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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.

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.

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