator of the universe in the presence of your closest human relatives is remaining undetected. This can be done with the new German invisibility cloak, or simply cheating when nobody is looking. Make sure nobody is looking. Because people look, those fuckers.

To make an exceptionally long story short, if you being paid millions of dollars, it'd make you pretty damn important, so you wouldn't sit around waiting for your movie-star wife to come home, because you're a celebrity, damn it. No guy gets famous thinking, "I can't wait to get rich and famous, because then I'm going to be celibate, live with my parents and drive a Saturn!"

The fucking end.

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