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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.

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)

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