Tag Archives: AIDs

Marijuana Kills

Posted on by

0

NO_MARIJUANA_copyI’m gonna come right out and say it. It’s about time someone had the gall. No goofing. No pussyfooting. Not gonna beat off in the bushes. Cuz you know why? Cuz I don’t sugarcoat diddly-shit. I prefer Special K to Frosted Flakes for that very reason. No sugar-coating. Especially, when said coat is this vintage Goo Goo Dolls blue jean jacket.

matthew_mcconaughey_wallpaper_hd-normalMarijuana kills. No matter what Matt McConaughey and his pot abs try to tell you. He’s a dope fiend and a pawn of Big Marijuana’s corporate death machine. They use his rocking bod, white teeth, thick head of hair, and disarming southern drawl as an opiate of the masses, to distract them from the proverbial holocaust that is reefer.

How do I know so much? Well, I don’t tell this to everybody but you seem like a real coolassmotherfuckingpussyeater, so I’m going to tell it to you straight. I used to do dope. I used to toke fattie doobers. I used to get blazed the fuck out, child. My eyes would get all red like a doggie’s dick and I would think I was real hot shit. I used to load up heady nuggiez into me bong, James Van Der Bong, and ascend to the green peak of bcc48302f5077b96b78251e8ab2f7d33Mount Ganjamenjaro under the tutelage of my spirit Sherpa, the Weasel himself, Paul E. Shore. I been there, kid, and it nearly ruined my life, buuuuuddddy.

You see, marijuana works fast. Like a deadly jellyfish. One moment you’re munching out on Jack Links and Cool Ranch Doritos with your besties, trying to figure out if sea turtles can put their head inside their shells, and the next thing you know, there’s blood and severed dicks and ripped up pictures of Ang Lee everywhere. As quick as that.

One moment you’re trying to figure out how to work the blu-ray player because Gordy Redboxed The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey and the next thing you know, Gordy is dead meat and you’re wearing his skin like a wet suit RED BOX VIDEOSto CVS to return the movie because those late fees are bonkers. Just like that, Marijuana took a giant shit all over your life.

But that’s not the worst of it. One moment you’re piling in the Subaru to go to CiCi’s Pizza to have a chocolate pizza eating contest, then Gordy says “Aw wait man, I forgot how to get to CiCi’s. Isn’t it by the Hobby Town USA?”

and Kyle says, “I don’t know, man. I think Hobby Town closed down.”

and Gordy says, “Shit, I guess it is a pretty niche market. My cousin, Big Brucie, had one of those radio controlled helicopters from Hobby Town though. He chopped a bird’s head off in the blades. And we gave it like a legitimate bird funeral. It was solemn as fuck. But when we were burying it, I got to thinking, like, when we bury this bird underground, little worms are gonna ravage its headless corpse. So I got to thinking, like, those little worms are probably seeking revenge for the thousands of their brothers and sisters this heartless motherfucker ate. It really is an ironic sort of justice.”

and Kyle says, “Well, what if we just went to Hungry Howard’s? They’ve got those special flavored crusts. Like, butter flavored and butter cheese flavored and butter garlic herb flavored and I’m merely paraphrasing the menu.”

A momentary hush falls over the entire car as everyone considers the vast possibilities of Hungry Howard’s flavored crusts. The moment of reflection reaches a pinnacle and shatters into an eruption of enthusiastic cheering and high-fiving. Granted, it wasn’t CiCi’s chocolate pizza buffet- but flavored crust?! How the fuck do they come up with this shit?! The excitement inside the car escalates quickly. High-fiving turns into hugging. Stay-puft-marshmallow-manHugging turns into French kissing. And the next thing you know everybody is jerking off on one another. Blasting fat goo-wads all in each others’ hair and eyeballs. Urethras are on full blast like Bull Connor’s firehouses in Birmingham 1963. There’s no concern at all for the Subaru’s finely crafted artisan-quality upholstery. It’s like that scene from Ghostbusters, you know, after they kill the giant marshmallow guy and there’s a thick layer of sticky mallow coating New York City. More mallow than you could shake a stick at.  And much like the current citizens of New York City, now everybody in the Subaru has AIDs (thanks to Kyle), so they’re not even really going to enjoy the butter garlic herb flavored crust by the time they get to Hungry Howards because they will have those Tom Hanks lesions on their mouths  That’s how quick marijuana can turn on you.

So next time some peanuthead offers you a little puff-puff of the green demon, tell them to stick it in their peehole. And tell them “AIDs is my anti-drug. And Redbox late fees.” And then call the police.

The following are real life victims of Marijuana overdose:
Unknown

Lydia's Cast 007 1

84648_body_cast_james

body_cast_5_by_viptattoo-d5h2wbg

Bailey-with-cast

images

When Life Gives You Lemons

Posted on by

1

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.

This Is the End

Posted on by

0

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’m Famous As Shit.

Posted on by

0

This is it. I finally got my big break.

See, I started out my day just like I start out everyday: I woke up at 1:30, threw up in the sink, did a handful of side lunges and arm circles to get my ligaments feeling loose, and got in my car to go get some chicken. I am just driving around enjoying my chicken when I look to the car next to me. And I’ll be god damned if it wasn’t the Google Maps street car with a big pole on the top and like 3 camera’s looking right at me. Click, click, clickity, clack, motherfucker. Me, drumstick in hand. Straight to the Google. I am immortalized. Do you know how many people look at Google per second? I’m giving it 2 weeks until the C.E.O of Church’s Chicken, Father Terry O’Houlahan is giving me a ringy-dingy to make me the new face of fried chicken. Colonel Sanders can eat my pussy. He’s a big old bitch baby compared to yours truly. He’s history. Like Bin Laden and holding open the door for women and mexicans.

To all those motherfuckers who ever doubted me and said I’d never amount to a hill of shit, fuck you. Mom, Dad- fuck you. Coach Sanderson- fuck you. Gramma Esther- fuck you, you’re not even my real gramma you old bitch. Go break a hip and make some potato soup or whatever it is you do all fucking day. And for fuck’s sake STOP COLLECTING BEANIE BABIES! It’s two thousand motherfucking eleven. And most of all, Allison Hester- fuck you, you dirty slut. I loved you since the 7th grade and you never gave a shit about me. I joined the football team specifically because I knew you loved fucking football players. I was hoping that maybe if I sat on the bench for a week, you would let me pound it out under the bleachers and you would realize that we had this real connection and you’d let me cum in your retainer. But no, you literally had sex with everyone on the football team but me, including Coach Sanderson, Assistant Coach Nichols, and Mr. Craigs, the 75 year old janitor. Fuck you Allison Hester. Don’t come crawling to me, begging to give me a slob job in my jacuzzi after my face is plastered on every Church’s cup from here to Roanoke.

First thing I’m gonna do when I get famous is make an album with Jay-Z called “Steve Jobs Ain’t Shit.” This album is gonna be my outlet to talk about real shit that matters to me like child prostitutes, smoking salvia and hanging out with my cousin Brucey. He’s in a wheelchair, but he is still cool like a regular person.  Like, he doesn’t shit on himself and embarass me at parties or nothin’. I’m gonna be saying stuff like “Wake up earthlings! Sitting in a wheelchair don’t make you a bitch!” and then I’ll say something else that rhymes with that. Cuz like, Brucey has been the only one that has been there for me through thick and thin and you better believe that when I’m a big celebrity or whatever, I’m bringing Brucey with me. You know how Kid Rock had a little midget that everybody thought was his retarded white trash son at first, until we realized it was his miniature assistant? Well, Brucey : Me :: Midget Assistant: Kid Rock.

My love for handicapped people will further fan the flames of fame. They’ll probably ask me to host the Special Olympics. It’s like Brangelina and all those kids they adopted with AIDs. They only got MORE famous because people saw that they had heart and weren’t afraid of some sick kids from Africa or whatever.

Second thing I’m gonna do when I get famous is break up with my girlfriend and screw some bubble butt bitch and give her burns on her knees from tit-fucking her doggy-style on my brand new, state of the art, clay tennis courts.

Third thing I’m gonna do is open up a Roth IRA account. So many celebs have the problem of blowing all their money wads on nose whiskey and nights on the town with Ashton Kutcher and genital reconstructive surgery and pet rhinoceroses with gold tipped horns and VIP tickets to Coldplay concerts and out of court settlements to all the parents of the children I punctured and lavish lawnscaping. If you’re not careful you’ll end up spending the later part of your career doing VH1 reality TV just to pay the bills. I’m going to do the smart thing and save some for retirement. Plus what I really like about the Roth accounts is that they are tax free. Cuz I’m all like “fuck taxes.”