Category Archives: Historical

When I’m On My Period

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downloadWhen I’m on my period I get cramps so bad that it feels like a clown is twisting my guts up like a balloon animal.

When I’m on my period it feels like there is so much pressure on my uterus, like more pressure than that band fun. is under to make a follow up album to their magnum opus Some Nights.

When I’m on my period I’m just like “Gary, get out of my room. You’re not even my real dad and I can see you hair plugs”

When I’m on my period I just want to give my bufu boss a piece of my mind. Cuz like, I work my fucking fingers to the bone at the Old Navy and I get like zero cred. I work so hard, I swear. Like on Wednesday I must have folded 50 pairs of Sweater Pants™ and then he had the audacity to yell at me while I was trying to take a nap in the stock room. Like, are you serious? I work so fucking hard. I don’t need to take this from your cheesy ass. The Old Navy would prob be out of business if it wasn’t for me. #giveasistasomecred #wudja?

When I’m on my period I’m seriously like so fatigued that even when I give myself 5-hour energy enemas up my boo-hiney hole, I only fun-band-style1stay awake for like 2 and a half hours. UGH!

When I’m on my period all I want to listen to is that song We Are Young by that band fun. on repeat and eat Yoplait and the freshest strawberries that Whole Foods has to offer. Cuz like I saw this documentary about food processing on Netflix and now I’m like an activist or whatever and a die-hard Yogurtarian.

When I’m on my period I hate my boyfriend so much that I just want to inhale his microscopic plankton dilly like that whale shark on Planet Earf.

When I’m on my period I get such splitting headaches that it feels like a bunch of chinamen are inside my skull banging on gongs and I’m like “okay, seriously? like, if you want to bang on fucking gongs then go back to you own overpopulated, filthy country, Chun Lin. Don’t think we forgot about Pearl Harbor. Or Vietnam. Or Korea. Or the Huns. Or the Mongols. For realz don’t test me cuz I’m totz on my period and everything and I’m like not in the mood for nonsense. And the way I see it, unless you’re Jackie Chan you have no fucking business here. I’m talking specifically to you Lucy Liu. Your new show Elementary on CBS looks like a fat stack of shit covered dick. And if I have to listen to Gangnam Style I’m going to go Enola Gay all over the place.”

When I’m on my period I just want to like, go out for lattes with Kristen Stew Stew, then fingerbang her in the Starbucks bathroom, then strangle her to death with my bare hands, then chop her up into little pieces and then eat her thereby consuming her essence, thus inevitably causing Robby Pattinson to fall in love with me. Cuz that’s how much I love K Stew. Cuz like did you see Breaking Dawn? Cuz like, SOOO much better than Lincoln.

When I’m on my period I’m like “Ugh, I don’t feel like going to Pure Barre today. I’m just going to throw up all the yogurt and strawberries I ate instead.”

images (2)When I’m on my period it’s like, GUSH! Seriously. Like I’m surprised I don’t pass out from all the blood loss. It’s like The Shining but instead of the hallway filling up with vamp juice, it’s my Hello Kitty panties that I stole from The Old Navy. I even tried putting in multiple tampys, but I just ended up getting one stuck so deep in my boombox that my gyner-cologist  had to dig in there with forceps and yank that sucker out. I KNOW! Totez TMI, but whatevs because I’m all like “It’s my body and if I wanna clog it with excess tampys and then shout about it from the rooftops then I’m gonna do just that because last time I checked, I was a privileged white girl in AMERICA, not some starving African with fly-head and crazy belly having their heads chopped off by KONY 2012.”

When I’m on my period I just have like the zaniest cravings. Like I won’t be satisfied until I get ‘zactly what I need. Like last month, I just had to have an audio recording of Michael Buffer saying “Let’s Get Ready To Rumble” on loop while I shotgunned Dr. Pepper 10′s in my garage. I’m all like, seriously DP? Not for women? Why don’t you just munch on this hemoglobin-filled muff-hole until it looks like you put on fiery red  lipstick and then go ahead and kiss my privileged white female ass, you fucking snaggletoothed vibrating dildie. I’m a gawldern independent woman and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let all the hard work that B’ Day, Sasha Fierce and the rest of the Destiny’s Children put in to this movement go to waste just cuz some sexist fucks at the Dr. Pepper corporation decided that they wanted to be cleft-lipped faggots and make a misogynist advertising campaign!

When I’m on my period I can get pretty worked up about soft drinks or whatever.

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It’s Arbor Day, Motherfuckers

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It’s Arbor Day, motherfuckers. National tree day. So sit back and marvel at those big wooden beauties waving in the wind. Commune with nature and show all them tree fuckers how much they mean to us. Appreciate that shit. Smell some leaves inside your nose. Taste the bark with your tongue buds. Now put an acorn in your bellybutton.

Spruce trees, oooo yah. Magnolia trees, damn giiiirl. Oak trees, get on wicha bad self. Douglas fur trees, hoodie-hoooo. Simon Birch tree, ay papi. Sycamore, more please. Pine trees, no. STOP. No. Let me clear something up for you slack-jawed jackwagons: If you think a pine tree is like a real tree then you’re an ignorant godless cunt covered in liquid shit. If you think a pine tree is a real tree then instead of celebrating Arbor Day you should be fucking yourself with a 2-liter of Pepsicola.

A pine tree is NOT a real tree. That’s basic forestry principle. Every amateur woodsmen knows this shit, guy. Sure, it’s got roots like a tree and it’s got bark like a tree and it’s tall and skinny like a tree but does it have leaves like a tree? I don’t think so, bub. Pine trees have pointy little nettles. And last time I checked there are only 4 things in this world with nettles: pine trees, cactuses, hedgehogs, and that one Backstreet Boy with all the gel in his hair. None of those are trees. They’re hideous pieces of gutter dump that don’t deserve the shaft of their cockadoo-oos. Fuck pine trees. Fuck them until they’re asshole gapes and then fuck them some more.

And if the nettles themselves weren’t bad enough, them there nettles are acidic. And not the good kind of acid that you take before you go to the iMAX to learn about coral reefs. I’m talking about the bad kind of acid. The kind that is fucking poison that kills all other plants in the immediate vicinity. They murder their tree brothers and sisters with their pointy little acid nettle dicks. Kin-slayers. What kind of no-good low life pulls a move like that? I mean, doggonit. Seriously. Dogg-the fuck-onit. What happened to the good old days when a tree could be a tree? I blame it on those darn violent video games. And the Busta Rhymeses. And Jason Mraz feat. Colby Callait. And the porn. Don’t even get me started with the porn. Sure, when I was growing up we had porn but it was classy porn: always missionary position and they always kept their shoes on, kept your socks on, and always squirted on her belly. Class. That’s all I’m askin’ fer.  Now we got all these women rollerblading with strap-on dilders attached to thier elbows and knees. And dudes making cream pies in foreign exchange students. Those students are GUESTS in our country for Pete’s sake. You are supposed to be representing your fellow countrymen and setting an example for the rest of the world. That ain’t Arbor Day, bub. That’s a whole other thing entirely. That’s crap. Pure, unadulterated crap. 

Throwing My Hat in the Ring….

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What we need in a Republican candidate in the 2012 election is a true social and fiscal conservative. Someone with salt and pepper hair and expressive hand motions. Someone who can really fill out a suit with a red tie. Someone with a wife that they never have sex with and a square jaw line. Someone that understands the needs of Americans and is egocentric enough to assume responsibility of providing those needs. Someone that has been finely groomed by their well-established father since childhood, that has been strictly denied a social life or any meaningful relationships in order to cultivate the shallow and calculated bonds required for a political career. Someone who is so sexually repressed that orgasms can only be achieved if their partner is wearing a mask of said authoritarian father.

Well by golly, if the right candidate won’t step up to the plate, I, Pudding Arthur Dickenson will be proud to accept the Republican nomination for President of the United States of These Here Americas.

I’m a true conservative. Not like those other vagina balls. I’m so conservative it’s scary. I basically don’t want the government to do anything except keep gays away from the altar and the military and keep Muslims out of airports. That’s it. Bada-Bing, Bada-Boom.

I believe in a right to privacy. If I want to perform an abortion on my 15 year old whore daughter in the privacy of my own home, then god damn it that’s what I’m gonna do. Because the Constitution granted me that privilege. Heck, if I want to save all of her little whore bastard babies in a jar I can do that to0. And maybe once I get enough, I’ll make like one of those beaded doorway decoration things except instead of beads it’ll have all her little aborted whore feti. And I’ll hang it in the doorway to her room so that everyone will be reminded of where the whore lives and how disappointed we all are in her. And that is my God given right of interior design. Nobody can strip that from us. Not Obama. Not Nancy Pelosi. Not the devil himself (Sean Penn). Because the fact is simple, my daughter is a huge whore and our founding fathers wanted us to have beaded baby doorway decorations. And I’ll be covered in shit and rolled in goose feathers if I’m gonna sit here and let you piss all over my forefathers.

I’m not going to beat around the bush. Not like some of these bologna heads. I like money and I like jobs and I don’t like mexicans taking those jobs and I don’t like other minority groups, who need not be named, sitting around all day smoking crack-cocaine cigarettes and using welfare money to buy new hubcaps for their hoopties. They’re over there getting a check from the government every month and blowing it on cases of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Well guess what fuckers, if I’m gonna pay for someone to sit around and drink a Mike’s Hard Lemonade, it’s gonna be me doing the drinking! Not some dickhead that can’t figure out how to work a belt.

And most of all, I hate cole slaw. I won’t eat it and I think that anyone who does eat it is a disgusting pile of cat dicks. Cabbage and mayonnaise? Really? You’re going to eat that? Shit’s fascist as fuck and I ain’t gonna play around with that. Uh-uh no sir. No way, no how. I’d rather swallow a handful of hair at a Puddle of Mudd concert. I’d rather eat a boogerwurst sandwich with a side of kettle cooked toenails. I don’t mess around with slaw and I’m not going to say it again. And it’s not just the taste. It’s so much more than that. It’s the texture. It’s the visual presentation. It’s everything slaw stands for. I oppose its entire belief system. And why the fuck is it called cole slaw and how does that even sound remotely appetizing? I’d rather eat something called a gorilla titty and jizz screamsicle than something called “cole slaw.” I mean…fuck.

Also, I’m pro guns. Guns belong in the house, right next to the Nestle Quik on the bottom shelf, so if need be anyone can reach for it in case of an attack from a black or a zipperhead. America was founded on guns. If it weren’t for guns, hippies like Kurt Cobain and Bigger Smalls would have run this country into the god damned sewer.

I said it before and I’ll say it again. I’m pro-money. I just love the stuff. If money was a woman, I would ask her to come over to my house to watch Notting Hill. We would stay up all night drinking milk and talking about how things had changed since college. We’d start seeing more of each other, date for a few months, then I’d pop the question while we were parasailing down in San Destin. I’d do it right, wait until we got married and then fuck her into a coma. Of course I’d visit her everyday in the hospital after she was comatose. Then, after a couple months I’ll tell the doctors to pull the plug because I know she wouldn’t have wanted to live like this. That’s how much I love money.

If you vote me for president of America I’m gonna get this fucking country back on track. We’re gonna have fucking big ol trucks driving down the street with loudspeakers on their roofs, blasting Toby Keith. Fucking Toby Keith. You Ain’t Much Fun Since I Quit Drinkin’. How Do You Like Me Now? Getcha Some. Whiskey For My Men and Beer for My Motherfucking Horses. Everyday. Everybody will hear that Toby Keith truck coming from a mile away and they’ll go out on their porches and dance and wave flags and cook hotdogs. I’ll put a god damn slip-n-slide on the White House lawn and we’ll do a laser light show that you’ll be able to see in Timbuktu. Sarah Palin is going to be there in a bikini getting hammered, doing karaoke, and pouring pitchers of Guinness on her tits. I’m so super stoked cuz it’s gonna be the raddest.

And if you don’t wanna vote for me or come to my White House slip-n-slide partay, well then you can go fuck yourself. You bow-legged piece of shit. You bow-legged piece of shit with a skinny little dick. You bow-legged drippy-dicked codfish. You can stretch that skinny little pathetic excuse for a peckercock all the way around until it slides into your ripe little tushie cushion. You can just stay home and watch anime porn for all I care. Go ahead. Just sit around and watch Sailor Moon get sexed up by the tentacles of a space squid. I don’t even want guys like you to vote for me. Just being associated with the likes of you would make me look like a straight up biggidy-bitch.

Thank you and God bless America. And when I say “God” I am specifically referring to the white Christian god. The Jesus one with the ghost and the son and whatever.

See you at the polls!

The Story of Paul Bunyan

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This story is long ago in the wilderness of the American frontier, before that railroad came a’chuggin along into town. Choo- choo! It was a time of new beginnings, self-made men, fiddle playin’, pine trees bigger than you could wrap your arms around, if’n you so desired, and rampant genocide. Yessir, back then you could kidnap an Indian squaw and butt rape her bloody in the middle of town square ’til sun up  and nobody would bat an eyelash. Nope, see back then they didn’t even have eyelashes. Their eyelids were smooth as a catfish’s clitoris. Sure, they’d get dust in their eyeballs all the time but they didn’t know any better. Those were just the times. They were hard times, but they were good times. Scratching and surviving.

One day this man and his big fat pregnant bitch of a wife rode into town. They were looking for a place to lay their heads but the Goathoof Inn was fuller than an Indian squaw’s butthole, so they couldn’t find any rightful beds anyplace. They decided to sleep in old Mr. Honeydew’s barn with the sheeps and the mule and the hay. And wouldn’t you know it, as soon as they settled down, that big fat pregnant lady’s water breaks all over the place and her stinkpot starts dilating as wide as Mount Vesuvius, only with more steam coming off the top. She starts huffing and puffing trying to squirt this little bambino out her cooch. ‘Cept it turns out that this little baby was really a big freaky baby. As big a baby as anyone had ever seen. That baby split her in half like a watermelon and she died something frightful right there in Honeydew’s barn. Next thing the townsfolk knew, that man that rode in with her started going on about how he wasn’t really the baby daddy and that the baby was immaculately conceived by God, The Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, who’d come down and lay with his lady friend. And by “lay” he meant hopping the first donkey-carriage to Pound Her Vagina In Village and not stopping once ‘fore he got there. He said that there were lightening bolts shooting out of the Lord’s peanuthole and angels on high were playing trumpets and harps and bagpipes and what not. Long story short, that fellow giddy’ed up and got right on out of town lickity-split and left those townsfolk to take care of that big freaky baby.

And they named him Paul. Paul Bunyan.

The folks raised him the only way they knew how. They smacked him on the ass, dressed him in flannel and overalls, gave him an axe and glued their pubic hair onto his face, giving him a chin strap mustache that would make Chris Daughtry jealous. And I know that may sounds strange to you now because, as you know, in this day and age, we can’t grow pubic hair anymore after the Incident at Sunblood Cove’s Shampoo+Conditioner Plant in the spring of ’17 . But back then they could. They had loads of it. Pubie hairs comin’ out their ears and eyeballs. Like I said, it was a different time back then, a simpler time.

And let me tell you what, that baby had an appetite is big as the day is long. They tried feeding him porkchops but he ate all the pigs.  They tried feeding him peanut brittle but he cleaned out the peanut trees. They tried feeding him buffaloes and damn near extincted ‘em doing it. They wound up getting some of those Chinese immigrants (they were dime-a-dozen back in wild west times before inflation) and had them whippin’ up a mess of flapjacks around the clock.  Once that big baby became a big man, them Chinamans would stack them flapjacks up about 15 feet high, drown them in maple syrup, and big ol’ Paul would stomp on in, shaking the earth under his feet, and he would gobble them up like the T-Rex did to that goat on Jurassic Park.

But he grew up tall and he grew up right. He could swing that ax like a mother fucker. He’d chop down a whole forest before Average Joe was done splitting fire wood. He’d get up early and be out past moon-up just whackin’ and whackin’.  He whacked so much his hands got all calloused and his pube beard got bushier than Eugene Levy’s eyebrows. Levy’s brows have the the standard measurement for bushiness since the old days.

But things weren’t all biscuits and gravy. Sometimes he got down right depressed on account of being so tall and all. He couldn’t fit in the movie theater to watch the new Nora Ephron vehicle. He was to big to play hide and go seek. And he was bound to never know the touch of a woman because his giant weewee was bound to split her open sticky side first, like a melon. Just like how he killed his Ma. And with those calloused hands of his, ‘batin was a sandpapery misadventure that resulted more in blood than tadpoles.

So he ventured off on his lonesome. Just whackin’ his life away. Until one day he ate a 10 sheets of acid that he bought of this dude with a hemp necklace with a fucking crystal hanging off it and flat billed ballcap. Total Disco Biscuits fan. Anyways, that acid hit him like George Clinton hits the crack pipe and our boy Pauly B. started wiggin’ out thoroughly. Wellington Wigout style. He wigged out so hard that he thought he made friends with a giant blue ox named Babe. He hallucinated that they traveled the countryside, going to bluegrass festivals, selling grilled cheese sandwiches, and talking about sustainable living.

But the acid started taking a turn for the worst. One thing led to another and he hacked Babe into little blue pieces with his ax. Murdered in cold blood. He panicked. So he put the butchered body parts in a bunch of oil barrels and hid them in the swamp and got the fuck out of there.

Then his  trip turned inward. Who was he? What was he doing? Was he really just going to go through life chopping down forests? Life was different now that Babe was dead. He was alone. He knew it was time. He knew he needed to make a complete change in his lifestyle.

So he shaved off his beard and went to community college to become a Certified Public Accountant. Then he got a job in the city at a big shot accounting firm and lived out the rest of his days like a cog in the machine.

Only he knew about his dark past. Only he knew about what he did to Babe. Only he knew where those oil barrels were hidden.

OR SO HE THOUGHT……

to be continued…….

When It Comes to Ninja Turtles…

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When it comes to ninja turtles, everybody knows Raphael is cool, but rude. Like seriously rude. RAVISHINGLY rude. Rude Boying out his blowhole, Rihanna style.

It’s like he doesn’t have a lick of respect for authority or anybody. He’s always in a bad mood and saying dickhead stuff. He is  a dramatic little teenage puss and thinks his life is so hard and no one understands him. Well you know what Raphael, fuck you in your watertight pooper. You little emo bitch. You get to eat pizza and stab people with twin sais all day. Rough fucking life there, Raph. And you get to live in a sewer. Do you have any idea what I would give to live in a sewer for one measly day? God, sewers are like the coolest place to hang out. It’s an underworld maze of tubing. It’s like D-Z Discovery Zone except with waterfalls and used tampons everywhere. You’ve got nothing to complain about, guy. You don’t have to be so rude to everybody.

Apparently Splinter didn’t teach that turtle one bit of manners. I’m not holdingthat against him though. He’s a nappy headed rat that taught a bunch of turtles karate. That in itself is a pretty impressive feat. To expect that he would have time to teach Raphael how to not be a cunt all the time may be an unrealistic expectation. Donatello seemed to learn on his own pretty fucking quickly though. Just saying.

Aside from an irreparable character flaw, there are only three real reasons I can think that Raphael is such a rude-ass.

1) Premature hair loss. He’s only a teenager but his dome is smoother than a tub of margarine. This baldness may have led to some confidence issues. In which case, his rudeness may just be a defense mechanism. He got dealt a bad hand, I’ll give him that. But it’s not like he’s the only one. All his teenage mutant ninja bro’s are bald too. And if it really bothers you so much Raph, put on a ballcap! DUUUH.

2) He also may be self conscious because he feels less talented than his turtle brethren. Leonardo, as the eldest turtle, has assumed leadership position of the gang. And understandibly so, Leo is a sober and rational decision maker. He’s like JFK but with two fucking swords! If I’m in a gang and someone has one sword, much less TWO, and all I got is a little pussy-baby wooden stick, then of course I’m taking orders from the dude with gigantic katanas. And that’s not a crack at Donatello. Donny is a fucking computer wiz kid. Wiz Khalifa on the mouses and keys, son. He got a bachelors in mechanical engineering from MIT and was in the top 10 percentile of his graduating class. Magnum. Cum. Alotta. He once showed me the schematics for this robo-sex broad he was developing to take to the Sadie Hawkins. She was so totally sssstacked. She had bazoombas like out to HERE and nipples so puff’d they might as well have been ‘mallows. Anyways, while Raph E. L. is known to be somewhat cool, despite his rudeness, he is nowhere near as cool as his younger brother Michelangelo. He feels overshadowed by the hip socialite. Mike sees the best in everyone and is always the life of the party. He loves heady ‘za and who can blame him? He is as cool a “dude” as there ever was. Raphael resents his brothers because he feels inferior. He responds to this inferiority complex by putting his brothers down and making them feel like shitheads, when in fact it is he, Raphael, that is the shithead.

3) He wants to get all up in April’s boohiney but he knows that interspecies premarital sex is a sin. It’s like he’s having to live a lie. The turtles’ strict evangelical upbringing has forced him to deny who he really is. He knows if he acted on these feelings that he’d be shunned and would probably end up having to join The Foot Klan to make ends meets. As a Foot, he at some point would have to fight it out with his bro’s and he knows how fucking good they really are at karate. Their like a bunch of reptilian Jackie Chans. So he represses these sinful emotions. He is like a prisoner in his own shell. As a result turns his pain outwards, hurting the ones he cares most about. He acts like a huge green piece of dickhole so that he can distract himself from the forbidden sexual desires he’s got bubblin’ down within. Tragic, actually.
And if Dr. Freud was right, he probably also wants to both kill and have sex with Master Splinter. You see, Splinter served as both a surrogate mother and father figure for the turtles, since they were abandoned by their true parents. See, they were thrown into the sewers of NYC by their folks because were too young and too broke to support four children.   A genetic mutation occurred while they were playing in some ooze one time and they became human sized, and could speak English and fucking chow down on premium pies. So this wise old, similarly mutated karate master rat was like, “my late ex wife and I could never have children, so I’ll raise these turtle pups as my own.” He was their mommy and daddy. Puzz and dong. The blade and the chalice. Sex and death. With this complex mixture of emotions swirling around in that turtle skull of his, it’s no wonder Raphael has such difficulty with social interactions. Dude is fucked in the head, but that’s our Raph. Just wish he’d put a sock in it sometimes and quit being such a sloppy buttpussy.

Grandparents Are Racists

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I don’t think I’m alone when I say grandparents are intolerant bigots. They don’t care for the blacks. They don’t care for the jews. They don’t care for Mexicans. And I know they’re not technically a race, but they don’t care for homosessssssuals either.

If our grandparents had their way, shuffleboard would be the national sport, all the black folks would be shipped back to Africa, gays would be forced to live in subterraneal caves, Elian Gonzalez would have had his dick cut off, and rollerblades would have never been invented. Can you imagine how horrible that would be? I mean, instead of catching mad air off some big ass jumps on our blades, we would have to use those old 4 wheel skates that make you look like a crusty old pussy-fart. Shit’s fucked. My blades are like an extension of myself. Give me blades or give me death. Either you’re bladin’ hard or you’re hardly bladin’.

Not to be calloused (even though I am, severely, on my inner thighs from so much blading), but the world is going to be such a better place once all the grandparents are dead. We will be finally able to get down to all that stuff Martin King dreamed about. Like, the kids holding hands on a mountaintop thing and kissing or whatever. We will finally be able to have a Christmas Eve that doesn’t involve shouting the word “coons!” at the neighbors (who aren’t even black, they are from Pakistan.)

Now, I’m not saying that you should kill your grandparents. At all. Especially not by, like, smothering them with tempurpedic pillows during one of the 18 hours a day that they are asleep. Or by cutting the brake lines on their electric wheelchairs. Or by giving them a heart attack by telling them that you are moving to California to drop marijuanas and gay-marry your black boyfriend and have interracial babes galore. Mulattoes all over the place.

Or you could cover a pit full of sharpened sticks with palm leaves and dangle a photograph of Bob Newhart over it. They fall for the Newhart trap 9 out of 10 times. Then all you have to do is fill in the hole with quick dry cement and cash your inheritance check.

Or if you’re really crafty, you can rig their Jitterbugs to shoot a sharp metal rod through their ear and into their brains. Kind of like that guy in No Country for Old Men. It’s almost like, when you consider the title of the movie and all the killing and all, it’s like the Coen Brothers want us to kill our grandparents. It’s like their sending us secret messages through the guy who played opposite Big Willie Style in Men In Black. Agent K.

Again, we are in no way endorsing any of these things. All we are saying is that the world will be a better place if you did kill your grandparents. Because they’re racists.

This Is the End

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I saw on the History Channel that the world was going to end in the year 2012. There is supposed to be locusts vs. earthquakes vs. volcanic spolsions vs. zombies vs. Chinese robot overlords vs. Freddy vs. Jason vs. gingivitis epidemics vs. Muslims vs The Miami Heat. You name it and it’s gonna be fucking our shit up in 2012. Total Armageddon featuring original songs from Aerosmith.

They say that the End of Days was predicted long ago by Mayan Angelou. And I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve never known Mayan Angelou to be wrong about nothing. She’s a smart ass African American queen with a heart  that was touched by Midas and an ass like a burlap sack filled with sweet potatoes. She was right about why the caged bird sings and I wouldn’t be surprised if she was right about the End of Days too. Plus, me and History Channel are pretty sure that ancient aliens probably clued her in to the imminent doom.

But I’m not ready to die. I’m only 22 years old. I haven’t even sexed with a black girl yet. There’s so much of Mother Earth that I have yet to see. Here are a few things I would like to do before the end of the world.

1) Right off the bat, before I die I’d really like to have some of that gay sex I’ve been hearing so much about. Like full on. I’ll be bent over some bear’s motorcycle while he pumps it out behind me with his leather pants around his ankles. I’ll pull on his long goatie braid and he’ll spit in my mouth. The ultimate gay experience. With the world about to end and all, all my previous hang-ups over doing that gay sex go right out the window. Don’t gotta worry about getting the HIV-AIDs. Who cares. Don’t gotta worry about my parents finding out and pretending to “still love me” and “support my lifestyle.” Fuck you mom. You old bitch. I won’t have to worry about maintaining my savings accounts either. I can blow all my money on mesh shirts, body glitter, and a disco ball for my apartment. Because that’s what being gay is.

2) Hit up the salad bar at Ruby’s. One more time for old times sake. Get me a big plate of cheese, ham, tomaters, bacon bits, a different kind of cheese, olives, pasta salad, chunky bleu cheese, and some of those brown croutons. No lettuce. With the end of the world and all, I’ve realized what’s really important and what’s not. So I’ve decided to eliminate my least favorite part of the salad: the lettuce.

3) Smoke a little meth. I don’t want to go overboard. I’ve just always wanted to try it, but was too worried about all my teeth falling out and my skin getting wrinkly and covered in sores. Since I don’t have to worry about all that, I’d like to get the full meth experience just once. I’ll drop by Cooter’s trailer and buy some, go find a cozy dumpster to hotbox, hit that shit like Fergie, and then rampage around the city exerting my new found superhuman strength. I’ll flip cars and shit. Jump from rooftop to rooftop. Karate chop little babies in half. Throw a Nerf football farther  than John Elway.

4) Take a stinky dump on home plate of Field 4 at my old little league baseball park. Field 4 was where Johnny Scroggins hit that game-winning home run off of me in 5th grade. He would later go on to be cheer captain at Dickenson High.  Coincidentally, Field 4 is also where I got my first squeeze-job. Tessy Jenkins had hands like an illegal migrant worker, but up until that point no one had touched my hang-low besides me so I didn’t mind so much.

5) Eat 30 saltines in one minute.

6) Drive Uncle Julius’ pick-up. Always loved that truck and he never would let me get behind the wheel. Imagine the trim I’d catch in that thing. Cruising down the main drag, windows down, Coolio blasting from the tapedeck. “If you got beef, then nigga eat a porkchop.” There’s just somethin’ women like about a pick-up man. Maybe it’s cuz it’s got an 8 foot bed that never has to be made. Maybe it’s cuz most people who drive trucks are racists. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s cuz when the sun goes down and you crank that mug up, there ain’t a person alive that can give you orders or tell you how to live your life; it’s your world now, they’re just living in it.

7) Watch the ENTIRE Lord of the Rings Trilogy in one sitting. Back to back to back. Frodo, Sam Wise, Gandalf the Grey, Aragon, Boromir, Gollum, Gandalf the White, Orlando Bloom. I want to be transported to Middle Earth for that magical journey of friendship with NO INTERRUPTIONS. I’m going to hang a sign on the door to my room that says “NO MOMS ALLOWED! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE CUZ I’M WATCHING MOVIES! UNLESS YOU ARE BRINGING ME A 2 LITER OF PEPSI, THEN YOU CAN COME IN. BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND! AND NO TALKING! JUST BRING THE PEPSI IN, POUR IT IN A CUP WITH ICE, HAND IT TO ME, THEN GET THE H OUT!”

8) Get my abs ripped as shit. I want to look chiseled out of marble. Like a Roman Centurion. Like a white Lenny Kravitz. I know the world is gonna end or whatever but that doesn’t mean I have to look like a big fat moo-cow. I wanna go out looking good. I’m gonna do like at least 100 sit ups a day and keep my self well oiled. I’m hoping that if I keep my abs looking ripped as shit and shiny that I’ll get so much clam sauce. See, as the end draws nearer girls are gonna wanna squirt their juices like crazy. They’ll have nothing to lose. If they see a guy like me, with ripped ass abdominals and well-groomed eyebrows, they’ll wanna bone until we’re both rubbed raw.

9) Laser eye surgery.

10) Tell Nana thank you for all she’s done for me. For the nights as a boy when she rocked me to sleep in her arms. For always having a plate of peanut brittle waiting for me when I came home from school. For teaching me about the healing power of crystals. For showing me how to properly eat out a girl. Couldn’t have done it without you Nana. And that’s the honest to goodness.

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

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I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus. On the tee-tee.

I’m fairly certain this means that Mommy and Daddy will be getting a divorce and that Santa is my new Daddy. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. Dad doesn’t appreciate a g-darn thing that she does for him. He’s a slob. He’s a racist. He’s a busive. He’s a Baptist. He sits around all day in his fruity-booty whitey-tighties, scratching his nutsacks, eating beef jerky, and listening to REO Speedwagon. His only friend is the dog and he’s been dead for two years. You wouldn’t know it though, by the way Daddy keeps setting food out every morning and talking to the spot where old MustardFarts died. He treats that ghost-dog better than he treats us.

Mommy comes home after slaving away at the Waffle House. Like literally SLAVING. See, she picks cotton at the Waffle House. And when she comes home her dogs are barking. But does he ever thank her? Does he ever whip her up a little din-din? Does he ever give a deep tissue rub down? Does he ever take his jerkey smellin’ fingers off his balls long enough to give her a handjob? No. He doesn’t. He just yells at her for forgetting to get his order of h-browns chunked and smothered. Seriously. If he doesn’t get little chunks of ham on his h-browns he gets all loco, esé and starts throwing bows. Chris “Ludacris” Bridges style. Mad bows. 2 Fast 2 Furious. He flings Mommy to the ground and stomps on her rib cage until her bones making cracking sounds. Then yells at her for gargling up blood all over  the carpet and ruining the chances of get our security deposit back.

I’m GLAD Mommy was kissing Santa Claus on his candy cane striped dick. Santa seems like a real legit guy. A straight shooter. Real salt of the earth type a cool cat. He’s a giver. He’s an animal lover. He was really funny on Home Improvement in his younger years, back before he became Santa. Always busting Al Borland’s chops. Bustin’ em hard too. Like, bustin’ harder than Billy-Boy Murray, Dan-the-man Aykroyd, and that black guy back in the 80s. Anywho, maybe after the divorce with Daddy, me and Mommy can move up to the North Pole and live with Santa and the Elves and the Reindeer and Frosty and Jack Frost and Robert Frost and Michael Buble and the whole gang. And maybe Santa will learn to love me as the son he never had and train me as his apprentice to eventually replace him when he dies. Just like Kim Jong Il and his son. Oh, how I long to know love like Kim Jong Il and his son. Once I’m the new Santa, I’m going to find out where my old Daddy lives and go to  his house at night and sneak down his chimney and drop a Yule Log in the tank of his toilet. That way every time he flushes dookie water comes out.

If I Were a Mystical Beast

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I swear to God up in heaven above, people are always asking me, “Hey mister, if you were to be a mystical beast, which mystical beast would you be?”

Often times people are surprised and confused by how specific my answer is. So I drew a detailed diagram to explain my answer and dispel any lingering confusion. If I were a mystical beast, I would be a Human-Centaur (as seen below). The Human-Centaur is 50% human (head & chest), 50% horse (body), and then another 50% human (legs & feet). Now, I’m not a mathemagician but I believe that balances out to somewhere around 75% human and 45% horse.

The Human-Centaur is strong and noble and really really really rare. He has wavy blonde hair that he wears in a stylish yet masculine ponytail. He’s got a square jaw line just like Jon Hamm and bushy eyebrows like Eugene Levy (both total sexpots). Plus he’s got some ripped-ass pecs cuz he does upperbody workouts pretty much everyday. He’s got a membership at Gold’s Gym and I see him up there all the time TORCHING his delts, obliques, lats, bi’s, and tri’s. No fooling. If he’s got em, he’s TORCHING that shit thoroughly. I work the front desk at Gold’s, so I’ve seen my fair share of delt torching, but never like this. I’m talking FUCKING SCALDING.

Not to mention his stout-ass horse body. Like Seabisquick. Imagine him cantering around the forest, highstepping like a regal duke, letting sexy ass nymphs ride him barebacked, total raw dog style, laughing wildly, tossing their heads back in ecstasy with nothing to hold on to but his swoll rock hard pecs and ponytail.

Also,the only movie he owns is Mystic Pizza on VHS (as seen above) and is a huuuuuuge Julia Roberts fan. Like seriously obsessed with Julia. Every time I see him at Gold’s (torching) he drops at least one quote from Erin Brockovich. Last week, I thought I was gonna have to call an ambulance, but he was just acting out the scene where Julia collapses in Steel Magnolias. “DRINK THE JUICE, SHELBY” Seriously. Loves. Jules.

Plus Human-Centaurs have the best mating ritual of pretty much all mystical beasts. To get things warmed up, they do what is known as the “Human-Centaur-Pede”  which is basically like a line of 100 or 200 Human-Centaurs in the woods just eating out each other’s horse butt-pussies. They do this for about 8 hours, then they drink lo-carb meade and honey out of the ceremonial chalice to get the taste out of their mouth.

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