Seriously. For the last time. I’m not going to say it again. I ain’t no hollaback girl. Honestly, I don’t know how many more times I have to say it before you get it through that thick skull of yours. I strongly resent all these recent accusations that I am some sort of hollaback girl. What have I ever done that would lead you to that conclusion? I mean, this shit is just completely bananas. B-A-N-A…I don’t need to spell it out for you. You know how to spell bananas. And I don’t mean like literally that my shit is made of bananas. Like I ate half a bushel of nay-nays and now I’m dumpin’ out pure naner puddin’. I mean that it is just crazy! Sure, I’ll have a banana or two every once in a while. Guilty as charged. It’s a delicious fruit. But it’s not like my diet completely consists of bananas. I guess if we were going to be more specific we could say that my shit is partially bananas but it also contains healthy amounts of chicken mcnuggers, doritos, hummus, waffles, froyo, yoplait, dannimals, gogurt, etc. After further analysis, I think it’s safe to say that, for the most part, my shit is yogurt. Y-O-G-U-R-T. God! do you really have to over-analyze every little detail?! The consistency of my shit is not the point, the point is that it’s absurd to even think that I am in any way, shape or form some sort of hollaback hootchie cootchie.
Sometimes I feel like you are just deliberately trying to hurt my feelings or something. My analyst, Dr. Werner Lipschwitz, says it’s cuz you’re jealous of me and mines. Look, it’s not my fault my dad makes like a Jake-Jillion dollars a day and bought me the 2011 HYBRID Range Rover and Wiz Khalifa came to my MTV Super Sweet 16 party at which I gave Derek an old fashion herky-jerky in the broom closet. He got so much jerky in there that people are going to have to start calling him Slim Jim. Or Jack Links. I’ll tell you one thing, if we were to say that Derek’s schlongdong was the illustrious Sasquatch, then I’m here to tell you that the ‘squatch exists and that he is living in Derek G.’s khaki cargos. Except unlike the squatch popularly known in lore, this squatch is shaved clean as a dutch whistle. Like porpoise skin. It’s the 21st Century Sasquatch. The kind that shaves every morning, dons a business suit, grabs a cup of coffee, and heads to the office downtown. The commute from his forest cave is not bad as long as he can beat the school traffic. And let me tell ya, he busts his ass out there from nine to five, crunchin’ numbers like it’s nobody’s bidness. Sure coworkers are always curious about his large projecting brow, mammoth hands and feet, failure to use article adjectives or proper pronouns, and the dead squirrel he brought for lunch. But after he calmly adjusts his spectacles and explains that he was brought over from the company’s Ukraine sales branch and that he was originally from in Dniprodzerzhynsk, their suspicions that he might be a shaved Sasquatch are quelled. No questions asked. It’s the perfect alibi because Ukrainians are huge, hideous, and uncircumcised- and that’s just the women.
And did you hear the one about the Ukrainian man that wanted to buy the Ukrainian meat tube? So this man walks into the store and says to the clerk “Excuse me miss, my name is Fjodor and I’d like to buy your finest Ukrainian meat tube and I would like it garnished with ketchup and pickled relish. Then I’m going to gobble it up like a ….”
The clerk eyed the man and asked “I take it you’re Ukranian?”
The man gawked offended-like and replied, “What just because I want a delicious Ukrainian meat tube, you assume that I’m Ukrainian? That is so judgmental of you. You’re a fucking cunt. If I asked for a Polish sausage would you assume that I was Polish? If I had ordered a German Bratwurst would you assume I was a Nazi? If I requested a kosher weenie would you accuse me of killing Jesus and ask me to do your taxes? If I wanted a taco would throw me out of you’re country and build up a wall over hundreds of miles of our shared border to prevent my reentry? If I asked for some cornbread and collard greens would you try to get me to play on your basketball team? If I wanted some Faygo would you assume that I was a fan of the Insane Clown Posse? Would you? Would you call me a Juggalo, you racist bitch? Answer me goddamnit.”
“….Well, no…not necessarily” she responded timidly.
“Well then why you trying to play me like that, esse?”
“….It’s just because this is Old Navy. We only sell sweater pants.”
That’s just a classic joke that displays how dumb and ugly Ukrainians are. They’re half-wits. Thick-headed. Harebrained. And other similar adjectives. To be honest, we only brought up that joke because we are sponsored by Old Navy and contractually obligated to mention Old Navy sweater pants. They’re comfy and snug. It’s like having hamsters glued all over your legs. You’d have to be as dumb and ugly as a Ukrainian to not go out and buy a pair today at your nearest Old Navy Fashion Center. But that decision is up to you.
As for me? If I said it once, I’ve said it a Jake-jillion times: I ain’t no hollaback girl. I mean honestly, take this pink ribbon off my eyes. I’m exposed and it’s no big surprise. I’m just a girl. If that makes me some a weirdo, then fine. But seriously, I’m a just a girl in the world. Guess I’m some kind of freak. Didn’t you’re mom ever tell you “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t speak.” Don’t tell me who to be. Don’t tell me cuz it hurts. And if another one of you droopy-balled cum-marinaters calls me a hollaback girl, then I will slash your eyelids with a scalpel and pour vinegar in your face while my husband, Gavin Rossdale, kidnaps your kids and violently rapes them in front you.