The Vans Warped Tour is in Milwaukee this week. How do I know this? And why do I care? Certainly I wouldn't if I didn't come into direct contact with one of the wastes of human life that frequent the music festival. Allow me to explain... The Vans Warped Tour showcases various punk and alternative rock bands on a nationwide tour every summer. Some of the bands are actually worth listening to. Hell, when I was 15 I actually attended the festival at its stop in Chicago. You may be asking yourself: What do you have against the Warped Tour if you attended it yourself at one point in your life? Obviously, it is the fucking douchebags that go to the shows. Look, these bands may put out some good music but the people who follow them around the country are about useful as a dick that's been plunged into a blender set on puree. Marilyn Manson has actually made music that I enjoy (side note: I know, I know. I swear I never thought I would say that. Honestly, but I've never been one to lie and some of the shit he has produced is pretty good. He just looks like a fucking nightmare.) That, however, doesn't mean that the pale faced little goth shitheads that worship him shouldn't all be caged and gassed Auschwitz style.
But back to my original idea. I have to trek across Milwaukee to pay rent on my house because apparently Carnihan Enterprises does not believe in convenience or customer satisfaction. As I was driving through downtown Milwaukee during the middle of the fucking lunch hour I had the pleasure of sitting in traffic for almost a goddamn hour. Why was this? Naturally, one of the cock mongers attending the show decided it was a good idea for his fucking car to break down in the middle of one of Milwaukee's construction clogged streets. Just off the offramp I took to exit the freeway. So I sat. And waited. And watched. And, of course, I laughed my ass off at the mowhawked dildo screaming at his smoking car. The whole time I prayed for his car to explode and take with it the three dipshits sitting inside of it. Alas, it did not.
What came of this, though, is a thought that I know is not original, and one that I've had before, but it was again brought to my attention. I've done my research (note: my research involved scratching my balls and drinking bourbon straight from the bottle) and I have concluded that reason these little douches dress the way they do is to be nonconformist. Which seems really fucking funny to me because in refusing to conform they ALL LOOK THE FUCKING SAME! Fuck you, asshole, you are not Sid Vicious. And stop trying to channel Joey Ramone. He would fucking weep if he saw you wearing your Blitzkrieg Bop t-shirt that you bought for $30 at Hot Topic. And why is it necessary to spend $50 on fucking hair products? If it takes more than $200 to dress as a nonconformist you are getting raped in the ass AND you are a fucking moron.
In response to the influx of punk rock kids spreading their wanton filth in my formerly pristine city, I propose the building of the world's largest fire pit. After construction of the pit we will light a fire inside of it and simply throw those little cum rags into it. Simple. Effective. Fun. Shit, we can even sell raffle tickets and auction off a chance to be the first to throw someone in the fire. Imagine how much of the city's budget problems we could solve. People would be lining up by the thousands to have a chance to torch a retard in a Misfits shirt.
Look, all of you. Go away. You are approaching territory formerly reserved only for Cubs fans and the fucking dipshit who works at the 24 hour McDonalds that fucked up my order and put the fries in the bag upside down. Needless to say, you are treading dangerous water. Leave peacefully, or I will do to you what prisoners in maximum security jails do to each other. No, you sick fuck. Not the rape. I was talking about the shanks and beatings with tube socks filled with bars of soap.
God you are fucking sick. Get your mind out of the gutter.
Jesus Christ.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Back On Track
After enduring a week of pure misery I often find that it is cathartic to cut loose and send myself into an alcohol-induced coma that lasts the duration of the weekend. So what did I do this weekend? Yep - Absolutely nothing. And it was great. I sat on my ass in my living room and watched DVD's and television for an entire sloth-y weekend of laziness. Granted, I did have my good friends bourbon and vodka with me, but I never left the house for anything except to kick the wigger next door in the face. God that felt good. I think I will do it more often.
Anyway, about halfway through watching Cast Away, starring the greatest actor of all time - Mr. Tom Hanks - I realized that I don't ever want to be stranded on a fucking island. I know, I know. Quite the revelation. Just bear with me. I love that movie because it doesn't romanticize the idea of being completely secluded from the rest of the world, but it also serves to show how isolation provides a vastly different perspective of the world. I don't really know what else it should or does mean to me, but I found the movie in my collection at a seemingly very appropriate time. Seriously, Tom Hanks, is there anything you can't do? I would fellate you on command...
Now, just to show that I am back to usual, jovial self, I am going to set up my dream scenario which involves former US Senator and current Democratic Presidential candidate Mike Gravel and my favorite black hole of rationality, Ann Coulter.
Ann: "SENATOR GRAVEL, YOU ARE A LIBERAL!!! LIBERALS ARE BAD!!!"
Sen. Gravel: "Shut the fuck up Ann, I've eaten people more important than you."
Ann: "LIBERALS ARE RUINING THE COUNTRY!!! AHHH!!!"
Sen. Gravel: *Punches Ann Coulter in the mouth* "And my fist ruined your face. Your next completely pointless assertation, please?"
Ann: *Mumbling words as blood drips from her mouth* (But, obviously, it's really loud)
Sen. Gravel: "What's that Ann? Did I punch you too hard? Maybe this will help" *Pulls a baseball bat out of his overcoat and hits Ann Coulter in the face*
Ann: *Slowly dies in front of newly crowned American Hero Senator Mike Gravel*
Sen. Gravel: "Damn, that was fun. I think I'll make a sandwich."
Problem solved.
Please do this Senator Gravel, and I will vote for you in the primary. Fuck it, I will vote twice. Fraud's never been a deterent for me.
*Cue Ann Coulter twitching violently in a bloody heap on the ground.*
Stupid bitch.
Anyway, about halfway through watching Cast Away, starring the greatest actor of all time - Mr. Tom Hanks - I realized that I don't ever want to be stranded on a fucking island. I know, I know. Quite the revelation. Just bear with me. I love that movie because it doesn't romanticize the idea of being completely secluded from the rest of the world, but it also serves to show how isolation provides a vastly different perspective of the world. I don't really know what else it should or does mean to me, but I found the movie in my collection at a seemingly very appropriate time. Seriously, Tom Hanks, is there anything you can't do? I would fellate you on command...
Now, just to show that I am back to usual, jovial self, I am going to set up my dream scenario which involves former US Senator and current Democratic Presidential candidate Mike Gravel and my favorite black hole of rationality, Ann Coulter.
Ann: "SENATOR GRAVEL, YOU ARE A LIBERAL!!! LIBERALS ARE BAD!!!"
Sen. Gravel: "Shut the fuck up Ann, I've eaten people more important than you."
Ann: "LIBERALS ARE RUINING THE COUNTRY!!! AHHH!!!"
Sen. Gravel: *Punches Ann Coulter in the mouth* "And my fist ruined your face. Your next completely pointless assertation, please?"
Ann: *Mumbling words as blood drips from her mouth* (But, obviously, it's really loud)
Sen. Gravel: "What's that Ann? Did I punch you too hard? Maybe this will help" *Pulls a baseball bat out of his overcoat and hits Ann Coulter in the face*
Ann: *Slowly dies in front of newly crowned American Hero Senator Mike Gravel*
Sen. Gravel: "Damn, that was fun. I think I'll make a sandwich."
Problem solved.
Please do this Senator Gravel, and I will vote for you in the primary. Fuck it, I will vote twice. Fraud's never been a deterent for me.
*Cue Ann Coulter twitching violently in a bloody heap on the ground.*
Stupid bitch.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Seven Days I Can Never Get Back
Have you ever had on of those weeks where everything and anything that could go wrong did? Of course you have, because the world sucks and everyone has weeks like that. I just had one of those weeks that makes me want to go and kick a puppy. No matter what good things were happening there were always five fucked up circumstances to offset the good shit. Not that anyone cares or should because I'm venting on a goddamn weblog that no one reads. That's cool, though. I'm writing this thing so I can choose what I write about.
So, here's the deal. If you piss me off in the next 72 hours, I'm going to punch you in the mouth. Nothing major. I'm just going to knock several teeth down your throat. I'm serious. I'm not going to get into the specifics about why I'm so pissed, but they are compelling enough for me to punch someone in the mouth. Suffice it to say, I am angry.
I usually try to be funny with my threats when I write here, but I am so far beyond humorous that when I read other things I have written here I feel like punching the screen of my laptop. I am going to fucking twist off and ruin someone's face.
I am going to go club a crackhead with a baseball bat.
So, here's the deal. If you piss me off in the next 72 hours, I'm going to punch you in the mouth. Nothing major. I'm just going to knock several teeth down your throat. I'm serious. I'm not going to get into the specifics about why I'm so pissed, but they are compelling enough for me to punch someone in the mouth. Suffice it to say, I am angry.
I usually try to be funny with my threats when I write here, but I am so far beyond humorous that when I read other things I have written here I feel like punching the screen of my laptop. I am going to fucking twist off and ruin someone's face.
I am going to go club a crackhead with a baseball bat.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Shit
Jesus Christ on a stick. I was really hoping that I would never have to write this post. Unbelievable. Unlike some people, I am somewhat fond of both of my parents. You could go so far as to say that I like them and that they have grown on me. For this reason I was slightly more than horrified when I received a phone call this past weekend and my mother informed me that she had "read my website" and that she had "never seen so many F-words in all [her] life."
Oh. Fuck.
Obviously I make up lots and lots of stuff that I write about here. But how do you explain to the woman that bore and raised you that you were just kidding around when you write about chaining a fat hooker to a pole or say that you would rather watch a kitten being raped than go to work?
Shit. Shit. Shit. Goddamn. Shit.
There was a reason that I made sure they didn't read this site. Mostly because it's depraved and disgusting. Now they know what I have written. Not that I'm going to stop or anything because I still think this shit is funny. But goddamn.
Here is the rundown of the phone call I received:
*Phone rings*
Me: "Hello"
Mother: "Hello, Michael, are you an angry man?"
Me: "No, not really."
Mother: "Oh, because I read your website and it seems like you are."
Me: *Raising a gun to my temple*
Me: Silence
Mother: "Are you still there?"
Me: "Oh shit..."
This is worse than getting caught rubbing one out to a snuff film. I could club a harp seal and not feel nearly as bad as I do now. I don't think I'm ever going to be invited to Thanksgiving dinner again. Son of a bitch.
*Still raising the gun to my temple*
Fuck me.
Oh. Fuck.
Obviously I make up lots and lots of stuff that I write about here. But how do you explain to the woman that bore and raised you that you were just kidding around when you write about chaining a fat hooker to a pole or say that you would rather watch a kitten being raped than go to work?
Shit. Shit. Shit. Goddamn. Shit.
There was a reason that I made sure they didn't read this site. Mostly because it's depraved and disgusting. Now they know what I have written. Not that I'm going to stop or anything because I still think this shit is funny. But goddamn.
Here is the rundown of the phone call I received:
*Phone rings*
Me: "Hello"
Mother: "Hello, Michael, are you an angry man?"
Me: "No, not really."
Mother: "Oh, because I read your website and it seems like you are."
Me: *Raising a gun to my temple*
Me: Silence
Mother: "Are you still there?"
Me: "Oh shit..."
This is worse than getting caught rubbing one out to a snuff film. I could club a harp seal and not feel nearly as bad as I do now. I don't think I'm ever going to be invited to Thanksgiving dinner again. Son of a bitch.
*Still raising the gun to my temple*
Fuck me.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Better Than The Rest
This is called mailing it in. Well, it would be if anyone actually read or gave a shit about this little weblog. But I've been reading through my previous posts and I decided to make a compilation of what I think are the funniest things I've written, as well as make a short list of my favorite posts. Why do I get to decide? Because I do. Read and enjoy. Or don't. Whatever.
My favorite lines, in order from the oldest to newest posts:
About crackheads: The fact remains, though, that I really do love these guys (and occasionally women, though they often resemble men) and if they are honest about what they intend to do with the money they ask from me (i.e. buy crack, a hooker, booze, a colo-rectal screening) I will usually give them something. Even if I can only give a quarter I will do so because I feel a certain connection with the crackhead community. Except that I don't smoke crack. Or suck dicks for crack. Or kill other crackheads for crack. Or live on the street. Or ask strange people for money. Other than that, though, I am just like these noble, modern urban nomads. Such a proud and industrious people.
About giraffes: In all seriousness, this is the most worthless animal in existence. What does it do? Anyone? Anyone have an answer? Hmmmmm. What a complete waste of space. By default the world is a dumber and more inefficient place as a result of the existence of the giraffe. Does it even provide food for a more deserving animal? No. It probably tastes like shit to lions and bears and vampire bats anyway. Stupid fucking giraffe. I want them out of the species race. Gone.
Regarding the Jesus freaks at Marquette University: Ultimately, I don't give a flying fuck what anyone chooses to believe. I am a big believer in people coming to conclusion on their own terms. That means thinking things through and making your OWN decision. If you believe in god, great. I don't. You are certainly not going to change my mind by threatening me with eternal damnation. I already live in Wisconsin, I guarantee I've seen worse. So please, both of you numbnuts, just leave me alone when I'm walking on campus. I don't want to deal with you. So far I've been pretty nice, but I am rapidly approaching the point where I either push you in front of a bus or impale you with a broken cross. Either way, god isn't going to help you when I kick your ass back to the Holy Land. Fuck. Now I'm pissed. And it was such a good day. Stupid Jesus.
About my good friend Rush Limbaugh: Rush Limbaugh - that dirty scrote-sniffing, puppy-raping, hillbilly-heroin eating, cock monger Rush Limbaugh
What I would do if I bought a fat hooker on National Ave: Wouldn't it be cool if, for just one day, it was legal to buy a hooker and then keep her chained to a pole outside of a good friend's house? I would get the fattest, most disgusting cum-dumpster I could find on 20th and National and then handcuff her fat ass to a stop sign outside of someone's home. How long do you think she would struggle to climb up and over the sign before she gave up and just sat down and moaned quietly like an injured animal? Rereading that entire thought, I can understand why many of my religious friends tell me I will end up in the third or fourth ring of hell.
My entire conversation with a pedophile and a born again Christian
As well as my disertation on Ann Coulter
A clip from the Maury Povich show: The show started with some bullshit off-stage interviews where both act like they are infallible and talk in pseudo-rhyme trying to "diss" the other wretched piece of fuck. "You know you a slut. You know that shit whack, 'cause the baby ain't mine, he ain't even black!" Or some shit like that. It goes on like that.
An angry message to the husband of the runaway bride: GODDAMNIT WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM MAN?!?!?! SHE GAVE YOU THE PERFECT OPPORTUNITY TO NOT GET MARRIED!!! CAN YOU NOT SEE HOW BADLY YOU FUCKED UP? HER EYES ARE TOO BIG AND YOUR COGNITIVE ABILITY IS TOO NONEXISTENT. ON BEHALF OF MEN EVERYWHERE I DEMAND YOU RETURN YOUR TESTICLES IMMEDIATELY AND BEGIN ESTROGEN TREATMENT. GODDAMNIT, SOMETHING THAT GREAT HAPPENS TO A MAN ONCE OR TWICE IN A LIFETIME. . .
My calculation of how many eight-year-olds I could kill
The winner of my "Who Can I Hate For No Reason Contest": Goths - Bingo. I had to go to the mall this weekend. (I hate the mall. And the people who frequent the mall.) Goths, everywhere. Goths to the left. Goths to the right. Downtrodden, forlorn teenagers who write angsty poetry and pretend to be serious when talking about slitting their wrists and ending it all. Well, I'm waiting.... You are from suburban Milwaukee, a city located in, last time I checked, fucking AMERICA!! What the fuck do you have to be so sad about. Your fucking parents are required to care and provide for you and you live in the most comfortable and safe nation in the entire fucking world!!! Fuck you!! BUT THE BIRDS ARE DYING AND LIFE IS SO SAD!!! Yeah? Fuck you. Get a job. Stop wasting your parents' money buying black nail polish and $75 jeans from Hot Topic in an attempt to separate yourself from the "harsh, cruel, callous world." (That's a direct quote from a goth, by the way) Just. Die. Now.We have a winner. From this point forward I will harbor and intense hatred of all people of the "goth"persuasion. They suck. I don't need a reason to hate them. I think it's obvious why I do. Black nail polish? You're a dude. Get fucked.
Why I want to blow up Planned Parenthood. It's funny because I'm pro-choice: 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!!
The time I caught my boss taking the nastiest shit in the long history of shits
The time a real website linked to mine
My new dilemma since I moved into my new house: I'm not really sure what is worse - walking down the street each day knowing that I might have to fight off and kill Dipshit McCrackpipe or driving down WestGrand Lane knowing that I might have to soon remove an eight year old from the space between my license plate holder and the front bumper. I have long advocated the construction of a fence surrounding one of the Hawaiian islands so that children between the ages of 10 and 16 can be sent there away from people like me who have sense enough not to chase a fucking soccer ball into oncoming traffic. I'm going to make that a reality one day. I'm starting with all of the kids on my block....
Cubs fans: Cubs fans. I don't believe in any god, but every night I hit my knees and pray that a higher being redirects a meteor and sends it headlong into Wrigley Field. This season my beloved Brewers are somehow managing to stay in first place convincingly. I realize that, like every year, they will break my heart, but until then I am riding the wave. So here's the deal. Cubs fans, all of you, any of you, each of you - shut the fuck up now. Don't talk to me about baseball. Or the Cubs. Or the Brewers. You haven't won dick shit for 99 years. I don't want all of your bad fucking karma rubbing off on my great city. We need this. Don't fuck it up.
Regarding the douche bag that stares at me through my office window: I don't get it, but at least four times today I have turned around and Cockbite McOveralls is standing there on his scaffolding laughing like a retard on an ether binge.
My list of better things to do than work
Here are my favorite posts:
Crackhead Fever
Dear Crackhead That Always Asks Me For Money, I Got A Job Today, Did You?
A Beautiful Conversation (with a Born-Again-Christian and a Pedophile)
I Am Going To Beat Ann Coulter With A Large Sausage
A Day In The Life
Shut The Fuck Up
The Day of Reckoning
How To Make Vehicular Manslaughter Even More Fun
and, of course, my favorite: Ode To A Crackhead, which I have reprinted below.
Ode to a Crackhead
Crackheads abound, with them streets are filled
Minus a couple, for crack they were killed
Pleasant and friendly, they're always polite
Except when they're cracked out and roaming at night
Looking for quarters, or small animals to be eaten
Only some white rocks their deal could sweeten
But Lou's not around, that worthless crack slinger
He's banging his third wife, a low-rent lounge singer
And the only dealer around at this ridiculous hour
Cuts his shit with Drano, Ajax and flour
What must a man do to find him some rocks
Must he resort to slobbing on cocks
On the gay side of town to feed his desire
To put crack in a pipe and to touch it with fire
To fry up his brain as smoke curls in his mouth
Oh Shit! Muthafucka! He knows some dude on South
Where the street intersects at an awkward degree
Bitch, he gettin' his rocks, but shit they ain't free
Looks like another bag paid for on his knees
Don't look for a moral because there ain't one
Just another dumb crackhead whose mission is done
I hope in the future I write more posts that I think contain things that are worthy of being posted here. In the meantime, I'm going to get fuckin' loaded and maybe beat a hooker or two.
Lookout whores, I'm on the warpath!
My favorite lines, in order from the oldest to newest posts:
About crackheads: The fact remains, though, that I really do love these guys (and occasionally women, though they often resemble men) and if they are honest about what they intend to do with the money they ask from me (i.e. buy crack, a hooker, booze, a colo-rectal screening) I will usually give them something. Even if I can only give a quarter I will do so because I feel a certain connection with the crackhead community. Except that I don't smoke crack. Or suck dicks for crack. Or kill other crackheads for crack. Or live on the street. Or ask strange people for money. Other than that, though, I am just like these noble, modern urban nomads. Such a proud and industrious people.
About giraffes: In all seriousness, this is the most worthless animal in existence. What does it do? Anyone? Anyone have an answer? Hmmmmm. What a complete waste of space. By default the world is a dumber and more inefficient place as a result of the existence of the giraffe. Does it even provide food for a more deserving animal? No. It probably tastes like shit to lions and bears and vampire bats anyway. Stupid fucking giraffe. I want them out of the species race. Gone.
Regarding the Jesus freaks at Marquette University: Ultimately, I don't give a flying fuck what anyone chooses to believe. I am a big believer in people coming to conclusion on their own terms. That means thinking things through and making your OWN decision. If you believe in god, great. I don't. You are certainly not going to change my mind by threatening me with eternal damnation. I already live in Wisconsin, I guarantee I've seen worse. So please, both of you numbnuts, just leave me alone when I'm walking on campus. I don't want to deal with you. So far I've been pretty nice, but I am rapidly approaching the point where I either push you in front of a bus or impale you with a broken cross. Either way, god isn't going to help you when I kick your ass back to the Holy Land. Fuck. Now I'm pissed. And it was such a good day. Stupid Jesus.
About my good friend Rush Limbaugh: Rush Limbaugh - that dirty scrote-sniffing, puppy-raping, hillbilly-heroin eating, cock monger Rush Limbaugh
What I would do if I bought a fat hooker on National Ave: Wouldn't it be cool if, for just one day, it was legal to buy a hooker and then keep her chained to a pole outside of a good friend's house? I would get the fattest, most disgusting cum-dumpster I could find on 20th and National and then handcuff her fat ass to a stop sign outside of someone's home. How long do you think she would struggle to climb up and over the sign before she gave up and just sat down and moaned quietly like an injured animal? Rereading that entire thought, I can understand why many of my religious friends tell me I will end up in the third or fourth ring of hell.
My entire conversation with a pedophile and a born again Christian
As well as my disertation on Ann Coulter
A clip from the Maury Povich show: The show started with some bullshit off-stage interviews where both act like they are infallible and talk in pseudo-rhyme trying to "diss" the other wretched piece of fuck. "You know you a slut. You know that shit whack, 'cause the baby ain't mine, he ain't even black!" Or some shit like that. It goes on like that.
An angry message to the husband of the runaway bride: GODDAMNIT WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM MAN?!?!?! SHE GAVE YOU THE PERFECT OPPORTUNITY TO NOT GET MARRIED!!! CAN YOU NOT SEE HOW BADLY YOU FUCKED UP? HER EYES ARE TOO BIG AND YOUR COGNITIVE ABILITY IS TOO NONEXISTENT. ON BEHALF OF MEN EVERYWHERE I DEMAND YOU RETURN YOUR TESTICLES IMMEDIATELY AND BEGIN ESTROGEN TREATMENT. GODDAMNIT, SOMETHING THAT GREAT HAPPENS TO A MAN ONCE OR TWICE IN A LIFETIME. . .
My calculation of how many eight-year-olds I could kill
The winner of my "Who Can I Hate For No Reason Contest": Goths - Bingo. I had to go to the mall this weekend. (I hate the mall. And the people who frequent the mall.) Goths, everywhere. Goths to the left. Goths to the right. Downtrodden, forlorn teenagers who write angsty poetry and pretend to be serious when talking about slitting their wrists and ending it all. Well, I'm waiting.... You are from suburban Milwaukee, a city located in, last time I checked, fucking AMERICA!! What the fuck do you have to be so sad about. Your fucking parents are required to care and provide for you and you live in the most comfortable and safe nation in the entire fucking world!!! Fuck you!! BUT THE BIRDS ARE DYING AND LIFE IS SO SAD!!! Yeah? Fuck you. Get a job. Stop wasting your parents' money buying black nail polish and $75 jeans from Hot Topic in an attempt to separate yourself from the "harsh, cruel, callous world." (That's a direct quote from a goth, by the way) Just. Die. Now.We have a winner. From this point forward I will harbor and intense hatred of all people of the "goth"persuasion. They suck. I don't need a reason to hate them. I think it's obvious why I do. Black nail polish? You're a dude. Get fucked.
Why I want to blow up Planned Parenthood. It's funny because I'm pro-choice: 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!!
The time I caught my boss taking the nastiest shit in the long history of shits
The time a real website linked to mine
My new dilemma since I moved into my new house: I'm not really sure what is worse - walking down the street each day knowing that I might have to fight off and kill Dipshit McCrackpipe or driving down WestGrand Lane knowing that I might have to soon remove an eight year old from the space between my license plate holder and the front bumper. I have long advocated the construction of a fence surrounding one of the Hawaiian islands so that children between the ages of 10 and 16 can be sent there away from people like me who have sense enough not to chase a fucking soccer ball into oncoming traffic. I'm going to make that a reality one day. I'm starting with all of the kids on my block....
Cubs fans: Cubs fans. I don't believe in any god, but every night I hit my knees and pray that a higher being redirects a meteor and sends it headlong into Wrigley Field. This season my beloved Brewers are somehow managing to stay in first place convincingly. I realize that, like every year, they will break my heart, but until then I am riding the wave. So here's the deal. Cubs fans, all of you, any of you, each of you - shut the fuck up now. Don't talk to me about baseball. Or the Cubs. Or the Brewers. You haven't won dick shit for 99 years. I don't want all of your bad fucking karma rubbing off on my great city. We need this. Don't fuck it up.
Regarding the douche bag that stares at me through my office window: I don't get it, but at least four times today I have turned around and Cockbite McOveralls is standing there on his scaffolding laughing like a retard on an ether binge.
My list of better things to do than work
Here are my favorite posts:
Crackhead Fever
Dear Crackhead That Always Asks Me For Money, I Got A Job Today, Did You?
A Beautiful Conversation (with a Born-Again-Christian and a Pedophile)
I Am Going To Beat Ann Coulter With A Large Sausage
A Day In The Life
Shut The Fuck Up
The Day of Reckoning
How To Make Vehicular Manslaughter Even More Fun
and, of course, my favorite: Ode To A Crackhead, which I have reprinted below.
Ode to a Crackhead
Crackheads abound, with them streets are filled
Minus a couple, for crack they were killed
Pleasant and friendly, they're always polite
Except when they're cracked out and roaming at night
Looking for quarters, or small animals to be eaten
Only some white rocks their deal could sweeten
But Lou's not around, that worthless crack slinger
He's banging his third wife, a low-rent lounge singer
And the only dealer around at this ridiculous hour
Cuts his shit with Drano, Ajax and flour
What must a man do to find him some rocks
Must he resort to slobbing on cocks
On the gay side of town to feed his desire
To put crack in a pipe and to touch it with fire
To fry up his brain as smoke curls in his mouth
Oh Shit! Muthafucka! He knows some dude on South
Where the street intersects at an awkward degree
Bitch, he gettin' his rocks, but shit they ain't free
Looks like another bag paid for on his knees
Don't look for a moral because there ain't one
Just another dumb crackhead whose mission is done
I hope in the future I write more posts that I think contain things that are worthy of being posted here. In the meantime, I'm going to get fuckin' loaded and maybe beat a hooker or two.
Lookout whores, I'm on the warpath!
Monday, July 16, 2007
Do You Really Have To Do That?
I am at the end of my fucking rope. Every weekend there is some douchebag who rides his miniature crotch rocket up and down the alley behind my house. As if there isn't a street or parking lot or perhaps a fucking freeway he could ride on. This stupid piece of fuck has to ride a tiny motorcycle up and down the alley at 8am while I am trying to sleep off the unholy amounts of alcohol I consumed the previous night. During the week I wouldn't give a shit because I am awake and leaving for work at this hour. Obviously this dildo doesn't realize this, so I have written a letter to him detailing my grievances and what I expect of him. I hope he heeds my advice.
Dear Asshole,
Get fucked you panda-raping ass-ranger. I hope you run your pygmy motorcycle into a telephone pole and die. Is there a reason that you cannot postpone your insanely stupid recreation until at least 11am? I cannot understand why you have to be a fucking cock monger and interrupt me while I am taking advantage of the only true free time I have during the week. I fucking hate you with the fire of a thousand suns. Hitler was not as hated by the Polish Jews as much as I loathe you. If I had my choice between killing you and saving a village of refugees in Darfur, those skinny shits in Africa would be long gone. Please know that if it were legal I would have already detonated the bomb I made specially for you. Please also know that I work for a law firm and am currently drafting legislation to make the aforementioned action legal and even encouraged at the state level. I'm fucking serious. You are hereby ordered to stop. If you do not stop I will start planting nails face-up in the alley. If that does not deter you I will start sitting on my roof with a rifle and take shots at you as you pass by. Please know that I am a crack shot. I don't miss. I hope you understand how seriously I take my drunken slumber. Do not fuck with it. Or I will eat your soul.
Fuck you cockslap.
Love, Michael
For his sake I hope he takes me seriously. I am a man of my word and I really would hate to have to go to the hardware store and buy thousands of nails to plant in the alley. But I am willing to go that far.
That fucking cumstain better listen to me.
Fuck.
Dear Asshole,
Get fucked you panda-raping ass-ranger. I hope you run your pygmy motorcycle into a telephone pole and die. Is there a reason that you cannot postpone your insanely stupid recreation until at least 11am? I cannot understand why you have to be a fucking cock monger and interrupt me while I am taking advantage of the only true free time I have during the week. I fucking hate you with the fire of a thousand suns. Hitler was not as hated by the Polish Jews as much as I loathe you. If I had my choice between killing you and saving a village of refugees in Darfur, those skinny shits in Africa would be long gone. Please know that if it were legal I would have already detonated the bomb I made specially for you. Please also know that I work for a law firm and am currently drafting legislation to make the aforementioned action legal and even encouraged at the state level. I'm fucking serious. You are hereby ordered to stop. If you do not stop I will start planting nails face-up in the alley. If that does not deter you I will start sitting on my roof with a rifle and take shots at you as you pass by. Please know that I am a crack shot. I don't miss. I hope you understand how seriously I take my drunken slumber. Do not fuck with it. Or I will eat your soul.
Fuck you cockslap.
Love, Michael
For his sake I hope he takes me seriously. I am a man of my word and I really would hate to have to go to the hardware store and buy thousands of nails to plant in the alley. But I am willing to go that far.
That fucking cumstain better listen to me.
Fuck.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
I've Got Better Shit To Do
I've been sitting in my office for almost two hours now, and already it feels like my temporal lobe is going to pop. I can feel a vein in my temple trying to force its way out of my head. Hopefully that will be good enough to kill me because I cannot sit at this desk for the rest of the day. Maybe I'll go on a little homicide spree. Anyway, to pass the time I wrote a list of things I would rather do than be at work. Enjoy.
If I had my choice, instead of working I would rather:
Have sex with a morbidly obese woman with a mustache
Watch a puppy die
Masturbate to images of Rosie O'Donnell
Walk through the middle of Red Square in 1961 holding a sign that says Capitalists are Sexy
Listen to Ann Coulter pleasuring herself and then scream at her dildo for being "a fucking pussy liberal"
Fondle Ron Jeremy's hairy Jewish balls
Piss myself during the prom
Be the most recent guy to bone Paris Hilton
Contract syphillis
Piss off OJ
Circumcise myself with a fork
Take a shovel to the nuts
Eat mayonnaise
Snort lines of broken glass
Finger-bang Babwa Wawters
Attempt a rational conversation with our numb nuts president
Repeatedly hit myself in the head with a tack hammer
Get raped by a manatee
Take a job as a fluffer for a porn movie
Be cellmates with a 7 ft. tall black man nicknamed Rapey
Stare blankly at a white wall for 8 hours. Strike that, I already spend my entire day doing this.
Fellate a hot curling iron
Set fire to my nuts
Spend a weekend in Buffalo Bill's torture pit
Shit myself in a bar
Drink Steel Reserve
Anything involving beastiality
Huff gasoline
Watch a Chicago Bears game
Live on Milwaukee's North Side
Go hamster shopping with Richard Gere
Watch reruns of American Idol
Go down on my fat shit neighbor
Skin myself alive
Listen to that fucking Avril Lavigne "Girlfriend" song
Stab myelf repeatedly with a ballpoint pen
Fuck with an already pissed off gorilla
Listen to elevator music
Sit in traffic
Get hit by a car
Get beaten up by my friend's gay uncle
Take a crackhead to dinner
Drag my dick across a bed of nails
Kick a stripper
Brush my teeth with paint thinner
Ride the It's a Small World ride at Disney World
Anything involving nudity and scorpions
Drink Mountain Dew
Bite Mike Tyson's ear off
Rub one out with sandpaper
Get pegged
Step on a kitten
Make a long list
Wrap dental floss around my finger until it turns black and falls off
Punch my sister
Break my television
Eat a piece of tree bark
Fuck Anna Nicole Smith. In her current state.
Create a ridiculously long list of shit I'd rather do than work.
Write for this weblog.
Get fired.
As you can see, I'm not a big fan of work. I hope I conveyed my general dislike of all things work-related. If you can't tell, then I hate to say this, but scientists would describe you, in all their sciency terms, as a "fucking retard." It's true. I read it in a book.
Fuck work.
If I had my choice, instead of working I would rather:
Have sex with a morbidly obese woman with a mustache
Watch a puppy die
Masturbate to images of Rosie O'Donnell
Walk through the middle of Red Square in 1961 holding a sign that says Capitalists are Sexy
Listen to Ann Coulter pleasuring herself and then scream at her dildo for being "a fucking pussy liberal"
Fondle Ron Jeremy's hairy Jewish balls
Piss myself during the prom
Be the most recent guy to bone Paris Hilton
Contract syphillis
Piss off OJ
Circumcise myself with a fork
Take a shovel to the nuts
Eat mayonnaise
Snort lines of broken glass
Finger-bang Babwa Wawters
Attempt a rational conversation with our numb nuts president
Repeatedly hit myself in the head with a tack hammer
Get raped by a manatee
Take a job as a fluffer for a porn movie
Be cellmates with a 7 ft. tall black man nicknamed Rapey
Stare blankly at a white wall for 8 hours. Strike that, I already spend my entire day doing this.
Fellate a hot curling iron
Set fire to my nuts
Spend a weekend in Buffalo Bill's torture pit
Shit myself in a bar
Drink Steel Reserve
Anything involving beastiality
Huff gasoline
Watch a Chicago Bears game
Live on Milwaukee's North Side
Go hamster shopping with Richard Gere
Watch reruns of American Idol
Go down on my fat shit neighbor
Skin myself alive
Listen to that fucking Avril Lavigne "Girlfriend" song
Stab myelf repeatedly with a ballpoint pen
Fuck with an already pissed off gorilla
Listen to elevator music
Sit in traffic
Get hit by a car
Get beaten up by my friend's gay uncle
Take a crackhead to dinner
Drag my dick across a bed of nails
Kick a stripper
Brush my teeth with paint thinner
Ride the It's a Small World ride at Disney World
Anything involving nudity and scorpions
Drink Mountain Dew
Bite Mike Tyson's ear off
Rub one out with sandpaper
Get pegged
Step on a kitten
Make a long list
Wrap dental floss around my finger until it turns black and falls off
Punch my sister
Break my television
Eat a piece of tree bark
Fuck Anna Nicole Smith. In her current state.
Create a ridiculously long list of shit I'd rather do than work.
Write for this weblog.
Get fired.
As you can see, I'm not a big fan of work. I hope I conveyed my general dislike of all things work-related. If you can't tell, then I hate to say this, but scientists would describe you, in all their sciency terms, as a "fucking retard." It's true. I read it in a book.
Fuck work.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Can I Help You Dickhead?
The office building I work in is having repairs and remodeling work done on the exterior. As such, there are several men working at any given time. I have nothing mean to say about manual laborers, as I was one for a few years. Having said that, there is one guy working here who is really creeping the fuck out of me. My desk faces away from the window in my office, so I am not always looking outside, but on several occasions I have turned around to see this lazy-eyed bastard staring in at me with a shit-eating grin on his face. What in the entire motherfucking world could be so goddamn funny? Am I growing a dick out of the back of my head that I am not aware of? Did he just remember a funny joke? I don't get it, but at least four times today I have turned around and Cockbite McOveralls is standing there on his scaffolding laughing like a retard on an ether binge. He must be inhaling fumes from the paint he is applying to the side of the building. There is no other explanation. There is nothing remotely amusing about my office. There are four white walls, a desk, and my laptop. Oh, and my framed picture of Milwaukee County Stadium. That must be it. This floppy cock must be laughing at a black and white picture of a now-defunct stadium. Ah the laughter!
I've got to do something about this cock-gobbling peeping tom. And since I can't just turn around and shoot him (I would break the window and I'm not paying for a new one) I will have to devise an alternative method for ridding myself of this fucking pervert. I have made a list of what I can do to prevent this pickle-licker from watching me while I work:
1. Punch him in the face. Simple. Effective. Gets the job done. And it's fun!
2. Run my car into the base of the scaffolding. He'll fall to his death. I'll have a good laugh. In the end, we'll both come out on top. Except for him. He won't.
3. Gasoline, fire, a lot of kindling. I'm going to roast him like a motherfucking marshmallow.
4. Build a cage around the base of the scaffolding. Fill the cage with hungry lions and rapid squirrels. Wait for him to die. Rinse. Repeat.
5. Go back to my old neighborhood. Bring back several of my old crackhead acquaintances. In a cage, of course, they're not real people. Let them loose in the parking lot. Tell them that Googly-Eye O'Dickslap has a pocketful of quarters and a bag of crack in his shoe. He's as good as dead.
6. Train a falcon to fly up and attack him. Also train him to steal that asshole's wallet. He owes
me that.
7. Failing all else, take sledge hammer to the window. Step out onto scaffolding. Inquire about his motives for watching me in my place of business. Ask him how he would prefer to die. Ignore his request and bludgeon him with a flashlight.
I have many options, but whatever I choose, this guy needs to go. Fast. He's creeping me the hell out and I can't concentrate on not working. It's been about an hour now since he last looked at me and...... HEY! QUIT LOOKING AT ME YOU KITTEN-RAPING CACTUS FELLATOR! I'M GOING TEAR YOUR EYES OUT! GO THE FUCK AWAY!
Asshole.
I've got to do something about this cock-gobbling peeping tom. And since I can't just turn around and shoot him (I would break the window and I'm not paying for a new one) I will have to devise an alternative method for ridding myself of this fucking pervert. I have made a list of what I can do to prevent this pickle-licker from watching me while I work:
1. Punch him in the face. Simple. Effective. Gets the job done. And it's fun!
2. Run my car into the base of the scaffolding. He'll fall to his death. I'll have a good laugh. In the end, we'll both come out on top. Except for him. He won't.
3. Gasoline, fire, a lot of kindling. I'm going to roast him like a motherfucking marshmallow.
4. Build a cage around the base of the scaffolding. Fill the cage with hungry lions and rapid squirrels. Wait for him to die. Rinse. Repeat.
5. Go back to my old neighborhood. Bring back several of my old crackhead acquaintances. In a cage, of course, they're not real people. Let them loose in the parking lot. Tell them that Googly-Eye O'Dickslap has a pocketful of quarters and a bag of crack in his shoe. He's as good as dead.
6. Train a falcon to fly up and attack him. Also train him to steal that asshole's wallet. He owes
me that.
7. Failing all else, take sledge hammer to the window. Step out onto scaffolding. Inquire about his motives for watching me in my place of business. Ask him how he would prefer to die. Ignore his request and bludgeon him with a flashlight.
I have many options, but whatever I choose, this guy needs to go. Fast. He's creeping me the hell out and I can't concentrate on not working. It's been about an hour now since he last looked at me and...... HEY! QUIT LOOKING AT ME YOU KITTEN-RAPING CACTUS FELLATOR! I'M GOING TEAR YOUR EYES OUT! GO THE FUCK AWAY!
Asshole.
Friday, July 06, 2007
How to Make Vehicular Manslaughter Even More Interesting
About a month ago I moved out of the ghetto and into a new house in West Milwaukee. When I left my old apartment at 24th and Wisconsin I left behind all of my crackhead friends, as well. But moving into my new place presented an entirely new challenge. Now instead of blowing off bums asking me for money I have to dodge shit eating little children as I drive down Westgrand Lane to my house. Needless to say, there have been a few casualties. My experiences mowing down kids with my car have, obviously, been enjoyable. Who doesn't like to pretend the eight year old next door is a speed bump? But I thought of something that can make the experience even better. I have assigned a points-system to my vehicular manslaughter activities. Here it is:
5 Points for hitting any kid. Period.
+1 if the kid is on a bike.
+2 if the kid is on a skateboard.
+5 if you have to swerve to kit the kid. Effort should be rewarded.
+1 if the kid is wearing a baseball hat and you knock it off.
+5 if the kid rolls up the hood of the car and onto the roof.
+10 if the kidd rolls up the hood of the car and all the way over the roof.
-10 if you swerve and miss.
+5 if the kid is a fucking wigger. Like my neighbor.
+5 if you make eye-contact before car contact.
+.1 points for every broken bone. Fingers and toes do not count, and you can only count up to 10 vertebrae.
+4 if you break both femurs.
+10 if the kids parents are present.
+5 if the kid starts running and you chase him/her down.
+2 if you are eating any kind of sandwich while performing your child-crushing duty.
+15 if you kit two or more kids at once.
+20 if you avoid serving any jail time.
This is still a work in progress and I will come up with more ways to score point in the future. In the meantime get in your car and go hunting. First one to 100 points wins.
Eat my bumper you snotty little shitbags.
5 Points for hitting any kid. Period.
+1 if the kid is on a bike.
+2 if the kid is on a skateboard.
+5 if you have to swerve to kit the kid. Effort should be rewarded.
+1 if the kid is wearing a baseball hat and you knock it off.
+5 if the kid rolls up the hood of the car and onto the roof.
+10 if the kidd rolls up the hood of the car and all the way over the roof.
-10 if you swerve and miss.
+5 if the kid is a fucking wigger. Like my neighbor.
+5 if you make eye-contact before car contact.
+.1 points for every broken bone. Fingers and toes do not count, and you can only count up to 10 vertebrae.
+4 if you break both femurs.
+10 if the kids parents are present.
+5 if the kid starts running and you chase him/her down.
+2 if you are eating any kind of sandwich while performing your child-crushing duty.
+15 if you kit two or more kids at once.
+20 if you avoid serving any jail time.
This is still a work in progress and I will come up with more ways to score point in the future. In the meantime get in your car and go hunting. First one to 100 points wins.
Eat my bumper you snotty little shitbags.
Monday, July 02, 2007
So You Want to Piss Me Off
I'm trying hard to write new things for this little weblog, but I always seem to be preoccupied with other shit. Mostly booze and running kids over with my car. However I do have two subjects I would like to tackle.
First, I present the (nearly) comprehensive list of action you could take should you desire to piss me the fuck off. Read it and be warned:
1. Be a FIB. And bring thousands of your FIB friends to Milwaukee when the Cubs play the Brewers. I live one mile from the fucking stadium. When the Cubs are in town traffic on I94 is akin to the congestion one would expect from a mass evacuation due to an impending alien invasion. Just stay the fuck out. It's not my fault you can't get tickets at Wrigley. But it is your fault that it takes me a fucking hour to drive the ten miles from my office to my house. Fuck you FIBS.
2. Leave me a voicemail. Unless you're telling me how much you hate me before you eat a gun, I don't need you to leave a fucking message. There is a reason that my phone shows missed calls. And who they are from. And the fucking number. And the number of missed calls. Need I go on? If you call me and I don't answer the phone, I will call you back. Seriously, even if I took the time to listen to your fucking message when I call you back you are still going to have to explain whatever it is that you want. Save you and me some time and just don't leave a goddamn voicemail, or else I will kick you in the dick. Think I'm kidding? Try it.
3. Be Rod Stewart. This only applies to one of you, but I hate you so much that I thought it warranted a mention. Do I like your body? No, you're a fucking wrinkly old fuckstick with stupid hair and a voice that makes me want to throw myself into traffic. Do I think you're sexy? How dare you ask me that you decrepit piece of dog shit. If I ever hear you say that again I will find you and feed your eyeballs to you. Please die Rod Stewart. It's for the good of all mankind. And if you don't do it for them, then at least bite it for me. I really hate you.
4. Be the fat girl in the office who pawns her work off on me. No, I don't want to drop off legal documents on the east side. Why ask such a stupid question? Oh, because you're a lazy fuck and the thought of moving your fat ass more than the twenty feet from your desk to the break room causes you to perspire? Stupid bitch.
5. Eat Nacho Cheese Doritos. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Watching someone eat chips that I can actually smell is about as disgusting as walking in on a circle jerk in the basement of the library. Those things taste like shit. Does the Frito-Lay corporation think its funny producing such a fucking horrific product? Shoot me.
6. Be Johnny Estrada, Rickie Weeks, or Derrick Turnbow. These three are, respectively, the starting catcher, the starting second baseman, and the former (mindfucked) closer and now setupman for my beloved Milwaukee Brewers. Estrada is easily the worst .280 hitter I've ever seen. How the fuck is it possible to hit almost .300 and have exactly one clutch hit (which was basically negated because after it happened Damien Mueller, our 90 year old backup catcher who should be playing more often, went yard to pad the lead)? At least he doesn't strike out as much as Weeks, though. Barely, but its still not as much. Rickie Weeks is a goddamn creative genius when it comes to striking out. A fucking artist. If that worthless fuck was to strikeout and somehow end up with the fat end of the bat lodged firmly in his asshole I wouldn't be surprised. As for Derrick Turnbow...his nickname is Turnblow. He couldn't face the bottom of the order for the Little Douchebags of the Wilson Park Little League without issuing six walks. Need I say more?
7. Write me an email/message/anything with text using poor grammar. I cannot overstate how much of a grammar nazi I am, and I am very proud of this. So when I receive a written message filled with "LOL" and the number "2" in place of "to" I die a little bit inside. And then I feel the urge to kill.
8. Replace the Diet Coke in the break room with Diet Pepsi. If you do this I will hire a Haitian witch doctor to cast a voodoo curse on your soul. Michael's Law states that you must replace what you take with an equal or better product. If you can't replace the Diet Coke with more Diet Coke then you have to replace it with packages of ephedrine or real coke. I need to stay the fuck awake at work and this Diet Pepsi shit isn't doing the goddamn job.
9. Tell me that I am tall. I'm 6'5" for Christ's sake, I'm well fucking aware of this fact. This, however, doesn't deter the legions of douchebags who find it necessary to point it out. How about you just shut the fuck up and assume that I know, is that cool? Good. Otherwise I'm going to break the wooden handle off of a rake and impale you with it.
10. Eat at your desk/work-station while I am talking to you. Mother of fucking Christ this pisses me off. Is it really necessary for you to fit in those mouthfuls of whatever nasty shit you are shoveling down your throat while I'm trying to talk to you? Is it really? People at the Milwaukee County Courthouse are the worst when it comes to this shit. I don't even go down there between the hours of 11am and 1pm anymore just because I can't deal with some dipshit who has to eat fried chicken while feably attempting to look up whatever records or documents I need. How hard is it to take a goddamn lunch break? Obviously very hard. Fucking cretins.
Contrary to what I said at the beginning of this post this list is not nearly comprehensive. If you have read any of this blog at all you will realize that pretty much everything pisses me off. Yet I am still a very happy person. I have no clue how I pull it off. I am a walking conundrum. And too lazy to finish the list.
I want to address one more thing before I end this - Cubs fans. I don't believe in any god, but every night I hit my knees and pray that a higher being redirects a meteor and sends it headlong into Wrigley Field. This season my beloved Brewers are somehow managing to stay in first place convincingly. I realize that, like every year, they will break my heart, but until then I am riding the wave. So here's the deal. Cubs fans, all of you, any of you, each of you - shut the fuck up now. Don't talk to me about baseball. Or the Cubs. Or the Brewers. You haven't won dick shit for 99 years. I don't want all of your bad fucking karma rubbing off on my great city. We need this. Don't fuck it up.
Well, I'm off to run down small children with my car. Next time I write I will introduce all three of you to the children-killing-points-system that I have devised. It makes vehicular manslaughter a game! Hooray!
Fucking kids.
First, I present the (nearly) comprehensive list of action you could take should you desire to piss me the fuck off. Read it and be warned:
1. Be a FIB. And bring thousands of your FIB friends to Milwaukee when the Cubs play the Brewers. I live one mile from the fucking stadium. When the Cubs are in town traffic on I94 is akin to the congestion one would expect from a mass evacuation due to an impending alien invasion. Just stay the fuck out. It's not my fault you can't get tickets at Wrigley. But it is your fault that it takes me a fucking hour to drive the ten miles from my office to my house. Fuck you FIBS.
2. Leave me a voicemail. Unless you're telling me how much you hate me before you eat a gun, I don't need you to leave a fucking message. There is a reason that my phone shows missed calls. And who they are from. And the fucking number. And the number of missed calls. Need I go on? If you call me and I don't answer the phone, I will call you back. Seriously, even if I took the time to listen to your fucking message when I call you back you are still going to have to explain whatever it is that you want. Save you and me some time and just don't leave a goddamn voicemail, or else I will kick you in the dick. Think I'm kidding? Try it.
3. Be Rod Stewart. This only applies to one of you, but I hate you so much that I thought it warranted a mention. Do I like your body? No, you're a fucking wrinkly old fuckstick with stupid hair and a voice that makes me want to throw myself into traffic. Do I think you're sexy? How dare you ask me that you decrepit piece of dog shit. If I ever hear you say that again I will find you and feed your eyeballs to you. Please die Rod Stewart. It's for the good of all mankind. And if you don't do it for them, then at least bite it for me. I really hate you.
4. Be the fat girl in the office who pawns her work off on me. No, I don't want to drop off legal documents on the east side. Why ask such a stupid question? Oh, because you're a lazy fuck and the thought of moving your fat ass more than the twenty feet from your desk to the break room causes you to perspire? Stupid bitch.
5. Eat Nacho Cheese Doritos. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Watching someone eat chips that I can actually smell is about as disgusting as walking in on a circle jerk in the basement of the library. Those things taste like shit. Does the Frito-Lay corporation think its funny producing such a fucking horrific product? Shoot me.
6. Be Johnny Estrada, Rickie Weeks, or Derrick Turnbow. These three are, respectively, the starting catcher, the starting second baseman, and the former (mindfucked) closer and now setupman for my beloved Milwaukee Brewers. Estrada is easily the worst .280 hitter I've ever seen. How the fuck is it possible to hit almost .300 and have exactly one clutch hit (which was basically negated because after it happened Damien Mueller, our 90 year old backup catcher who should be playing more often, went yard to pad the lead)? At least he doesn't strike out as much as Weeks, though. Barely, but its still not as much. Rickie Weeks is a goddamn creative genius when it comes to striking out. A fucking artist. If that worthless fuck was to strikeout and somehow end up with the fat end of the bat lodged firmly in his asshole I wouldn't be surprised. As for Derrick Turnbow...his nickname is Turnblow. He couldn't face the bottom of the order for the Little Douchebags of the Wilson Park Little League without issuing six walks. Need I say more?
7. Write me an email/message/anything with text using poor grammar. I cannot overstate how much of a grammar nazi I am, and I am very proud of this. So when I receive a written message filled with "LOL" and the number "2" in place of "to" I die a little bit inside. And then I feel the urge to kill.
8. Replace the Diet Coke in the break room with Diet Pepsi. If you do this I will hire a Haitian witch doctor to cast a voodoo curse on your soul. Michael's Law states that you must replace what you take with an equal or better product. If you can't replace the Diet Coke with more Diet Coke then you have to replace it with packages of ephedrine or real coke. I need to stay the fuck awake at work and this Diet Pepsi shit isn't doing the goddamn job.
9. Tell me that I am tall. I'm 6'5" for Christ's sake, I'm well fucking aware of this fact. This, however, doesn't deter the legions of douchebags who find it necessary to point it out. How about you just shut the fuck up and assume that I know, is that cool? Good. Otherwise I'm going to break the wooden handle off of a rake and impale you with it.
10. Eat at your desk/work-station while I am talking to you. Mother of fucking Christ this pisses me off. Is it really necessary for you to fit in those mouthfuls of whatever nasty shit you are shoveling down your throat while I'm trying to talk to you? Is it really? People at the Milwaukee County Courthouse are the worst when it comes to this shit. I don't even go down there between the hours of 11am and 1pm anymore just because I can't deal with some dipshit who has to eat fried chicken while feably attempting to look up whatever records or documents I need. How hard is it to take a goddamn lunch break? Obviously very hard. Fucking cretins.
Contrary to what I said at the beginning of this post this list is not nearly comprehensive. If you have read any of this blog at all you will realize that pretty much everything pisses me off. Yet I am still a very happy person. I have no clue how I pull it off. I am a walking conundrum. And too lazy to finish the list.
I want to address one more thing before I end this - Cubs fans. I don't believe in any god, but every night I hit my knees and pray that a higher being redirects a meteor and sends it headlong into Wrigley Field. This season my beloved Brewers are somehow managing to stay in first place convincingly. I realize that, like every year, they will break my heart, but until then I am riding the wave. So here's the deal. Cubs fans, all of you, any of you, each of you - shut the fuck up now. Don't talk to me about baseball. Or the Cubs. Or the Brewers. You haven't won dick shit for 99 years. I don't want all of your bad fucking karma rubbing off on my great city. We need this. Don't fuck it up.
Well, I'm off to run down small children with my car. Next time I write I will introduce all three of you to the children-killing-points-system that I have devised. It makes vehicular manslaughter a game! Hooray!
Fucking kids.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
