When It Comes to Ninja Turtles…

When it comes to ninja turtles, everybody knows Raphael is cool, but rude. Like seriously rude. RAVISHINGLY rude. Rude Boying out his blowhole, Rihanna style.

It’s like he doesn’t have a lick of respect for authority or anybody. He’s always in a bad mood and saying dickhead stuff. He is  a dramatic little teenage puss and thinks his life is so hard and no one understands him. Well you know what Raphael, fuck you in your watertight pooper. You little emo bitch. You get to eat pizza and stab people with twin sais all day. Rough fucking life there, Raph. And you get to live in a sewer. Do you have any idea what I would give to live in a sewer for one measly day? God, sewers are like the coolest place to hang out. It’s an underworld maze of tubing. It’s like D-Z Discovery Zone except with waterfalls and used tampons everywhere. You’ve got nothing to complain about, guy. You don’t have to be so rude to everybody.

Apparently Splinter didn’t teach that turtle one bit of manners. I’m not holdingthat against him though. He’s a nappy headed rat that taught a bunch of turtles karate. That in itself is a pretty impressive feat. To expect that he would have time to teach Raphael how to not be a cunt all the time may be an unrealistic expectation. Donatello seemed to learn on his own pretty fucking quickly though. Just saying.

Aside from an irreparable character flaw, there are only three real reasons I can think that Raphael is such a rude-ass.

1) Premature hair loss. He’s only a teenager but his dome is smoother than a tub of margarine. This baldness may have led to some confidence issues. In which case, his rudeness may just be a defense mechanism. He got dealt a bad hand, I’ll give him that. But it’s not like he’s the only one. All his teenage mutant ninja bro’s are bald too. And if it really bothers you so much Raph, put on a ballcap! DUUUH.

2) He also may be self conscious because he feels less talented than his turtle brethren. Leonardo, as the eldest turtle, has assumed leadership position of the gang. And understandibly so, Leo is a sober and rational decision maker. He’s like JFK but with two fucking swords! If I’m in a gang and someone has one sword, much less TWO, and all I got is a little pussy-baby wooden stick, then of course I’m taking orders from the dude with gigantic katanas. And that’s not a crack at Donatello. Donny is a fucking computer wiz kid. Wiz Khalifa on the mouses and keys, son. He got a bachelors in mechanical engineering from MIT and was in the top 10 percentile of his graduating class. Magnum. Cum. Alotta. He once showed me the schematics for this robo-sex broad he was developing to take to the Sadie Hawkins. She was so totally sssstacked. She had bazoombas like out to HERE and nipples so puff’d they might as well have been ‘mallows. Anyways, while Raph E. L. is known to be somewhat cool, despite his rudeness, he is nowhere near as cool as his younger brother Michelangelo. He feels overshadowed by the hip socialite. Mike sees the best in everyone and is always the life of the party. He loves heady ‘za and who can blame him? He is as cool a “dude” as there ever was. Raphael resents his brothers because he feels inferior. He responds to this inferiority complex by putting his brothers down and making them feel like shitheads, when in fact it is he, Raphael, that is the shithead.

3) He wants to get all up in April’s boohiney but he knows that interspecies premarital sex is a sin. It’s like he’s having to live a lie. The turtles’ strict evangelical upbringing has forced him to deny who he really is. He knows if he acted on these feelings that he’d be shunned and would probably end up having to join The Foot Klan to make ends meets. As a Foot, he at some point would have to fight it out with his bro’s and he knows how fucking good they really are at karate. Their like a bunch of reptilian Jackie Chans. So he represses these sinful emotions. He is like a prisoner in his own shell. As a result turns his pain outwards, hurting the ones he cares most about. He acts like a huge green piece of dickhole so that he can distract himself from the forbidden sexual desires he’s got bubblin’ down within. Tragic, actually.
And if Dr. Freud was right, he probably also wants to both kill and have sex with Master Splinter. You see, Splinter served as both a surrogate mother and father figure for the turtles, since they were abandoned by their true parents. See, they were thrown into the sewers of NYC by their folks because were too young and too broke to support four children.   A genetic mutation occurred while they were playing in some ooze one time and they became human sized, and could speak English and fucking chow down on premium pies. So this wise old, similarly mutated karate master rat was like, “my late ex wife and I could never have children, so I’ll raise these turtle pups as my own.” He was their mommy and daddy. Puzz and dong. The blade and the chalice. Sex and death. With this complex mixture of emotions swirling around in that turtle skull of his, it’s no wonder Raphael has such difficulty with social interactions. Dude is fucked in the head, but that’s our Raph. Just wish he’d put a sock in it sometimes and quit being such a sloppy buttpussy.

Ain’t No Hollaback Girl.

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.