The Only Good Thing To Come Out Of The 80's = Me

seriously, let it fucking go. almost nothing good came from the 1980's. here's the way i see it: the worst porsches ever were made in the 80s. in fact, the worst looking cars EVER were made then. beside Maverick's Ninja in Top Gun, every fucking motorcycle from the 80's looks like a piece of shit. neon green will never be cool. especially when that is all that was produced for ten fucking years. 80s fashion? no one wears it unless it's a joke. really... when is the last time you wore something popular from the wretched decade if it wasn't a gay theme party? if you have an answer to that you should hang yourself. what else comes to mind... Ronny, John Hughes movies, and a bunch of people from my generation whose parents should have had an abortion. i'm in favor of wiping the decade from the history books. trickle-down economics? suck the trickle from my dick.

also, don't hate on abortion. it brings out the little kid in you.

The bloom is off the rose

It’s your lucky night, my friend will fuck just about anyone who is willing and as fate would have it you were fortunate enough to run into him tonight. Congratulations! Now that we have that out of the way and I will be forced to spend a large portion of my evening trying to be polite to you so that my friend can further desecrate your gaping septic tank of a vag, please help me out and make this a little less painful. First off, I will not be addressing you by your name because when you introduced yourself to me all I heard was “Hello, my name is town hole bar tramp”. Secondly, you can go ahead and drop the whole nice girl act because my friend is going to fuck you weather I approve or not. If my opinion mattered at all in this affair, I would tell him not to waste the condom but he doesn’t care so you can stop trying to win me over. My conversations with you will consist of “Uh huh”, “yep” and “neat”. So it’s probably in your best interest to just save your breath. I will however ask you one question. Just how old are you? You may or may not be fooling my friend but I have to applaud you on your shabby attempt to play the part of an illusionist. Well done, you’re probably pushing forty but you’re dressed like a twenty something and the Bettie Page hair cut is fairly distracting. Your make up is so thick that you must have to use turpentine to get it off before you lay yourself down to sleep in your filthy fuck station. Sorry Hun, this is only highlighting your face odometer and I'm reading high mileage. Despite all of your cunning efforts to trick me, I can still tell just by glancing at your face that you have had more dicks in you than a Herman Melville novel. The sad and hilarious thing is that you think you’ve still got it. Last call comes around, a charming young man (in this case my friend) is suddenly talking to you and you are brimming with pride and excitement because you feel all pretty and special and you’re saying to yourself “well he’s pretty cute and young so he must think I’m cute and young too!” Sorry Doll, not the case, you just happen to glow desperateness and you are still conscious at last call. My friend is a little drunk and bored and you might as well be toting around a neon sign that says “Fuck me, I fuck”. So anyway, it was great meeting you but let’s just forget the small talk and flattery because I am pretty positive I’ll never see you again. I am also pretty certain that when your alarm clock goes off and it’s time to get to the early shift at Family Dollar, you will open your mascara crusted eyes to meet the emptiness of your bedroom and realize that you will never see my friend again either. Well I guess it's back to starving yourself and popping prozac.

I went to Sunday School and all I got was this lousy guilt.

More proof faith-based religions can die out and we won't care:

http://www.voanews.com/english/2009-04-27-voa57.cfm


For those of us who didn't have parents force feeding imaginary ghosts and wizards to us, the last 2 sentences say it all.


1.) If you didn't worry about religion as a kid, you most likely won't as an adult.
2.) Those of us who didn't worry about religion as kids, won't worry as adults.

So let's just stop with the nonsense of cramming pointless, inconsistent, conflicting, and ridiculous stories of fantasy into our kids. No wonder we're a bunch of scared shitless pansies over a flu virus - we've constantly got this monkey on our back: The boogey man is gonna judge me! And we're so emotionally crippled about it as a result of being indoctrinated and inculcated as kids that we won't do the proper, right, and just thing: tell religion and its leaders to go fuck themselves.

And while we're at it, it's time to stop claiming people who hear voices in their heads are not insane. They are. And they need to be treated for mental illness - not supported by blind faith (actually, that's redundant since all faith, by definition, is blind) until the voices tell them to hurt somebody.

Won't somebody, please, think of the children?!

Jokes. For you.

Probing questions.

Q: What did the blind orphan get for Christmas?
A: Cancer.


Q: Why didn't Superman save JFK?
A: Because he was in a wheelchair.


Q: How do you make a clown cry?
A: You kill his family.


Q: What's the hardest part about going on a shooting spree in a nursery school?
A: Getting the blood stains out of your clown suit.

STFU, you sober prick.

Just because you went sober 3 months ago doesn't mean your opinion, on the exact type of person you were (and are), matters . In fact, you're playing catch-up to a life that's been going on while you've been drunk. We can live fine without you bringing us down. In fact:

Fuck you, recently sober guy.

I can empathize with your problems. But get in line. And just because you're sober doesn't entitle you to shit. I'm not driving 16 miles out of my way to take you home because you lost your license in a drunken mishap last year. You're supposed to suffer, whether you've sobered up or not. So here's the bus stop. Get out of my car.

You know what we do when we don't want to be around drunk people? We go home. So go home, sober guy. Apply yourself to something that matters for a change. You're sober. There's gotta be something you can do, aside from telling your friend how hard you have it. We became friends with you because you had something to offer. Now, we just feel sorry for you. So go home, figure something out, and if you come back with something to offer again, my door is open. But if you keep making me feel guilty for knowing you I'm gonna release a box of coyotes into your shitty apartment.

Touch that button and die, kid.

I swear to gawd. If this little red-headed terror wakes me up again I'm going to put him in a dumpster and be completely, legally, ethically, and morally justified.

I'm asleep. Stop turning off the volume of the babysitter (TV).
I'm asleep. Stop turning up the volume of the babysitter (TV).

I hate you and the puzzles you think you need to show me you can do for the 789,654th time.
Your mother is a dirty whore, and that's why I pay attention to her.
All kids are accidents: biology dictates the decision to have kids but given the choice, nobody - and I mean NO-BO-DY - is that stupid.
Uncle E married us, making you 1189% illegitimate.
Your evil laugh was taught to you by me, and if your mother learns our secret I'll be a happy suppporter of 8th trimester abortions.

The Susej

Ladies and Gentleman,
Some of you may feel like you just haven’t brushed up on the teachings of the Lord for a while so I took it upon myself to share with you my favorite way to do this.

http://www.thebricktestament.com/

I think you will be enlightened. My personal favorites are under the category “The law” especially the section that explains “When to stone your children” and also the precious lesson of how to punish someone who performs bestiality. Oh yeah, you can also go ahead and cancel your porn subscriptions because there is plenty of stuff to masturbate to under the newly added “Revelations” section. You can thank me later for saving your souls.

Thy Kingdom cum, on earth as it is in your vagina.

Lots of people go to school for 7 years...

...they're called doctors. And they're still dumb as a fucking doorknob.

My wife and I recently got back from an out of country vacation. We do that sometimes, since traveling is the best way to educate yourself and learn about the world. That is, for those of us who actually give a shit about it.

As sometimes happens, we picked up a bug that left us violently ill. Probably from some sushi. We're adventurous like that. She got over it rather quickly. I suffered a little longer, Definitely longer than I needed to. At one point I laid down, shaking uncontrollably, in our hotel room after heaving my colon through my esophagus and thought that this was the end. I'm was coming to terms with the fact that I was going to die in a tiny pink room to the sound of techno, creaking wooden steps, & moronic opinions coming from CNN.

Much to my surprise, I woke up the next morning, relatively alive, and we managed to get ourselves home the following day.

After the dysentery kicked in we figured a trip to the doctor was necessary so we went to an Urgent Care center at 7 pm on a Saturday night. I spent about 20 minutes with a nice nurse who took all of my info and she wrote down anything we had a remote feeling was relevant to my health. I was home. Being cared for. Comfortable (aside from the whole rectal bleed thing).

About 30 minutes later, a doctor came in asking "what's wrong?"

No file was in her hand. This through me off - so I didn't know where to begin.

I gave her some sparse details and she rattled off some drugs I'd have to take while they ran some tests, of which would take a few days to run.

An hour or 2 later we paid, left and went home with my prescriptions in hand, to worry ourselves through the night. The next morning I got my drugs, took the ones that would let me drink (I'm not one to restrict my diet when I don't have a good factual reason to), and went through my day, persistently calling every couple hours to get my test results as they came in.

2 days later, after all tests were run, I'm dizzy, lethargic, hungry, and living in a steady state akin to an out-of-body experience. And I still have the shits.

Still, nobody could give me a good reason to start taking the drugs I couldn't drink on, so I put those in the cabinet and kept up with the antibiotics. After 2 more days of drooling over my keyboard at work, too stoned to even drive myself home, I called my regular doc who told me to keep up with the drugs until they were all gone. And to take the other ones. The shits continued.

Fuck that.

I went home, put the drugs away, and got drunk.

After 2 days of being drug free the dizzyness went away and the shits stopped. The fog had lifted so I looked up side effects of the drugs I was taking. "May cause drowsiness." No shit.

Lo and behold, after a little Google time (like, 3 seconds) the same drug may cause the shits.

So let me get this straight: we have an industry of health care professionals, recommending a drug whose side effects worsen the pain of people who are already bleeding out their ass. Then when the patient complains the drugs are making it worse, you tell them to shut the fuck up, dose up, and call if there's any change.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

I pay my insurance out of pocket, plus a deductible and co-pay, for all these people to develop and run tests, develop and sell drugs, scare the shit out of my wife and I, all while an industry spends billions of dollars on research and education. And not only can you tell me NOTHING about what's eating away at my insides, but at the end of the day I would have been better off, both financially and health-wise, had I stayed at home that night and quietly bled out of my ass.

What scares me the most: What the fuck do you inefficient geeks do when someone is really sick?

Books are for pussies and survivalists

Late December I read an article on how bad drinking alcohol was for me. So I made a new year's resolution: No more reading.

4 months later, I broke my resolution. A couple of friends convinced me to read a book called "World War Z." Now, please don't get me wrong, the last thing I want to do is sit around and waste my time reading a book. I learn more watching TV and i can comfortably refill my drink at the same time. Books do not get me laid, nor do they for anybody else. Unless, of course, you kidnap the kid who is sitting all by himself at a play ground reading a book just to drag his ass down to the public library to convince the fucking sexy librarian you are a great uncle and she should sleep with you. Even then, thats stretching it and you still don't have to read. Well, back to my story: I ended up reading a book about a zombie apocalypse. Fucking awesome.

The only problem is that now I have spent $1500 on a new M4 carbine (fuck 3 day waiting periods), purchased 1000's of rounds for it, a $50 machete (they don't run out of ammo), a crow bar, and a sledge hammer. When Vietnam vets walk into a room, they immediately look for exits. I now look for entrances so I can barricade them. I spent 2 hours in a meeting today with my company's management in a posh conference room. I forgot what the fuck they were talking about because I was contemplating how I could separate the CEO's head from his body using one of the doors from cabinet, if he were a zombie it would even be justified.

Now that I am home and writing this, I have realized that I need help. I need some serious help and I am sure you have realized it: How am I going to destroy the stairs leading to the top floor of my house alone.

Live strong, Die fast

Look out everyone! The parade of arrogance and closeted homosexuality is waving its revolting man ass in front of my vehicle! What should I do?! The grand spectrum of emotions is overwhelming. Should I throw up at the site of 50 grown men wearing day glow spandex that would even nauseate Milly Vanilly in this day and age? Don’t do it, don’t let them win by soiling your upholstery. I know, step on the gas and extinguish their miserable existence. Do it!? Don’t do it!? Do it?! Don’t do it!? Fuck! I don’t want to go to prison! Aaaahhh!!!! FUCK!!! I am stuck trying to pass these cock drinkers and they are slowing me and every other poor bastard behind me from getting to happy hour before it ends! I fucking hate them! My dollar wells and free pool will now cost full price and all of the truly degenerate cheap whores that would have actually let me take them home are now going home by themselves to hit their stash of plastic bottled Gordon’s vodka half pints because it is more cost effective and they know that no one in their right mind is going to buy them a full priced drink when they could have received the same shitty blow job for half the cost 20 minutes ago. Fuck you Lance Armstrong for making these lemmings believe that they are participating in something manly or even respectable. Fuck you Lance Armstrong for helping these fucks mask their desire to watch their friend’s sweaty ass bounce rhythmically in front of their cock hungry eyes for miles on end. Fuck you Lance Armstrong for helping these dildos fulfill their aspirations to dress in woman’s clothing and shave their legs by making these people think that riding a bike down the street is a real sport. I hate to break it to you turd anglers…but I learned how to ride a bike when I was five years old and it never made me think I should make a spectacle of myself by plastering everything I wear with a corporate logo (and no, you are not sponsored so don’t bullshit me!) and at no point did I pretend that I was a car so that I could stoke my own ego and make everyone else have to contemplate murder every time they passed me. Fuck you! Please do me favor, come out of the closet, get off of the road and drop your ridiculous hobby. Then I can redeem some respect for your life and buy you a drink, even if it means I have to meet you at the Blue Flame or the Mud Miner’s Saloon.

hey fucktards

to those who are 'authors' but have yet to post... come on do it.. i'm right here... kill me!!! but really. fucking do it already. or i will delete you.

Ode to the Old Town Deli

O Old Town Deli
how i love thee so
with your overpriced deli meat
and 'sides' consisting mostly of mayo
only open for 4 hours a day
and shut tight as a virgin on weekends
RC Cola and Boar's Head
but do you really want to know,
why out of my way to you i go?

because the owner has a creepy handlebar mustache and his wife makes the sandwiches - and every single time i go in there he's screaming his head off at her to the point where i just know sooner or later i'll finally see him hit her.

it took me forever to figure out why they make such good sandwiches and today it dawned on me: every sandwich is flavored with a drizzling of tears. tears of domestic violence. mmmmm... battered wife.

Silent scream

I have some new rules of engagement I would like people to start applying during any time spent with me. This applies to all of the following social events but is definitely not limited to them. If you are hanging out with me at the bar, the concert, my bedroom, the restaurant, the car ride to the abortion clinic, the trunk of my car, the hotel room, the whore house, bible study, the woods, my basement wall, the movies, on a boat, skiing, the dumpster behind the bar, anger management class, basket weaving class, your house, your bedroom or at work. Please try to abide by the following.

#1 and the most important – If there is a Kerry King guitar solo coming from the stereo, the juke box or the stage. Do not under any circumstances talk or even look at me like you want to say something.

#2 - If you decide that you are more important than a Kerry King guitar solo and decide to talk anyway…please do me a favor and spare my clothing and hands from having to be covered in your blood and cut your own tongue out for me. This would at least restore a miniscule piece of your honor.

#3 – If you think Kerry King is done blowing my mind and you think I am still interested in following that up with whatever you want to say, please reach in your purse for your bottle of Ritalin and be patient because I can almost guarantee you that his solo will be followed by a Jeff Hanneman solo. Listen closely! It is also VERY important that you do not speak during this either.

#4 - To make certain that rules #1, 2 and 3 cannot accidentally be broken, it would be in your best interest to just wait for silence and there for guarantee that I don’t miss any part of the audible copulation that is a Slayer song.

#5 – Now that the air has been completely cleansed of all of the unimportant drivel that preceded this enlightening experience and there is absolute certainty that we have reached complete silence (that you have been waiting on for reasons that are beyond my comprehension), please be sure to not ruin the moment by saying anything other than “Wow! Did you fucking hear that?!”

#6 – Never make mention of the show Sex in the City.

#7 – If you want to refill me glass of whiskey silently at any point during #1 through #5, this is acceptable.

Thank you ahead of time for your cooperation.

cave-in at the nose gold mine

every now and again, i actually learn my lesson. point and case: last semester i took this small seminar class that involved a large amount of presentations to the class. well being the wonderfully functioning alcoholic that i am, i was hung over as shit for the first presentation. to my utter horror from my vantage point at the front of the class if have a direct view of a grown man (later to find out he has a wife and kids) picking his nose and fucking eating it. i started to throw up in my mouth a little bit and excused myself for about 20 minutes.

so this time around, i made sure to sit in a place where i cannot see him at all. but every time he talks i vomit a little in my mouth. now my friend sits next to him and i just got this email:

"do you know this _____ guy? am i crazy? i think he just picked his nose and ate it!!!!!! omg!"

how the fuck do you make it into your 30s picking your nose and eating it without be so embarrassed at some point that you (1) stopped doing it forever or (2) just fucking kill yourself. i'm voting for number 2.

Leave Me Alone, Retard.

I'm a quiet fellow. I mind my own business. An introvert. Loner. I like to do things by myself and prefer to not have to work in a large group. I was born this way. It happens. It's natural.

As I am, I often venture out into the world - on my own - to places like restaurants, bookstores, and the grocery store. I go in with my mentally or physically prepared lists (or no list, if in case of the bookstore), get what I need, have a brief checkout/chat process with the cashier, and then get on my way. Years of experience have taught me how to properly time my endeavors and what coversations I will need to be prepared for.

Normally, I care not for idle chit-chat about things like the weather, professional sports (the bane of my existence), or popular TV (Survivor, the Biggest Loser, etc.). In fact, it bores me and the longer it goes on the more of an idiot the other person becomes for not being able to notice I'm politely ignoring what is being said - and not propogating the conversation further. Idle chit chat is a time waster and a faux way of pretending your life doesn't suck as bad as it really does. Thus, idle chit chat need not exist for me. Nor for anyone.

Including retards.

And yes, I mean the handicapped. People who where helmets and kneepads to go for a walk. People with a clubbed foot, cleft lip and an IQ below 95 that need someone to keep an eye on the amount of saliva pooling up on the floor. The 57 year old that works as a grocery bagger and isn't allowed to have a drivers license. The stammering, slobering, slightly-smelling-of-excrement autistic kid who couldn't figure out the Dewey Decimal System but he's not retarded he's "unique" (just like everyone else) so he's entitled to a job shelving returned books at Border's. Those retards.

To those retards, I have one request: stop talking to me.

Don't ask me if I have kids when you are bagging diapers. Don't ask me if I'm having a party when I've just purchased a handle of whiskey. And if I've ordered a combo meal then yes, I did want (in fact, expected) fries to come with it - so don't ask.

I feel for you. I really do. If I believed in God I'd curse him too for making you in his image. But sexually harassing the one good looking woman at Safeway isn't helping your cause. In fact, that's why you shouldn't be allowed in public unsupervised.

And to the parents/guardians/daykeepers of these vocal monsters please do us all a favor: keep your feel-good project under control. If I caught an employee making moronic or harrasing remarks to anyone in my place of business (in open daylight, nonethless) they would be out the door in seconds. Just becasue little Kenny's 16 year old retarded hormones are, you know, dysfunctional doesn't forgive his persistent left hand in his pants. And if I'm eating alone it's because I came here alone, want to eat alone, and will quietly pay my bill and leave, alone. I don't want anyone tapping me on the shoulder, asking me how I am, where my friends are, and what my name is while drooling in my rice bowl, then making me feel guilty because I want some peace to myself.

Shut the fuck up, retards. Leave me alone.

The birth of hate

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preface to the next post

like any piece of literary genius (genious if you're walker), a good preface by a notable celebrity is needed. as far as this blog goes, i'm the best you're gonna get.

just in case any of you are confused, "undfined" is saying 'fuck you' to his 4 year-old daughter. who he dressed as JonBenet Ramsey 2 years ago. all bask in his glory, for he is the chosen one.

You Owe Me $40, Bitch.

I love my iPod. It's my little personalized piece of heaven. It sounds good. It works in my car, in my house, and in my office. Even on a Big Wheel. Or a dinghy. Roller coasters, even. So when it goes missing I obsess about where I had it last and where it possibly could have gone. For this reason, I tend not to lose the shit I pay good money for. Like my car keys or sunglasses. Or an iPod.

But then you came along and fucked it all up.

I spent weeks looking for my lovely little music dispenser, to no avail - blaming it stolen by the cleaning lady of a Vegas hotel (I found solace in believing it was hocked for a cab ride with a lesbian hooker girlfriend, gambling, cheap booze, and an eventual double homicide of a couple mormons in Utah).

So I bit the bullet, reviewed my bank account, and verified I was unable to afford and therefore purchase a new iPod. Not that that stopped me.

After customizing the newer, more glorious unit and loading you, my dear, into the car to go to your overpriced daycare you said some of those magical words that make me want to go out for cigarettes and never come back.

"Hey, what's that?"
"Daddy's new iPod."
"Did you get that from my Dora backpack?"
Fuck you.
"No. Do you have one of these in your Dora backpack?"
"Yea, in my pink room!"
Fuck you.

After locating my bless-ed jukebox, I was prompted to return the newer, more glorious device to the store - minus a 15% "restocking fee" that the hairy fat cunt manager wouldn't refund because her shitty retail store is unable to make money competing with that Interweb thingy.

So the way I see it, you owe me $40.

why i will end up in jail

sooner or later i will probably commit a violent felony on one or more of the following types of people:

- people who insist on trying to get on the elevator while i'm trying to get off (the elevator you sick fuck)
- people who waited in line to order for 10 damn minutes and are stumped by the 'what can i get for you?' question
- people who have George W. Bush stickers on their cars STILL
- anyone who resides in Utah
- Walker McBain

Invisible crutch

On psychics, they aren’t psychics at all; they’re just observers of the obvious. Point and case - “Oh my god, she knew that I was having trouble finding a boyfriend”. Well maybe that’s because you’re face looks like Sandra Bullock made love with a Picasso painting and then sprinkled itself with Down syndrome dust. “Oh my god she knew I was having trouble finding a job”. Wow, that is a tough one! Is it because this clairvoyant is trance channeling Cleopatra? Maybe…but I think the more likely culprit would be the fact that you’re patchouli smells so bad that any normal person would think you have been swimming in the urinals at the football stadium and then drying yourself off in a transients arm pit. No one wants to hire someone who believes that the stone on their necklace is protecting them from some kind of bad energy, let alone someone they can’t even breathe around without inducing projectile vomiting. “Oh my god, she knew that I was feeling sad and was trying to find happiness in my life!” Yep, you are sad and most of all pathetic. Why else would you be going to a psychic in the first place? “She says I’m having trouble connecting with a man right now because I’m a Leo and Mercury is in retrograde! Oh my god!!!!” News flash, Capricorn is not going to descend from the heavens and attempt to cover up your putrid face with some makeup…only you can do that. Sagittarius is not going to drop out of the night sky and cover up your stink with something other than Tom’s of Maine soap or some real deodorant instead of that crystal looking mineral rock shit you bought at Whole Foods. Again, only you can do that. Guess what? Libra is not going to change the fact that you had a shitty childhood and because of it you doom yourself to repeating the same relationship with same type of abusive fuck wad over and over again. You guessed it, only you can recognize this and change it. Last but not least, though you may be feeling the incredible and overpowering magical and invisible powers of fire, water, and air. Though you may have the awesome energy you think you are pulling from Mars and Venus pulsing through your veins. Even though someone told you that your chakra is aligned and that your aura is vivacious and dancing storms of beautiful miraculous light and color. None of these things or a million psychics can teach your fragile brain the one thing it needs to learn most…(insert drum roll)…REASON AND COMMON SENSE! My suggestion, try going to a normal library and skip the trip to the metaphysical bookshop.

Demonimania

Yank tug, your cerebral cortex is missing

Does anyone remember those people who would put their kids in those shoulder harnesses that were more or less a leash to keep your brat from getting any farther than a slapping hand away? Well unfortunately these people were shunned and looked down upon because it was seen by others as being distasteful to tote your spawn around like an unruly border collie. I too must admit that at first glance I was a little disturbed and was wondering who other than some toddler prodding priest could have come up with such an invention. So after a very short time and some intense peer scrutiny and pressure, this phenomenon was short lived and people stopped using this method of offspring control. Anyhow, some time has passed since I have seen the child leash in action and I have had some time to regurgitate my opinion on this. Though some people have evolved and made great contributions to society and I can still talk to a select number of people and not have my brain melt out of my ear. I have to say that the majority of human interaction I take part in makes me want to create a tsunami machine and wipe these babbling idiots off of the planet so we can start fresh. You know, make some kind of Noah’s ark that we can load all of the non-droolers onto and then just wash away the fashinista garbage consuming sorority cunts and their counterpart douche nozzle boyfriends who’s biggest decision of the day is whether he should cover his soulless vessel with a shirt that says “Sigma Phi Epsilon” or the one that says “tap out”. My point, people are getting dumber and those dumb people are fucking each other and having even dumber kids. What do these people do to ensure their children don’t grow up to be as worthless as they are? They tell them to get in the back of their Yukon, shove a PSP into their hands, turn on the head rest TV and tell them to shut up. What you might ask is the parent putting in their S.U.V.’s portable DVD player? Could it be National Geographic or maybe the latest installment of Nova? NO! This would lead to stimulation where something might trigger in their child’s head and then the little monkey might want to ask questions. Questions = talking, talking = parent having to pay attention. This is a nuisance to the parent because they don’t know how to answer questions about anything they didn’t hear on the E channel and it might interrupt their cell phone conversation. So instead they can just pop in the first thing that effectively starts the saliva pouring out of their kids mouth…the new Jonas Brothers DVD or maybe an insight filled episode of Hannah Montana. How does this affect me directly you ask? Well here it is. When you reach your destination which is the walking mall, where you justify your sick obsession with buying over priced crap by saying to yourself “ I am getting my little devil spawn out of its T.V. induced coma and getting it some fresh air.” But once you get there your kid becomes the last thing on your tiny mind because you are too distracted by all of the pretty colors in the store front windows. What happens now? Well now your disgusting overweight podling that functions on corn dogs and ten desserts a day is running around all hopped up like a hooker on PCP (because it hasn’t seen the outside world for a week) starts flailing its fat arms around, running in circles, making buzzing noises and screaming “LOOK MOM I’M A PLANE!” At this point your little devoid of thought definition of entropy slams into me full force and starts laughing and in return you give me that look that says “awe isn’t my little sunshine biscuit soooo cute?” NO! Your snot nosed space waster is not cute, I am trying to get to the bar and I don’t appreciate it using itself as an obstacle course to slow me down from getting my fucking whiskey! Please put that thing on a leash or kill it! That’s all.

-Demonimania

it tastes like BRAINing

so being the sick SOB that i am, imagine my horror to discover that i was unaware that a beautiful, brilliant, and downright glorious segment of society actually refers to Easter as "Zombie Jesus Day."

part of me wants to thank those of you who have enlightened me. the other part, the bigger part, wants to tell the rest of you to go fuck yourselves for leaving me in the dark for so long.

i am thankful however that no one was audacious enough to send me a 'happy easter' mass text. it has nothing to do with the holiday but i really didn't feel like having to electronically threaten anyone's life today.

p.s. the zombie jesus voice in my head is actually more of a frankenstein thing, but i think it's funnier that way.

i love this site - check it out

from www.iheartconsumption.blogspot.com

because, i already told her twice!

do i need to say more?

well well well

congrats Auz. you have patently offended me and that's not an easy thing to do. i'm filled with that warm and fuzzy feeling i can only get from hearing you rip apart the emotions of some poor girl. but seriously dude, next time you get shut down at the bar, relax, take a deep breath, and go fuck yourself. i love you.

Shut the fuck up. Where's my cocktail? round 2

Really bitch? Glad you look like a whore. I'm sure your parents are proud. Get off your iPhone that you spent the last 3 weeks of tips on. I want another Coors Light. And tuck your thong back into your pants. It's sweaty and gross. Like Walker's head.

Fuck being wingman

I think the only type of wingman I will ever again be is the "bad cop" when performing the "good cop / bad cop" method of getting a friend laid. That is worth it because it is one of the few times when I can publicly let my true colors fly. I can openly let her know that I thought she was hot until she turned around and I saw her fat armpits, lopsided boobs, that her fake tanner truely makes her look orange, and although she is not an acutal whore she was definately wearing a whore's uniform. Then I can proceed to let her know that i would still let her suck my dick if we went to do it right now. Finally, my friend, playing the part of a good hearted stranger, can then tell me to fuck off and leave her alone. Some pushing, a fake punch, and HURRAY! My friend gets laid.

The other night, after witnessing a friend get cockblocked by some chick's fat friend, I tried to help. He was already committed to talking to this girl, but he made the mistake of acknowledging that he knew me... bastard. So much for the little fun i get from being a wingman. Now i would like to clarify somethings:

To the girl i was talking to at the bar the other night:

1. You're fat
2. You're ugly
3. My friend was trying to get laid
4. He has not been laid in a while
5. Your friend was kinda of cute
6. In looking back, I am sure she really wasn't that cute other than the fact that she looked better when standing next to you as a reference.
7. I was playing wing man to prevent you from being a cockblock
8. I was very drunk
9. You were still fat and ugly
10. I didn't ask for your number because I didn't want it (reference points 1, 2, and 9 above)
11. I wouldn't let you touch my phone because you would type in your number, and since I am sure you were one of those people who believes your nauseating excessive obesity is a "disease," I really don't care to contract what ever fat/ugly sickness you have from my phone just in case there is an actual remote chance your ample gravitationl pull its not related to the crap food you eat without exorcising.
12. I gave you my number so I wouldn't make my friend look like a dick for having a dick friend.
13. Yes the number I gave you was wrong. That was intentional. That is why I wrote it on a piece of paper, so in case you called it right away to give me your number, your friend wouldn't know I was an actual asshole wingman until after my friend did horrible things to your friend's rectum.
14. Given the circumstances, you shouln't try and find me on facebook. I did not aprove you as a "freind" and blocked you from any communication because... well... it should be obvious to any person with a below average IQ.
15. Once blocked on facebook, don't try and find me on myspace either asking if I wanted to see you again. Again, I blocked you from any communication
16. I have added you on my hatespace page.

Surprise Cock-Fags!

New author being added. I'll keep his identity a secret as he has never told of the horrible, horrible things I have done to him in his sleep.

Blog note: It Tastes Like Burning's revival is a response to the overwhelming negative response most you had to my new social-networking site called "HateSpace." Here were the basics in my demented little mind:

- No friends on HateSpace, you only acquire enemies. List your beliefs, desires, and opinions. Wait for others to shit on your soul and return in kind.
- if you are caught having civil conversation, your account is deleted and pictures of child porn will be sent to your email along with FBI notification
- long-time users can obtain "Mortal Enemy" status with each other after years and years of abuse
- eventually you will reach "Hatfield and McCoy" level where your children will be forced to hate each other for generations to come
- finally, every other year (once i make millions at this) i will rent an island outside of U.S. jurisdiction on which users will be allowed to meet in person and fight to the death. rusty tools optional but encouraged.

"How do like that one, fuckhead?"

i hope you have retarded children

first of all, i'm not completely out of my mind:

www.salon.com/env/vital_signs/2009/02/19/autism_and_vaccines/

jim carey and jenny mccarthy, just fucking drop it. vaccinations do not cause autism. maybe if all our kids didn't get vaccinations everyone would be dead and the autism rates would plummet. the math works i guess. you fucking morons.

OMG WTF

this is from a great (albeit semi-religious) site called www.soulpancake.com



OFFENSIVE OR THE BEST MEDICINE?

Wednesday, April 1, 2009 - FEATURES

[SEE. THINK. TALK.]
Northy and Southy: Get ‘em while they last!
We hate to admit it, but sometimes, the best way to deal with the gut-wrenching, sick-to-your-stomach tragedies of life is to laugh at them. But after you see Northy and Southy, the World Trade Center tower plush dolls, you’ll probably disagree. They may be made of felt, but they are certainly not heartfelt—in fact, I think they trivialize the tragedy. And I’m sure there are more than a few of you considering sending the creator anonymous hate mail.

Before you do, consider this: The artist, Johnny Ryan, may have turned the cute and happy craft of creating soft, plush dolls into a statement on a major disaster, but at least these plushies aren’t for sale. I would argue that commemorative 9/11 plates, coins, T-shirts, and scrunchies are more offensive. They’re cashing in on death and destruction under the veil of being a “tribute.” Sure, these dolls are offensive, but at least the artist isn’t lining his pockets.

thanks a latte

weird story: stopped for coffee this morning a the neighborhood non-Starbucks, you know, keeping it local. lady behind the counter (always there) is especially nice this morning. and being nice required her to inform me that i had something in my hair - then proceed to insist on picking it out herself. maybe i'm just weird but i don't like strangers touching me that much. unless they're hookers - but then i'm paying and that's different. point is: what the hell else is this bitch putting her hands in at 7 a.m.?

related incident:
Saddle Ranch, Wednesday night. closing out my tab and bartender girl is clearly trying to flirt her way into a better tip. and she's doing a great job. right up until the point where she tried to do the cute bite of the corner of my debit card. as far as i'm concerned, my debit card is dirtier than any dollar bill in circulation. she may as well have licked a toilet seat in front of me. have fun with her Walker.

A new, reoccurring, segment

People I Hate #1

The fucking girl who seems to be in every one of my classes who is ALWAYS fucking sick. piles of tissue, the loudest cough on earth. but this is what does it for me: sucking down fucking cigarettes every time i walk outside. listen, i treat my body like a strip club as much as anyone but come on. REMEDY: get cancer already.



People I Hate #2

People who insist on eating smelly food in enclosed public places. 1 hour ago, Lardass Government Worker bitch could wait to get off the elevator to begin scarfing her reuben sandwich. I hope she choked after I got off.

Shut the fuck up. Where's my cocktail?

What the fuck are some of my friends going to do? I'm talking about the late 20's and 30 somethings who skipped college and have been working in the restaurant biz for the last decade. Summer is the slow time around here (any guesses?), and things are going to get worse. If you think you're broke now... Anyway, it seems that at least a certain % have decided to make a run to campus and enroll to pursue their long lost dream. Really, this is hilarious to me. Watch a tattooed, balding 28 year old hit on some 21 year-old by telling her he's getting his nutrition degree - and tell me that's not funny. The reality is this: college was an investment you should have made a long time ago. Instead of promising yourself that Thanks Daddy State will certainly accept you after 2 lovely years of community college at High School With Ashtrays, maybe you should get a real job.