Category Archives: Journal Entry

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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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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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.

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.

Rumors About Breakfast

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There’s this nasty rumor floating around out there in the ether that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. That’s just nasty. I don’t know where everybody came up with that nastiness.

Sure, breakfast is good. You know, cereal and waffles and eggy mcmuffs and shit. I’m not trying to say that breakfast isn’t good. If that’s what you think I’m saying then you need to fucking chill, guy. Like back the fuck up. You need to quit putting words in my mouth or I’ll put my boot in your ass. It’s the american way. Come at me bro. Come fucking at me. All I said was that it’s not the best. But it’s good.

I don’t even know how you would measure the amount of importance between breakfast, lunch, and din din. They’re all so unique and important in their own individual ways. It’s like apples and ba-nay-nays, kid. They’ve all got their own thing going. I mean, lunch has it GOIIIIIN ON. Sandwiches. Soups. Salads backstrokin’ in chunky bleu cheese. Dinner has spaghetti and meatballs with marinara sauce and some garlic bread. Maybe some Parm Cheese sprinkled ever so delicately. I’m talking a soft kiss of Parm Cheese like the touch of a woman. Shit’s out of control. Double O C. I’d like to see someone try to say that they don’t like sandwiches or spaghetti and meatballs with marinara sauce and some garlic bread with a straight face. Fat chance. As if. What to the ever. Pinch me cuz I must be dreaming. Never gonna happen. Not in my house.

Seems to me that everybody out there is making these wild claims about how important breakfast is meanwhile they have no empirical evidence to back up their statement. Hello, it’s the fucking scientific era. We’ve got a whole theory about how science works and how we can decide if things are important. It’s a strict set of principles to prevent a bunch of screwheads from making nasty claims like the one in question. See, there’s something about a hypothesis that you have to test. And then you observe what happens and then you’ve got yourself a theory. And theories are great. There’s a bunch of really good ones. There’s one about relativity. There’s one about monkeys turning into people and shit. And once a theory becomes important enough, the head scientist declares it a scientific law. He calls all his scientific friends over to his laboratory and everybody wears lab coats and they play with each other’s sphincters and have a gay old time. And that’s the best. Seriously. It don’t get much better than that. But as far as I can tell, this whole thing about breakfast has not gone through this process. Where’s the evidence? Where’s the proof? Gimme some thing I can see. Gimme something to talk about. Gimme some lovin’. Gimme one reason to stay here.

I feel like what maybe happened was somebody got all pissed off at lunch and in a fit of emotional, irrational thinking declared breakfast the most important, just to get under lunch’s skin. Now, I don’t know about you, but that seems a little childish. Last time I checked, we’re not in middle school any more so leave your fucking bullshit drama at the door. Seriously. Take off that faggy Eastbay backpack, unzip the front pocket, slowly remove your bullshit drama, then kindly eat a whopper size portion of cock. Cuz we don’t need that shit. Sure, lunch can be a taffy-pulling cunt from time to time. I’ll admit that sometimes I get the urge to go get lunch, hack it up into little pieces, and feed it to the stray cats that live in the cardboard boxes behind the Best Buy. But that’s only because I don’t have the patience for lunch’s ‘tude and I’m a felinophile. Is that a crime? Not if I don’t get caught. Anyways, what I’m trying to say is, yeah, me and lunch bump heads sometimes but you don’t see me dragging breakfast into the matter with some vile slanderizin’.

I suppose that it is also possible that whoever started the rumor just made a premature judgement. Since breakfast is first and all, I bet he was like “Holy cow, these Honey Bunches of Oates are fucking delicious. Breakfast is important.” Except he never really gave lunch and dinner a fair crack at it. He just went ahead and blew his “important” load early at like 7:30 in the morning like a horny schoolboy who is now gonna be late for class. I’m a firm believer that whenever you are trying to decide on something as important as being important, everybody in question should get a fair chance to state their case. That seems like the least you could do. Innocent ’til proven guilty, ya jackweed.

Maybe that’s just the democratic side of me. It’s my red, white, and blue showing. And let me tell you one more thing, those colors, the red, white, and blue ones that I was just talking about, they don’t run. I’m as American as they come. Shit girl, I got a gun in my backpack right now. And if you don’t believe me, I’ll show it to you. Maybe I’ll even let you hold it. You’d like that wouldn’t you? That cold steel between your fingers? The power to just shoot anybody in the nads that you wanted? Right in the nads. That’s what being a god feels like.

You know how people say guns don’t kill people? That’s not true. They kill people all the time. I’ve killed like nine people with my gun. Not like little kids or anything, I’m not some sort of weirdo. They were elder folks on the verge of dying anyway. I could sense death was upon them. Looming like a dark aura. And those cats behind Best Buy told me it was the right thing to do, so I went ahead and put those old fuckers out of their misery. You should have seen them, pushing around shopping carts, reading the label on the can of peaches, being fucking old.  They had it coming and I don’t regret it for a second. In fact, I should be praised for my humanitarianism. I should be given a trophy by the mayor or a root beer float party or something. Or at the very least say something about it in the newspaper.

You know that’s the problem with the news these days. Their priorities are all fucked up. It’s like…Elian Gonzalez? Who gives a shit? Everyday with the Elian Gonzalez stories. I’m so sick of hearing about him. I get it, he floated over in an old tire and watched his mom get eaten by sharks, let’s move on. Take the kid to Disney World, get his picture taken on Splash Mountain, maybe get him one of those turkey legs in Frontier Land, go watch the animatronic bear jamboree, and let’s talk about something that really
matters. LIKE GLOBAL WARMING. It’s hot as shit outside and nobody is saying anything about it. It’s April and it’s 85 degrees and I’m sweating my dick off. Literally. Sweating. My. Dick. Slap. Off. I got no dick now.

How am I supposed to procreate? I’ve always dreamed of starting a family but that dream is squandered. SQUANDERED. Now if I want to start a family, I’m going to have to adopt and that shit sucks. There’s a reason that those kids real parents didn’t want them. Probably because their heads were too big or they’ve got two left hands. I don’t want one of those orphan babies, I want a normal baby. One from my now non-existent penis.

I guess I could always just steal a baby from the hospital or something. I’m not sure how strict their security is. I bet they have video cameras at least. So I’ll have to wear like a mask or a bandana. I think the key to stealing a baby from the hospital is all about confidence. If you just pretend like you’re the legit and play it cool, nobody is going to fuck with you and you can just stroll right on out with your own little bundle of joy. By the time anybody notices that baby is gone, you’ll be a third of the way to Costa Rica in an all white, linen suit. Like Panama Jack. Except Costa Rica. Costa Rica Jack.

See, in Costa Rica nobody gives a fuck. They don’t have police or rules or indoor pluming ormoney. It’s just like a bunch of chill ass fuckers chilling out like a motherfucker. And when I say “chill ass fuckers” I don’t mean they fuck asses. Sure, some of them probably have. I’d be willing to bet that there are a handful that fooled around in the anal department but I doubt they’re all into that. I’d have to see some statistical evidence before I jumped to that conclusion. Some cold hard evidence. And that’s what I’m getting at people. E-vi-dence.

See, we’ve got a whole scientific process we have to go through before we can declare an entire sovereign nation a bunch of ass fuckers. It’s a strict set of principles to prevent a bunch of screwheads from making nasty claims like the one in question. See, there’s something about a hypothesis that you have to test. And then you observe what happens and then you’ve got yourself a theory. And theories are great. There’s a bunch of really good ones. There’s one about relativity. There’s one about monkeys turning into people and shit. And once a theory becomes best enough, the head scientist declares it a scientific law. He calls all his scientific friends over to his laboratory and play with each other’s sphincters and everybody wears lab coats and they have a gay old time. And that’s the best. Seriously. It don’t get much better than that. But as far as I can tell, this whole thing about breakfast has not gone through this process. That’s all I’m saying.

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.

I Got Picked for ROAD RULES!

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Jackpot! ChaCHING! Who’s got two middle fingers aimed your direction and is gonna be the next MTV reality star? I’m gonna hit the open road in that Winnebago with the cow skull on the grill and 5 total strangers between the age of 18 and 24: A slut, a religious fanatic, a gay guy, a douchey homophobic jock-strap with gelled hair, and a minority.

My role in the gang will be the recovering drug addict ex-convict that struggles with his tempestuous past. See, my dad used to beat me. My girlfriend used to beat me. My aunt Tess used to burn me with cigarette butts. I was molested by my SCUBA instructor. I used to have a speech impediment. I had tuberculosis. So I started smoking grass. Monkey grass. I smoked so much monkey grass that my Gram-gram kicked me to the curb. I was living in the sewers, eating nothing but half eaten hotdogs and old shoelaces. I was blowing all the cash that I earned from drawing caricatures of tourists at the boardwalk on that stankity-ass sticky-icky monkey weed from Lowe’s Home Improvement. One time I smoked so much monkey grass that the whole left side on my body went paralyzed for like 3 months. I could only talk out of the side of my mouth like Greta Van Susteren and I just laid under a grate in the sewer hoping somebody would drop some hotdog or lose a flip flop. I once starred on the internet porn site “GooseneckCocks.cum” under the pseudonym Solomon Soysausage, in order to make enough money to feed my addiction. I also killed my whole family with gardening sheers I stole from Lowe’s while re-upping on that sweet ape cheeba. But then I sent in my audition tape, got selected, and now I’m ready to turn over a new leaf.

Obviously I’m going to cause lots of drama in the Winni, so that I’ll get lots of screen time and be famous as fuck. I’m going to double stuff cream pie the Slut with the Douchey Jock. She will get pregnant and we won’t know who be dat baby daddy, so we will go halfsies on an abortion, much to the dismay of the religious zealot. To make it up to him, I’m gonna ask if I can say Grace at supper, then use it as an excuse to thank God for allowing abortions. Then I’m going to tell the minority “I’m not racist, some of my best friends are black.” And I’m not going to talk to the gay guy whatsoever. Cuz I don’t want to get cooties. Midway through the season, I’m going to shatter my sobriety by going on a hardcore monkey grass binge until the left side of my body goes completely paralyzed. My castmates will have to push me around in a wheelchair and wipe the drool from my chin.

Once I’m in Road Rulez, I’m going to bungee jump my absolute tits off. I can see it now, there I am dangling by my ankles from an elastic rope, high off adrenaline and monkey junk, with my tits some 4o feet below at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. They’ll probably let me bungee jump off the Goodyear Blimp into a volcano. I’m going to be SO NERVOUS! Cuz I’m afraid of heights and lava. Those are probably like my two biggest fears. My third biggest fear is either Lowe’s running out of monkey dope, or my aunt Tess coming back to life, pulling the garden sheers from her forehead, and chasing me down and burning my butthole with the ashes from a tobacco pipe.

After the season is over and I’m a notorious Road Rules personality, I can just do Real World vs. Road Rule challenges until the end of my days. I’ll do physical challenges like hitting some Real World fuck-stick with a foam noodle and they’ll fall into a swimming pool full of eels. Since that is just a seasonal gig, I can invest my time and money into the technology to upload my consciousness onto the internet. Like TRON. I’m going to wear florescent spandex suits that  make my gooseneck cock look stout as a Guinness Draft.

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.

Elevator Diaries

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“Elevator Going Up”

You’re never more alone than when standing in a crowded elevator.

My eyes were fixed firmly on my feet. In moments like these I keep them under the strictest regulation.  No sidewards glances. No eye contact. No acknowledgement that I was sharing this confined space with 5 other lifeforms. Head down. Staring at my shoes. Dems the rules.

Then I felt a twinge of electricity. A pang of something magical brewing in my nethers. First it started in my toes. Then I crinkled my nose. Wherever it goes, I always know: I was about to chub out.

I felt my pleated stain-resistant khakis tighten around my thighs and firmly latch onto my clinched fanny parts. My pupils dilated, their focus climbing up to the emerging lump in my lap. It began to grow in slow motion like an ash snake lit on the 4th of July. Beads of sweat began to aggregate on my brow and I could feel the blood pumping into the sleeping behemoth. Pulsating. Thriving like a hearty turnip.

By the time we reached the 12th floor, my humble erection was at a 45 degree angle, glaring straight into the eyes of my fellow elevateurs like a shackled cyclops- drooling and veiny.

The trembling young nipper next to me clung to her mother’s dress, shielding her eyes from my rock hard dick. An old Babushka clutched her rosary beads and murmered low and quick for her God to save her. The Chinaman pointed and shouted at my cocksicle as if Mothra was setting the city ablaze with his laser vision. After making eye contact with my throbbing member, a young businessman nervously reached into his briefcase. Rifling through his stock reports, he retrieved a pistol. In an instant his lips were wrapped around the barrel like it was Pete Wentz’s cock and he was a valued customer at Hot Topic. Swallowing that metaphorical load, his brain matter painted each wall of the elevator. The Chinaman, stunned, said nothing slowly backing into one corner. The Babushka dropped to her knees, threw up her hands and began to weep. The mother put the back of her hand to her forehead and fainted, collapsing into the pool of blood, brain, and business papers that had amalgamated on the the elevator floor; her young daughter standing there, motionless, not knowing what came next. Our eyes met, then like two kittens following a laser pointer, slowly panned down to the unreceding mound of flesh pulsating the button-fly of my khakis. A small grin appeared, then somewhere in the distance, a bell rang.

Ain’t nothing but my Bone-Daddy, y’all!