Let's get something straight. I don't hold people (in general) to very high standards. If someone says something like "French fries originated in France." or something equally mentally impecunious, normally, I'll just ignore it. My criteria for interjecting is when their stupidity affects me, i.e., "The bill for your order is 1,496 dollars.", when it's clearly 14.96 and someone didn't learn about decimal points in school, or was attempting to bust out some test-material for their soon-to-crash-and-fucking-burn stand-up comedy career.
I want to talk about something affects me very profoundly every waking moment of my life.
That's right, I'm talking of course about Jon and Kate Plus 8, minus the 8. I can't even begin to explain how Jon's zirconium ear studs affect me when I'm cooking pork bacon and eggs in the morning or am at the grocery store picking out lunch meats. I spend countless sleepless hours thinking to myself "Posh Spice hair? Really?" while musing about Kate's hair. I also was deeply amused by Nancy Grace predaceously tearing into Jon like an enraged Dilophosaurus sinking it's teeth into a Dimetrodon, bitches. I haven't seen a TV host beef with someone that hard since Keith Olbermann started obsessing over Rush Limbaugh like an OCD kid religiously rearranging their bathroom utensils every 1 hour. I would imagine Olbermann wakes up at night sweating from a bizarre nightmare and screaming "LIMMMBAUUUGHHHH!!!!" Then going into his bathroom, and looking at a picture of Limbaugh on his mirror (ala Apollo Creed versus Rocky) and muttering "I'm coming for you, Rush... I'm coming for you..." then popping a shitload of Xanax.
Special Note From The Author: Keith Olbermann probably does drugs. But not as many as Glenn Beck.
As far as I'm concerned, Jon should get a sex change, replacing his genitals with a vagina, because that would be more appropriate. I will even pay for up to half of the operation, and will definitely start a special charity fund to cover the rest. I'll tell people it's for "Breast Cancer Awareness", because as we all know, no one is fucking aware of breast cancer, and are just like furry forest creatures blissfully waltzing through the woods of life, humming delightful little melodies about gathering berries, about to step into the fucking bear trap that is motherfucking goddamn fucking breast cancer. I'd even get a big-name celebrity to endorse the charity, like Nancy Grace or Serena Williams, or fucking Optimus Prime.
Maybe *I* should knock up some poor, unsuspecting woman with 18 babies, who will all emerge at once, and will have their names tattooed on their foreheads, because face it: all babies look exactly alike. After reveling in corpulence, I will place the woman on a strict diet of jellybeans and rum (or whatever it is that makes you skinny. God only knows.) to quickly regain her aesthetic appeal, because no one wants to watch fat bitches on TV, unless they're a weepy middle-aged woman watching the Oxygen! channel. Then I will get a fucking show about how chaotic, hectic and nightmarishly overwhelming my life had become so I can make one million dollars. It'd be great.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Let's Compare Everything To Hitler!
Hey. Remember Hitler? Here is a picture of him:
The other day, while eating a shark (It was an ironic turn of events), my mind wandered off, not unlike your MS-ridden Lithuanian Great Grandmother, and I was just bemused by how many things were like Hitler: George W Bush, Barack Obama, Environmentalists, School children, French school children, rabbits, et cetera.
I've decided to play a Kevin-Baconesque game, in which I figure out how various obscure things relate to Hitler, and not just any Hitler; I mean the Hitler.
Baked Beans: These cause gas, and Hitler did a lot of gassing, so Baked Beans are Hitler.
Crest Toothpaste: This is placed on toothbrushes, which are like Hitler's mustache, and therefore, Crest is like Hitler.
Michael Jackson: He wore military uniforms constantly, much like Hitler. His sexuality was also in question because he couldn't commit to a woman, and he seemed preoccupied with his career, but possibly also his delusional fantasies stemming from his experiences as a child. Also, much like Hitler, he had an abusive father. Coincidence? There are no coincidences, just watch Glenn Beck's show.
Suzy Orman: Her name has almost all the letters required to spell "nazi". Sounds like Hitler to me.
Volkswagon: German car company.
The Surface of Jupiter: This planet's surface is obvious Nazi territory, seeing as how the gravity is torturously crushing, much like a concentration camp, and the air is made of toxic gas.
Verizon Wireless: You know how their commercials say "America's Largest Wireless Network"? Obvious propaganda; calling their network superior to all networks, like a 'master network', and therefore dubs all other wireless networks as inferior. Sieg heil.
Natasha Bedingfield: I'll get back to you on this one when I figure something out.
The other day, while eating a shark (It was an ironic turn of events), my mind wandered off, not unlike your MS-ridden Lithuanian Great Grandmother, and I was just bemused by how many things were like Hitler: George W Bush, Barack Obama, Environmentalists, School children, French school children, rabbits, et cetera.
I've decided to play a Kevin-Baconesque game, in which I figure out how various obscure things relate to Hitler, and not just any Hitler; I mean the Hitler.
Baked Beans: These cause gas, and Hitler did a lot of gassing, so Baked Beans are Hitler.
Crest Toothpaste: This is placed on toothbrushes, which are like Hitler's mustache, and therefore, Crest is like Hitler.
Michael Jackson: He wore military uniforms constantly, much like Hitler. His sexuality was also in question because he couldn't commit to a woman, and he seemed preoccupied with his career, but possibly also his delusional fantasies stemming from his experiences as a child. Also, much like Hitler, he had an abusive father. Coincidence? There are no coincidences, just watch Glenn Beck's show.
Suzy Orman: Her name has almost all the letters required to spell "nazi". Sounds like Hitler to me.
Volkswagon: German car company.
The Surface of Jupiter: This planet's surface is obvious Nazi territory, seeing as how the gravity is torturously crushing, much like a concentration camp, and the air is made of toxic gas.
Verizon Wireless: You know how their commercials say "America's Largest Wireless Network"? Obvious propaganda; calling their network superior to all networks, like a 'master network', and therefore dubs all other wireless networks as inferior. Sieg heil.
Natasha Bedingfield: I'll get back to you on this one when I figure something out.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Recognize The Loser Within!
Motivational Speakers are everywhere, in hotel conference rooms, in our water, in our schools corrupting our children, and on radio shows, telling us to purchase their books, tapes and t-shirts. The only way I would ever buy that shit is if I were on a plane where a disoriented albatross flew into one of the jet engines, causing it to spiral downwards into the jungles of Haiti, where, in order to escape the clutches of the cannibalistic tribesmen, I had to have a curse placed on me that would cause my arms to turn to evil, causing them to give my credit card number to Tony Robbins.
If there were a demotivational speaker, I would take that occupation, and make it my own. I would take the stage in that strange-smelling hotel conference room, walk up to the microphone, and commence the following monologue:
"A good friend of mine once told me 'Just give up. Everything you try is useless.' right before downing another 40 Oz. He died miserable and unfulfilled. That could be you! Whenever I do these seminars, I come with the belief that none of you can make it; that there is a loser in every one of you. All of you sycophantic, impossibly inept peons being herded like sheep to the slaughter, I have an uninspiring message that you will hear today, that hopefully, will drive you into habitual alcohol abuse and self-destruction."
I would then show a pie chart that show 0.01% of people being happy with life, and elaborate, quipping "These are your odds of success. Very bleak, I know, and rest assured, you will probably will fall into this red 99.99% area, no matter how smart you are, and no matter how hard you try to succeed. But just think -- you could fall into that 0.01% bracket, and that is where the seeds of human hope are planted, but today, I want to crush that glimmer of hope. Who here has been struck by lightning while finding a ten-dollar bill on the ground simultaneously? No one? None of you? No hands up? Well, that is called 'the Law of Statistics', which states that if the odds are against you, then what you're trying to achieve probably won't come true. Here are some actual stories of real people who tried to make it in life and indubitably failed!"
I would then roll video testimonials of defeated souls and crushed people lamenting their flagrant fall from grace. "So in conclusion," I would say, "Keep dreaming, because that's all you'll ever have."
I would then promptly get the hell out of there.
If there were a demotivational speaker, I would take that occupation, and make it my own. I would take the stage in that strange-smelling hotel conference room, walk up to the microphone, and commence the following monologue:
"A good friend of mine once told me 'Just give up. Everything you try is useless.' right before downing another 40 Oz. He died miserable and unfulfilled. That could be you! Whenever I do these seminars, I come with the belief that none of you can make it; that there is a loser in every one of you. All of you sycophantic, impossibly inept peons being herded like sheep to the slaughter, I have an uninspiring message that you will hear today, that hopefully, will drive you into habitual alcohol abuse and self-destruction."
I would then show a pie chart that show 0.01% of people being happy with life, and elaborate, quipping "These are your odds of success. Very bleak, I know, and rest assured, you will probably will fall into this red 99.99% area, no matter how smart you are, and no matter how hard you try to succeed. But just think -- you could fall into that 0.01% bracket, and that is where the seeds of human hope are planted, but today, I want to crush that glimmer of hope. Who here has been struck by lightning while finding a ten-dollar bill on the ground simultaneously? No one? None of you? No hands up? Well, that is called 'the Law of Statistics', which states that if the odds are against you, then what you're trying to achieve probably won't come true. Here are some actual stories of real people who tried to make it in life and indubitably failed!"
I would then roll video testimonials of defeated souls and crushed people lamenting their flagrant fall from grace. "So in conclusion," I would say, "Keep dreaming, because that's all you'll ever have."
I would then promptly get the hell out of there.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
A degenerate pornographic misanthropic dissecting disseminating morally-bankrupt monologue
Achtung: Reading any of the text in this tirade may result in permanent brain damage. If that happens, and your family asks you if I'm liable, blink twice, because I just posted a disclaimer, but if you're bothered by things you read on the 'net, then I can only advise that you unplug your computer this instant, and also your television and possibly your microwave.
Now for the funk.
Feel it.
Society is full of drones and slaves to the man and blah blah blah. But that's not why I'm mad. That's not why I'm dictating this prolific ground-breaking magnum opus literature to my Latina typist secretary that will be discussed in-depth on various radio shows with overweight drug-addicted hosts who need to compete with the underweight drug-addicted radio hosts who have become dehydrated after exhausting the Dasani Bottled Water of creativity and have turned to throwing balloons filled with honey at Korean strippers while singing the National Anthem of Canada just for the sheer shock value. You know, that cheap-shot humor that causes middle-aged single mothers to gasp and exclaim "That is wrong! What if my kids heard that?" Well, in short, if her kids heard "that", then they would grow up to be Mafia gangsters in pin-stripe suits, wielding tommy-guns and knocking down banks, then promptly diving into their model-t's to make their get-away, see?
The monotony of life gets under my skin like a... no, I'm not even going to make a run-on sentence analogy. At this point, I think most people would simply commit suicide, but I'm too creative for that shit. Rather, I've been considering constructing an elaborate alien abduction hoax so I can get onto the evening news and sell my books, which I will write later. The books will be 90% ways to get out of paying for meals at restaurants, 5% Nietzschean-style philosophical musings, and 5% recipes for Poison Ninja Muffins to serve to your Shogun warlord enemies during diplomatic tea-parties, but I plan to mention these books in my interviews with Larry King, provided that he hasn't died yet. My hoax will consist primarily of me swearing on the lives of my family that I was abducted by aliens, even though it's clearly a lie, then present photographic evidence by showing a picture of a figure with a white sheet over it's head, and simply remark that "Oh yeah, the aliens are also ghosts."
It would be so simple to run a hoax like that, and you know that spreading disinformation is not only hilarious, but it's good clean fun that the whole family can enjoy, which is why Glenn Beck loves it more than black hookers. Someday, I'll even write a step-by-step guide to deceiving the world around you into believing you had an encounter with aliens, or better yet, Nessy. Just don't get caught, or all the other "abduction victims" will come to your house and brand a scarlet "A" on your forhead for "Asshole". You will then be picked up by a government quarantine squad, thrown in a black van with no windows, and be driven off to the death factories to test Obama's meat grinders designed to turn your Grandma into ground chuck. You do not want this. It is very unpleasant.
Now to be serious for one fucking second.
As part of my desperate cry for relevance in a cruel universe, where neutron stars go around annihilating all your favorite planets, and where whales are harpooned daily for their delicious innards, I just have to say FUCK SEX PORN INCEST STORIES FATHER DAUGHTER BLACK ASIAN ANAL CIGARETTES BONDAGE TIGHT EBONY BUSTY DONKEY and also, that I think that everyone is special in their own way, and that if we all just can just look inside ourselves for the love that is in our hearts, we can all live together in harmony.
Now go kick a baby.
Now for the funk.
Feel it.
Society is full of drones and slaves to the man and blah blah blah. But that's not why I'm mad. That's not why I'm dictating this prolific ground-breaking magnum opus literature to my Latina typist secretary that will be discussed in-depth on various radio shows with overweight drug-addicted hosts who need to compete with the underweight drug-addicted radio hosts who have become dehydrated after exhausting the Dasani Bottled Water of creativity and have turned to throwing balloons filled with honey at Korean strippers while singing the National Anthem of Canada just for the sheer shock value. You know, that cheap-shot humor that causes middle-aged single mothers to gasp and exclaim "That is wrong! What if my kids heard that?" Well, in short, if her kids heard "that", then they would grow up to be Mafia gangsters in pin-stripe suits, wielding tommy-guns and knocking down banks, then promptly diving into their model-t's to make their get-away, see?
The monotony of life gets under my skin like a... no, I'm not even going to make a run-on sentence analogy. At this point, I think most people would simply commit suicide, but I'm too creative for that shit. Rather, I've been considering constructing an elaborate alien abduction hoax so I can get onto the evening news and sell my books, which I will write later. The books will be 90% ways to get out of paying for meals at restaurants, 5% Nietzschean-style philosophical musings, and 5% recipes for Poison Ninja Muffins to serve to your Shogun warlord enemies during diplomatic tea-parties, but I plan to mention these books in my interviews with Larry King, provided that he hasn't died yet. My hoax will consist primarily of me swearing on the lives of my family that I was abducted by aliens, even though it's clearly a lie, then present photographic evidence by showing a picture of a figure with a white sheet over it's head, and simply remark that "Oh yeah, the aliens are also ghosts."
It would be so simple to run a hoax like that, and you know that spreading disinformation is not only hilarious, but it's good clean fun that the whole family can enjoy, which is why Glenn Beck loves it more than black hookers. Someday, I'll even write a step-by-step guide to deceiving the world around you into believing you had an encounter with aliens, or better yet, Nessy. Just don't get caught, or all the other "abduction victims" will come to your house and brand a scarlet "A" on your forhead for "Asshole". You will then be picked up by a government quarantine squad, thrown in a black van with no windows, and be driven off to the death factories to test Obama's meat grinders designed to turn your Grandma into ground chuck. You do not want this. It is very unpleasant.
Now to be serious for one fucking second.
As part of my desperate cry for relevance in a cruel universe, where neutron stars go around annihilating all your favorite planets, and where whales are harpooned daily for their delicious innards, I just have to say FUCK SEX PORN INCEST STORIES FATHER DAUGHTER BLACK ASIAN ANAL CIGARETTES BONDAGE TIGHT EBONY BUSTY DONKEY and also, that I think that everyone is special in their own way, and that if we all just can just look inside ourselves for the love that is in our hearts, we can all live together in harmony.
Now go kick a baby.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Excuse me while I channel the spirit of Miss Cleo's fake Jamaican accent
I was just kidding in the last post. The true reason I was away from my blog is because I was fighting time-traveling robots from the future, sent to eradicate all of mankind and start a new robot civilization, complete with a retail center that is hell-bent on raping the shit out Mom-and-pop small businesses (which represent honest virtues and shining puppies of total good) just to be assholes. You know we couldn't allow that, so I lead the resistance against the robots and saved all you fuckers.
Now, as you know, as a professional ghost and/or alien-hunter, I have to act like I've developed a sixth sense in order to impress gullible people, and then start to believe my own lie that I can sense spirits and foresee the future. Which I can do. I just close my eyes, go into a trance and draw whatever I see in my visions, which are usually vividly horrific precognitions, revealing serial murderers killing various people with various sorts of weaponry, massively catastrophic natural disasters, and record companies signing pretty girls to release albums so the companies can make mad money. But even Jim Kramer could see that coming, though. That fucker.
So here are my predictions for the rest of 2009:
- Courtney Love or Steve-O or someone will die of drugs. Then everyone will make a huge fuss over it for months, release conspiracy theories about how it happened, arrest some random doctor, and all the stupid teenagers will start putting quotes by the said famous person on their internet-thingies.
- A fucking asteroid will smash into the earth, but it won't happen in the US, so our people will just write blogs about how no one cares about the tragedy that ensues, but how THEY, in fact, really do care. This will prompt a bunch of people to buy Asteroid Tragedy t-shirts and bracelets, because supposedly, 90% of the money goes to help the victims of the asteroid.
- A pretty young girl with blonde hair, blue eyes and perfect teeth who was just a great person will be abducted, and the media will jump on that story like Fred Durst on a warthog's cock, and there will be a nation-wide hunt for the girl. Her skeleton will found 2 years later at the bottom of a river, and either a person who is of a "minority" (Someone who isn't a cracker) will be arrested or some older man, who will have scary facial hair. The weirder he is, the easier it'll be to turn people against him, and lynch his ass.
- I will abuse anti-depressants, and then drink a lot of booze, but still live anyway. I will wake up the next day naked next to some Thai girl who doesn't speak any English in a dimly-lit basement that smells like Larry King's taint, and I will have no idea why, and will sit up quickly, only to realize I feel like shit. I will then say aloud "I feel like shit. What the fuck am I doing here?" because stating the obvious always helps.
- A plane will crash. Then people will be afraid to fly, then ride off on their motorcycles.
- The Hadron Collider will create a minature black hole, and the black hole will make an elaborate list of demands, which the government will refuse, and the black hole will kill a hostage. Meanwhile, someone will google "black hole" in order to find out what it is, but will have their filter off, and will get some ebony porn site instead and it will contain a ton of weird shit, like girls in full-body fish-net suits.
- I will smack bitches and hoes, because it's hard out there for a pimp.
There you go. I'm going to go contact UFOs.
Now, as you know, as a professional ghost and/or alien-hunter, I have to act like I've developed a sixth sense in order to impress gullible people, and then start to believe my own lie that I can sense spirits and foresee the future. Which I can do. I just close my eyes, go into a trance and draw whatever I see in my visions, which are usually vividly horrific precognitions, revealing serial murderers killing various people with various sorts of weaponry, massively catastrophic natural disasters, and record companies signing pretty girls to release albums so the companies can make mad money. But even Jim Kramer could see that coming, though. That fucker.
So here are my predictions for the rest of 2009:
- Courtney Love or Steve-O or someone will die of drugs. Then everyone will make a huge fuss over it for months, release conspiracy theories about how it happened, arrest some random doctor, and all the stupid teenagers will start putting quotes by the said famous person on their internet-thingies.
- A fucking asteroid will smash into the earth, but it won't happen in the US, so our people will just write blogs about how no one cares about the tragedy that ensues, but how THEY, in fact, really do care. This will prompt a bunch of people to buy Asteroid Tragedy t-shirts and bracelets, because supposedly, 90% of the money goes to help the victims of the asteroid.
- A pretty young girl with blonde hair, blue eyes and perfect teeth who was just a great person will be abducted, and the media will jump on that story like Fred Durst on a warthog's cock, and there will be a nation-wide hunt for the girl. Her skeleton will found 2 years later at the bottom of a river, and either a person who is of a "minority" (Someone who isn't a cracker) will be arrested or some older man, who will have scary facial hair. The weirder he is, the easier it'll be to turn people against him, and lynch his ass.
- I will abuse anti-depressants, and then drink a lot of booze, but still live anyway. I will wake up the next day naked next to some Thai girl who doesn't speak any English in a dimly-lit basement that smells like Larry King's taint, and I will have no idea why, and will sit up quickly, only to realize I feel like shit. I will then say aloud "I feel like shit. What the fuck am I doing here?" because stating the obvious always helps.
- A plane will crash. Then people will be afraid to fly, then ride off on their motorcycles.
- The Hadron Collider will create a minature black hole, and the black hole will make an elaborate list of demands, which the government will refuse, and the black hole will kill a hostage. Meanwhile, someone will google "black hole" in order to find out what it is, but will have their filter off, and will get some ebony porn site instead and it will contain a ton of weird shit, like girls in full-body fish-net suits.
- I will smack bitches and hoes, because it's hard out there for a pimp.
There you go. I'm going to go contact UFOs.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Well, that got extremely personal.
-clears throat-
I feel like I haven't blogged in awhile. I don't know why; perhaps it was a streak of misguided optimism that temporarily squelched my amazing cynicism-powered creativity, but much to your relief (or horror. Just pick one, you indecisive cretin.) I've kept this burst of hopeful bliss brief. Now, for me to "express my feelings":
Fuck shit fucker fucking fuck. Cocksucking motherfucking scum-sucking bitch-ass asshole bitching bitches. Fuck. Bitches. Shit.
I know. The exhibition of the English language at it's finest. I always deliver eloquence in 30 minutes or less, or it's free, like the publicity you'd receive from you getting naked on Live Television. Trust me, "The Media" pursues stories with nudity with eager bemusement just because. They just cannot get enough of the milk-squirting tips of female mammories.
Alright, now for the meat of this post. If you're a vegetarian, fuck off. I'm going to try to keep this post under 56 paragraphs, in a brave attempt to make it moderately readable, or else we'll both lose; it'd be like Michael Jackson arguing with Joan Rivers about who has the more fucked-up face. But who knows? I may end up re-writing Les Miserables and setting it in "the future", making Jean Valjean a cyborg with ability to teleport short distances and to materialize zombie suicide-clone armies. Hell, if George Lucas can find new ways to completely fuck up the original Star Wars series, then I'm almost morally obligated to ruin classic literature just for shits and giggles.
I feel like I'm in a frying pan with bacon and grits at my side, being scorched by the deluxe non-stick surface made of the same material that NASA uses to make dildos for it's female astronauts. If you've never felt pressure like this, then you're either taking massive doses of Xanax or aren't a fucking human being, and need to GTFO, alien bastard bitch. There are times when I feel so inadequate that I can only compensate by for my festering shortcomings by bitching at strangers, being an asshole, and masturbating to Japanese porn at 4 a.m. in the morning. It seems as though if I fail, the universe will come down on me like Paris Hilton wearing night-vision goggles, but aren't allowed to succeed at anything, and God forbid that my friends and family lift a finger to offer me some encouragement. Curs.
Well, after a seemingly infinite interval of identical days, that things might be looking up for me. At that point, the Health And Fuck Administration raises it's omfg-meter to Phase 5, which causes needless widespread hysteria among the sheltered bourgeois of Utopia, as they scramble to their bomb-shelters, only to find out that the bomb-shelters have been converted into a very hip and cool Youth-ministry-run Video Arcade/Wednesday night church thingy. It's odd. I don't get it. Besides my not-so-subtle allegory alluding the government's false-flag pandemic scare in order to pass their border security blunt to the brother on the right, I'm expressing that the fat fuck, The Universe, has placed a ball-and-chain of fail around my ankle and no one gives a fuck, no one has ever given a fuck, but I believed fucking fuckers who lied to a upbeat obnoxious naive teenager version of myself that they, in fact, gave a fuck.
Due to these circumstances, I hold a general grudge against society, and I won't let up until I control at least 50% of the gold. Sure, I could be a cocksucking sycophant and leech my way to some marginal self-inflated form of success that fails spectacularly on a cosmic scale, but that would be no fun at all. That whole "The Best Revenge Is Living Well" bullshit is bullshit. "Don't get mad, get even" sounds better, but in recent decades, Congress has passed legislation that makes it illegal to "get even", thus reducing the saying to "Don't get mad." and putting pressure on me to just be this nice guy, who just works hard to get money and bitches when I get treated like complete shit all the time. Fuck that shit. That doesn't make sense in the real, rational world, and it takes a complete elitist self-righteous asshole with a soapbox to force it to be supposedly logical. And that, my friends, is why I don't give a fuck.
Oh, and have a nice day.
I feel like I haven't blogged in awhile. I don't know why; perhaps it was a streak of misguided optimism that temporarily squelched my amazing cynicism-powered creativity, but much to your relief (or horror. Just pick one, you indecisive cretin.) I've kept this burst of hopeful bliss brief. Now, for me to "express my feelings":
Fuck shit fucker fucking fuck. Cocksucking motherfucking scum-sucking bitch-ass asshole bitching bitches. Fuck. Bitches. Shit.
I know. The exhibition of the English language at it's finest. I always deliver eloquence in 30 minutes or less, or it's free, like the publicity you'd receive from you getting naked on Live Television. Trust me, "The Media" pursues stories with nudity with eager bemusement just because. They just cannot get enough of the milk-squirting tips of female mammories.
Alright, now for the meat of this post. If you're a vegetarian, fuck off. I'm going to try to keep this post under 56 paragraphs, in a brave attempt to make it moderately readable, or else we'll both lose; it'd be like Michael Jackson arguing with Joan Rivers about who has the more fucked-up face. But who knows? I may end up re-writing Les Miserables and setting it in "the future", making Jean Valjean a cyborg with ability to teleport short distances and to materialize zombie suicide-clone armies. Hell, if George Lucas can find new ways to completely fuck up the original Star Wars series, then I'm almost morally obligated to ruin classic literature just for shits and giggles.
I feel like I'm in a frying pan with bacon and grits at my side, being scorched by the deluxe non-stick surface made of the same material that NASA uses to make dildos for it's female astronauts. If you've never felt pressure like this, then you're either taking massive doses of Xanax or aren't a fucking human being, and need to GTFO, alien bastard bitch. There are times when I feel so inadequate that I can only compensate by for my festering shortcomings by bitching at strangers, being an asshole, and masturbating to Japanese porn at 4 a.m. in the morning. It seems as though if I fail, the universe will come down on me like Paris Hilton wearing night-vision goggles, but aren't allowed to succeed at anything, and God forbid that my friends and family lift a finger to offer me some encouragement. Curs.
Well, after a seemingly infinite interval of identical days, that things might be looking up for me. At that point, the Health And Fuck Administration raises it's omfg-meter to Phase 5, which causes needless widespread hysteria among the sheltered bourgeois of Utopia, as they scramble to their bomb-shelters, only to find out that the bomb-shelters have been converted into a very hip and cool Youth-ministry-run Video Arcade/Wednesday night church thingy. It's odd. I don't get it. Besides my not-so-subtle allegory alluding the government's false-flag pandemic scare in order to pass their border security blunt to the brother on the right, I'm expressing that the fat fuck, The Universe, has placed a ball-and-chain of fail around my ankle and no one gives a fuck, no one has ever given a fuck, but I believed fucking fuckers who lied to a upbeat obnoxious naive teenager version of myself that they, in fact, gave a fuck.
Due to these circumstances, I hold a general grudge against society, and I won't let up until I control at least 50% of the gold. Sure, I could be a cocksucking sycophant and leech my way to some marginal self-inflated form of success that fails spectacularly on a cosmic scale, but that would be no fun at all. That whole "The Best Revenge Is Living Well" bullshit is bullshit. "Don't get mad, get even" sounds better, but in recent decades, Congress has passed legislation that makes it illegal to "get even", thus reducing the saying to "Don't get mad." and putting pressure on me to just be this nice guy, who just works hard to get money and bitches when I get treated like complete shit all the time. Fuck that shit. That doesn't make sense in the real, rational world, and it takes a complete elitist self-righteous asshole with a soapbox to force it to be supposedly logical. And that, my friends, is why I don't give a fuck.
Oh, and have a nice day.
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