I hate this blog. Not because I hate the things I hate, or that it upsets me when idiots try and challenge my intellect in a comment response. I actually love getting to destroy their dreams publicly on the world wide web. I hate this blog because it has upward of 100% more traffic than that of my other blog. Yeah, my professional non-rant blog. I haven’t even signed on here in months and it still gets more hits. I update that other blog with kind words and pretty images. Well, I guess I will just keep on loathing. No point in stopping while the goings hot. So cheers to my loyal readership, if I see you in traffic I will still probably cut you off after you cut me off. If you bring your screaming children with shitty diapers into the theater I’ll still tell you to go fuck yourself. But on here, it’s all good baby!
I’m just going to start it off with this whimsical thought: what about the single mother? Do you think she would sport this ‘kitschy’ bumper sticker? The answer is NO! The atomic family of the 1950’s is just that, an ideal that was lost in the 50’s. Divorce rates are through the roof. When I see one of these stickers on a mini-van, (either that or an SUV hunkered to the ground with soccer balls, diapers and headrest DVD monitors) I want to vomit on my steering wheel. Rub it in the face of the single parent. I hope you get more mileage with that sticker because you aren’t scoring any brownie points in my book.
This is a new trend but it looks stupid, and I feel that the people supporting this trend are also stupid. Take it back to Japan where it belongs. That is all.
I wasn’t going to write about this topic, out of fear that people suspect this blog of being too negative. It was also borderline cliché to attack Valentine’s Day on February 14th. Well this blog is negative and that’s why it’s entertaining. Back to the topic at hand, Valentine’s day. A holiday that used to be celebrated by the Roman’s as a fertility festival. They would whip and rape women with animal hides and make a 3 day party out of it. Then a couple dudes named Valentine were executed and it became St. Valentine’s day. Probably the coolest holiday I’ve ever heard of.
Then in the early 1900’s those assholes over at Hallmark got ahold of it and turned it into big business. Making saps out of guys around the world, convincing them that they have to buy flowers, chocolate, cards, jewelry and dinner for their significant others. This was all fine and dandy until a little thing called Facebook broke onto the scene in the early 2000’s.
Facebook created an entirely new layer of shit atop an already stinking pile of shit. Valentine’s Day had gone viral. The coupled up users bragged about the sweet gifts that they and their partners were exchanging. While the users listed as ‘single’ had this crap pushed into their heartbroken faces. Those sad bastard, already lonely on the loneliest day on earth for anyone who is single, then had to have all those status updates and mobile uploads rammed into their crying eyes like a fat man in a red suite down a chimney, or turkey and stuffing down a throat, or patriotic fireworks up one’s ass.
Valentine’s Day, go away.
Come back again, on doomsday.
You were cooler when I was 8.
Now you fill me full of hate.
Keep your love to yourself.
Shotgun blasts are bad for your health.
Anniversaries were invented for a reason.
To spread the idiocy from season to season.
YIKES! These girls scare me more than their ‘roided out boyfriends. First of all, they can drink more than their boyfriends due to the lack of brain cells that would normally be damaged from alcoholic intake. This is dangerous, because they know how to fight. Their UFC wannabe boyfriends usually use them as a punching bag when their son they had when they were 16, pisses on the toilet seat. Second, they look like Christina Aguilara got into a bar brawl with Snookie and shat out Daisy from Rock of Love, ladies and gentlemen, that is a terrifying sight to behold.
Be careful with that cigarette sweetheart, I wouldn’t want the flat brimmed hat that you borrowed from your boyfriend to get a burn hole in it. I’m saying this because your giant fake black fingernails can make for a nasty fumble, you might pop one of your fake tits. Next time you go out you may want to leave that Iron Cross belt buckle and the Hitman/Affliction/UFC glitter shirt at home. Between those accessories and your white and black skunk extensions you are making me go cross-eyed. It is cute that your 4 year old son has a mohawk and he can already flip the bird to kids his own age though. Good luck with your life. I’m sure the trailer can fit another dirt-bike inside of it, and that way you can save money to have your tramp stamp finished.
See also: …Goatees
Having to stand in a line is bad enough, having you cut in front of me in said line and then stand within inches of where I was already standing, yacking on your cell phone to your mother about what you had for lunch and how it made for a painful bowel movement is not alright. I for one already knew what you had for lunch. The mustard stain on your fat thighs and the wrench of garlic on your stinky unbrushed breath gave it all away. Your armpits stink, your unwashed hair just brushed my eyeball and your kid is puking on my shoes. The little dog in your purse just farted and I was here first!
Have people completely lost their sense of their surroundings? It’s as if once people leave their homes, the manners that were bestowed upon them as children go flying out their SUV windows. For christ sake, what happened to congeniality? I have ingrown toenails and it hurts like a mother-fucker when you step on them, saying excuse me would be nice. Then I might not punch you in the back of the head for butting me in line.
No, I’m not getting into the white trash obsession with cartoons (i.e. taz tattoos and tweety/sylvester seat covers, that’s for another post.) I’m here to talk about that bastard the roadrunner, his smug attitude and that poor K9 the coyote. This guy needs to be taken down.
First, let’s talk about the coyote, Wiley, a very intelligent vermin. His cunning is unmatched by most. This guy should have attended MIT. His skills were so close to being perfected it hurt, it hurt like TNT to the dome. Had Coyote attended a university such as MIT, he could have fine tuned his rocketry expertise and avoided a number of cliff walls. The physics equations could have yielded a far greater number of roadrunner dinners. Alas, he was duped by a bird with a tiny brain. A bird who constantly scoffed Coyote’s shortcomings and stuck out his tongue in mockery.
Let’s face it, in all reality the roadrunner never would have survived the intelligence of Coyote. Roadrunners are imbecile birds, next in line after the Dodo. Coyote, you are a hero! Wear a helmet next time, stay away from the roller skates, make sure that fuse isn’t doubled back to yourself, and for god’s sake stop buying ACME, there is a class action suite with your name written all over it with those guys.
Honorable mentions for this post include the Trix Rabbit, and the drunk mexican mice from Speedy Gonzales. Don’t let those bratty kids get you down rabbit.