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i am a megalomaniacal genius whose every attempt at world domination is foiled by the unintentional interference of the hordes of imbecilic morons i am surrounded by and forced to mingle with. i am exacting my revenge via my blog, where i shall accost, insult, expose and embarrass them by sharing their stupidity with the online world. oh, and i will give bad, misleading advice to the unfortunate souls who write in requesting my wisdom in an attempt to expedite their visit from the angel of death and thereby eliminate one more mentally bereft obstacle from my path. finally, i intend to use my blog to amass my own personal army of willing morons whom i can exploit and abuse for fun and profit. kind of like rush limbaugh, except i am brilliant, gorgeous, beloved, and not addicted to opiates or spareribs. *this is a disclaimer. the contents of this blog are for humor and entertainment only. if you are delicate or have no sense of humor... leave. and die.

Friday, May 18, 2012


     Hello again,  my loyal legions of worthless hangers-on!  It has been a while (over a year) since my last illuminating visit to you (I had to take a shit one day; it took me this long to find my way back).  Oh, the places I've been, the things I've seen, the people I've done!  But have no fear, my menial little meatbags, for just like a stubborn case of genital warts, I'm back!!  I'm like a period for a pre-menopausal baby-boomer, or the dick of her equally old and useless husband:  I don't come often and I'm never around when I'm expected to be, but with a little stimulation and luck, I just may come roaring back in a stiff,  boiling burst of hair-singeing sudden fury and leave you sweaty, breathless, catatonic, and gooey.  And in desperate need of adult diapers.
     Much has happened since we last met.  While you all have been scraping bugs off your windshields by hand and then chewing your fingernails, I have been quietly observing the morons around me, in the news, and online, laughing gleefully at their pain, reveling in their misery, and waiting to become inspired enough to write about it.  That never happened, but one doesn't need to be inspired to be motivated to work.  There are other, more important things to consider.  Like money.  Dead presidents piling up in front of me like cellulite piles up on Kim Kartrashian's over-hyped, over-sized 4 X 4 ass (which, by the way has had more big black cock in it than the NFL Hall of Fame and KFC combined) was enough to get me to fire up the old keyboard and let 'er rip.  I guess I just wanted to be happy.  Money can't buy happiness, you say?  Bullshit!!  Hand me a C-note and watch me crack a smile.  Money can buy happiness, security, and companionship.  Except when you buy that, it charges you by the hour.  Still cheaper than trying to date it or marry it, though (ask that car-crashing, waitress-humping dingleberry Tiger Woods about that one).
     Oh, but I digress.  This month is a tale of two imbeciles.  The first tale involves a pair of sisters from Beaver, Pennsylvania.  These two teenage tarts were run over by their truck-driving cousin.  They survived, unfortunately, but at least they are two top contenders for next year's Darwin Awards.  You see, these witless wonders were mowed down while the middle of a country highway.
     That's right.  Apparently, Beavis and Butthead's girlfriends were a tad tired from a hard day of floundering in the shallow end of the gene pool, so why not enjoy a quick nap and catch a few rays off the expressway...what could go wrong?  Well, plenty, as these two "Roads" scholars found out.  As these brain-dead bimbos lay dreaming of having opposable thumbs and the ability to stand erect without their knuckles dragging, their cousin came careening down a cross street (probably fresh from cooking a batch of moonshine or meth), swung a mean left turn, and turned these two-bit teens into speedbumps with his pick-up truck.  Don't worry, as I stated previously they survived.  They were admitted to the hospital in fair but stupid condition.  Doctor's managed to patch them up, but there is a dispute with the insurance company about how much they are willing to pay, seeing as how they determined that the stupidity required to try asphalt tanning qualifies as a  pre-existing condition.  As for the cousin, imagine the way his conversation started when he got home..."Hey Mom and Dad, whatcha been up to?  Me, oh not much...oh guess what?  I ran into my cousins today..."  In the meantime, the dopey duo can marvel at how well tread marks stamped "BF Goodrich" go with their tan lines and flattened tits.  If only this pair of pendejas had read their fortune cookies from Panda Express the day before:  "Confucious say: bitch who fall asleep on road wake up with run-down feeling".
     Tale #2 takes us to exotic Theinsville, WI where resides the Sasquatch of the Great Lakes region, Bill Wisth (Bill "Width" would be more appropriate).  This massive moron, who goes about 6'6" and weighs 400 flabulous, shivering, quivering pounds, has taken it upon himself to picket an all-you-can-eat restaurant every Sunday.  Apparently, this gluttonous Goliath is crying false advertising because the diner did not fill his fat frame with enough fried fish to satiate him and had to ask him to leave after he ate them out of house and home.  After eating for several hours, he requested an additional dozen fried fish fillets, but was told there were only eight left.  He lumbered off in a huff (not from anger, but from hauling his girthy gut and fat fucking ass off his reinforced booth seat) and called the police.
     Listen up lard ass.  Unless your name is Shamu and you live in Florida, there is NO REASON WHATSOEVER to consume that much fish in a single sitting.  I can practically hear your arteries hardening from here in California, you jowly quarter-ton of blubber in a plaid shirt.  Why must the Great Lakes become bereft of marine life just to satiate the appetite of ONE hippopotomic mass of back hair and reconstituted deep-fryer oil?!  Eat a salad and shut the hell up you oversized chow-hound.
     But oh no, Jabba the Giant isn't finished.  This flustered fattie made himself a picket sign and claims he will picket the establishment every week until it can accommodate his astronomical appetite.  Good luck with that, Moby Dick.  Do you REALLY think you will have the stamina to lumber back and forth like a lost elephant with Alzheimer's holding a picket sign?!  If the sign reads "Too Fat To Fill" I might support you.  Otherwise, I assume you will sweat and grunt about for 5 minutes until a Domino's Pizza truck passes you by. Then you will forget all about picketing and hoof it on over and proceed to shovel pizza down your enormous gullet until you're so stuffed your heart explodes like an overboiled wienie, and the fire department has to use a forklift to carry your fantastically fat, flabby, furry, gristly, gargantuan, gluttonous, grub-guzzling ass-cakes to the ER, where surgeons will need a chainsaw to carve their way past the flubber and attempt to save your sorry life so you can continue to live a life of unfettered consumption.  Somebody needs to tie a bell around your neck, lead you out to pasture, and make glue and lamp oil out of you.
     Speaking of heading out to pasture, it's time for me to stick a fork in it this week (just like Bill Wisth sticks a fork in his fried feast of fish fillets) and call it a night.  I will return next month with my Moron of the Month Award, and to answer your letters.  Until then, have fun staring at the sun till it turns green, then go play in traffic along with the two tanning twats from Pennsylvania.  It'll be fun ;)

Monday, February 28, 2011


         I am sick of the unending whining and complaining about "tragic accidents".  Just had to put that out there right now.  I'm tired of some rich white teenage bitch tanking up on enough gin and Ecstasy to coldcock a moose, laying the entire lacrosse team, firing up the Lexus Coupe that her trouser-stain corporate criminal father bought her for her sweet sixteen (along with a diamond-studded douchebag), wrapping it around a utility pole on the the north 280 at 120 mph, and then having to watch her entire gated community mourn and demand to know "how could this have happened?!"  Uh, it happened because she was a whore and a drug addict whose trust fund cash is wrapped in plastic, shoved up some smuggler's asshole, and en route to some mid-level Colombian drug lord's safe deposit box.  See how the simple answer so often evades us?

     You see, you've gotta look at these things logically.  Some events are tragic accidents; some are accidents waiting to happen.  A nun gets pregnant off a toilet seat at St. Mark's... that's an accident.  Some alcoholic jack-off on parole bites the big one by emptying a bottle of port wine into his anus to try to pass his breathalyzer test?  That's what's called an inevitability, you morons.  And that's my complaint this month.

     So many losers make their own beds and then are shocked when destiny makes 'em lay in it.  And fat, undersexed housewives who sit in front of their television watching Oprah, shoveling Malomars down their faces, always have to start in with the tears and sympathy, bawling like a herd of milk cows with infected udders.  For instance, just recently in San Francisco, some jogging imbecile recently tried to run a marathon in 90 degree heat with no water and dropped dead before he even got near the finish line.  The crowd panicked and, when the dust was settled, the marathon's sponsors were blamed for not having adequate medical staff at the event.  Get real, you bunch of sniveling pussies!!  It was sweltering, it was strenuous, he ran, and he died.  GOOD!!  One less self-righteous, attention-hogging, granola-chewing health nut trying to convince me that exerting your heart unceasingly and unnecessarily is good for you.  If that's so, how come this dingleberry is dead, but every one of the gargantuan, cottage cheese thighed, walrus-like chuckwagons in the audience are still alive, clogged arteries, high cholesterol, fat asses, and all? Of course, if one of those behemoths had been nimble enough to outrun a sloth and get down to the track quckly enough to administer some CPR, our well-toned friend might still be running today.  And also, if perhaps he had spent more time being a lazy, overeating prick and less time trying to be Jack Lalaine (who FINALLY dropped dead, too, thank you) he would still be alive.  He'd be too fat to find his dick, but he'd still be lumbering around the chow line today.
     Here's another example of an inevitability being treated as a tragedy:  this past month in Denver, some Korean woman killed herself, her husband, and her two daughters when her SUV hit an ice patch, flipped over, and plunged off a mountain pass.  Tears were shed, lives were lost, and a community mourned as one.  Big fucking deal.  Please follow my train of logic for a moment before you recoil:  a sleep-deprived ASIAN WOMAN drives a vehicle notorious for turning cartwheels, on a mountain road, in the winter, in the dead of night, and kills herself and her two daughters.  Where's the surprise?  For those of you who still don't get it, here it is:  sleepy people can't drive for shit.  Women can't drive for shit.  Asians especially can't drive for shit.  SUV's are hard to handle even on pavement and in clear weather.  And Asians flush their daughters down the toilet or leave them in the dumpster anyway.  As for the husband?  Fuck 'em.  That's what he gets for deviating from the chauvinistic Asian tradition and letting his wife take charge.  No good deed goes unpunished.  And anyway, who really cares if an entire family got turned into Happy Family Takeout Meal #9 with special sauce and wonton rolls?  One less group of MIT graduates (or laundry attendants).

     The same goes for these megalomaniacal twats who give themselves anorexia and bulimia.  Who gives a crap if some self-absorbed fishwife turns herself into a breathing bag of bones because she wants to be thin?  Half of the world are having to engage in mortal combat with rats and cockroaches for whatever rotting grain or putrified dog flesh can be scrounged from the landfill, and these pampered princesses gorge themselves on fine foodstuffs and then deliberately regurgitate it.  Or they sit still in front of a perfectly prepared meal and stare at it till it turns to sludge.  What the hell kind of a disease is that!?  Who is stupid enough to feel pity for anybody who has made a disease out of avoiding eating?  What arrogance of these dipshit women (9 out of 10 of these losers are female) to think anyone gives a shit about how fat their ass looks?  Three billion other asses in the world for guys to ogle, but your ass is the only one that you think will get noticed?  Go choke on a chicken leg you bony bitch!  But if you must develop one of these "diseases", at least do the decent thing and get anorexia.  It's so much cleaner and quieter than bulimia and you neither hog the bathroom nor cause the unsuspecting chump who uses the it after you to have to smell your rotten bile and upchucked entrail goop.  If you won't have dinner, at least have a heart, you goofy-looking, skeletal skanks.

     Well anyway, time's just about up for this week.   If your feeble minds have learned anything this time around, let it be that you don't need to get all choked up when an inevitability occurs.  Whether it's Asians driving, gays operating the sperm bank, Blacks trying to swim, or Catholic boys going on weekend retreats with the cardinals, something bad is bound to happen.  Just roll with it, like the Asian family in the SUV did.



Monday, December 20, 2010


     Fucking.  Balling.  Banging.  Boffing.  Screwing.  Porking.  Taking the log to the beaver.  Driving One-Eyed-Willy to the optometrist.  Going heels to Jesus.  Putting Percy in the playpen.  I think you can figure out where this is going.  And it is only fitting you had to read them; my inbox is stuffed with these and just about every other term there is for the act of delivering a hot beef injection to some sloppy, overused cavernous chasm of an orifice on some skanky roadside trailer park  hooker (or as you ignoramuses call them, "the girl of my dreams").  More precisely, my blog has been inundated by myriads of messages from limp-dicked wonders who have no idea how to impress some dumb twat they met at Starbuck's enough to get her to slither out of her crusted panties and give them a crack at her crack.  And they want ME to tell them how.  Like I give a shit.  Does no one besides me know how to get laid?!  Is getting an inebriated trollop to ride the boloney pony really such an impossible task that you have to write in for advice?  Haven't you any bigger problems to worry about?  I suppose I could suggest taking matters into your own hands, grabbing the bull by the horn, and beating your meat like it owes you money until the urge passes.  Or, if you MUST feel the flesh of another actual human being undulating underneath you, I could counsel you to go buy one either at the truckstop or downtown in front of Fred's Liquors.  You'll get what you pay for guaranteed, unlike that other form of accepted American prostitution we call "dating".  You know, the one where you have to shave your back, trim your bush, and pay for some floozy's flowers, dinner, dresses, jewelry, movie tickets, shoes, wine, cocktails, cellphone, rent, tit implants, and American Express bills and then HOPE what she puts out (IF indeed she ever does) is worth you having spent your way to insolvency and creating  a debt that makes the national deficit look like a mild case of jock itch by comparison.

     Unfortunately, these two options have drawbacks.  Tugging your tallywhacker gets boring after a while, grows hair on your palms, and causes blindness.  Buying a hooker is sort of illegal in most states and might get you a wicked case of syphilis, a lengthy prison stretch, or both.  Even worse, you might find yourself drugged and slipping into a coma, only to wake up and discover you're naked and alone in an ice-filled bathtub in Singapore, bereft of your wallet, your kidney, and your left ball.  Oh, and legal says it's probably not in my best interests to advocate and advise prostitution to a cadre of horny, desperate, simpleminded imbeciles 'cuz they actually might do it and then blame me for their police records and missing organs.  So, both to circumvent a potential shitstorm and to avoid having to take the time to answer each of these hopeless duds individually, I am forgoing the usual format of my advice column this month and in its stead will offer a list of common blunders men commit which ensure their perpetual celibacy and invisibility to women.  Being guilty of any one of these will likely cock-block you; any combination of them, and you might as well stay home and whip out the K-Y and the tissues... it's gonna be another lonely night. Some of these transgressions are quite legitimate.  Most of these offenses, however, are niggardly, petty, trivial, trite, and trifling, but remember.... these ARE women we're talking about.  Don't hate the messenger, hate the bowl-legged bimbos to whom these things matter.

     A partial list, and in no particular order:

1.  Not having any "game".
For those of us with an IQ above 12, "game" translates to "bullshit".  "Having game" means the art of laying on the bullshit thick enough to convince the bitch you're someone you're not, but not so thick that she can notice the load of shit she's being fed.  This trick involves using fresh and exciting bullshit lines filled with compliments you don't mean, acting natural while wearing uncomfortable, overpriced clothes, and being seen with enough friends to look popular (but they all have to have "game" as well AND be slightly less handsome than you).  And knowing which slang, TV shows, songs, and alcoholic beverages are trendy so you can pretend to like enough of them to seem trendy too, while at the same time trying to be edgy and unique.  In other words, just be full of shit.  Failure to comply will result in you appearing to be an impotent loser who couldn't please a women even with a baker's dozen Viagras and a chocolate, diamond dildo.  Which, if you're harassing me for help, you are.

2. Facial hair and body hair.
The gradual pussification of the American male by women has resulted in this abomination.  Hair, once that manliest of traits, is now unmanly and must be eradicated on site.  That means if you don't wax your body so you look like an overgrown 8 year old, you're doomed.  Hairless men subconsciously remind women of babies and are easier to dominate, henpeck, and emasculate, therefore satisfying some  strange, sick, sado-maternal, reverse Oedipus complex  that most women seem to have.  As for no facial hair?  I can only assume most women were molested by a department store Santa Claus in their youth and therefore developed a latent phobia of beards.  

3. Bad breath/ hygiene
This one I understand.  If your breath stinks so badly people don't know whether to hand you a tic tac or a roll of Charmin, maybe you'd be wise to consider a daily mouthwash regimen.  If your armpits smell like a catfish's cunt and can wilt houseplants on contact, or if the fumes emanating from your ass are strong enough to make maggots barf, the only date you should be attempting is one with a bar of soap and a running shower.

4. Unflattering hairstyles
"Fauxhawks" are for queers (and 99% of them can't even pull it off) and so are those retarded "emo boi" cuts that have a dude's bangs hanging over half of his face. Also taboo are mullets, skullets ( a mullet worn by a man who has gone bald on top) shaved heads (unless you're black), dreadlocks (even if you're black), anything frosted (tips, bangs, or pubes), long hair past the shoulders (women are vain harpies and can't stand a man to have longer, nicer hair than she has), overly gelled hair, ungelled hair, and of course, the dreaded comb-over (just admit age and baldness has claimed your hair and let it go ; you're fooling nobody, you insecure, panty-waisted little schoolgirl).

5. Cell phones clipped to your waist
Apparently, nothing says "pretentious, low-level management, empty suit, corporate cocksucker who still pisses himself at night"  quite like a phone dangling from your belt.  And once again, the ho's have it right on cue.

6.  "dad" jeans
Jeans with an overly high waistband which give the illusion of an overly elongated, frumpy ass.  They also tend to be pleated up front and gives the appearance of middle-aged spread while simultaneously causing your bulge to look smaller.  Even Barack Obama wasn't able to look good in them.  Then again, who really gives a shit what they look like anyway?!  The only thing about a man's pants that one should be concerned with is how quickly can they be torn off so one can get at all the good stuff.

7.  Fannypacks
Who the hell actually still wears these things?!  Convenient as they may be, donning one of these hideous monstrosities will instantly transform you into the sole type of person they are intended for:  doddering senior citizens with liver spots, gout, and BIG fat asses on their way to either Denny's or Las Vegas.

8.  Visors
Leave it to those greasy, gerry-curled, rubber-lipped, ashy-skinned rappers to bring back this senseless and repulsive fad.  Why are you paying good scratch to look that stupid?!  Again, only blubbery, bloated baby boomers on vacation in Palm Beach (or fast food cashiers) are meant to wear these grotesque and mindlessly moronic pieces of headgear.

9.  Sports jerseys
No. no, no, no, no.  Sorry to tell you this, Sport-O, but you aren't on the team.  "We" didn't pull it off on 4th and goal.  "We" aren't going to the playoffs.  "We" didn't win crap, "we" didn't do crap, and in fact your favorite team would think you ARE crap,  hate your guts, bang your sister, and beat your lunch money out of you if they ever met you. You will NEVER be on the team.  You will never get to slap Peyton Manning's ass and say "good game, bro!" or place your hands beneath Tom Brady's ballbag. You aren't good enough to be the team's official jockstrap washer. You aren't even good enough to play powderpuff football in the Special Olympics. You're fat, you're slow, you're clumsy, you suck, and you are sooo stupid you make the monosyllabic meanderings and grunts of the hulking gorillas you cheer for sound like works of Shakespeare.  Neanderthalic as they may be, though, they are also rich, famous, celebrated, envied,  and get hotter, better-looking ass than you will ever even get to sniff in your wettest dreams. You, however, are an idiot who yells at  televisions, jacks off to John Madden, plays FANTASY football, and pays money to wear shirts with another man's name printed on it.  You are a fag.

10.  Talking
Listen, moron.  Women don't WANT to listen to you... they want to TALK.  They want to talk about themselves, unceasingly and in every boring, tedious detail.  And if you you don't pretend their every word is scintillating, enlightening and thrilling,  those panties are never coming off.  But I understand this one as well.  The only thing more mind numbing than listening to a woman talk is listening to a man talk.  "Open those meat curtains, baby... it's showtime!"  "You da man!"  "True dat!" "Booyah!!"  "Yo I got beef wif 'dem."  "Fo' shizzle, I'm gonna hang tight and chillax wif my homies... they my BOYZ!  They my DAWGS!"  Fuck you and everybody who looks like you.  I have personally heard this oratorical diarrhea come out of mens' mouths.  White mens' mouths, to make it worse.  White men wearing SUITS, to really make you puke your guts dry.  If I were a chick and heard any of this drivel, I would cement my pussy shut and put a lock on it.  No one that brainless deserves to enjoy sexual pleasure.  Instead, these mindless pussies deserve to be locked into port-a-potties with their mothers, set on fire, and sent rolling into the path of a runaway big rig carrying nuclear waste, crude oil, and  flammable animal byproducts.

     Well there you have it.  Ten ways to prevent yourself from ever getting your salami spit-shined.  I originally thought I would wind this up by stating how shallow and superficial women are and by asking men if it really was worth all this trouble just to check some broad's temperature with their meat thermometer.  After reviewing this list however, I am compelled to issue a rare apology to women... men truly do suck ass!  When you peel away all the layers that make a man, it seems almost every time you are left with a whining, farting, beer-guzzling, sports obsessed infant with bad hygiene, and (not-so) latent homosexual tendencies towards professional athletes.  And yet they can con their way into your vaginas with a slick pickup line, a Tequila Sunrise, and a shiny object or a pair of shoes.  Dumb bitches.

     You're welcome for the apology.

     See you cretins next week.  Till then I bid you adieu and remind you: yellow side front, brown side back.

Thursday, June 17, 2010


     Good evening, bitches!  Oh, and welcome to another Pulitzer- worthy edition of Man Vs. Moron!  Let me start off by informing you that I'm more frustrated than a lesbian with a sprained tongue over the latest moron- related furor.  In case you haven't quit informing your Facebook friends with what color and texture your stupid baby's diaper chili was long enough to read anything useful or informative (as usual, babosos), let me spare you the effort and sum it up:  a couple of teenage tramps in Seattle (viciouspeach's much- missed former home) thought it was a spectacular idea to begin arguing with a police officer who had tried to cite them for jaywalking (he was stationed there at the request of the local school district to keep the adolescent assholes from wandering out into the busy street and becoming roadkill).  They then figured it would be an even better plan to ignore the citation, berate the officer, and then resist arrest.  And for the piece de resistance, the more obese of the two inner-city sweathogs decided to barge into the middle of the fracas, yank her delinquent comrade out from the officer's grip, and then assault him by grabbing his arm, and using her 300 lb. girth to shove the confounded constable.  Alone and hopelessly outweighed, and now with TWO bellowing heifers to contend with, the officer kept his cool and did NOT reach for his pistol, baton, pepper spray, or taser.  He instead reached back to Kansas and planted a fist square into one of the snarling sow's faces.  The bitch's head snapped back hard enough to induce whiplash, and both the rampaging she-rhinos were arrested and sent off to the pokey.  And that should have been that.
     Unfortunately, that wasn't the case at all.  A crowd of ghetto- fabulous street vermin gathered 'round the fracas, whipped out their pre-paid cellphones and began to snap photos and grainy film footage.  The media got a hold of it and has started a national shitstorm over the incident...  because the hoodlums involved were black.  And regional and national black leaders have taken the bait quicker than if it had been made of chicken wings and hot sauce.
     Yes,  I went "there".  And now I'll take you "there".  Just because you have ancestors who washed dishes and picked cotton for free for some very rich white assholes doesn't give you a free pass to attack police officers and get your panties in a knot because you got caught doing something wrong.  You don't get to attack public servants, interfere in police business, and break laws just 'cuz your great-great-grandma was forced to dress like Aunt Jemima and get bitch-slapped for not knowin' nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies.  The true victims who are owed reparations and apologies have long since passed on.  What we have here are two dumb hos who received exactly what they should have received years ago from their parents (or baby-daddies by now).  What the hell did they suppose was gonna happen to them?  Show me a person of ANY race who has laid hands on a cop and I'll show you someone who has suffered either a severe beat- down or a blast of pepper-spray to their butt- fugly face.  These two teenage terrors got off far easier than they should have.
     Oh yeah, and a number of women's groups have jumped on the bandwagon.  Apparently having a clit flapping between your gelatinous thighs also gives you the right to push, shove, and otherwise attack men without fear of repercussions.  Well, I have a little news for you... it's 2010 and we're all about equality now.  If Queen Kong wants to brawl, let her take her lumps like everyone else.  I guarantee you now that she had the weave knocked clean off her skull she will most certainly think twice about presuming upon her having a snatch to take free swipes at an armed, on-duty policeman.  It will also hopefully teach her that not only is jaywalking illegal, but it is also even more criminal for a size 34 cow to attempt to squeeze into a hideous, hot- pink, size 6 nightmare that even a blind drag queen on meth wouldn't be caught dead wearing.  Oh yeah, and... MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS YOU EBONY ELEPHANT!!  Or are you too stupid to realize the guy who was originally being cited for jaywalking got away with it because your dumb ass gave the cop something bigger (and uglier) to deal with?  Hope he was worth it, you retarded slut.
     On a final note, I would like to categorically state that the officer in question should lose his badge and his job for what he did.  No, you nincompoops, not for slugging that stampeding livestock in the face... but for actually trying to hand out jaywalking citations to teenagers.  These illiterate imbeciles are the "future" of this country, and can in no way possibly bode well for the rest of us.  No, we must instead do whatever is possible to impede or even prevent the "future" from coming.  Giving jaywalking tickets to high-schoolers might teach these morons to use the crosswalks instead of randomly meandering into the path of fast- moving, oncoming traffic.  This will in turn increase their chances for survival to adulthood and prevents natural selection from weeding out the defective ones.  Smart kids already know to use the crosswalks; let the dumb ones go out and take their chance of getting turned into street pizza.  The officer in question is in fact endangering the safety of the general public by enabling more of these little criminals to survive long enough to do even worse damage to our society than they've already done; this is a crime so grave it makes you really wonder who truly deserves a fist to the face more.
     Anyway, I bid you adieu, my peons.  I will return next week to answer your letters and attempt to convince even one moron out there to commit ritual suicide.  If this sounds like something you're interested in doing, address your emails to "dear viciouspeach" at  Until then, if you happen to be driving along and notice teenagers loafing about on the streets, do the entire world a favor... step on the gas and turn your windshield wipers on.  The "future" gets a little brighter each time you do.

Monday, June 7, 2010


     No salutations this time,  my ass-breathed inferiors.  It is time to get right to the point.  I am madder than a homo with a hot date and hemorrhoids over this latest Mid-East stink that's got the world's collective underpants bunched so far up its ass that i can smell the resulting shit- stains even here in San Francisco.  And if you haven't been to this city, let me be the one to tell you that the smell of piss, cheap booze, pot, and homeless ass is strong enough to grow hair back on Mr. Clean's head.  Anyway, in case you haven't pulled your illiterate, underachieving, unmotivated carcasses away from your reality TV shows and stupid-ass Twitters long enough to pick up a newspaper, here's what I'm talking about:  a few days ago, some dipshit granola-munchers in Turkey (that's the name of a country you know-nothing slobs) thought it was a good idea to hop onto a leaky-assed raft (the media refers to it as a "flotilla") and try to sneak some peanut butter, blankets, and bags of concrete (delish!) into that Hellhole Gaza strip in defiance of a military blockade that Israel has imposed on the area, after Israel stated it would prevent these Dudley Do-Rights from even getting close.  BIG SURPRISE... the Israelis didn't exactly cooperate.  Unless, of course, by "cooperate" you mean "open up a can of Kosher whoop-ass and blast four or so of the near-defenseless douchebags to hell".  So now the world's Muslims are flapping their arms about like an Italian used car salesman and screaming bloody murder (actually, it was... poor word choice) over the incident, and using it as an excuse to push for jihad against Israel.  The Israelis, meanwhile, have pussed out completely, running selectively edited footage of the episode and trying to convince the world that a bunch of pencil-necked, tree-worshipping, anorexic vegan pacifists who could barely fight their way out of their dads' nutsacks and into their mom's cum-catchers viciously attacked an elite squad of highly trained Jewish commandos and therefore were killed in self-defense.  And these Yiddish yahoos think somebody will actually buy this ridiculous version of events.  Whatever.  Obviously they drank a bit too much Maneschewitz during Passover if they think they're fooling anybody.
     Now before you get the wrong idea, I don't give a rat's shaved ass about either the activists' fate or Israel's little international faux pas.  I'm just sick of hearing about the Middle East and all the troubles that originate from that Godforsaken area.  I am pissed because the end of the world might occur because a bunch of Hebrew halfwits and Arabic assholes are too stupid to quit fighting over the ugliest, most resource-starved, violent, barren, undesirable location on Earth.  Shit... if either side had any brains, they would give Unholy Land to the other side, get the hell as far away as possible, and laugh their asses off at the idiots stupid enough to actually want to live there.  So many gorgeous locations to fight over, and they have to go and nearly start World War III over a shitty strip of land which features such nice touches as a sea with more salt than water in it and a damn desert you can get lost for 40 years in.  And a pissed-off burning bush with a tendency to turn people into pillars of salt and cause worldwide flooding.
     But I digress; back to not caring about the activists. Hey, if you're moronic enough to paddle out to sea in a bathtub and a burqa and antagonize an armada of Jewish warships, you deserve whatever happens to you.  Go right on ahead... you think the Jews will go easy on you just 'cuz you don't bathe or eat meat?  For fuck's sake, THEY FUC*ING KILLED JESUS CHRIST you blithering idiots!  Who the Hell are YOU!?!?!?  If the Savior of all mankind wound up dangling off a crucifix, what the hell do you expect they'll do to a bunch of geeks trying to aid their sworn enemies?  Have fun "hanging around" Golgotha, you douche.  Anyone who has ever seen a family brawl at a barmitzvah or even accidentally short-changed a Jew knows better than that.  Crap, if you don't believe me throw a penny between two of them sometime and watch them fight to the death for it.  These people eat gefilte fish and matzah balls... ANYONE who can swallow that shit and not turn blue is somebody you don't really wanna mess with.
     And for the record I don't give a shit about the Muslims in Gaza or the West Bank or anywhere else for that matter.  News flash... you lost, you fig-eating towel-twisters!!  Palestine doesn't exist anymore and hasn't since 1948; GET OVER IT AND MOVE ON!!  Maybe if you spent more time taking care of each other and less time burning effigies and beheading civilians you wouldn't still be living in tents and taking dumps in  scorpion-infested sand dunes.  Maybe if you learned to bathe and wash that disgusting curry-and-ball-cheese odor from your bodies the Jews wouldn't mind standing downwind of you and might actually share the land.  I know, you just don't use the words "Jew" and "share" in the same sentence, but hey... miracles happen.  Especially in that part of the world, from what I understand.  But in all likelihood, don't bet on it.  Jews and Muslims are both retarded.  You would think two groups with so much in common would be natural allies.  They both claim descent from the same guy (Abraham), consider the same sites to be "holy", have an irrational fear of shaving, wear stupid-looking headgear, are afraid of the female body, and have the same imbecillic religious dietary restrictions.  Won't eat lobsters or pork chops, but they salivate over dried donkey balls and pickled cow tongues.  Gross.  All I'm saying is don't hold out much hope for people this oblivious to come to their senses.  Just pray we don't wind up vaporized in a nuclear blast just because of a tiff started on account of some moron hippies on a raft being used for target practice by some overly belligerent Hebrews.  I'm too young and hot to die.  Can't say i really care what happens to you.
     Till next time, peons. xoxo

Wednesday, May 19, 2010


     Salutations my drooling menials and unworthy underlings.  I am here again to enlighten and inform you and prevent you from regressing to the eat-your-own-trouser-chili stage of imbecilism that you will surely plunge headlong into without my merciful intellectual intervention.  Why I do it is still not clear.  I do not know you and would most likely think you smelled like butt and used Kotex if we did ever actually meet.  I guess my selflessness causes me to want to share my brilliance with the unfortunate morons who forgot to raise their hands when God asked who needed to have a brain handed out to them.  You're welcome.

     Speaking of handouts, it now time to dispense the very first Moron of the Month award (to an incredibly deserving recipient!) Put your hands together and clap it up for the winner, Arizona's very own Eva Braun... Governor Jan Brewer!  Congratulations, bitch!  You are the first nugget of shit who clung stubbornly enough to the toilet bowl of racist bigots to resist the tide of common sense that flushed your turd compatriots away sometime around 1865 (coincidentally the same year Satan rose from Hell's bowels long enough to pump an unholy sperm ball into a jackal with Down's Syndrome to conceive Ms. Brewer) and survive long enough to both accept this inaugural, prestigious prize AND have me personally tell you that I sincerely hope you get hit by a bus and dragged underneath its axles from Phoenix to Guadalajara, you selfish, racist, Nazi puta whose real problem is that you haven't been laid since Truman held office.  

     For those of you who may not know what Jan Brewer accomplished in order to become the first Moron of the Month, here's the scoop:  this post-menopausal maniac first signed into law an "anti-immigration" (read: anti-Latino) bill which in effect states that having brown skin in Arizona is just cause for police to suspect you of having committed a crime and therefore legally detain you, demand identification and proof of citizenship, and then arrest, imprison, and fine you $500 if you do not have both.  And before any neocon Republican cousin-humpers write in to dispute this, I have read EVERY LETTER of this xenophobic manifesto and thereby possess the gravitas and oomph to make that claim. "The new law will be applied fairly to all Arizonans, regardless of color" says the bleach-bottle-blonde Reichsmarchen of the American Southwest.  Sure.  And I bet the hair around your twat ISN'T grey and more bristly than steel wool, you jodida marana pendeja.  You know damned well the first White person to be asked for a green card is going to sue the Depends off this conniving cunt and hoist her by her sagging nipples from the tallest saguaro cactus in Arizona.  

     As if this outrage wasn't enough, Little Miss Menstrual followed that up by signing into law a bill that  eliminates ethnic studies in public schools because... they "cause resentment towards Caucasians by minorities" and "causes ethnic solidarity".  Whatever, skank.  Apparently Blacks being taught that "nigger" is not an appropriate form of address or that their ancestors did more for America than pick cotton and birth babies for Scarlet O'Hara will make them angry towards White people.  And telling Latinos that they have done more for America than pick fruit and clean bathrooms might make them feel...GASP!!!!... unashamed of having brown skin.  Yes, we can all see how telling minorities to stop killing each other and instead surpass the achievements of their forbearers could threaten the fair, prosperous, peaceful, broad-minded, honest, utopian state of affairs in America.  Listen again, bitch:  just because you douche with ammonia and Cheez-Whiz doesn't give you the right to abuse your gubernatorial authority and oppress Mexicans.  Just because you lost your virginity to a longhorn steer doesn't excuse the fact that you are using your office as a vehicle to promote racial tension and tear this country apart at the seams.  Just because you will assuredly win the vote for Sweetheart of the KKK Rodeo does not mean your sickening policies are just or correct.  While the smell of your rancid vagina is nauseating enough to make rats and houseflies turn blue and puke, you have no right to spread your gristly thighs apart and attempt to use the odor to repel immigrants from our borders.  And just because your Mexicali maid complained about having to scrape the layers of Velveeta off your crusty underpants doesn't give you carte blanche to contact the rotting souls of Strom Thurmond and Joseph Goebbels with your ouija board and follow their post-mortem proclamations.  And just because the Young Republicans (aka the Hitler Youth) and the Tea-Baggers are whistling "Dixie" and burning crosses in celebration of your actions, don't think you will get away with it for long.  Remember you do live in Arizona, you jism-gargling harlot.  That state is browning nicely and soon there will be a Latino majority there.  Your conservative henchmen will be hurled from office.  Your shameful legacy and racist policies will be voted down, stricken from the books, and buried with you in the "made in Mexico" coffin you will eventually be laid to rot in.  And as you look upward every Cinco de Mayo and 16 de Septiembre from the smoldering, sulphuric chasm in Hell you will be occupying eternally, I hope you can take some comfort in the joy and laughter that little, brown, Spanglish-speaking Latino children derive from smashing open piñatas with your Gorgonesque likeness plastered on them.  Felicidades, Señora Brewer.  You!  Are!  The!  Moron!  Of!  The!  Month!  Now go choke on a taco and burn in hell, you wrinkled, prune-like, saggy-boobed, hairy-chested, Hooked- on- Phonics reject, racist, club-footed streetwalking tramp.  And tell 'em Viciouspeach sent ya!

Friday, May 7, 2010


     Hello my loyal legions of little piggies, who have rutted and rooted at the Trough of Life, desperately (and vainly) searching for any morsel of wisdom I may have dispensed over the last several weeks.  The queries have flooded in:  Where are you?  Why aren't you blogging?  How can I get shit stains out of leather thongs? (yes you deviant idiots... one of you actually sent that one in.)  Well, 1.  I've been here; 2. I'm far more important than you so I took a sabbatical to attend to myself; and 3.  wipe your ass better before you slide them on...  otherwise you'll have to steam-clean them, hope they don't shrink, and re-dye them if the steam damages the finish.  Well, I realize that, with the world in the hands of absolutely the dumbest imbeciles ever to be cast into the "reject" bin of God's workshop, I am needed now more than ever to save any tidbit of genius or decency left on this polluted, intellectually impoverished little planet.  That, and I received enough letters to my advice column to inspire me to insult.. I mean... "ADVISE" the writers.  But before I do, I must publicly demand that from this point on I be left in sole charge of issuing drivers' licenses to Asians.  (No offense to my luscious Asian concubines Stiffy and Sugarsnatch, or to my army of Far East fans who lap up my teachings like an inbred Arkansas toddler laps up lead paint off their Chinese-made Junior White Trash Party-Keg Playset).  Seriously, I've had enough near-fatal experiences with Nipponese nit-wits this week alone to justify my position.  On Monday,  for example, I was nearly hit by a runaway Cadillac Escalade ( I thought only Blacks drove those) while standing ON THE SIDEWALK waiting for the light to change. Oh, I survived.  I wish I could say the same for the recycle bins that little Miss Sukiyaki careened into.  And why did this Mandarin misfit simultaneously nearly snuff me out and undo the weekly efforts of the environmentally conscious?  Was it because her feet were bound too tightly to reach the brakes? No.  Was it because she was choking on the spinal column of the stray dog who wound up as part of her egg-foo-yong platter?  No.  It was because she chose to attempt text-messaging while operating a 2 ton gasoline-fueled missile.  After calling her a few names not fit to print in a nice family publication like this, I nearly ripped that phone from her hands and did to it what her disappointed parents should have done to her when she was born: toss it to the ground and stomp on it!  Now don't get me wrong... non-Asians commit this Hell-worthy trespass too.  But how shall I put this delicately?  Double-leg amputees aren't the best choice for your relay team if you're actually in it to win it.  Deafs aren't well-advised to try to host a radio talk-show.  A-cup underachievers should not aspire to sell or model lingerie.  Catholic priests should not run daycare centers.  And anyone with a genetic predisposition to driving like a blind schizophrenic crash-test dummy on PCP should not attempt ANYTHING while driving except turning off the ignition and hopping a cab.  Unless the cabbie is Middle-Eastern.  PPPPPPEEEEEEEEWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!  Don't get me me started on that disaster; it's a rant for another time.  Anyhow... on to the letters!

Dear Viciouspeach,

   What the hell is wrong with Mexicans?!  they put their shitty toilet tisue in the trash instead of flushig it.  They come over here and take our jobs and don't even talk English right.  We eat meat and potaetos here, not rice and beans.  Any thoughts or ideas?

All-American Patriot in Scottsdale

Dear American Pussy Fart,

    I've received some stupid letters, but yours takes the cake. In fact, you've earned the honor of having your ridiculous letter be the first I print unedited so that your ignorance and fetal alcohol syndrome can be viewed and mercilessly mocked by everybody.  Take your undersized penis out of your mother's mouth and listen up baboso.  Lazy piles of puke like you have but three options:  1.  decide to get up off your pimply asses and do the work your own damn selves; 2.   hope that brainy Asian immigrants (brainy unless they're driving, of course) can invent self-cleaning motels, self-picking fruit, self repairing cars,  self-serving/cooking food, self-washing dishes, self- building houses, self-emptying garbage, and self-raising children; or 3.  pucker up and start kissing a lot of mexican ass because this country's about to get a whole lot browner, you pendejo.  And there's nothing you can do about it, vermin.  ¡Ole!

Dear Viciouspeach,

   Please don't insult me; I really need help.  My 2 roommates are impossible to live with.  They eat my food, use my toiletries, and don't respect quiet hours (I am in college and need to study).  Even worse, they are late with rent and never seem to be able to pay their bills on time.  They are disrespectful to my girlfriend. And they bring over shady people who I don't know or trust.  I can't afford to live on my own in this city yet, and I've tried to talk to them about the way I feel.  It always starts a huge fight and I never get anywhere.  Am I a pussy for not being able to handle this?  How would YOU handle this? I seriously could use the advice.  Thanks and great blog by the way ( I really mean that).

Flabbergasted in San Francisco

Dear Flabby Gas Bag,

     Yes.  You are, in fact, a pussy.  But it's OK.  You are a pussy who was smart enough to learn the most critical lesson college can teach you:  Find someone smarter than you to tell you the answers.  You have potential, so I will solve your problem for you.  I live in San Francisco too; how lucky for you.  Go to the South side of the little liquor/ quickie mart on Minna Street between 6th and 7th, just off Market.  Look for a hooker there named Momma Marva.  She's about 5"10", 313 lbs. and usually wears purple nylons and knock-off Gucci ho-heel pumps.  You simply can't miss her.  For a modest fee, she will accompany you to your pad and pop her putrefied crotch-sores with your roomies' toothbrushes.  From then it's just a matter of time till your recalcitrant roommates learn the error of their ways.  Just remember to keep your utensils and drinking glasses separate from theirs.

     So there you have it: my glorious return to form.  Look for new scriptures next week, and keep those letters coming.  Email me at  Address them, along with comments, praises, etc., to Dear Viciouspeach.  Till next time, my lackeys.  Keep up the march against Moronism.  Your Grand Marshall is ready to lead.

Monday, March 15, 2010


     Greetings, my miserable masses of unwashed minions.  I know you have been breathlessly anticipating the latest edition of the printed testament to my opulent wisdom, and I shall not disappoint you.  I am aware that your pitiable lives ring hollow and incomplete without the benefit of my brilliance, and that without me you are more confused and indecisive than Kirstie Alley at the start of her buffet-busting breakfast.  Have no fear.  I have heard your pleas for instruction, and I have generously taken the time to answer them today.  As previously promised, one column a month shall be dedicated to dispensing my near-divine wisdom in an attempt to make sense of the tangled mess you have made of your meaningless lives.  Let's dive right in.  Or let's not, actually, until I make this one demand:  if you write me seeking advice... LEARN HOW TO TYPE AND SPELL YOU THUNDERING IDIOTS!!!!! I spent more time editing these fecal emails than I did writing my own statements.  I mean, seriously, you imbeciles.  I could have shoved a pen up a chicken's ass and kicked it across a sheet of paper and come up with a grammatically superior letter than the bilgewater submissions that seeped into my inbox this week.  Use Spellcheck.  Open a dictionary.  Do something other than show me your developmental retardation.  A blind epileptic in mid-seizure could type more legibly for Heaven's sake!!
     Anyway, on to the letters:

Dear viciouspeach,
I've got myself in a load of trouble at work and am terrified.  I am a receptionist at a gynecologist's office.  You see, I  am married and have been sleeping with my boss for several months.  I am now pregnant, and am sure he is the father.  I can't lie to my husband about it being his because we are both caucasian and my boss is from India.  I have no clue what to do.  Can you please help?
                                                                                                       Terrified and Pregnant in Tallahassee

Dear Terrified Tallahassee Twat,

     From the bottom of my heart I want to thank you for the 33 minutes of uninterrupted hysterical laughter that the irony of your situation has brought me.  It has won you the honor of being my first advisee!! Congratulations!  And congratulations also for the little bundle of Punjabi joy that your unfaithful snatch is going to regurgitate in a few more months!!  I can't wait for little Rajiv or Apu or whatever to come make a living hell out of your existence and destroy your happiness, career, and marriage in one fell curry-scented swoop!  Let me ask you, when you signed up to be a gynecologist's receptionist, did you have to take the job title quite so literally, you ignorant puta?  I shouldn't help you because you deserve the catastrophe lying in store for you.  Not because you are an immoral slut who betrayed her vows and lied to her husband.  I can see past that.  Not because you have made a mockery of the "sacred institution" that some of our more, shall we say, well-groomed and stylishly dressed friends are having to fight and swishily march for the right to enter.  That I could forgive.  And not because you are a wonton, nymphomaniacal, gold- digging whore who can't keep from lifting your skirt over your head and using your rotting pie-hole to try to advance your career.  I can relate.  And not even because you, as one who works in a COOTCHIE DOCTOR'S OFFICE, are the FIRST person with access to all forms of contraception and had all the tools at your disposal to keep your adulterous little rendezvous secret.  All that I could accept.  No, you deserve your world to split apart like your legs and swallow you up because you are without a doubt the DUMBEST homewrecker to ever shove her heels behind her head and crack a smile.  You risked everything to sleep with a member of an ethnic group found to have, on the average, the SMALLEST PENISES of any group on the planet!  You sacrificed your bratwurst for a Beanie-Wienie!  Pendeja.  And a chutney-flavored one at that.  Why do you think they invented the Kama Sutra?  They had to make up for the lack of size and emphasize the motion rather than the meat.  That's why they don't eat beef in India... there isn't enough in the whole country to give ONE woman a decent mouthful!!  Well, if you want to save yourself and not give birth to another tech-support phone jockey or 7-11 attendant, (or a nuclear physicist), here's the plan:  book yourself an appointment to see your boss as his patient ( I assume you have a health plan that covers his services) and have him perform an abortion on you.  Hey, he stuck little Shakti in there; let him yank her back out.  And tell him who the father was just as he finishes up.  The look on his face and the irony he experiences will surpass even the irony of a gynecological receptionist receiving a "fertility treatment" by her own gynecologist!

Dear viciouspeach, 
     You are a huge asshole.  How anyone can be so cruel is beyond me.  I have only one question for you.  What can I do to prevent you from blogging anymore?
                                                                                                                 Disgusted Reader in San Bruno

Dear Disgusting Douchebag,

     That's easy.  Fill your bathtub with cool water. Plug in your hair dryer  and turn it on.  Then strip naked and hop into the tub while still holding on to the hair dryer.  I promise you will never have to read my blog after that!

     So there you have it.  Two lost souls given a new direction and lease on life.  A very wise lady recently suggested I use my blog to help people work through their problems and make a positive change in the world.  I hope this proves I took her good advice to heart. :)  Remember you too can benefit from my brainy advice.  Just address your questions to "dear viciouspeach"  at  I will respond to my letters once a month, maybe more often depending on the volume.  Until next week, keep your eyes open and keep up the fight against Moronism.  Or go play in traffic if you discover you are a moron.  Either way, it will be doing us all a service.  Thanks.

Sunday, February 28, 2010


          There are some hard truths one must face as one grows older.  It hurts to hear them, causes agony and rage to deny them, and finally promotes inner harmony and reconciliation to accept them.  Learning them is a right of passage, a sort of debutante ball to adulthood, and both maturity and wisdom are forfeit within your empty, hollow skulls until you accept your invitation to the party.  So enter, drink the Kool-Aid, and allow me to be your host.  It might as well be me, 'cuz I've been here alone for a while waiting for you to join me.  Just don't blame me if your inferior intellects are unable to handle so much truth at once.  Good medicine is foul to the taste but good for the body; honest words ring foul in the ears but are proper for the soul and the mind.

1. There is no stork, no cabbage patch, and no immaculate conception.  You are on this planet wasting space and a perfectly usable set of transplantable organs because your parents porked.  Your folks rode downtown on the ol' happy hobbyhorse.  They banged each other like a pair of bonobo monkeys in heat.  Your dad delivered his log unto your mom's eager beaver.  Face it, your dad (or the pizza delivery boy, or the postman, or the upstairs neighbor, or some drunken Marine on shore leave) hunched over your mom's big blubbery butt and speared her like a stuck pig roasting over an open-pit barbeque.  Nine months later, your mom's bowels churned, her crotch puked, and you (along with your mom's sex drive, sense of humor, and 6 pounds of afterbirth) slithered out like a Burger King gut-bomb turd fighting its way to freedom.  If only you had been so easy to flush, your parents might still be together.  Which brings us to our next truth...

2.  You were an accident.  You weren't planned, your dad didn't want you, your mom cried when she learned you were festering inside her, and they would have opted for a handjob (or even a handshake) if they could go back in time and prevent your unholy conception.  Whether your mom's diaphragm jiggled out of place from your dad's savage thrusts,  or your dad forgot to bag his bologna, or your mom's  brain mistook those quaaludes she swallowed with a gin chaser for her birth control, you weren't supposed to have been born.  When your hideously oversized head popped out for the first time, your dad saw his stag nights vanishing, his porn collection burning, and his liquor cabinet locking right before his eyes.  He watched as your first wheezing breath effectively snuffed out his manhood in exchange for 18 years of Disney, Chuck E. Cheese, and G- rated made-for-TV movies.  As for dear old Mom, she had to watch her skin sag with stretch marks, her tits droop lower than  your dad's ballsack, her figure transform from hour-glass to Bosc pear, and her dreams of a stage and ballet career fade to the cold reality of liverspots, hair-rollers, puffy eyes, no sleep, dishpan hands, 5 AM alarms, 8 AM school drop-offs, and ugly Mother's Day gifts of painted rocks, macaroni necklaces, and whatever worthless shit you could glue together that she'd have to pretend to like when in reality they'd make her burst into tears and throw up in disgust and disappointment.  All because you had to show up uninvited and unwanted in her life.  Sorry to be the one to tell you, but you were supposed to have been nothing more than the contents of a used rubber.  And yet some how you got out.

3.  There is no Santa Claus.  That 400 lb. lardball codger in the mall wearing a red suit and fake beard isn't a jolly saint waiting to dump presents on your idiot kids... he's a jolly pervert who is fantasizing about sliding down your kid's smokestack and filling him with yuletide glee... and you just paid him $10 to ho- ho- ho with your brat sitting on his junk.  Pendeja.  Oh yeah, and that bulbous protrusion in the imposter St. Nick's britches?  It's NOT a peppermint stick.

     You may notice a recurring theme in these truths.  It has been to prepare you for the ultimate truth, which you are now ready to hear if you have managed to hang on this far.  It's a tough one, but you've been warned;

4.  YOUR COYOTE-UGLY CHILDREN ARE NOT BEAUTIFUL AND THEY ARE SURE AS HELL NOT "SPECIAL".  They are frighteningly repulsive little gargoyles with snaggle-teeth and bad attitudes who smell like dog feces and who'll eat boogers, crayons, and glue but won't touch broccoli.   Unless of course by special you mean a defective shitting and crying machine that any fool with a vagina and a squirt of hot semen can grunt out every nine months for decades until her uterus waves the white flag and says "no more".  This notion that your musky, mildewed loins made something that wasn't in fact abominable is insulting to the intelligence of anyone with an IQ higher than that of a bowl of tapioca pudding. Face it... the laws of genetics dictate your kids will be only half as smart as you and at least twice as ugly.  And you're not exactly college material (or even GED material)to begin with.  And the only time you would see your puke-inducing face in pictures would be as the "before" model in zit-cream ads and Jenny Craig commercials. Your howling little hellspawn are about as special and unique as jock-itch.  Get over it.  There are currently only three children in this world who are the paragons of beauty, cuteness, and precocious brilliance.  Only three who are actually the special little Heaven-sent joys that children are supposed to be.  They live in Virginia; they're my sister's.  Since they aren't yours, then sorry... your kid's a loser.  Next time flush it down the toilet or fish it out of your Fallopian tubes with a coat hanger before it's too late.  There are too many moron kids in the world already and natural selection alone can no longer weed all of the stupid ones out.  If you insist on having kids, then adopt one.  They have a better chance of being winners in life because they are technically not related to you; that's one less handicap they have to contend with.  And if by chance you pick out a dud, just keep the receipt and take it back for a refund or exchange.  Or leave in the dumpster like a typical modern American.  But whatever you do, DON'T make one yourself!  If it doesn't have my bloodline, it just isn't worth having.  The world already had to suffer through you, Moron 1.0.  Moron  2.0 would be too much of a strain on Earth's circuitboard.  Tie your tubes and shut the plant down.  And please, as for the little monsters you may already have created, do them and the world a huge favor... don't let them loose in public.  Children should be neither heard nor seen.  Next time leave them home in their cages or chained to the water heater like a decent parent.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010


     AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!  No sooner does my blog hit cyberspace than  the stars align to aid me in my battle against Moronism.  Here's the story, if you haven't read it yet: some mentally vacant dingus in Arizona got the biggest (and last) shock of her life when a tire, soaring proudly from the fiery wreckage of an NHRA car crash, flew into the stands and caved her head in like a casaba melon and put a hilarious  end to her time on earth.  Oh, the driver walked out of the scorching fireball he once called a racecar with nary a scratch, by the way.  And I laughed till the coke (the drink not the drug) shot from my nose in a fashion rather similar to the aforementioned catapulted car tire.

     Now hear me out.  Before we call this a tragic accident, a freak occurrence, and I get flamed for laughing, take your naughty hand out from your pants (DON'T sniff it!!!) and think logically.  A fan of hot rod racing, a "sport" almost as intellectually devoid as golfing, is no longer stinking up the bleachers with her unwiped gooch, inhaling the free samples at Costco, and tainting the human gene pool with her bargain- basement DNA contribution to mankind.  Somebody hand me a Kleenex.  I fail to see any tragedy here.  Some inbred bimbo stupid enough to be entertained by watching a hairy-knuckled Mongoloid in a helmet and polyester jumpsuit make left turns all day at 90 mph got beaned in the head by a comet-like tire and can't produce any more knock-kneed, booger-scarfing, lice-infested little cretins who'll wear diapers till they're 12 and grow up to hump each other and fill America's trailer parks with even more whisky addicts and National Rifle Association members.  Can you hear the country's I.Q. rise a point or two?  All I'm saying is hey, it's no big loss.  No need to lose any sleep just because some twat with a threadbare tire embedded in her face won't be in line to collect her food stamps next month.

     And the NHRA didn't think so either... they continued with the races even as medics tried to pry the hubcap out of this nincompoop's skull and scoop her brains back into her head.  That's because they knew she had it coming.  Fans of hot rod racing attend these events for the same reason fans attend bullfights, boxing matches, MMA fights, and fencing.  These Downer cows are hoping to see some car crashes, cracked skulls,  bleeding faces, and broken bodies.  They're looking to feed on some pain and misery.  Well,  bon appetit  and happy trails douchebag!  This human trouser stain paid for her ticket; let her get her money's worth and take her chances with the rest of the morons.  Natural selection at work, my wenches.  Let nature take its due and proper course.   Who are we to interfere with the cosmos' divine plan to add a little chlorine to the gene pool, so to speak.  If fate singles  YOU out of a crowd of thousands to receive a flying tire from a car wreck to your coyote- ugly mug, and neither the crash victims nor the surrounding spectators suffer so much as a scrape, then clearly SOMEBODY up there figured you'd sucked up more than your fair share of oxygen and decided to flick you off the face of the earth the same way Paris Hilton flicks the crabs off her cootch.  You deserve to have "Firestone" or "Goodyear" imprinted on your forehead at your funeral.  Who knows, maybe an enterprising family member could get them to sponsor the services, or at least pick up the tab for the booze at the wake.  A few cases of Schlitz,  a handle or two of corn likker, and a banjo- picker with a pretty mouth named Festus should be enough to get the party started.

     But so that this hillbilly dipshit should not have died in vain and her existence thus be a complete waste, let us learn from this incident a valuable lesson: get a half-way intellectually stimulating pastime for heaven's sake!!  Open up a book or a newspaper once in a while.  Go visit a museum just once.  Or at least have the sense to watch the races from the comfort of your own single-wide living room TV like a decent redneck should!  Or, if you insist on hobnobbing with the dregs of society, just go about being an idiot and  see the races live.  Just remember you were warned if a flying chunk of burning rubber that reads "Michelin" or "Kelly" turns out to be the last thing your eyes see before you punch in your one-way ticket to Hell.  And remember... there's a lot riding on your tires!
(this week's edition sponsored by Prestone motor oil, Fix-a-Flat, and Big O tires)

Sunday, February 21, 2010


     Congratulations!  By logging on to this blog, you have greatly decreased your chances of being one of the morons to whom this page is dedicated to tormenting.  It shows you have the potential to be a fine, upstanding human being whose contribution to this earth entails more than producing carbon dioxide for the trees when you breathe, and fertilizer for them when you either shit outdoors,  or get abducted by a murderous necrophiliac on Viagra who drags you to his secluded campsite, snuffs you out, violates every hole in your corpse (including the 165 stab wounds he carved into you) and leaves your pitiful carcass to rot and feed raccoons and dung beetles.  But I digress...

     Anyway, let's get down to basics, shall we?  This blog was created so that I could keep a weekly log of my encounters with the human parasites known as "morons".  The definitions of a moron are many, but in general a moron is the person standing/ sitting/ masturbating next to you.  They are all around you.  A moron is the dumb bitch who ran a stop sign and nearly killed you because she is too busy talking, texting, and queefing simultaneously to bother with that trivial little requisite to driving known as PAYING ATTENTION TO THE ROAD.  A moron is the crack- peddling street trash with 8 baby- mammas who thinks he's a "playa" even thought he's 42 and lives with his grandma who demands spare change from you every morning on the corner of Fillmore and Geary.  A moron is is the mincing, lisping butt brigadier who dishes out unwanted weight-loss advice to you because he weighs 111 lbs. from snorting crank and straining to fit the horse-hung dong of a random trick named Makimbo up his gaping tail-pipe.  Or the co-worker who wears a colostomy bag, eats nothing but baked beans and cabbage, and then gets assigned to share your hotel room during your business trip.  Or the waiter who has open, gangrenous herpes simplex II sores on his serving hand and pinches your daughter's cheek in an attempt to schmooze and get a fatter tip.  Or priests who say you are going to hell because you farted on a Sunday and then get caught playing doctor with little Tommy and Billy and Toby and Jimmy.  Or yes, even your brain- dead husband, who still leaves skid marks in his underpants for you to wash and can't remember your birthday even though it's been coming around the same damned day for thirty years.  Yes, morons are everywhere and strike without warning or purpose.  You could find yourself face to face with a moron today.  And if you never have encountered a moron, then it means YOU are in fact one!  Please load your family into your car, park in a locked garage, roll up the windows, leave the engine running, soak yourself in motor oil, light a cigarette, and suck the tailpipe.

     Now that that's out of our way, let's talk about my favorite subject... moi.   Every week I will relay to you, my adoring masses, a tale of woe in which my brilliance is pitted against the formidible stupidity of a wild moron.  You will relive my frustration, revel in my victory, and gasp in silent awe, with the druel oozing down the corner of your mouth, at the level of patience and poise I exhibit as I put these detestable douchebags in their place fight the good fight to rid the world of stupidity one imbecile at a time.  I will also take free swipes at whichever prostitute/ reality show star, celebrity, pundit, politician, religious leader, organization, or serial killer, dog rapist, child drowner, or indicted/disgraced CEO happens to be making headlines at the time.  I will be giving out a "Moron of the Month" award to whichever public figure most deserves it.  Keep in mind that Pastor Fred Phelps, Bill O'Reily, Sean Hannity, Sarah Palin, Toby Keith, Kanye West, Barack Obama, and most evangelical church leaders will be perennial contenders.
     In order to appreciate and enjoy my genius here are the rules you must abide by and remember.  if any of these be too great for you to accept, then leave this blog and bash yourself in the face with a tire iron until it stops hurting:

1. I am not politically correct and I make no apologies for it.  Moronism knows no boundaries and neither does my stern finger of shame and blame.  If I encounter a moron, be they a  crippled cunt, homeless minority, retarded, blind, deaf, terminally ill, or Asian, I'm laughing at 'em as I sees 'em.  And I am always right so don't waste your time arguing with me... you will lose.  I am never wrong.  I thought I was once, but it was a mistake.

2.  I think stereotypes are hilarious and I will use/ refer to them as often as I like.  I also find humor in death, suffering, traumatic episodes, natural disasters, train wrecks, car crashes, fatal plastic surgeries, wild animal maulings, blunt force injuries to the head, terminal illnesses, old people falling, and punting young children.  Deal with it and lighten up.

3.  Finally, if you did not read my disclaimer, then read this:  this blog is intended for ENTERTAINMENT purposes only.  If you are offended by my blog or take it seriously, then change your tampon, take your head out of your mom's ass, and get a sense of humor.  If irony, parody, dry social commentary, and dark humor is too complex for you, log out and watch Dane Cook and Carrot Top on YouTube.  And then go to Hell.

     Lastly,  I believe in giving back.  That is why, along with your postings, I welcome your questions and pathetic pleas for the advice that will give your life substance and meaning, the wisdom that will act as a glowing beacon through the lightless void of inferior genetic material your parents gave you that you call a brain.  A part of my blog will be dedicated to dishing out advice to people I don't know whose circumstances I am only vaguely aware of whose well- being I couldn't give a shit about, with consequences for listening to me that I won't be held accountable for.  If you would like to be a recipient of my abuse... um, I mean assistance, address your emails to "dear viciouspeach" at  I look forward to offending... oh, I mean "hearing" from you soon and often.  Think of me as that wise, favorite uncle of yours, except I'm not related to you, don't know you, don't like you, and don't care a rat's bare ass about you.  But other than that, just like an adoring uncle.
You're welcome.