Ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement to make. It is with great pride and the sincerest feelings of honor and humility (I can do that, I swear) that I would like to share with you this piece of groundbreaking and life-altering information: I have a massive and truly impressive penis and a pair of tremendous testicles that would make Jesus Christ himself shiver with envy. Let me elaborate.....
I first realized that my man-stick was, in fact, a monument to humanity when I was a young boy. Living life in possession of a daunting piece of pants-meat, though, was not always easy. Many a time did I find myself turning around too swiftly in the small classrooms of those days and nearly putting out the eyes of classmates with my enormous cock, or forgetting to fully reel in my gigantic phallus after relieving myself and slamming it in the bathroom door as it dragged behind me.
Do not, however, allow me to lead you to the conclusion that my summer-sausage sized trouser snake has been anything but a blessing. Oh, quite on the contrary! How I cherish the sound of stupid whores gasping in both terror and delight as my rippling flesh rocket and softball sized nuts are revealed in their full glory. How could one put a price on the look on the face of some tight-snatched harlot as she catches her first glimspe of the splendor that is my pork steeple?
How large, however, is my meaty flesh stick and pair of perfectly circular and delectable balls? Allow me to explain... Should my junk be compared with your average space shuttle, one would notice that my hammer-headed butter slinger dwarfs even the most impressive of NASA's space vehicles. Ladies and gentlemen, it is that big. Oh yes, it is that big.
And where would I be without the industrial-strength sack that I have in which to carry my rotund and girthy meatballs? Nowhere, you can bet the kids' college fund on that. My pink nut satchel is the Robin to the Batman that is comprised collectively of my left and right testicular wonders. In conjunction with my jeans-tube, it creates the most impressive and truly awe-inspiring combo of meaty round delight and giant-cigar shaped wonderment anyone could reasonably expect from any person.
Am I, then, simply being pompous and arrogant? Well, one could lay the claim that when you have a sister-crippler like I do then there is nobody who can contest anything I say as a result of my thick stick. In fact, anyone who has the audacity to speak ill of my fabulously robust dick is more than welcome, as far as I am concerned, to suck on my aforementioned tube steak.
Initially, this post was meant to be a brilliant dissertation on the magnificence of my junk, but in explaining the true brilliance of my shit I believe I have stumbled across what is possibly the greatest discovery ever in the history of humanity - I am hung like the average orangutan.
And yes, I am very fucking proud.
Fucking proud, indeed.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Shit Falling Out of My Brain
I'm sitting at work right now hungover and trying to kill time until I get to escape. Naturally, the first thing that came to my pounding mind was to write about whatever came to me. Here are just a few of the things that are bouncing around in my head. Be warned.
1. I wonder how long it will be before an employer or prospective employer finds this little weblog I write and fires my ass. I mean, I really do not ever write about anything of any real value here. Every other word I use is "fuck" or some derivative of that word. I routinely make fun of homeless people, talk about wanting to blowing up more abortion clinics than Eric Rudolph, detail my debaucherous nights, and generally promote the downfall of humanity. I am pretty good at it, though. So, am I going to clean this shit up and produce more wholesome and educating articles and posts? No fucking way. I like to swear and make fun of crack heads. Few things give me greater pleasure. And if I can make my friends laugh because of what I write then that is only extra incentive to keep writing this disgusting and utterly worthless drivel.
2. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuckity fuck fuck. Fucker. Fuck. Fuck. Hahahahahahaha.
3. America Idol is starting again. Fucking fuck am I fucking excited!!! Oh fuck! Am I being sarcastic? You decide. Here is a list of things I would rather do than watch American Idol:
Watch a puppy die.
See Rosie O'Donnell naked.
Stand between a fat woman and the buffet table.
Parachute-less skydiving.
Anything having to do with centipedes and my genitalia.
American Idol!! Catch the fucking fever!!!
4. Boobs. Such a great word for such a great thing. Just wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. Boobs.
5. Ann Coulter is a loud-mouth, pickle-licking, baby-kicking, shit-eating, whorebag bitch who couldn't make a lucent argument that she is fucking Ann Coulter! I haven't cut loose about this bitch for too long and now I'm fucking angry. Angry and tired. But mostly angry. I can't even decide if she is good-looking or not. I've got a thousand dollars that says she is totally into bondage and loves to beat the shit out of whoever is unlucky enough to be captured by and forced to sleep with her. I'm certain that she has a dungeon in her home. And when you enter your soul is sucked into the fiery pits of hell. And she kicks puppies. Whore.
1. I wonder how long it will be before an employer or prospective employer finds this little weblog I write and fires my ass. I mean, I really do not ever write about anything of any real value here. Every other word I use is "fuck" or some derivative of that word. I routinely make fun of homeless people, talk about wanting to blowing up more abortion clinics than Eric Rudolph, detail my debaucherous nights, and generally promote the downfall of humanity. I am pretty good at it, though. So, am I going to clean this shit up and produce more wholesome and educating articles and posts? No fucking way. I like to swear and make fun of crack heads. Few things give me greater pleasure. And if I can make my friends laugh because of what I write then that is only extra incentive to keep writing this disgusting and utterly worthless drivel.
2. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuckity fuck fuck. Fucker. Fuck. Fuck. Hahahahahahaha.
3. America Idol is starting again. Fucking fuck am I fucking excited!!! Oh fuck! Am I being sarcastic? You decide. Here is a list of things I would rather do than watch American Idol:
Watch a puppy die.
See Rosie O'Donnell naked.
Stand between a fat woman and the buffet table.
Parachute-less skydiving.
Anything having to do with centipedes and my genitalia.
American Idol!! Catch the fucking fever!!!
4. Boobs. Such a great word for such a great thing. Just wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. Boobs.
5. Ann Coulter is a loud-mouth, pickle-licking, baby-kicking, shit-eating, whorebag bitch who couldn't make a lucent argument that she is fucking Ann Coulter! I haven't cut loose about this bitch for too long and now I'm fucking angry. Angry and tired. But mostly angry. I can't even decide if she is good-looking or not. I've got a thousand dollars that says she is totally into bondage and loves to beat the shit out of whoever is unlucky enough to be captured by and forced to sleep with her. I'm certain that she has a dungeon in her home. And when you enter your soul is sucked into the fiery pits of hell. And she kicks puppies. Whore.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
The Day of Reckoning
I turned 21 on December 17, 2006. Having done so, I contend that on that day I drank enough to kill an average-sized horse. Here is the transcript of my day:
1:03pm - Wake up still drunk from the night before. Today is the 16th of December. In 11 hours I will be of legal age to do what I have been doing since I was 15. Oh, and I can drink, too.
1:04 - First beer of the day. It will be a long and memory-less day. God save me.
1:06 - Second beer of the day. Friends assure me that I can drink slower and that there is, in fact, more beer. I tell them that they are crazy and that beer tends to drink itself if left alone. I drink faster.
1:32 - First insults hurled at all friends who are not turning 21. As it turns out, there are only 2 present. Insult 2 people mercilessly.
1:33 - Am reminded that I am also not 21 yet. Assholes.
2:01 - Beer.
3:06 - Hard alcohol. Lots of it.
4:23 - I am fucking wasted. Slurred speech? Yep. Glassy eyes? You know it. Fat chick in my bed? Not yet, but probably later.
5:00 - I am becoming witty and charming to everyone around me. People love to hear me yell at them and sing mumbled, drunken Phil Collins songs. That's right. I listened to Phil Collins on my birthday. Jesus ain't got shit on me.
5:07 - Point out to nobody in particular that I am the best looking man in the room. Point out to the homely looking girl my friends brought by that I might not even be the ugliest girl in the room.
5:08 - Ugly girl slaps me.
6:42 - Notice Sharpy marks on my arm. Turns out friends have been keeping track of how many shot I take. Why did I not notice this until now?
7:18 - Friend Tom brings the Newcastle. My fate is sealed. (Side note: Only two kinds of alcohol signal the point of no return for me - Steel Reserve (extra side note: only to be consumed when you are fresh out of gasoline or sweat squeezed out of Rosie O'Donnell socks) and Newcastle. God knows why such a delectable beer would consistently and without fail ruin me.)
8:00 - I am jumping on couches and beating my chest like Tarzan. Tarzan is probably more clothed than I am, though.
9:24 - Memory gone. I'm certain I did something fun at this time, but alcohol has the tendency to steal things from you. Like dignity, money, and brain cells.
10:00 - Walk (read: basically fall) into Murphy's, a Marquette campus bar.
10:01 - Am surprised to learn that Marquette's bars consider me to be of legal age. I do as well. Take first legal shot.
10:02 - Second legal shot
10:03 - 3rd and 4th legal shots. I am going to die. Of this, I am certain.
10:08 - Cement Mixer. I take it like a man. Inside, however, I feel like a six year old girl who just got hit with a golf club.
10:37 - Man up and shoot pool. I am on fire. How is this possible? I am bobbing and weaving and cannot differentiate between stripes and solids. Whatever, I still win 20 bucks. Christ I'm good.
11:48 - Leave Murphy's. Head for Water St. I might as well be headed to Baghdad. My friends have a look about them that makes me think they are trying to kill me.
11:49 - Am alerted to the fact that my friends are trying to kill me. By my friends.
12:00am - Officially 21. Officially toasted. Officially black out. All memories from here on out are made up or provided second hand.
12:23 - My friends send as many girls as possible to dance with me. I am told the next day that I "danced like a champion."
1:04 - More shots, of course. I can't even work the automatic doors at the grocery store anymore. Which makes opening my zipper to piss just that much harder.
1:05 - Manage to not piss all over myself. I am victorious. I congratulate myself with more shots.
1:06 - 2:05 - Life as I know does not exist. I may very well have traveled to a different planet, but I would not know.
8:03am - Wake up in friends' apartment. Fully clothed with huge cuts and scratched on left bicep and right elbow. I took a massive spill, obviously.
8:09 - Walk the 8 blocks to my apartment. No coat. No hat. No dignity. I am still drunk. Very very drunk.
9:07 - Screwdrivers, Bloody Mary's, Miller Lite. Today should be a good day.
9:34 - Pass out, drink in hand.
1:23pm - Wake up, balls hanging out of the front of my boxers . Walk into living room, with balls unknowingly still hanging out, and find several friends passed out on my couches.
1:24 - Tuck nuts back into boxers. Fall asleep again. No fat chicks. No serious injuries. I am alive. And I am 21.
My friends stopped marking down how many shots I took after 27. So, unofficially, I took approximately 40 shots in addition to the untold number of beers and mixed drinks I consumed. How am I alive? My momma don't raise no losers.
Anyone want to go out drinking with me?
1:03pm - Wake up still drunk from the night before. Today is the 16th of December. In 11 hours I will be of legal age to do what I have been doing since I was 15. Oh, and I can drink, too.
1:04 - First beer of the day. It will be a long and memory-less day. God save me.
1:06 - Second beer of the day. Friends assure me that I can drink slower and that there is, in fact, more beer. I tell them that they are crazy and that beer tends to drink itself if left alone. I drink faster.
1:32 - First insults hurled at all friends who are not turning 21. As it turns out, there are only 2 present. Insult 2 people mercilessly.
1:33 - Am reminded that I am also not 21 yet. Assholes.
2:01 - Beer.
3:06 - Hard alcohol. Lots of it.
4:23 - I am fucking wasted. Slurred speech? Yep. Glassy eyes? You know it. Fat chick in my bed? Not yet, but probably later.
5:00 - I am becoming witty and charming to everyone around me. People love to hear me yell at them and sing mumbled, drunken Phil Collins songs. That's right. I listened to Phil Collins on my birthday. Jesus ain't got shit on me.
5:07 - Point out to nobody in particular that I am the best looking man in the room. Point out to the homely looking girl my friends brought by that I might not even be the ugliest girl in the room.
5:08 - Ugly girl slaps me.
6:42 - Notice Sharpy marks on my arm. Turns out friends have been keeping track of how many shot I take. Why did I not notice this until now?
7:18 - Friend Tom brings the Newcastle. My fate is sealed. (Side note: Only two kinds of alcohol signal the point of no return for me - Steel Reserve (extra side note: only to be consumed when you are fresh out of gasoline or sweat squeezed out of Rosie O'Donnell socks) and Newcastle. God knows why such a delectable beer would consistently and without fail ruin me.)
8:00 - I am jumping on couches and beating my chest like Tarzan. Tarzan is probably more clothed than I am, though.
9:24 - Memory gone. I'm certain I did something fun at this time, but alcohol has the tendency to steal things from you. Like dignity, money, and brain cells.
10:00 - Walk (read: basically fall) into Murphy's, a Marquette campus bar.
10:01 - Am surprised to learn that Marquette's bars consider me to be of legal age. I do as well. Take first legal shot.
10:02 - Second legal shot
10:03 - 3rd and 4th legal shots. I am going to die. Of this, I am certain.
10:08 - Cement Mixer. I take it like a man. Inside, however, I feel like a six year old girl who just got hit with a golf club.
10:37 - Man up and shoot pool. I am on fire. How is this possible? I am bobbing and weaving and cannot differentiate between stripes and solids. Whatever, I still win 20 bucks. Christ I'm good.
11:48 - Leave Murphy's. Head for Water St. I might as well be headed to Baghdad. My friends have a look about them that makes me think they are trying to kill me.
11:49 - Am alerted to the fact that my friends are trying to kill me. By my friends.
12:00am - Officially 21. Officially toasted. Officially black out. All memories from here on out are made up or provided second hand.
12:23 - My friends send as many girls as possible to dance with me. I am told the next day that I "danced like a champion."
1:04 - More shots, of course. I can't even work the automatic doors at the grocery store anymore. Which makes opening my zipper to piss just that much harder.
1:05 - Manage to not piss all over myself. I am victorious. I congratulate myself with more shots.
1:06 - 2:05 - Life as I know does not exist. I may very well have traveled to a different planet, but I would not know.
8:03am - Wake up in friends' apartment. Fully clothed with huge cuts and scratched on left bicep and right elbow. I took a massive spill, obviously.
8:09 - Walk the 8 blocks to my apartment. No coat. No hat. No dignity. I am still drunk. Very very drunk.
9:07 - Screwdrivers, Bloody Mary's, Miller Lite. Today should be a good day.
9:34 - Pass out, drink in hand.
1:23pm - Wake up, balls hanging out of the front of my boxers . Walk into living room, with balls unknowingly still hanging out, and find several friends passed out on my couches.
1:24 - Tuck nuts back into boxers. Fall asleep again. No fat chicks. No serious injuries. I am alive. And I am 21.
My friends stopped marking down how many shots I took after 27. So, unofficially, I took approximately 40 shots in addition to the untold number of beers and mixed drinks I consumed. How am I alive? My momma don't raise no losers.
Anyone want to go out drinking with me?
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Boom Goes the Propane Tank
Holy fucking shit, Batman!!! An asplosion!!! Wednesday morning at about 8:10am I was sitting on the edge of my bed tying my shoes before leaving for work when my fucking apartment started shaking. My first thought, of course, was "who the fuck drove a car into my building?" I soon found out, though, that a propane tank had exploded in a factory building about 20 blocks from where I live, leveling the 1.5 million sq. ft. warehouse, injuring over 40 people and killing 3. Obviously this propane tank was just slightly bigger than the one suburban yuppies use to grill their tofu burgers. This is pretty sad so I'm not going to make a joke about it, but it also was pretty intense. Walking out of my apartment and seeing the smoke rising above the Menominee Valley and the flames shooting out of the gutted building made me start thinking about things I would like to blow up. I've provided this handy list for you in case you have been wondering. If you haven't, well, read it anyway. It can't hurt to practice your reading skills, ignoramus.
Here ya go:
1. The Scrub-A-Dub car wash next to my house.
I swear to everything holy that I am on the edge of twisting off and nuking the fucking car wash. The next time I am woken up on Saturday morning at 7:30am by gangsta rap blasting from a purple Impala with fake rims I am going to start shooting. . . Remember when I wrote about how I need someone to hate for no reason? Bear that in mind when reading what I write next. . . Every fucking weekend I am woken up by screaming black people who can't decide if 50 Cent is better than Nelly (that's a stupid argument, too, as they both suck fat donkey cock). I don't give a shit if your car costs more than your house - and I'm certain that it does - you don't need to be fucking clean it at such a ridiculous hour. How the fuck is it that you can't wake up and go get a fucking job but you make it a sacred ritual to vacuum your car directly below my fucking window every Saturday? Hey Hey, Ho Ho, the Scrub-A-Dub is gonna blow!!!!! I hate you, carwash. Next.
2. The Mall
Children running around knocking shit over. Retarded parents screaming at those children in vain. High school douche bags wandering around aimlessly. Cell phone salesmen every twelve goddamn feet. The morbidly obese cows stuffing themselves in the food court. Nearly everything about the fucking mall pisses me off. Sure it's cool for picking up aging women with three kids or buying the coolest and newest piece of shit at Hot Topic, but with few other exceptions the mall is pretty much the commercial and social equivalent of having your gay uncle beat the shit out of you and then show the pictures of it to your friends. After he rapes you with a stick. And the thing with the stuffed panda bear that somehow got on the internet. You know what I'm talking about. Do you know how often I have to wade through the sea of cock-smoking delinquents doing nothing in a store just to find whatever it is I'm looking for? Never, because I don't go to the mall. But if I did you can bet your kids' lives that I would have to. I know these things. I didn't even have to go there to find out. Clairvoyance. That's what I'm all about. Next soon-to-be crater.
3. Planned Parenthood
After I get my free condoms. And STD test. And some RU486. Then that fucking place is gone. I live quite literally 400 feet from a Planned Parenthood building. And I've seen the crackheads and other people that seem to be drawn to it like moths to bright light. I'm not saying that I have to blow up every Planned Parenthood in the country, just the one by my apartment. Eric Rudolph already tried that. He only got 2. I've done my research and found that there are 117 Planned Parenthood clinics in America. That means that he only got 1.7% of the clinics in the country. Pathetic. Obviously, there is a reason for this. My friend told me it was the police or something like that, but, you know.... I mean, my friend is kind of a dipshit, but it probably was the cops, you know. Whatever. Anyway, if that fucking place isn't sterilizing their patients then it is doing no good. It's inefficient and losing money, and if Planned Parenthood is about anything, it's the bottom line! So in fact, I'm doing Planned Parenthood a favor by blowing up this one little building on Wisconsin Ave. in Milwaukee. Nobody will even notice. If nothing else panhandling in the area will almost cease. Why is this? You guessed it. I'm putting all of the crackheads in the building before I blow it up. How am I going to do this? Yep, that's right. Magic. I do it all the time. I stand in front of the mirror in my bedroom and chant the magic words I'd fuck me while pretending to be Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs. And then I have a tea party with my stuffed animals. Girls think I'm sexy!!
More to come.....
Here ya go:
1. The Scrub-A-Dub car wash next to my house.
I swear to everything holy that I am on the edge of twisting off and nuking the fucking car wash. The next time I am woken up on Saturday morning at 7:30am by gangsta rap blasting from a purple Impala with fake rims I am going to start shooting. . . Remember when I wrote about how I need someone to hate for no reason? Bear that in mind when reading what I write next. . . Every fucking weekend I am woken up by screaming black people who can't decide if 50 Cent is better than Nelly (that's a stupid argument, too, as they both suck fat donkey cock). I don't give a shit if your car costs more than your house - and I'm certain that it does - you don't need to be fucking clean it at such a ridiculous hour. How the fuck is it that you can't wake up and go get a fucking job but you make it a sacred ritual to vacuum your car directly below my fucking window every Saturday? Hey Hey, Ho Ho, the Scrub-A-Dub is gonna blow!!!!! I hate you, carwash. Next.
2. The Mall
Children running around knocking shit over. Retarded parents screaming at those children in vain. High school douche bags wandering around aimlessly. Cell phone salesmen every twelve goddamn feet. The morbidly obese cows stuffing themselves in the food court. Nearly everything about the fucking mall pisses me off. Sure it's cool for picking up aging women with three kids or buying the coolest and newest piece of shit at Hot Topic, but with few other exceptions the mall is pretty much the commercial and social equivalent of having your gay uncle beat the shit out of you and then show the pictures of it to your friends. After he rapes you with a stick. And the thing with the stuffed panda bear that somehow got on the internet. You know what I'm talking about. Do you know how often I have to wade through the sea of cock-smoking delinquents doing nothing in a store just to find whatever it is I'm looking for? Never, because I don't go to the mall. But if I did you can bet your kids' lives that I would have to. I know these things. I didn't even have to go there to find out. Clairvoyance. That's what I'm all about. Next soon-to-be crater.
3. Planned Parenthood
After I get my free condoms. And STD test. And some RU486. Then that fucking place is gone. I live quite literally 400 feet from a Planned Parenthood building. And I've seen the crackheads and other people that seem to be drawn to it like moths to bright light. I'm not saying that I have to blow up every Planned Parenthood in the country, just the one by my apartment. Eric Rudolph already tried that. He only got 2. I've done my research and found that there are 117 Planned Parenthood clinics in America. That means that he only got 1.7% of the clinics in the country. Pathetic. Obviously, there is a reason for this. My friend told me it was the police or something like that, but, you know.... I mean, my friend is kind of a dipshit, but it probably was the cops, you know. Whatever. Anyway, if that fucking place isn't sterilizing their patients then it is doing no good. It's inefficient and losing money, and if Planned Parenthood is about anything, it's the bottom line! So in fact, I'm doing Planned Parenthood a favor by blowing up this one little building on Wisconsin Ave. in Milwaukee. Nobody will even notice. If nothing else panhandling in the area will almost cease. Why is this? You guessed it. I'm putting all of the crackheads in the building before I blow it up. How am I going to do this? Yep, that's right. Magic. I do it all the time. I stand in front of the mirror in my bedroom and chant the magic words I'd fuck me while pretending to be Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs. And then I have a tea party with my stuffed animals. Girls think I'm sexy!!
More to come.....
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