| 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 sunbathing...in 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 ;)