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.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
BIG WHEEL KEEP ON TURNIN', WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND, SPIN THE WHEEL, MAKE A DEAL...
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!
Sorry.
(this week's edition sponsored by Prestone motor oil, Fix-a-Flat, and Big O tires)
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!
Sorry.
(this week's edition sponsored by Prestone motor oil, Fix-a-Flat, and Big O tires)
Sunday, February 21, 2010
WELCOME TO THE PREMIER EDITION OF MAN VS. MORON!!!!!
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 blowitoutyourassdouchebag@gmail.com. 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.
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 blowitoutyourassdouchebag@gmail.com. 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.
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