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 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.”
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.
I 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….
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.
Lingering 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.
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.
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.
P. Dick ‘n’ Sons
Seriously, who the FUCK let the dogs out? I left them in the laundry room and somebody opened the door and they got out and took a soft serve dookie-dump all over my grammy’s Persian rug. And guess what jagoff, Persia doesn’t even exist anymore so that thing is a collectible. Just fess up. Spill dem guts. I PROMISE I won’t get mad. Swear to Gauld! Even though I told everyone specifically to stay the fuck out of the laundry room because the dogs were in there and if they got out and juicy deuced in the house, grammy would have my balls for breakfast with a glass of fresh squeezed OJ and a half a grapefruit and a bowl of piping hot oatmeal and a whole wheat bagel and cream cheese and a bowl of fiberPLUS. Grammy loves breakfast. She is always saying how it’s the most important meal of the day. However, there is no empirical evidence to support this. My point is, I’m not mad about the dogs. Seriously. I just want the person responsible to come forward so I can punch you in your stupid orangutan tits, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!
As if that wasn’t bad enough, then somebody left the back door open and those mangy mutts done dug up my flower beds. And I was THIS CLOSE to winning the tri-county’s monthly Most Beautiful Lawn Award and telling May’s reigning champ- Old Lady Goutshanks to go fuck herself with a big ol shovel, right in her poop shoot once and for all. Every month I’ve sat idly by while Goutshanks shows up with her fucking chrysanthemums. March, April, May. Cunt ass chrysanthemums. This month was my month to turn everything around. But then somebody let the dogs out. Now I can kiss that All-You-Can-Fit-In-Your-Shopping-Cart Lowes shopping spree and $35 gift certificate to Olive Garden goodbye. I could almost taste the unlimited salad and b-b-b-buttery breadsticks. Imagine that, hot doughy breadsticks dripping with sticky cum-butter. You ever had a mouth full of cum-butter? Me neither. Sounds fucking de-vine, but thanks to some loose-labia’ed floppy twat flap, I guess I’ll never know. The thing that really irks my nips raw is that now I won’t get to see the look on Granny Goutshanks’s face when the judges buttholes clinch in their stain-resistant khakis after laying eyes on my geraniums. Goutshanks won. Goutshanks won. Woe.
And if that don’t beat all, then somebody left the gate in the yard wide open and all the dogs got out and they ran in the street and all got hit by cars and are all dead now. If you were to go outside and look into the street, you would see like 50 to 60 dead dogs out there littering the roadside. Mountains of them. A dog pile.It smells yucky and it really is an eyesore. It’s driving the market prices on every house in the neighborhood into the fucking gutter. All because somebody let the dogs out.
Was it you Randall?! WAS IT?! Were you born in a barn Randall, you selfish so and so!? What don’t you understand about closing the gate so the dogs don’t get out? Why I oughta! Sometimes I just want to take you behind the woodshed and give you the old one-two, RIGHT IN THE KISSER. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to wallop you. Wallop you good ‘n hard. One time. Clock Ya. Knock your block clean off, seeee? Pack your bags Randy, I got you a one way ticket on the knuckle-express with an in flight meal of knuckle sandwich with a side of black eyed peas. And a pickle. And a Capri-Sun.
So I’m only going to ask one more time, RANDALL, who let the dogs out? Who? Who-who? Who? Who?
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.
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.
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.
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.
Aristotle, Socrates, Play-doh, Hobbes, Descartes, Hegel, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Voltaire, Marx, Sartre.
Their ponderings penetrate the core of our being as if it were some Sophomore on Prom night. As if it were some little naive, insecure Sophomore slut-pouch with budding breasts, puffy nipples and skinny toothpick legs, eager to win the affection of the Senior with finely quaffed hair, that went to State for Cross Country, and got a scholarship to Vanderbilt (Go Dores!). She yearns for him to rip her in half with that aerodynamic, streamlined Cross Country Cock, so that she can finally become a woman, so that she can finally become popular, so that she may forever be tied to the Senior that took her virginity like a mustachioed thief in the night at a farmer’s market in Persia. Picture Aladdin but with twice the gravy-stick. That’s pretty much exactly what those philosophers were like.
Q: Would you rather have sex with…
a) Some big fat lady. We’re talking really fat. Precious fat. Type 2 fat. Gilbert Grape fat. Double-breathing fat. The kind of fat where her teeth are all worn down and stubby from the incessant gnawing. The kind of fat where her nurses have to apply olive oil to her massive inner thighs to prevent chaffing which causes a constant threat of brush fires in her hairy coochie because of the intense friction. That fat. Like stretch marks that could be mistaken for railroad tracks fat. At least you’ll be getting a blowjizzle cuz you know she gon’ get hongry halfway through.
b) A pregnant lady. Like 9 or 10 months pregnant. She is due in the hospital any day now. Absolutely ready to pop like that first kernel in a bag of Orville Redenbacher right around the 35 second mark. You’re not sure whether she is gushing from your chode or whether her water just broke. Same stretch marks, but these are caused by the 7lb, 6oz human being being carried in her uterus like a mother ‘roo carries her babe. Also, nothin’ like fucking someone and getting head from someone else at the same time. And I mean really getting head. That little baby’s skull inside her puzz hasn’t fused together. Ol’ little squishy head is only providing more noggin for the floggin’. More brain for my wang (slant rhyme). More scalp for my….dick.
The great thing about either choice is that you won’t really have to worry about pregnancy. In the case of the pregnant woman, her womb is already occupied. In the case of the big fat lady, there is very small chance that you will actually even get into her poonan. Chances are you’ll just meander cock first in the cavernous folds of her olive oiled mass. May we suggest bringing along a loaf of basil Focaccia bread? It really compliments the olive oil and you can leave a trail of bread crumbs in case you have trouble finding your way out of them fatacombs.
Like all Big Questions, there is no clear answer. Perhaps the answer isn’t even important. Rather, the importance comes from the existential journey that the question leads us on and the personal growth that results. Thank you and goodnight.