Monthly Archives: October 2011

Hot Lunch

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It’s Thursday. We all know what that means. HOT LUNCH IN THE CAF!! Best day of the week if you ask me. See, I’m a bit of a foodie and when it comes lunchtime, I don’t care much for gay-ass Lunchables or daddy’s girl PB and J’s. I need something fresh. Something warm. Something I haven’t had in awhile. I need hot lunch. I need Quimbie’s.

I’ve got an ungodly hankerin’ for a basket of some of those famous Quimbie’s Q-Balls©. Q-Balls© are the ultimate nummies. Fist-sized balls of mayonnaise, deep fried, then drizzled in silky smooth Hidden Valley Ranch Dressing and deep fried again.  Top it all off with a little more ranch and a handful of glitter so they look as magical as they taste. I can hear them now, calling my name like a tantalizing Siren on the shores of of a rocky coast, luring me in like so many doomed travelers about to be turned into horny toads. God, all I want is some of those warm Q-Balls© in my mouth pussy motherfucking stat. I want to gurgle and gargle and gaggle on those Q-Balls© until that glittery amalgamation of mayo and ranch sprays out my nose holes.

And I would literally cut my own dick off for a taste of one of Quimbies yum yum Quimbadillas©. It’s the south-of-the-border sensation that will leave your taste buds growing mustaches and smuggling heroin in their buttholes. These dilla’s don’t fuck around. They are like an honest housewife who spends her afternoons vacuuming and sippin’ lemonade by the pool while David, the pool boy cleans the filters. Sure, she’s thought about taking him into the pool room, peeling off his Tommy Bahama bathing trunks and squeezing out a fresh batch of chlorine clam chowder onto his 8 and a half inch pool sifter, but she knows that if she gets caught she can wave goodbye to all her pilates and horseback riding money. Janice is too smart for that. She can just as easily fantasize about David’s pipe cleaner pounding it out in the summer heat while she fiddles her lima bean and squats over the gear shift of her BMW M3 in the carpool line waiting for the boys to get out of school.

Oooo Wee! And what about one of those succulent Quimbie’s Quapple Turnover Quassant©. So succulent. Ambrosial. Swear on my momma’s life, I would rather have a Quapple Turnover Quassants© than get an hour long blow-jeezy from a mermaid. Even if she lets me Jackson Pollock all over her sea shell titties. They’re. that. good. My urethra is literally salivating just thinking about it. With that outer sarcophagus of buttery flaky crust injected with hot applicious magma, it’s everything I love about America in one bite and none of the things I don’t love. No more income tax. No more bonuses for CEO’s after they just received bail-outs from tax payer’s money. No more Chik-Fil-A being closed on Sundays. No more having to shove my one-hitter into my rectum every time I run a stop sign. No more getting accused of sexual harrassment for popping some shorty the corndog surprise (up to the second knuckle) at work. No more Dubstep. Imagine America without all those things. Now imagine that America inside your mouth. That’s the Quimbie’s Quapple Turnover Quassant© for ya.

Whatever today may hold, whether Q-Balls© or Quimbadillas© or Quapple Turnover Quassant©, I got my 5 dollar bill. I got my tray. I’m ready. Line up single-file, bring on the Quimbie’s and stay the fuck out of my way. It’s Thursday. It’s time for Hot Lunch.

Spice Up Your Life

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There comes a time in every man’s life when he must look deep within himself and ask that one question that burns in the consciousness like a lone firefly on a moonless night: which Spice Girl am I?

One must commit themselves to sometimes painful soul searching in order to define their essence in a single word. The road to Spice World is a grueling existential quest filled with trials and trepidation. Rumor has it, the Spice Girls had the same Guru-Shaman that Jim Morrison had and they spent 2 weeks in a sweat lodge eating mushrooms, smoking peyote, and having lesbian box-slurping contests before the spirit of Gaea revealed their Spice names to them. And I believe it too. Or at least I hope because it facilitates mad beat-off sessions during my lunch break in my 4-door Hyundai Elantra.

I’ll be honest, I’m not athletic enough to be Sporty Spice. I mean, sure I can run the 100 meter in 15 flat and I’ve got some killer calf muscles. Honest. You should feel my calves. They’re firm. They’re smooth. Well-toned. Tan. Everybody is always telling me how great my calves are. Seriously, if I went to India all those Hindu folks would consider these calves sacred, symbolic of abundance, of the sanctity of all life. They’d worship these calves like the Almighty God-hating pagans that they are.  But I just don’t know if I could cut it as Sporty Spice. Plus I’ve got wicked Tennis Elbow.

And I don’t want to sound racist or whatever but I’m not black enough to be Scary Spice. Dogs don’t bark when they see me. People don’t lock their car doors when I walk by. Clerks don’t follow me around their stores waiting for me to shoplift. Cops don’t assume I’m carrying a gun. I don’t sag my pants. I didn’t drop out of high school to join a gang. I’m not on welfare. I’ve only smoked crack twice and I doubt that I’ll make a habit of it. And I don’t talk in ebonics (unless I’m at a Sound Tribe Sector 9 concert with my white friends). I’m not being racist, I’m just saying I couldn’t pull it off.

During my internal quest I’ve realized, I cannot define myself in the terms of someone else’s Spice essence. I am an individual. My soul is like a beautiful one-of-a-kind, unique, distinct drop of crystalline energy amidst the vast torrent that is Spice World. I must be my own Spice Girl. But what? Who am I? What is my essence? Here are a few ideas that Gaea has facilitated during my meditations:

Yeasty Spice: It’s no secret that I got more yeast brewin’ between my legs than a pack of Sister Schubert’s. Yeah, there’s some inflammation and discomfort, get over it. My mom says it’s because I wear my wet swim suit around all the time. But I’m like “GOD SHUTUP MOM! You’re not a doctor. You’re not even a nurse. Just because you work at CVS Pharmacy doesn’t make you a medical expert! I like wearing my swim suit OKAY? Mind you’re own fucking business. I’m not your slave or whatever.” Fucking bitch. But yeah, I got more loaves in my undercarriage than a Wonderbread factory.

Sleepy Spice: Y’all, cuz I like nappin’! Simple as that. Second to the ole get in, get wet, and get out, there’s nothing better than curlin’ up in my Dennis Eckersly comforter and catchin’ some serious Z’s. Anytime I get the opportunity, I’ma get some shut-eye. I sleep on planes. I sleep in trains. I sleep in automobiles in the drive-thru while waiting on my chicken fries from Burger King. The saying goes: sleeping with your cousin is death, but if it involves gettin’ 40 or more winks, then hell, I’ll sleep with whoever has the best pillows, relation or not.

Corduroy Spice: Corduroy pants are sort of my thing. They’re the Thinking Man’s pants like blue jeans shorts are for Florida Gator fans. And there’s nothing I like doing more than curling up and reading some Satre in my wool sweater (with leather elbow pads), my birkenstocks with socks (birk’n'socks), and a cozy pair of corduroys- right before I take a nap. My friends hear that rhythmic swoosh-swoosh-swoosh of the cords rubbing betwixt my thunder thighs and know I’m coming from a mile-and-a-half away. It’s like whenever I wear my corduroys I feel like I’m invincible. Even when people tell me something is kimpossible, if I’m wearing my cords, I’m ronstoppable.

Foreskin Spice: My fleshy turtle neck is an integral part of who I am. As you may know, I am a regular contender in the county fair’s Mr. Foreskin contest. You should see the look on the judges faces when they get a load of my oiled-up, snuffleupagus dong resting peacefully on a silver platter, garnished by a leaf of parsley. It’s a seriously borderline life altering experience. I knew that I was gifted when old Aunt Francine used to change my diapers. Her eyes would get real wide as she took a drag of her cigarette and said “Foreskin? more like fiveskin!” I remember the day she died like it was yesterday. It was actually last Tuesday. She’s gone now, but she’ll always have a spot in my little cock slug.

Dairy Queen Spice: If you’ve ever had a Hot Fudge Sundae (and I don’t mean the one you get from the cute Afro-American guy at the end of the bar, Susie! LOL! You’re such a slut!) then this one pretty much explains itself. I like Dairy Queen sundaes so much that whenever I go to the pussy doctor for a pap-pap,  I specially request the Hot Fudge Smudge. I put my feet in the stirrups and he just mashes it all in there. Mmmmm! Mmmm! And my Harold sure doesn’t complain one bit. Every time I come home after getting “the Smudge” all he really really really wants is to zigga zig ah.

The Blog of Anne Frank

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.:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:.WuZzUp BlOg!.:*~*:._.:*~*:._.:*~*:.

It’s ya gurl Annie. Y’all kno me. So much 2 talk about! Thingz have been sooooooo cray cray lately. My bangs are getting so long and I’m thinking about dying them a new color. Maybe darker brown, or even like, put some blonde streaks in there.

So I’m still up in the attic cuz of the nazis or whatevz. What else iz new, right? SOOOOOO BORED. Like, they won’t let me do anything. I can’t get on facebook! I can’t skype with Bri (Bri, if ur reading this HeY GuRl MiSs YoU)! I can’t even text! Like, hello?! So FUCKING unfair. God, I seriously. hate. nazis. Not even kidding you guyz. I mean, they are COMPLETELY overreacting about EVERY LITTLE THING. It’s like, I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING! Total haterz. What they got against me and mines? They think they know fucking everything. But they don’t. I don’t even think they’d know where to find my gizzle spot if I let em take a crack at it. HEheHehe, I know, I’m so bad. ;) They’re probz just jello cuz I got the new Ipad 2 and their dad can’t afford it because he works at Cracker Barrel and is poor as fuck.

UGGGHHH this is so unfair! I’m not even going 2 be able 2 go 2 the Death Cab concert this weekend cuz Hitler is being a TOTAL ASSHOLE. If Gunter ends up making out with Olga at Death Cab I’m gonna be like so so mad at Hitler for RUINING EVERYTHING! Seriously, I will like never talk to Hitler ever again for the rest of my whole entire life. For Realz. It’s like, get over it dude. You’re not even my real dad. And you’re mustache is CHEEZY! His hair is kinda cool like Pete Wentz tho.

eVeRyBody make sure you add me on myspace! Luv Ya!

Anne Frank

Hump Day

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It’s Hump Day. It’s Bumpity-Bump Day. It’s Watch the Sun Glisten Off Your Cream Covered Lumps Day. Today is the day of all days to get your dick wet by any means necessary. Preferably by getting 2.5 inches deep in a butthole or a vagenis but if it comes down to it, you might just have to dip it in a glass of ice cold lemonade. Wet. By any means necessary. Spit doesn’t count though. Cuz like, c’mon bro. What is this 7th grade? What is this Church Camp? What is this stealing Sarah G.’s panties from the girl’s cabin and taking them back to your bunk in Cabin 3 to sniff and get your stroke spit stroke on? No. It’s not. Wake up. It’s motherfucking Hump Day.

Today’s the day you take pride in you’re chub chub-a-lub. Don’t be embarrassed if you get rock solid in class or at work or in the boy’s locker room. Stand tall, clench your buttcheeks, projecting your blood filled penis like a beacon of hope to the world. Let your dick scream from the mountain tops “Today is the day! Now who wants to take a ride on the Humpty Train until our genitalia falls off or dies trying?!?”  If anyone takes you up on the offer, remember to IMMEDIATELY put your dismembered genitalia in a Ziploc bag filled with ice or a glass of milk (wet by any means necessary) and seek medical attention promptly. Doctors can do some amazing stuff these days. I once saw a man who had metal legs. METAL LEGS! Like where his legs used to be, they cut them off and then rebuilt them into metal. Like the Terminator and shit. Shit was doooope. Worst case scenario, you’ll end up with a Frankenstein dick. Best case scenario, while they are reattaching they can add an extra couple of inches in length and maybe a few centimeters in girth, if you’re lucky. Girth is such an understated attribute. You know, there was this whole anti-chode backlash in the 1990′s, where having a chode became this negative thing. But honestly I would rather have a good stout girthy chode than some long floppy noodle. Honestly. I’m not just saying that. Really, it’s all about control. Chodes have low centers of gravity, a really solid base, so you can get in there for those power thrusts like PEEEEOOOOOW! It’s hard to get that kind of leverage when you are working with some garden hose. It’s just unweildy. Plus with a long schlong garden hose, when you shoot a wad it has to travel all the way through and loses it’s momentum. It comes trickling out like sand. However a chode is like a little high-power cannon. Like a golden PP-7. It’s got enough pressure to strip the paint off a brick. We’re talking real propulsion here. I mean for realz, this is just me being totally straight with you. I would totally rather have a chode than a schlong any day of the week- but especially today, especially on Hump Day.

And it’s not all about dicks, ladies can celebrate hump day too. Let’s not forget those ladies, y’all. However instead of getting your dick wet by any means necessary, try getting your pussy wet by any means necessary instead. See how that works? It’s easier than you think. Have some awesome lesbian scissor action with your sorority sisters (Phi Mu!). Do the strap-on thing with the waitress at TGIFriday’s while your potato wedges cool down. Bounce on some guys stout stumpy chode until it strips the paint off them sugar walls. Heck- grind that bean on your sybian machine while watching a rerun of Gulluh Gulluh Island on Nick Jr., if you have to. If that big ol’ pollywog, Benya Benya, gets your juicebox squirting, more power to ya. It’s Hump Day. The world is your oyster. Now get out there and get wet, ladies and gents. Tell em Harold sent ya.

This Halloween I Will Not Be Participating

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This Halloween I will not be participating. Cuz, like, I’m a grown-ass man and I don’t have time for all that baby stuff. I mean, I’m twenty-fucking-four years old. I can’t go around wearing some stupid clothes, spooking people, and eating a bunch of candies all night. That stuff’s for babies. Plus, I’ve got to be up early in the morning to get the oil changed in my ’92 Honda Accord DX before work. That’s grown-up stuff. Helllllllo! I work at Best Buy! How many little babies do you know that work at Best Buy? None. That’s how many. There are laws against that kind of shit. I know I’ve never called up the Geek Squad and been greeted by a nipple sucking toddler. Babies can’t understand the responsibility it takes to be the associate sales associate in the home theatre department. Do you know what that means? I’m third in charge of all home theatre equipment. All the Magnavox televisions? That’s my world. All that bass bumpin’ surround sound? Me. Every laserdisc player we got on the floor? You bet your ass I got that shit covered. Home theatres, candy-tits. That’s my domain. Do you have any idea what kind of pressure I’m under? More than Freddie Mercury featuring David Bowie that’s for sure (Get it? Like cuz of that song?). That’s why I’ve got much more important things to do than carving big fat pumpkins and getting their gross guts all over my hands. Like paying bills for instance. Or ironing my pants. Or whitening my teeth. Grown man shit.

This Halloween I will not be participating because I respect women. The materialistic patriarchy tells young women that they have to dress like pussy-eating slut nuggets. They dress like slutty cops, slutty cats, slutty referees, slutty nurses, slutty zombies, slutty Steve Irwins, and slutty Frankenstein’s (which doesn’t even make sense because if you’d read a book for once in your god damn life, you’d know that Frankenstein was the Doctor, these sluts are thinking of The Creature.) And I have had it up to HERE with all this objectification. These girls are somebody’s daughters. They are somebody’s sisters. They are somebody’s boss at Best Buy. Women are more than just a big fat pair of ovaries for you to drench with your tallywhacker juice. They are sacred and mysterious beings. Like, more sacred and mysterious than a Dan Brown novel. Have you read The Vinci Code? I mean seriously, Robert Langdon (Tom Hanks) is always getting himself into these sacred and mysterious pickles. Like how bout the time he found out that Jesus was a woman? Or how bout the time he figured out that Masons built that building? Mas. Ter. Of. Suh. Spense. Dan Brown, if you’re reading this I just wanna say I love your work. I love how you take historical themes and codes and symbols and stuff and make really bitchin’ stories with em. That’s so cool how you do that.

I’m not participating in Halloween this year because I don’t believe we should teach our kids that it’s okay to stuff their fat little cute ass faces with choco and taffy and lollies. Do some research. Each year over 13,000 young people are diagnosed with type-1 diabetes. That’s 13,000 Wilford Brimley’s we are creating each year by having these kids pig out on Wax Lips, Bazooka Gum and Necco Wafers. That’s 13,000 people walking around like a pirate with a peg leg, all cuz you wanted to have some “harmless” fun and play dress up like some adolescent mama’s boy. Well, I won’t have that blood on my hands. No siree Bob. And don’t even get me started on the negative effects on their lil’ pearly whirlies. My soon-to-be father-in-law is a oral hygienist and you would be appalled by the shit those two eyes have seen. APPALLED. Kids these days don’t even floss. They don’t understand that flossing is just as important as brushing. Yeah, sure it makes your gums bleed like a miscarriage but it’s like they say- no pain, no gain. That’s the problem with this generation. Nobody is willing to get their hands dirty. Nobody is willing to shed a little blood for the good of society, which brings me to my next reason…

I won’t be participating because I am a C. I am a C-H. I am a C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N. And I have C-H-R-I-S-T in my H-E-A-R-T and I will L-I-V-E E-T-E-R-N-A-L-L-Y. Jesus Christ The Lord Amen died  on the cross for our sins. Except guess what? Spoiler alert! He came back to life three days later and he is supposed to be coming back again any day now. So the last thing we need to be doing is going out participating in some Satanic holiday with witches and ghoulies and goblins and Ouji board seances. Shit ain’t right, y’all. Shit just ain’t right. You mess with the Devil and you are playing with fire. Literally. Because he lives in a lake of fire which is made out of fire, unlike normal lakes which are normally made out of water. Haven’t you seen Paranormal Activity 2? So Scary! It grossed $169,448,048 worldwide opening weekend, so you know it’s good. It’s about the devil, right? And he is totally possessing some little girl and her head spins all around in circles like an an owl and she pukes blood all over priests because priests MAKE HER SICK because the devil is so crazy. Red Box that shit if you haven’t seen it. Cray-cray.

These are the reasons I will not be participating in the Halloween this year. Swear to God. It’s not because, as a registered Level III sex offender, I am legally prohibited from loitering within 300 ft. of Child Safety Zones such as playgrounds, schools, childcare centers, bus stops, D-Z Discovery Zones, anywhere with laser tag, or any location where children congregate. It’s got nothing to do with a municipal edict requiring that I post signs telling trick-or-treaters “No candy at this residence (cuz I raped somebody tiny).” And it certainly has got nothing to do with the GPS around my ankle and the mandate from the U.S. District Judge requiring that I stay inside my home. I mean, sure, those could put a damper on my Halloween IF I WANTED TO PARTICIPATE. But I don’t. Cuz it’s a dumb holiday for pussy babies. It’s like, so whatever.

How’s Your Undercarriage?

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Chorus:

How’s your undercarriage (huh? huh?)

How’s your- How’s your undercarriage? (huh? huh?)

Bubble-butt shorty, before I’m interested in marriage.

You’re gonna have to tell me

How’s your- How’s your undercarriage? (huh?) (huh?)

Verse 1:

Stick in my stick of dynamite like I’m trying to explode her.

She’ll be cumming 10 to the hour like her name was Kurt Loder.

I told her, big ole dick like Fox Mulder

take a ride on my spaceship while Jeff Goldblum controls her.

I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-C-E

do you know what that means?

It’s the 4th of July, eating pork and beans

Grillin’ steaks, drinkin’ shakes, hittin’ skanks from all angles

Cumming in your hair til it can’t be untangled

Mangled, get lost in your Bermuda triangle

Play voodoo withcha doo-doo like I was Papa Shango.

Chrous:

How’s your undercarriage? (huh? huh?)

How’s your- how’s your undercarriage? (huh? huh?)

Big titted mama, I ain’t interested marriage.

I just need to know

How’s your- how’s your undercarriage? (huh? huh?)

Verse 2:

Blacks, whites, eskimos, and asians

All around the world, it don’t matter what the race is

Creep into the middle school, leavin’ no traces

Then send em back to study hall picking pubes out of their braces

They can’t resist a steak dinner at Ruth’s Chris

Then I slip a little roofie into their Sierra Mist

She gettin’ sleepy –  I slide  my pee pee

In to take a core sample of her pink abyss

JESUS! My PENIS! Needs a tight hole to squeeze it

Please it, tease it, Can I tell you a secret?

Had a sex change when I was thirteen

had my bean swapped up for this whopper cock you see

Now your starin’ at it and I can tell you’re disparaged

But enough about me, how’s YOUR undercarriage?