Category Archives: Inner Thoughts

If I Had a Bike

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Where I come from, you’re a stinking nobody unless you have super tight ass bike. You’re a stinking fucking nobody. You’re a stupid stinking fucking nobody with a skinny little angel hair pasta dick. With Alfredo sauce all over your soft angel hair dick. With flaky garlic bread for your balls. And Parmesan pubes.

Where I come from, there’s no way you’re ever going eat a single morsel of pussy if your cruising around on a Razor. Cuz scooters are whack and eating pussy is cool. That’s why I need a bike. So I can eat pussy all day everyday. I’d eat pussy all over the place: the bathroom at Quiznos, in line at Subway while I’m waiting on them to toast my $5 roastbeef sammy, under the table at Panera Bread after I finish my Bacon Turkey Bravo. I’d even put some pussy in the front basket of my bike and then I’d eat it just like how Eliot ate E.T.’s pussy. E.T. Phone home? Fuck that noise. E.T. BONE hoes.

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If I had a bike, shit would be raw as tits. Raw like WWE Monday Nights. Raw like John Cena’s buttflaps after Stone Cold Steve Austin wraps his own dick in sandpaper and pounds Cena’s keister til he taps out. Raw is War. Shit would be STUUUPID fun. I’d get 5 Cent Frankie behind the 7/11 to show me how to pop a wheelie. See, bitches in my town won’t fuck unless you know how to pop wheelies. I’d roll up to the Drive-In while Becky and her new boyfriend Stash are watching Gone in 60 Seconds 2: Gone in 120 Seconds and be like “Check this shit out, Becky, you bitch” then I’d pop a major wheelhouse and watch her skinny jeans overflow out the top with bubblin’ clam chow-chow all over Stash’s front seat. That’ll teach her. I’d ride over to Mrs. Greenberg’s house and yell from the street, “Give me an F in Geometry? Who wants to F now, you fucking bug-eyed twat?!” and bust a wheelie right in her goddamn face and watch her rip off her turtleneck and press her dumpy Jew-tits against her kitchen window. Fuck yeah.

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If I had a bike, I’d have permanent lockjaw from all the teenage box I’d be eating. I’d stay eatin’ more box than a starving homeless man. The thing about ownin’ your own kickass Huffy is: GIRLS WANT TO FUCK YOU RIGHT ON YOUR DICKHOLE. It’s that simple. What’s that Megan? You wanna ride on my handlebars and every so often I can lean my head forward and get a whiff of that buttcrack pokin’ out them Juicy sweatpants? Done. Excuse me, Veronica? You want me to ride no-handsies, so I can use my hands to pinch your left nip while I fingerplow your stickcave? Done. It’s not rocket science, guys. It’s easy. Bike equals Pussy Tsunami.

If I had a bike, I would decorate the spokes with beads, so that when I hopped a curb and got mad air, my wheels would look fucking bonkerzzz. I’d also put one of those floppy flagpoles on the back but instead of a flag it would have a raccoon’s tail. When sluts see that raccoon’s tail flapping in the wind they will know that it symbolizes my love for nature and all things natural.

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Cuz like, I want to be a marine biologist or whatever. And I’ve got a serious soft spot for all of God’s creatures great and small. Like especially but not limited to marine creatures because marine creatures are really misunderstood and everything. Plus my bike is going to have pegs on the back so I can grind down super slick rails or so my cousin Denny can ride on the back. He’s special needs and probably won’t have the chance to have a bike of his own. He’ll never know the freedom and/or the sweet taste of pussy that comes with riding a bike. But because like I care so much about my family and people with special needs, I’ll be like “Hey D-Bones, peg it up. You’re riding co-pilot braaaaaash.” And when all the Bettys and Veronicas around town see me riding with beads, a raccoon tail, and a retarded kid on my pegs, they are going to want me to eat their whole entire pussy.

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When Dogs Get Boners

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mouthopendogI like dogs. I like their general genial temperament. Their enthusiasm. I like when dogs let small monkeys in cowboy hats ride on their backs and the monkey is puffing on a cigarette and spinning a six-shooter on his index finger, just waiting to see another monkey riding on a another dog’s back dressed like an Indian, so that he can murder him in cold blood like the feather-headed savage that he is. I also like when dogs watch Animal Planet. Like sometimes it’s a dog watching a show where ANOTHER dog is like besties with a beaver or a snake or something. Shit’s wild. It really makes you wonder….

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I like when dogs look at you and one ear is sticking up and the other one is sticking down so they look like stupid ass pieces of shit. A stupid ass piece of shit that can’t even control their face parts. I’m like “what the!” I’m like “does this dog have multiple sclerosis or some other faggy deformity? What’s going on?!”

I like dogs enough that I can forgive the fact that they hate black people. I don’t want to condone their racism or perpetuate ignorance but I know that deep down in their heart of hearts, they’re just trying to keep us safe. The only way they know how: by attacking black people before they can attack us.

But there is one thing I don’t like about dogs: when dogs get boners. I don’t think I’m overstating anything when I say that their dicks are weird looking. All red and slick like the devil’s dick. Sheath that thing would ya? I don’t want your boner slime all over the passenger seat of my ’92 Honda Accord DX. I’m going to pick up Paw-Paw for lunch tomorrow and it would really chap his hide if he knew that he was getting crusty dog dick on his stain resistant khakis. I don’t think I’d ever hear the end of it. Until he passed away of course. Unless he was still so bitter about the red rocket residue that after he died he decided to haunt me like on Paranormal Activity 2. Then I’d really never hear the end of it. Like one day I’d be sleeping and then all of the sudden the toaster would pop up and the thermostat would be turned down and Paw-Paw’s voice would be like “I didn’t work in the mines for 50 years breaking my back to support this family so that I could sit in doggie dick juice.” And he’d be right.

redrocketLingering visions of dog boners can make everyday activities agonizing. Everyday activities like eating a hot dog or watching a pretty lady put on red lipstick or watching a pretty lady have sex with a doberman pinscher. I’m like “what the!” Get your devil’s dick out of there! That was made for people’s dicks ONLY! Says so in the Good Book. Yes sir, pretty sure it says it right there in the opening paragraphs. Not sure of the exact passage but I know it’s in there. No doggie devil dicks is human vaginas….PERIOD. For ever and ever, Amen.

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I can remember being a young whippersnapper and seeing this mangy sex-crazed mutt in the parking lot of my school. There I was, me and all the other Latino kids, waiting on our madres to come pick us up from escuela. And there he was, foaming at the mouth with his slimy devil’s dick humping thin air. I’m talking, fucking the ever loving shit out of thin air. Pounding the fuck out of nothing. Almost as if he was getting a hurkie-jerkie from a ghost or something. Like someone’s bitter Grandpap ghost was seeking revenge for getting crusty dog dick on his khakis (did I just think of my next screenplay? Paranormal Activity 5?). Anyways, he was like a thrusting red-dicked robot. Every step a hump. And he was moving closer towards us. His dick was possessed. Humping and humping. Red, slippery, glistening in the sun. So me and my Latino friends threw rocks at him until he died.

What’s the Deal with Jupiter?

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I know I’m not the only one wondering, what’s the fucking deal with Jupiter?

It’s so big and I’m all like “are you made out of rock or something? C’mon dog you’re probably heavy as shit. You’re making all the other planets look bad with you’re obesity. Like, you’re supposed to be REPRESENTING our solar system out there. And I don’t want to stir up shit or whatever – buuuuuuut I heard those buttfucking queef huffers from Alpha Centauri saying this-n-that bout your chunky buns. And I don’t know about you, Jupiter, but I’m not gonna sit around and let those bumpkin-ass, binary-star-system-having, Alpha Centaurian dick-legged bungholes talk about our solar system like that. Tighten it up, bro. You ever heard of Michelle Obama? You gotta eat your greens, guy. Do a lunge or two. Republican or Democrat, I think everybody can agree you husky. Just tighten it up.”

And what’s going on with that red big spot? I was thinking it might be malignant but Doc Lipshwitz said it was a storm or something and I’m all like “damn Jupiter, how long is that storm gonna last? Get your shit together. Nobody is going to want to live on you if you got a big red storm brewin’ all the live long day.

I’ll tell you what you need to do: Go see your doctor and get you some Valtrex. Once daily Valtrex will clear that unsightly red sore up in a week or so. Tell your doctor if your immune system isn’t normal because of bone marrow or kidney transplant. It’s about suppression, Jupiter.”

You know what, you look like that planet off of Star Wars and I’m like ”Show a little originality. Have you seen Saturn? With the rings and shit? So cool. Everybody in the Solar System thinks so. We’re all like ”Damn son, nice rings. Looks like you’re hula hooping or some tight shit like that.”

Why don’t you do something like that? Get yourself a gimmick, Ju-ju. Mars has that face, Earth has monkeys and turtles, Neptune has a badass trident, Pluto is all like ”Fuck y’all. I don’t even want to be a planet anymore. I’m outtie-5,000″, and Uranus has a great sense of humor. What do you got? Besides a giant Herpes cold-storm flaring up. You got jack shit. Get a gimmick, kid.

Maybe you could grow your sideburns out like an old timey guy. Go 18th Century all over everybody’s asses. How do you think D.D. Lewis keeps winning so many Grammy’s? He goes 18th Century on everybody’s ass on the reg. I heard for his role of Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Slayer he was growing out the hair on his inner thighs so it’s like sideburns for his dick. Abe Lincoln dick-sideburns freeing slaves and taking names. Emancipating his dick from not havin’ kickass ‘burns. You know he is gonna win all the Grammy’s for that shit.”

And what’s up with all those moons? Seriously. I’m all like “You gay? All them moons make you look gay or something. And there’s nothing wrong with that. My friend Scooter is gay as all get out but we are buds to the max. Best buds. To the max. You know how gay guys know all about how girls like to be kissed and fingered and stuff? Well, me and Scooter are such best buds to the max that he lets me practice all my moves on him and he provides productive criticism thus revealing the secrets of the sacred feminine. Like he even taught me how to do it “Siskel and Ebert Style”- two thumbs up. He said that makes chicks go primal and I believe him. Cuz he’s gay.

All I’m saying, Big Jup, is be real. We’re not here to be Judge Judy, casting stones all which-a-way. It ain’t gonna go down like that. Just fess up. We know you’re gay. Everybody knows. If you want to take that herpes infested red dick of yours and shove it inside Mercury until you blow a gaseous wad inside his shit-pipe, then be my guest. But I don’t appreciate you lying to us about it. What you don’t think you can trust us? Dang Jup, that’s cold as my Nana’s vulva. She’s dead now but even during life she had poor circulation so you that swedish-made vulva was chillatenous. And after all we been through, what with my Nana just dying and all, now you’re telling me you don’t even trust me? Well you know what Jup, YOU’RE NOT EVEN WORTH IT.

Don’t choke on your own dick.

Signed,

P. Dick ‘n’ Sons

Girl, I’m Gonna Get Your Goat

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Look at you over there. Sexy as hell with you’re chunky biscuit booty poppin’ out your jean cutoffs. Look at you with them thick trumpet-playin’ lips dripping with Dr. Thunder flavored chapstick. Glistening like two slugs 69ing each other. I never thought anyone could combine my two favorite things, the discount beverage Dr. Thunder and watching slugs do the dirty, so effortlessly. With such poise. Such grace. Reminds me of Princess Dianna. The Beanie Baby, not the dead lady. Just as a general rule of thumb, from now on when I refer to Princess Dianna, assume that I am talking about the Beanie Baby.

Cuz those things are retired and worth their weight in Gold Bond © and I’ve got 25 of those fuckers vacuum sealed in the bottom of my closet at my GramGram’s house. TAGS ON. All I have to do is sign onto dad’s AOL account and go to AOL Marketplace and let everybody know that I’ve got 25 SUPER RARE PRINCESS DIANNAS with the tags still on and people are going to wig the fuck out of their fucking wigs. There’s going to be rioting in the streets. People flipping cars and setting homeless guys aflame. Police brutalizing minorities. Gay guys doing butt stuff. Someone dookie-dooing in the drinking fountains. The whole kit and caboodle.  The only thing maintaining the delicate stability of society is me keeping those Princess Diannas hidden away at my GramGram’s house. Like, does that make me some sort of hero or something? Yeah, I guess it does. I’m the last hope. I am what Gotham needs me to be. But enough about me and how I’m the only thing standing in the way complete anarchy, let’s talk about you.

Wit cho gums all intact and yo teef lookin’ reeeeal foine. Gingivitis can be a motherfucker, but it ain’t got shit on you, girl. You must brush yo shit like at least three times a day. After every meal. Like our lord God, Jesus of Nazareth intended. “And then the Lord appeared to Jacob and said ‘you gotta brush dem shits like 3 times a day. After every meal. I can be a little lenient when it comes to lunch and din-din, but you gotta brush dem shits in the mornin’ cuz yo breath be kickin’ like Ken and Ryu.” – Deuteronomy 36:25. Doing the Deut. Brushing for the Lord.

And look at you with those two dumpy bosoms. Pendulous old bean bag titties. What are they filled with sand? Hell yes. That shit sexy as hell. I love sand. Reminds me of going to the beach and catching fiddler crabs. They so crazy. Lil’ scuttle bugs is all they are. And all they eat is seaweed so their bods are ripped to shreds. I’ve heard Matt McConaughey is on the fiddler crab diet. Just seaweed, sand, salt water, and you’ve got to scuttle around for like 5 hours a day. Have you seen him with his shirt off? Looks like a fucking torched ass crab with silver dollar nipples. Speaking of, you know how fiddler crabs are incongruent? They got that that one baby claw and one big claw? Very reminiscent of your droopy bubbers. One big. One small. Them sandy, fiddler crab titties making me feel like Jimmy Buffet or something.

And look at you with them sexy azz ankle socks. You a dirty bitch and ya mom bad too. The one on your left foot stops just below a tattoo of a broken, battered, and bleeding Ryan Reynolds circa 1998 when Two Guys, A Girl, and A Pizza Place was ownin’ the television airwaves. Whatever happened to that Pizza Place? Haven’t seen it in anything good recently. Probably got addicted to huffing gas like all the other child tv stars and now bags groceries at Piggly Wiggly.  The sock on ya right foot don’t even match the left one and that’s bout to tear me up. I love how you purposefully mismatched em cuz you know I damn near bust out my cords when I see dat shit. Shit’s got a hole in it and urrythang. Just Clay Achin’ for me to lick your ashy, cracked heel. Shit’s makin’ me so hard.

And girl, look at frumpy lil dumper. I say god damn, god damn, child. That’s the skinniest little booty-hiney-hole I’ve seen in all my days. Your booboos must come out looking like Sour Straws or something. So skeeeeeeeenny! I’ve seen tic-tacs with more circumference than that booty-hiney-hole. Like those little orange ones? Those things got less the 2 calories. That fanny lookin’ watertight. Like a duck’s back. You got that duck-back-booty, ho. Got that quack back. Them fowl bowels. Lil mama got a Duck Tail. aWOOooo!

Damn girl, I’m gonna get your goat.

I’m Going to Chillville

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Forget all y’all. Ya’ll a bunch of butt munching dillweeds. Gingerbreaded peckerwoods with queefy cunts. Y’all some fat tittied ginger-queefed pecker-weeds with dill coming out of your butt-cunts. Y’all making me mad and stuff. I don’t want to hang w’ch’all nomo’. Forgetchoo. Forget momma. Forget m’diddy. Forget Sharon. Forget Obama. Forget gas prices. Forget Sarah Marshall. Forget about Dre. Forget the Alamo. I’m gonna make like Jeffy Goldblum in The Big Chill. I’m gonna make like the 2nd most famous Jew hater there ever was, Walt Disney. I’m gonna make like Boba Fett did to Han Solo before he gave him to Jabba the Hutt. I’m talking cryogenetics. I’m talking Chillville.

Bury me in dry ice and pack me up in your gramper’s deep freezer in his garage. And don’t forget to saran wrap me up tight- if I get freezer burn I’m gonna ride that ass like Pecos Bill. I wanna fucking hibernate. If you wanna please me, you gotta freeze me. And make sure you put a sticky note on the freezer that tells people not to open it until Hootie and the Blowfish schedule their reunion tour.

We just have to wait for Darius Rucker to realize that country music fans will never like a black guy unless he is picking cotton. Darius, your throwing your life away. White people can dig black guys, but only if they act black. Otherwise, it just gets too confusing. That’s why Republicans hate Obama. So, either put on a gold chain and do the Humpty Hump or get the boys back together already!

Once the long awaited moment arrives, I want you to wheel the freezer into the concert (hopefully featuring Blues Traveler or Spin Doctors [beggars can't be choosers]), right in the middle of the heady groovefest, and thaw me out with hair dryers the moment they start “Only Wanna Be With You.” I wanna be drippin’ wet by the time Darius is baring his soul about how his cunt-tits girlfriend thinks he’s such a baby cuz the dolphins make him cry. And when they get to ”Hold My Hand”, I want to be cutting a rug with a doob in one hand and some hippy’s flappy tit in the other. Just like in ’94. Since I been frozen so long, a few squeezes of that flappy tit will probably get me spelunking right outta my pee-hole all over my Duckhead© khaki shorts and down into my Birkenstocks.  SO WHAT! HOOTIE AND THE BLOWFISH REUNION, MON! WHO ISN’T CUMMIN’ IN THEIR BIRKS?!?!

After the show I’m gonna do what every freshly thawed dude would do: try to squeeze on some more baby-fresh nugs with Pauly Shore and that Goonie ass mother fucker Sean Astin a.k.a. Rudy a.k.a. Samwise Gamgee. Weasin’ the ju-uice buuuuu-ddy. We’re gonna go pick up that fat, freckled kid from The Sandlot, Son-In-Law, and The Big Green, score some nose snow from Roger from Sister, Sister, and fuckin’ go hogwild on some Huevos Rancheros. Shit’s gonna be stoopid delicious.

Aunt Becky’s Casserole

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You haven’t lived until you’ve had my Aunt Becky’s casserole. Seriously. Whatever that shitty fucking excuse for an abortion was that you claimed as your “existence” is all total bullstuffing compared to the life you’re gonna lead after devouring some of Aunt B’s cassie rolls. I mean, this thing will transport you to a whole new world. Like that sluttytits Jasmine from The Little Mermaid. Whatever you thought was right is suddenly wrong. What’s down is up. What was real now seems spurious. Steve Spurious. You thought you knew, but you had no idea. This is the Diary of Aunt Becky’s Casserole.

I recollect the first time my taste buds had the honor of encountering Aunt Becky’s C-Role. I was 7 years old and it was 4th of July weekend. Dad was lighting sparklers and Kentucky Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Das. His eyebrows had been singed clean off. He’d been drinking Bud Heavy and you could see a dark ring of piss around where the tip of his knuckleduster oughta be in his shorts. Aunt Becky was there sucking cigarettes down her stoma barking about how she gobbled on Richard Petty’s nutsack during a pit stop at ‘Dega ’85. She was shoveling casserole onto paper plates and passin’ em around to anybody that would take one.

I remember that first fork full. The clouds parted and a beam of light descended from above -ancient aliens style. Time ceased. Like remember when Zack would stop time on Saved By The Bell and everyone would freeze and he’d address the camera. They call it breaking the fourth wall. SBTB was way ahead of it’s time. They were dicking around with time travel way before Lost. Member when Screech and Zack got in a fight over that twat-trap Lisa Turtle and everybody slurpin on sodie-pops at the MAX was watchin’ like WHAAAT? How could Z-Bird be into Lisa when he knows good and well how much his best bro Dusty ‘Screech’ Diamond wanted to finger fuck that pile of brown sugar? Plus, no offense Lisa Turtle but you are a solid 7.5. Totally bangable but I mean, c’mon, have you seen Kelly? She’s got a pouty little snapper molded out of solid gold, shaved cleaner than Stone Cold Steve Austin’s dome. And Zack was slurpin’ on that ham wallet back in middle school. That whole thing with Lisa was just a fling for Zack. Was it right to do that to Screech? No. Shit’s fucked up. But can you blame him for wanting to get a taste of that dark meat just once? No. A little leg and thigh ain’t never hurt nobody. Diversity is the spice of life. Saved By The Bell addressed interracial relationships way before we  had our black president Obama and Big Willie was kissin’ our white women on our big screens.

Where was I? Oh right. Becky’s casserole was the tittyfuck. After that first bite, I was engulfed in a cocoon of warm light. I found myself floating above, looking down at myself and I could see everything. My beginning. My end. Jesus Christ of Nazareth was there. So was Marty King Junior and Heath Ledger. In that instant my testicles descended and they’ve been there ever since.

When Life Gives You Lemons

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There are several popular theories about what one should do upon receiving a bucket of lemons from life.

Some people think you should make lemonade. If you ask me, that’s a little too obvi. I mean, what ever happened to thinking outside the bun? Like, get the fuck out of that bun, guy. Shun the bun, guy. Shun the bun and head for the border. Yo quiero Fourth Meal. That’s innovation. Plus, it takes more than a bit of lemon to make some fresh squeezed ‘ade. Did life give you sugar as well? Cuz lemon juice by itself is fucking gross. Bitter beer face to the max. YUCKY. But if life were to (literally) sweeten the deal by throwing in some sugar and some high-quality Aquafina h2o water, then maybe lemonade IS the answer. But the saying isn’t “If life gives you lemons, sugar, water and a big ass pitcher, make lemonade.”

Those more materialistic people say you should paint those lemons gold. Because gilded lemons are worth a buttload more than just regular yellow ones, everybody knows that. Gold is like super expensive. It automatically makes you awesome as nipple-farts. That’s why all the hip-hoppers wear gold necklaces and gold teeth and gold pagers. To show everyone how much more funky fresh they are than us regular folk.

Those capitalist pig types say you gotta take those lemons, hold on to them until their market value rises, and then sell them back to life for twice what you got them for. At this point, the only way they can afford their monthly lemon payments is to take out a second mortgage on their house and milk their childrens’ college fund until it’s dryer that Joan Rivers’ crumbly snatch biscuit. That’s when you know you have life by the taint. The classic switcheroo.

Jimmy Buffet fans say you should take the lemon slice it up and put it in your Landshark. Alcoholism is the only way that Parrotheads, these flabby middle-aged white folks with hawaiian shirts and socks’n'sandles, can pretend that they are still relevant. See, alcohol effects judgement and lowers inhibitions and one should not drink it if pregnant. Especially if you’re pregnant with a baby. Especially if you’re pregnant with a baby that you would prefer not to be deformed. I mean sure, we all WISH we could disfigure our unborn children and get drunk every night and sing “Pirate Looks at Forty” while The Buff is up there shredding his acoustic. But alot of us feel a responsibility to society to not hit up BuffeTupt Tour 2012, and instead, get a job, and raise our children, and continue having self-esteem.

Those more spiteful and bitter personalities say you should take that lemon from life and then squeeze the lemon juice into life’s eyeball holes. And while life is momentarily blinded by the juices, you  shank it in the guts with a sharpened screwdriver like 14 times. And while life is lying on the ground, screaming, bleeding to death with lemon juice in it’s eyes, you pour gasoline all over life’s clothes and set it on fire. After a few minutes of burning to death, you piss on the smoldering charred remains. That’s what life gets. I’d like to see life try to pull that shit again.

The prevailing assumption of all of these theories is that being given lemons is a negative thing. Like the worse thing in the world that you could ever receive is a lemon. Like lemons are the equivalent of a thermos full of diarrhea. Like lemons killed Tupac. Like the showers at Dachau were squirting out lemon juice.

This assumption is erroneous! Erroneous, I say! There are people out there that would go apeshit for a basket of lemons. Just think, there are little black African kids with HIV/AIDs and crazy bellies and flies swarming around their oversized heads, eating nothing but sand and hair, and we are pissed of about getting some lemons?! Delicious, juicy lemons? Lifegiving fruit?! Sure maybe they’re a bit sour. And maybe they’re one of the more acidic members of the citrus family. But they are better than eating sand and hair and thermos’s full of wet, runny, butt juice.

So next time life gives you lemons, be glad you’re not one of those black African kids with the big head and skinny malnourished bodies and the HIV/AIDs and the flies and the machete wielding warlords that chopped up your parents and the sand and hair and the lack of potable water. And worst of all, imagine how tiring it would be for the Wichati people to have to kneel every time someone mentions the name of their sacred white bat. Shikaka. So tiring. I bet they get shin splints out the ying yang. The only thing that they have to live for is the hope that Lady Blacksmith Mambazo will come out with a new album. Fat chance African kids, fat as fuck.

Here’s our advice: When life gives you lemons just fucking take them and eat them. Rind and seeds and all. There’s no need to even bother chewing. Swallow them whole. There’s vitamin C in there. Don’t be a fucking jizzwad.

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.

MY BIRTHDAY PARTY IS FUCKING RUINED!

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My birthday party is fuh-king ruined. Period. UGH! What don’t you understand about that? I wish I had never been born. I wish I had been aborted. I wish “Karen” , if that’s even her real name, would have just pooped me out of her sweaty vag right down the toilet and flushed me into oblivion. Into that sarlacc pit of nothingness. That’s how FUCKED my birthday is. period.

You know, you only turn 16 once and you want it to be special. It’s supposed to be the one day in your whole life where everything goes perfect. Everybody is supposed to make you the center of attention. Everybody is supposed to buy you presents. You’re supposed to get a Range Rover and MTV is supposed to video tape you doing doughnuts in the parking lot, while you blast Black Eyed Peas so loud that cum balls squirt out your nose hole. That’s how loud the Black Eyed Peas are supposed to be, loud enough to defy rational anatomical functions. Shooting jizz rockets out your nostril? Shit’s straight retarded, Black Eyed Peas style. That’s what sweet 16 is supposed to be about. It’s supposed to be the first day of the rest of your life. It’s the moment when a girl blossoms into womanhood and lets the cutest boy in school (Gunter Slugsworth) put his thumb in her plum pudding.

The only thing I REALLY needed for my super sweet 16 was an iron-casted replica of Draco Malfoy’s cock-muscle. I wanted to see the look on Liz’s face when she came over for Harry-themed Trivial Pursuit night and I had that thing sitting on my mantle, glistening in the J.K. Rowling approved candlelight, staring her right in her stupid puffy-nippled tits. She thought she was soooo bitchin’ when she brought over the HP collection on Blu-Ray, even though the only reason her Dad bought that for her was because he was cheating on her Mom with Coach Terri, the assistant women’s softball coach, and felt like a total dickwad after she drowned herself in the baby pool in their front lawn on Valentine’s Day. I mean don’t me wrong or whatever, I like Harry and all but I would rather have my mom not be dead. Plus that baby pool is practically ruined now. UGH!

All I wanted was a Twilight themed blood fountain but noooo. Gurgling and spewing that sweet red sauce for everybody’s sipping pleasure. Daddy said he couldn’t get the hospital to agree to shipping 7 gallons of human blood to our house. Total fucking bullshit! Last time I checked, the hospital doesn’t have a monopoly on blood. And I’m not picky, I had Dad even go down to the vet and see if we could just drain our own blood from the pile of dogs that they had put down that day, but the people at the vet are homo’s and said they would “call the cops” if he didn’t “leave the premises.”

And then Tiff shows up with her new haircut with cropped bangs. She god damn knows cropped bangs are my thing! I pioneered cropped bangs in September. I Thomas Edison’ed that shit. I Steve Jobs’ed cropped bangs back when she still had those silly fucking leg braces. She fucking Billy-boy Gates’ed that shit like a poseur supreme. It’s like she is deliberately trying to sabotage my look. She’s going to ruin it because cropped bangs don’t look good on fat girls who can’t walk straight.

And I specifically asked for a sushi bar with a real Chinese person, so I could look sophisticated and Asiatic. But noooo, apparently the Japs are better at making sushi than the Chinese. If I wanted my super sweet 16 to turn into Pearl Harbor, I would’ve invited mole-faced Cuba Gooding III and told him to bring his dad.

Plus, this queso dip tastes like the back of Rosie O’Donnell’s knees.

Worst. Birthday. Ever.