Monthly Archives: September 2011

Ain’t No Hollaback Girl.

Posted on by

0

Seriously. For the last time. I’m not going to say it again. I ain’t no hollaback girl. Honestly, I don’t know how many more times I have to say it before you get it through that thick skull of yours.  I strongly resent all these recent accusations that I am some sort of hollaback girl. What have I ever done that would lead you to that conclusion? I mean, this shit is just completely bananas. B-A-N-A…I don’t need to spell it out for you. You know how to spell bananas. And I don’t mean like literally that my shit is made of bananas. Like I ate half a bushel of nay-nays and now I’m dumpin’ out pure naner puddin’. I mean that it is just crazy! Sure, I’ll have a banana or two every once in a while. Guilty as charged. It’s a delicious fruit. But it’s not like my diet completely consists of bananas. I guess if we were going to be more specific we could say that my shit is partially bananas but it also contains healthy amounts of chicken mcnuggers, doritos, hummus, waffles, froyo, yoplait, dannimals, gogurt, etc. After further analysis, I think it’s safe to say that, for the most part,  my shit is yogurt. Y-O-G-U-R-T. God! do you really have to over-analyze every little detail?! The consistency of my shit is not the point, the point is that it’s absurd to even think that I am in any way, shape or form some sort of hollaback hootchie cootchie.

Sometimes I feel like you are just deliberately trying to hurt my feelings or something. My analyst, Dr. Werner Lipschwitz, says it’s cuz you’re jealous of me and mines. Look, it’s not my fault my dad makes like a Jake-Jillion dollars a day and bought me the 2011 HYBRID Range Rover and Wiz Khalifa came to my MTV Super Sweet 16 party at which I gave Derek an old fashion herky-jerky in the broom closet. He got so much jerky in there that people are going to have to start calling him Slim Jim. Or Jack Links. I’ll tell you one thing, if we were to say that  Derek’s schlongdong was the illustrious Sasquatch, then I’m here to tell you that the ‘squatch exists and that he is living in Derek G.’s khaki cargos. Except unlike the squatch popularly known in lore, this squatch is shaved clean as a dutch whistle. Like porpoise skin. It’s the 21st Century Sasquatch. The kind that shaves every morning, dons a business suit, grabs a cup of coffee, and heads to the office downtown. The commute from his forest cave is not bad as long as he can beat the school traffic. And let me tell ya, he busts his ass out there from nine to five, crunchin’ numbers like it’s nobody’s bidness. Sure coworkers are always curious about his large projecting brow, mammoth hands and feet, failure to use article adjectives or proper pronouns, and the dead squirrel he brought for lunch. But after he calmly adjusts his spectacles and explains that he was brought over from the company’s Ukraine sales branch and that he was originally from in Dniprodzerzhynsk, their suspicions that he might be a shaved Sasquatch are quelled. No questions asked. It’s the perfect alibi because Ukrainians are huge, hideous, and uncircumcised- and that’s just the women.

And did you hear the one about the Ukrainian man that wanted to buy the Ukrainian meat tube? So this man walks into the store and says to the clerk “Excuse me miss, my name is Fjodor and I’d like to buy your finest Ukrainian meat tube and I would like it garnished with ketchup and pickled relish. Then I’m going to gobble it up like a ….”

The clerk eyed the man and asked “I take it you’re Ukranian?”

The man gawked offended-like and replied, “What just because I want a delicious Ukrainian meat tube, you assume that I’m Ukrainian? That is so judgmental of you. You’re a fucking cunt. If I asked for a Polish sausage would you assume that I was Polish? If I had ordered a German Bratwurst would you assume I was a Nazi? If I requested a kosher weenie would you accuse me of killing Jesus and ask me to do your taxes? If I wanted a taco would throw me out of you’re country and build up a wall over hundreds of miles of our shared border to prevent my reentry? If I asked for some cornbread and collard greens would you try to get me to play on your basketball team? If I wanted some Faygo would you assume that I was a fan of the Insane Clown Posse? Would you? Would you call me a Juggalo, you racist bitch? Answer me goddamnit.”

“….Well, no…not necessarily” she responded timidly.

“Well then why you trying to play me like that, esse?”

“….It’s just because this is Old Navy. We only sell sweater pants.”

That’s just a classic joke that displays how dumb and ugly Ukrainians are. They’re half-wits. Thick-headed. Harebrained. And other similar adjectives. To be honest, we only brought up that joke because we are sponsored by Old Navy and contractually obligated to mention Old Navy sweater pants. They’re comfy and snug. It’s like having hamsters glued all over your legs. You’d have to be as dumb and ugly as a Ukrainian to not go out and buy a pair today at your nearest Old Navy Fashion Center. But that decision is up to you.

As for me? If I said it once, I’ve said it a Jake-jillion times: I ain’t no hollaback girl. I mean honestly, take this pink ribbon off my eyes. I’m exposed and it’s no big surprise. I’m just a girl. If that makes me some a weirdo, then fine. But seriously, I’m a just a girl in the world. Guess I’m some kind of freak. Didn’t you’re mom ever tell you “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t speak.” Don’t tell me who to be. Don’t tell me cuz it hurts. And if another one of you droopy-balled cum-marinaters calls me a hollaback girl, then I will slash your eyelids with a scalpel and pour vinegar in your face while my husband, Gavin Rossdale, kidnaps your kids and violently rapes them in front you.

Buildin’ This City, Brick by Brick

Posted on by

0

Just got the new Sims on my Macintosh, bout to go to town (pun intended). I’m gonna build so much awesome shit it’s gonna make that faggy-asslovin’ rollercoaster ride you built last year seem like a swift kick to the dick and ballsacks. Been mappin’ out my city for months now in between kitty naps, since I got fired from Quimbie’s last year. Everyday, just nappin’ and mappin’. My city is going to make blood spew from your buttmouth like a Kansas City fountain. It’s gonna have everything: super dope two story ice dancing rinks, like 3 or 4 Museums of Natural History, 1 Museum of Unnatural History, a gas station, fire hydrants, an abandoned lot where a former employee burnt down the Quimbie’s that used to occupy it, after they fired him for stealing slices of Extra Sharp Cheddar from the walk-in cooler. Ev-ver-ry thing. I’m gonna have a public swimming pool where no kids are allowed so the water doesn’t taste like baby piss. Gonna have a Gold’s Gym where sleeves are required, barb-wire tattoos are banned, and headphones are allowed but only if you are listening to The Wiggles. Only positive vibes, man. Wigglin’ out at the Gold’s. For sure.

Gonna have a mosque on every corner. I know how those Muslims love to pray. Except not within 5 miles of the airport. Cuz of 9/11 or whatever. There’s also going to be an orphanage right across the street from the hospital. And it’s gonna have one of those Blockbuster drop boxes so you don’t have to fill out any paperwork to drop off that little ball of throw-up after your baby momma gets done queefing that thing out her puzzzzzzzzz.

I’m also going to ban smoking cigarettes in work spaces and/or public places like restaurants (Shoney’s), cars, and funerals. We, the citizens of this city, have a right to breathe in fresh, buttery air into our nostrils without being poisoned by smokeheads like you. It’s like, seriously bro, you’re suffocating me with that cancer smog. Would you put that thing out already? Thanks. What, you think you look cool like James Dean or something? Yah right bro, yah right, in you’re dreams. You look like a puffer fish sucking on a little  skinny white dick. You think that shit’s hardcore, huh? Sucking on a skinny white dick is hardcore? You think you’re a big tough cigarette man, huh? Fahgetabaddit. Yah. Right. Bro. What, you think because black president Obama smokes that it’s “cool” now or something? If Obama jumped off a bridge would you too? Bet you would. You’re a sheep, man. Baaa Baaa Black President Sheep. God, how bout you think for yourself for once in your god damn life. Open your third eye, guy. Forget Obama. Seriously. Block out his negative vibes. He’s running this country into ground beef. He needs to practice some fiscal responsibility and realize that he can’t just print out Obama bucks all the live long day, smoking cigarettes, and munching on Michelle’s big fat 8 pound box o’ chocolate. See, he has no private sector business experience. He doesn’t understand. Period. The only experience he has is lightin’ up cigs and reading the Koran.

But we don’t have to worry about all that in my Sim city. No siree Bob. Obama ain’t prezdent round these parts. I’m prezdent round these parts and what I say goes. Like when I say that all the bitches in my city are gonna be topless and have double D titty-mounds. It’s gonna be a nip-nip carnival complete with boner bumper cars. And the sewer system in my new Sim city is gonna empty out right into Selena Gomez’s mouth. She be eatin’ dookie splatter bombs all day erryday.

Also, every second to last weekend of August we are going to have a Parkour exhibition. People are going to be running and jumping off shit. Doing flips. Barrel rolls. I saw ‘em doing it on a Nike commercial and it looked cool as a fucking cucumber. If the city council gives me any guff about it I’m going to be like, “Hey dickspindles, get your head out of your keisters. Haven’t you ever seen a Nike commercial? Haven’t you watched the Bourne Identity? Ever heard of Jackie Chan? Ever drank Mountain Dew? Ever done the Dew, DUDE? Parkour is cool as shit. It’s like Cirque du Soleil except on the cold hard streets of life and instead of leotards, The Beatles, and man on man rape , they are wearing Nikes and cargos and sweatbands and pounding out hot vajizzy after a fat ass jump. Raw athleticism. Like rawer than WWE monday nights. Like rawer than Eddie Murphy comedy specials. Like rawer than my sweet sugar walls after I stay at Uncle Garrett’s for the weekend. I’m gonna be like so super psyched. And just think of the revenue boost to local businesses that we will receive from this exhibition. Tourists’ bucks flowing right into our coffers.”

Rome wasn’t built in a day.  Neither was my new Tony Little Gazelle Freestyle Elite. And my new city, Spicy Mayonnaise Dicktown,  won’t be either.  First I just gotta
get my dad to give me the password to his brand new Apple Macintosh, and it’s on like my socks when I masturbate.

S The Coach

Posted on by

1

I’m not a gay-lesbian or whatever but I would totally let Nick Saban plow my ass. I mean really plow my ass. Plow it like Brother Hesychia during the Fall Harvest Season. Plow it hard and deep to aerate the soil. Bring those fresh nutrients to the surface so i can cultivate his big fat corn cob dick. Then I’m going to shuck the healthy husk until the kernals pop in my mouth hole with that buttery sensation dribblin’ down my chin.
I want the 2-time BCS National Championship winner to pull my carrot stick up from the roots and nibble like a baby hare until it’s drenched in man ranch (manch).

I’m Famous As Shit.

Posted on by

0

This is it. I finally got my big break.

See, I started out my day just like I start out everyday: I woke up at 1:30, threw up in the sink, did a handful of side lunges and arm circles to get my ligaments feeling loose, and got in my car to go get some chicken. I am just driving around enjoying my chicken when I look to the car next to me. And I’ll be god damned if it wasn’t the Google Maps street car with a big pole on the top and like 3 camera’s looking right at me. Click, click, clickity, clack, motherfucker. Me, drumstick in hand. Straight to the Google. I am immortalized. Do you know how many people look at Google per second? I’m giving it 2 weeks until the C.E.O of Church’s Chicken, Father Terry O’Houlahan is giving me a ringy-dingy to make me the new face of fried chicken. Colonel Sanders can eat my pussy. He’s a big old bitch baby compared to yours truly. He’s history. Like Bin Laden and holding open the door for women and mexicans.

To all those motherfuckers who ever doubted me and said I’d never amount to a hill of shit, fuck you. Mom, Dad- fuck you. Coach Sanderson- fuck you. Gramma Esther- fuck you, you’re not even my real gramma you old bitch. Go break a hip and make some potato soup or whatever it is you do all fucking day. And for fuck’s sake STOP COLLECTING BEANIE BABIES! It’s two thousand motherfucking eleven. And most of all, Allison Hester- fuck you, you dirty slut. I loved you since the 7th grade and you never gave a shit about me. I joined the football team specifically because I knew you loved fucking football players. I was hoping that maybe if I sat on the bench for a week, you would let me pound it out under the bleachers and you would realize that we had this real connection and you’d let me cum in your retainer. But no, you literally had sex with everyone on the football team but me, including Coach Sanderson, Assistant Coach Nichols, and Mr. Craigs, the 75 year old janitor. Fuck you Allison Hester. Don’t come crawling to me, begging to give me a slob job in my jacuzzi after my face is plastered on every Church’s cup from here to Roanoke.

First thing I’m gonna do when I get famous is make an album with Jay-Z called “Steve Jobs Ain’t Shit.” This album is gonna be my outlet to talk about real shit that matters to me like child prostitutes, smoking salvia and hanging out with my cousin Brucey. He’s in a wheelchair, but he is still cool like a regular person.  Like, he doesn’t shit on himself and embarass me at parties or nothin’. I’m gonna be saying stuff like “Wake up earthlings! Sitting in a wheelchair don’t make you a bitch!” and then I’ll say something else that rhymes with that. Cuz like, Brucey has been the only one that has been there for me through thick and thin and you better believe that when I’m a big celebrity or whatever, I’m bringing Brucey with me. You know how Kid Rock had a little midget that everybody thought was his retarded white trash son at first, until we realized it was his miniature assistant? Well, Brucey : Me :: Midget Assistant: Kid Rock.

My love for handicapped people will further fan the flames of fame. They’ll probably ask me to host the Special Olympics. It’s like Brangelina and all those kids they adopted with AIDs. They only got MORE famous because people saw that they had heart and weren’t afraid of some sick kids from Africa or whatever.

Second thing I’m gonna do when I get famous is break up with my girlfriend and screw some bubble butt bitch and give her burns on her knees from tit-fucking her doggy-style on my brand new, state of the art, clay tennis courts.

Third thing I’m gonna do is open up a Roth IRA account. So many celebs have the problem of blowing all their money wads on nose whiskey and nights on the town with Ashton Kutcher and genital reconstructive surgery and pet rhinoceroses with gold tipped horns and VIP tickets to Coldplay concerts and out of court settlements to all the parents of the children I punctured and lavish lawnscaping. If you’re not careful you’ll end up spending the later part of your career doing VH1 reality TV just to pay the bills. I’m going to do the smart thing and save some for retirement. Plus what I really like about the Roth accounts is that they are tax free. Cuz I’m all like “fuck taxes.”

Concerning the Annual PTA Luau Luncheon

Posted on by

0

Dear Don,

Sharon and I just wanted to thank you and Vicki for coming over to our annual PTA Luau Luncheon last Sunday. Your support for the education of the children in this community is much appreciated, of course. However, there is an issue I feel I must address. My wife and I certainly consider ourselves “with it.” We’re no squares. We’re hip to the jive. We’re fresh to death. We call 4-1-1. I smoked a little weed in college with my frat bros and Sharon experimented with her sexuality back in her college days. Still, we considered your behavior a bit unsettling. We offer an array of tropical alcoholic beverages at the luncheon with the assumption that they will be consumed in moderation. Many of our guests agree that your excessive drinking was offensive. We also heard from several parents that you were crushing up and snorting lines of ecstasy on our living room coffee table, as well as smoking doobies in the aviary. This is simply unacceptable. The final straw was when I had to generously loan you a pair of slacks because you soiled your own. The second final straw was when you and  your wife had noisy violent intercourse in Anthony’s tree house within earshot of the everyone at the luncheon. Therefore, we regret to inform you that, because of this behavior, you will be placed in probationary status on the PTA board. Please refer to your PTA handbook or contact me if you have any further questions.

Sincerly,

Dr. Vincent Upchuck

P.S. I would appreciate if you would return my borrowed slacks. They are Izod (very expensive). Also, Sharon and I have decided it would be best to tear down and rebuild Anthony’s tree house because of its recent contamination. I expect that you will contribute to the construction costs.

Dear Dr. Upchuck,

Vicki and I had a wonderful time at the PTA Luau Luncheon that you and your wife graciously hosted. You throw one heck of a shindig. Our enjoyment was certainly influenced by the ecstasy we railed off your coffee table, and although the tropical drinks were not as stout as Vicki and I would have preferred, coupled with the sexcstacy, they did the trick. I whole-heartedly apologize if you found our behavior offensive. We didn’t realize that you and the rest of the parents at the luncheon had pussies for asses. Like, instead of buttholes you just have a vagina that you poop out of. As for my pending probationary status, you and the PTA board can eat mine and Vicki’s dick. And on the topic of Anthony’s treehouse, I will not be contributing to construction costs. It seems like the whole endeavor will be a waste of time. Vince, quit lying to yourself, that corn-holing little queen would rather have a sewing machine than a treehouse. You should learn to accept him for who he is.

Sincerely,

Don Ertwhiszt

P.S. I’ll have Clarissa drop those slacks by your office on Thursday.

Dear Don,

I was under the assumption that we would be able to handle this issue like mature adults, but apparently not. Your response to the incident at the Luau and the PTA decision is appalling and unforgivable, but I would defend to the death your right to say it. That’s because I’m an American. My parents were Americans. My Grandparents. My Great-Great-Great Grandfather served with General Washington when he forced the British to surrender at Appomattox Courthouse. The same can’t be said about your first generation Jew-gasing Kraut ass.  And for the record, Anthony is not gay, he is just eccentric because he is artistic. Ms. Horne has selected a few of his watercolor still-lifes to enter into the state art showcase. We are very proud of his creative and sensitive qualities and I assure you, he is not gay. Just because he’s not as sexually active as your huge 4th grade slut daughter, Alisha, who all the parents know got fingered on the jungle gym by 6th graders, does not make him a homosexual.

Sincerely,

Dr. Vincent Upchuck

Dear Dr. Butt-Pussy,

It’s funny that you bring up that rumor about the 6th graders, because I heard from the other parents that Anthony got fingered on the jungle gym too. In the butt. Because he’s gay. I won’t deny that Alisha is very sexually active. It’s a side effect of her being popular and smoking hot and and always getting invited to go to the movies and pool parties with 6th graders. Unlike Anthony. The only action he has seen since he got in the 4th grade is me and Vicki buttering the skids in his tree house. He’s welcome, by the way. And I’ve seen his still-lifes, they look like bear shit.

Sincerely,

Don Ertwhiszt