Ew.

I understand that sometimes regular old sex in a bed or on a couch or in the back of a Greyhound bus gets boring and people need to branch out to make it interesting again. I know that the thrill of getting caught in a public place or the adrenaline of trying to do it while driving on a winding mountain road can make the experience better. Very few would argue that having a quickie in some place not normally designated for sexual activity is fun and memorable. I know I personally have had some experiences in some places that weren't appropriate and/or legal, and it's great. I'm all about branching out.

Except for some of that crazy fetish shit...I don't get that. Like "Furries." How the fuck does dressing up like a fucking woodchuck and simulating sex with someone dressed like an owl or a skunk or a beaver (not that kind of beaver, dumbasses) help a person get their rocks off? How one could be aroused by imagining themselves being a small woodland creature while sweating profusely inside a mascot costume is perplexing. If you want to fuck a skunk, you fucking freaks, go out into the forest and find one, then have some fun. Mother Nature will let you know how she feels about that. At least you don't have to pay for porn with all of the National Geographic and Discovery and Animal Planet and Rural Farm District TV options there are. Fucking weirdos.

Or that Leather/PVC/Latex shit. What is arousing about squeezing yourself into a non-breathing material that takes an hour to put on and is almost impossible to maneuver in? How is that sexy? How is your chick being so immobile that she can't touch her toes without cutting off circulation to her legs erotic? Personally, I find one of the beauties of sex to be the opportunity to touch and feel the other person, not rub up against someone who feels like they're an electronic device heat-sealed inside one of those packages that are impossible to get open without cutting yourself. If I wanted to fuck PVC, I'd just go find some sprinkler piping and have at it. (Yes, I reused it, get off me. It's mine.)

I could go on questioning some of the more ridiculous "fetishes" ("Ooh, poop on me, please!"), but I won't, because that wasn't original intent of this particular rant. We'll just all agree that those people are fucking psychos with deep-seeded issues that only a bottle of Lunesta or a drunken walk on the outside of a bridge could solve, and move on. This is about a much more disturbing occurrence.

Yesterday, as my daughter was telling me all about her day, she mentions that she was playing in the sandbox at recess. She had a plastic shovel and was digging a hole when she happened upon "...a little sock thingy. I had no idea what it was, but it was squishy." Immediately I asked "You didn't touch it, did you?" She replied that she had only poked at it with the shovel and then buried it again.

What. The. Fuck.

Look fuckers, I don't care if you feel the need to fuck on playgrounds, I think pretty much everyone has tried that one out. But fuck, don't be a disgusting piece of shit and throw your fucking condom in the sandbox. It's not funny, it's just fucking gross. How difficult is it to just carry all of your (thankfully) wasted children and throw them away in the trash can that is 10 fucking feet away? Lazy and stupid, how did you get a chick to agree to fuck you? Were you really fucking in the sandbox itself? Were you trying to make her think she was on a beach or something? Did you spit on her to simulate the spray of a wave crashing nearby? How pleasant was that? Sand all up in her shit making the 30 seconds of "pleasure" you gave her feel like you were wrapped in 40 grit sandpaper...yeah, she's going to be calling you back tomorrow for some more of that. Although maybe sanding is some new fetish I don't know about yet. Whatever. Just stop being a disgusting bastard and leaving the aftermath of your coital adventures anywhere near a spot that kids could happen upon it while they're innocently digging holes to China at recess.

I hate people.

Did Someone Just SPAM My Comments Section?

What the fuck is this?

Gillion said...

are you getting better now? Pei Pa Koa (Link deleted because FUCK YOU) is one of the few Chinese natural cough remedies that have been scientifically studied. it's something like herb plus honey, and it's sweet, thick and black in color. If you have a cough, look for it! It used to be one of my favourite natural cough remedies.

if your cough persists, seek professional help such as traditional Chinese medicine physicians - I have had very good experiences with them.
September 20, 2010 2:19 AM

Am I getting better? Well, I wasn't sick, but now I'm fucking irritated, so no. Clearly you are just a spamming piece of shit, because if you had actually read the post to which you replied, you might have noticed that nowhere did I mention being sick. Nowhere did I mention any need for any natural fucking cough remedies. Even if I did need a natural cough remedy, I certainly wouldn't be looking for advice on the best ones available from some random fucking asshole on the internet. No, I would ask people who I know and trust or my doctor, I wouldn't count on some unsolicited advice from some fuckwad who has nothing better to do with their day than spam the internet. Fucking loser. Take your natural cough remedy and shove it up your ass.

Who the fuck are these people whose lives are so fucking inconsequential that they just sit around writing code to spam shit? I'm pretty fucking anti-social, but never have I been sitting around thinking "Ha, it might be cool to fuck with people through random chickenshit cyber-attacks. Let me think of some funny Viagra and penis enlargement headlines..."

I realize that at some point during your time in the womb, spammer, that the load of drugs your mom was doing in an effort to kill your unwanted ass quietly started to affect you, but that's still no excuse. Nor is the fact that you annoyed everyone you ever came in contact with enough to the point that they ridiculed you into basement seclusion, where you wasted your days playing various role-playing games where you had the power to smite the people who were socially acceptable and jacking off to binary and html code. No, the fact that you're pretty much a bag of wasted organs does not give you the right to annoy everyone else who doesn't give one fuck about Hoodia or cheap Vicodin prescriptions or having a 14" inch penis that makes women [insert whatever misspelled sound effect word you choose here]. Get a fucking life, you cock-sucking reject.

Stop spamming the important good work I am trying to do here, fuckers. Fuck your ancient Chinese secret bullshit.

Potpourri

Hey, fuckstain who has been honking your fucking car horn every fucking morning at 8 o'clock the last 4 days: stop that shit you inconsiderate asshole. Just because you're awake and too fucking lazy to walk 15 feet to the front door of whomever it is you are picking up doesn't give you the right to annoy the rest of us who might be trying to sleep after working until the middle of the night. Get your thoughtless, lazy fucking ass out of your ride and walk to the door. You will greatly lessen your chances of someone in the neighborhood going Office Space on your car.

Hey, Dollar General: you're a bunch of fucking liars. First off, almost nothing in your store costs only one dollar. Secondly, how the fuck does a dollar store have shit that costs $4.35? Nothing anywhere costs $4.35. That has to be some sort of typo. Third, aren't "dollar stores" supposed to be cheaper? Almost everything I saw in your store short of the random, poorly made plastic shit that only the Haiti broke fuckers would consider buying (yeah, I said that, save your "aww..." for someone who has a heart) was more expensive than it would be at one of the big box stores or a grocery store. Yeah, whatever, your knock-off Crocs might be cheap, but there should be a bin full of poles or sticks or something next to them so that the rest of us can rap the shit out of someone's knees should they consider buying them. I had never been in a Dollar General before, and I needed one fucking thing. I found it, but only after being let down and then pissed off by your blatant lies. I am not a fan of yours Dollar General.

Hey, old bitch who works the register at Dollar General: I know you probably don't have a lot of education. I know you're probably only working this job because your deadbeat son is stealing from your Social Security. I know that social grace probably isn't one of your skill sets. As long as you can scan that one thing and give me my change, we're good. The scanning went well, good job. But WHAT THE FUCK? Why did you feel that it was OK to cough like you want to eject a lung directly into your hand and then immediately grab my change out of the register? Really? Not even an attempt to wipe that shit on your pants or anything? Holy fuck, excuse yourself and go wash your hands, bitch. I can wait two minutes. Or better yet, go to aisle 3 and get one of those $2.41 bottles of hand sanitizer and pour half of it on your hands and half on my change. Fuck. Who does that? I am not a fan of yours, Dollar General. You either, Freida Flu Bug. Fortunately I am psychotic enough to carry some sanitizer in my car. Sanitizer I bought at a decent price at a better fucking store.

Hey, soccer parents surrounding me at my kid's soccer game today: shut the fuck up. You talk too much, and you talk about stupid shit. We're supposed to be sitting here supporting our kids while they run around in the heat trying to make us proud, you could at least pretend to pay attention. It's one hour. You can peel yourself away from the enthralling world of pedicures or real estate concerns or "Dan's new 5 series" or how cute the Hoffmeier's new puppy is long enough to pretend to care about your kid. You never know when she might do something great and you will have missed it because you were too busy talking about some stupid shit that could have waited 20 minutes. Not only that, but your constant yapping is fucking annoying. Shut. Up. We have about 10 more games. Shut the fuck up at all of them.

Damn, I need a beer.

Isostearawhatwhatwhat?

Even though this useless blog has "Hippie" in the title, I can assure you that I am not a hippie. Yes, I espouse some of their principles in wanting people to take care of the environment, live more sustainably, and have as much sex as one can have. I do not, however, espouse nor approve of their willingness to go days without bathing and allowing Patchouli oil to serve as their odor blocking methods. It doesn't work, hippies, you still smell like you just swam though a pond full of French onion soup on the hottest Arizona summer day. Only now, you've added the wretched stink of Patchouli. I know you want peace, man, but making those around you angry by fouling up the air worse than any paper mill could isn't a way to achieve that.

No, I must bathe. I must bathe regularly and often. I suffer from what is commonly known as Autodysomophobia. Yeah, it is a word; Google it, bitches. Don't doubt me. I live in constant fear of offending someone with my personal odor. I am ridiculous in this to the point that if I smell something foul, no matter how unlikely it is that I am the culprit, I have to find a way to check ("Hey, maybe I did shit my pants in this room full of babies"). Yes, it is that bad sometimes. Even when I know it is impossible that I am the one who is funking up the joint, I am anxious that I am. It's another of my really fun quirks.

Anyway, as I was taking a shower yesterday, I started reading the back of the bottle of Dial 3D All Day Odor Defense body wash. I have used this same type of body wash for a while, and never before have I read the back because quite frankly, there are only three things I consider when buying soap: Can I afford it, do I like the smell, and will it keep my ass from getting funky? This one meets all three requirements, so I buy it. I don't need to look at the label. But I did. And it was weird.

I don't have the bottle directly in front of me right now, so I will paraphrase a couple of things, but they will be accurate.

The first thing I find is that Dial promises me that they will destroy odor by using "Odor Control Agents" that will attack the germs that cause odor. Well no wonder hippies don't bathe. There is nothing peaceful about that statement at all. That is a unmistakable provocation with intent to slaughter entire colonies of germs...that is terrible. If you're a hippie. For me, I say "Rock on, Dial, kick some fucking ass with reckless abandon and spare no one." War is hell, I want those odor causing germs to suffer like Belial is having a very bad day. I am glad that Dial cares enough about me to be willing to take up this fight, and from now on, any time I lather up, I am going to envision the agents of the Odor Control Brigade and the sacrifices they make so I don't stink like rotten potato water.

The next thing I find is a list of chemical ingredients with names that I couldn't even begin to pronounce, much less know what they mean. Cocamidopropyl Betaine? Isostearamidopropyl Morpholine Lactate? Are these the things that act as my own personal Secret Service, willing to take a bullet for my aroma? If so, cool, but how the fuck do they come up with this shit? I envision some lab dorks sitting around and another lab dork running in with the excitement of a kid who just discovered porn (yes, with the requisite hard-on) saying something like "Hey guys, I was playing around with the Isopromethylwhatthefuckitall and I mixed in some Chlorofluorofuckthisnameislong and it smells like mangoes and Tahitian sand...let's make some soap! And the other lab nerds get excited and all go running to the lab so they can try and make up their own 18 letter chemical.

No, my soap doesn't smell like mangoes, but I needed an example that which you, the reader, could envision and relate to. If I had said "it smells like fresh" you would have had nothing to attach that to. That's bad writing, and I won't do that to the 4 of you who read this. I care.

Not as much as Dial does, because I'm not going to war. But I'm glad they will, because I need someone on my side to battle these damned odor causing germs. Those fuckers are everywhere, and contrary to what the fucking hippies might say, they don't deserve to live.

Dear Neighbor Guy

Hey man, I know that it's early on a Saturday morning and there aren't many people who might drive by your place. I know that it's your place and your yard and you have the right to feel comfortable there. That's fine. However, please remember that your back yard faces a road that is slightly above the level of your yard, and your chain-link fence doesn't really hide much. That being said, please put some fucking clothes on.

It's early, it's Saturday, and I am taking my tired, grumpy ass to work; the last fucking thing I want to see is your fat ass walking around your back porch in nothing but your boxers. Thank you for further annoying my morning with the visual of you and your massive fucking gut waddling around in your underwear. I'm not sure at what body fat percentage you begin to lose all semblance of body consciousness, but obviously you passed it a long time ago. I guess maybe if I had no hope of ever seeing my penis again without some lifting help and a mirror I might give up, too. But even if you've lost hope, there is no reason that a man who looks like he's carrying quadruplets should ever be outside without a shirt on. There are some of us who still have the hopes of not having to look at tubby bastards in their underwear when we're still waking up. I know that society accepts men going shirtless as o.k., but there is a line where it becomes vulgar, and you have crossed that line.

Please, sir, for the good of the neighborhood, get dressed when you take your ass outside. Be as naked as you want to be inside your house with the blinds closed, but once you step outside...cover that shit. Everyone on the street will thank you.

!!!!!!

Anyone who has a 1st grade education understands that when writing, the exclamation point is utilized to express excitement, urgency, or to stress the importance of a statement. Like most punctuation, when properly used, it can add greatly to the message the writer wishes to convey to their readers. However, when used improperly, it can make the writer look like a total fucking moron and make anything they've written before completely meaningless.

I'm talking to you, dipfucks who use 19 exclamation points at the end of a sentence because you think it lets everyone know how excited you are or how much you mean whatever the fuck you just said. It doesn't do that at all. No, what it does when you type out some shit like "OMG!!!! That's so awesome that he's not banging your sister!!!!!" is make you look like a hyperactive cheerleader who just chased an amphetamine cocktail with a 32 ounce Monster. No one could read a comment like that and not hear it in a voice that would make Fran Drescher say "Fuck, that's annoying." No one takes the shit you type out seriously if you present it in a manner that reminds the readers of every annoying bitch they've ever wanted to kick in the throat.

Don't think that because I used the cheerleader analogy that I am ignoring you, guys. I know this isn't exclusive to women, there are plenty of guys out there who abuse the exclamation point. And yes, douchebags, you also sound like hyperactive cheerleaders. The really gay ones who tend to be prettier than the female cheerleaders. You may as well just type everything with a lisp so we can mock you more. And don't you dare try that shit if you're pretending to know something about something manly like football or building a deck or punching a bear in the face the last time your plane crashed in the Alaskan wilderness. I don't want to see shit like "Did you see that kick-off return!!!!!!!", because if I did see the kick off return, any excitement I had over its awesomeness is now gone because I am focused on figuring out ways to crawl through the internet so I can break your overzealous fucking fingers.

I am mostly referencing people who post on message boards, chat rooms, blogs, and facebook (although I am only going off of second information for anything regarding facebook because my boycott lives on...), because hopefully, anywhere else that people could type out things for people to read would be overseen by some sort of editor who would quell the exclamation point diarrhea in a heartbeat. As anyone who posts on any of the above knows, there are these neat little guys called emoticons (or "smilies"). Emoticons serve as a quick visual replacement for words, usually to demonstrate something like laughing or being angry or stirring a pot. Much like the exclamation point, the emoticon is abused far too often. We get it, numbnuts, you thought it was funny. We do not need to see 15 fucking laughing smiley face guys. Or a smiley face guy magnified to the point that it's just a pixelated yellow blob of shit annoying everybody who sees it. Your over-sized laughter is about as welcomed as the fucker who laughs loud enough at a dumb joke for people 3 counties away to wonder what the fuck is going on.

Stop overdoing the expressive bullshit. If this hits close to home...if one of my 4 or 5 remaining active followers feels like I may have touched a nerve...think about your tendencies. Reflect and ask yourself, am I one of those who is too inept at expressing myself properly that I have to kill the shift + 1 keys? If you are, it's not too late to change. It's never too late to be a less annoying fuck.

She Went That Way, Officer...

...the chick whose tits mugged my eyes at Target. I wasn't trying to look at them, I had no intent of checking them out. But she shoved those massive cans into a shirt that she shouldn't ever wear, certainly never to work, and they just jumped out from behind the red partition where I was innocently looking at candy bars and iTunes gift cards and just slapped the shit out of my line of sight. It was traumatic. One minute I'm thinking about Pretty Woman (don't ask me why), the next I'm having my field of vision invaded by some unruly thug jugs.

Right now, all of the chicks (all 3 of you) are thinking "What an ass" and all the dudes (there might be 1 left) are thinking "What are you bitching about, retard?" Well guys, note the part I said about the shirt she shouldn't be wearing. It wasn't just that her shirt was too low cut, it was that it was about 3 sizes too small. And not the good kind of too small where the compression reveals fabulous abs, but the bad kind of too small where a little bit of the large belly hangs out underneath, further subjecting your eyes to things no one should see. If you have to try and figure out a garter system to keep your shirt from riding on the high side of your gut, perhaps a new, larger shirt is in order. Doesn't Target have a dress code? I know they all wear red and khaki, is there nothing in they manual that stipulates that provocative and/or offensive dress is not allowed? If there is, this chick is clearly in violation, write her ass up and get that bitch an XXL sweatshirt. Because I, as a customer, do not enjoy my eyes being abused by employees poor choice in basic clothing.

What I do enjoy, however, is this Aussie-style chewy candy that I picked up there. Holy fuck, it's like Twizzlers took performance enhancing drugs. The party that is going on in my mouth right now is going to wake the neighbors, and I don't give a fuck. Call the police, bitches, I'll bribe them with this chewy candy and they'll take your asses to jail for being too stupid to join in the fun. I don't even give a fuck that it's 130 calories for 4 pieces, I'm glutting on these bitches and probably won't stop until this bag is empty or I go blind from hyperglycemia. Yeah, they're that good. Get some, you'll thank me.

Aaannnd...last but not least...hey type-cast British gay guy at the pretentious furniture store next to my doctor's office...I don't give a fuck that the TV stand I was looking at was hand assembled and made from certified sustainable mango wood from Bora Bora, it's not worth $3000. No amount of flowery prose and/or telling me how exquisite it will look in my living room will make me think otherwise. Shit, if that thing was made out of old growth Redwood that took endangered Mongolian beavers 10 years to cut down and assembled by mouth by amputee war vets, it still wouldn't be worth $3000. It's a fucking TV stand. It is going to do nothing in its lifetime but hold a TV, a DVD player, and occasionally a beer. Hardly $3000 worth of work. I appreciate your passion for furniture and your dapper attire, but you will not be selling me a $3000 TV stand. Ever. Because if I had $3000, I'd be buying 1500 bags of Aussie-style chewy candy. That shit is...uh...the shit. You can run tell that, Homeboys.

Stereotypes and Bad Music.

No matter how hard you try to be open-minded and accepting of people, making every effort to judge each person by their personality and actions, sometimes a group of people gathers and completely proves every single stereotype about the group in which they fall.

Last night, it was the Rednecks and Hillbillies. There's a slight difference in the two if you didn't know, mostly that the Hillbillies have an even more unintelligible accent and fewer teeth. But, they generally fall under the same category, and they were out en masse last night. (I'm going to throw in things like "en masse" to ensure that if any of the people from last night stumble upon my blog, they won't have a clue what I'm talking about.) The reason? Justin Moore. Your very basic, generic, cookie cutter country musician bringing to you such fine, original works of musical genius like "I Could Kick Your Ass," "Small Town, USA," and "Good Ole American Way." There was also a timeless classic that stated "She looks sexy on my tractor." And some other song that he "wrote in the back of a pick-up truck." Wow, Justin, good job covering all of the country bases. Speaking of covering, he had covers for sure. About 15 of them. Bad Company, The Allman Brothers, Kansas, John Anderson ("Seminole Wind"), and George Jones to name a few. Of course, as is protocol with any country show, he covered "Family Tradition" by Hank Williams, Jr. I don't know what it is about that stupid fucking song that makes it the fucking Redneck Anthem, but dammit I hate hearing that fucking song. Hate. If it wasn't my job to stop people from rushing the stage, I might rush the stage and throat punch the next person that covers that goddamn song. Hate.

Mostly because 1000 drunk fucking necktards start singing along. And not just singing along, but dudes swaying and putting their arms around each other in some retarded, homo-erotic bonding ritual. Yeah, hillbilly trying to read through this, I called you a homo. Good catch. Are you going to kick my ass? I know you can do it, the song said so. Or maybe you can't, since you can barely fucking stand up after slamming 8 Bud Lights in the first 9 minutes you were in the club. And tell me you don't love it when Jimmy Jack puts his arm around you while you sing along to generic country shit. Better go kick a gay guy's ass real quick so no one will think you're queer.

There were 1000 people at the show, and probably 895 pairs of jeans. Or jeans shorts. Or jeans overalls. Or some sort of denim product that covers ass. The rest were chicks wearing halter dresses and cowboy boots. Every dude that wasn't wearing a plaid shirt with pearlized buttons was wearing an Affliction shirt. Every chick that wasn't wearing a halter dress and cowboy boots was wearing a plaid shirt with pearlized buttons. It's like Wrangler parked a semi outside the club and was issuing everyone the Redneck uniform of the day. A ton of cowboy hats, a ton of baseball caps, and a ton of dip can circles on the backside of jeans. It was like Beverly Hillbillies and the Dukes of Hazzard had an evil love child and that child exploded all over the inside of the club.

Worse than the awful music that sounded just like every other awful country musician to ever butcher sound waves and the abhorrent (look it up, Redneck) fashion sense rampant among these people were the actual people. Loud, obnoxious, rude, and arrogant. And I'd be shocked if the average IQ in the room was over 100. I heard some things said that couldn't have been English. I had discussions with guys trying to explain something to them that were about as productive as me trying to explain to a whale why he shouldn't shit in the ocean. At least if I had been talking to a whale I could think "Damn, whales are pretty fucking cool." Talking to these guys it was more "Damn, this guy smells like beer, Copenhagen, and inbreeding." It was a test of patience, to be certain.

There were a few cuties there, but more than anything, there were a whole lot of "just missed" chicks. The type of chick who isn't really that great looking, but a long dry spell and a six pack might make them a little better. There were some straight ugly bitches, the type of ugly that no amount of make-up can cover and no amount of cleavage can make up for. Then there were the select few chicks who were so damned ugly that you know their moms were banging two cousins at the exact same time because eyes don't normally come that close together. And they were all just as drunk as the dudes. The puke on your cowboy boots is sexy, Daisy.

Fuck, it was awful. It was every stereotype about Rednecks/Hillbillies that you've ever heard personified. Yes, I heard "Git 'er done!" yelled out. Yes, there were chicks dippin' and spittin'. Yes, there was a jealous boyfriend on the cell phone in the bathroom asking his girl if she was "going to get off on every guy in the place because they smiled at [her]." Wait, no, "gonna git awf on every gah in the place 'cuz they smah-led at [her]." No, I am not anxious to work another country show.

"She look sexy on my tractor." What the fuck? Are you sure it's the chick you're looking at dumbfuck or the tractor? Is this some sort of machine porn fetish song or some shit? Fuck...the song is so goddamned dumb I don't even know how...fuck it. Stop trying, Matt. Just stop.

Proofread, Bitches.

I will preface today's rant by saying that I know people make mistakes, myself included. But, some things are just so fucking stupid that mistake or no, the people involved deserve to be called on it. If what provoked me to this rant hadn't occurred well after business hours, I might have stopped in and given whoever was running the joint some good advice like "Dictionary.com, Motherfucker" or "You just made everyone with a second grade education who has driven past your sign dumber, you retarded bastard." What can I say, sometimes I like to be helpful. What provoked this little rant, you ask?

As I was driving home from a shift at the club, I passed an oil change business that has a large sign with bright red LED screen on which they put messages for the general public to read as they drive by. The message that night: "WE SALE TIRES." Really? Really SpeedyLube or QuickyLube or LeftHandLubeJob or whatever your silly oil change related name is...really? "We. Sale. Tires." O.K., I know we live in the South, and I know that "sale" is probably how your hickbilly ass pronounces the word "sell," (maybe a random "r" thrown in for good measure like you do in "warsh") but the word is spelled s-e-l-l. You don't "sale" tires, dumbfuck, you "sell" them.

Am I being hypercritical? I don't think so. I don't think it's too much to expect an adult to not make a stupid fucking mistake that most marginally functional 2nd graders wouldn't make, especially when it's going to be put on a bright red fucking sign that will be seen by thousands of people on one of the busiest roads in the city. Or for any of the 10 other adults working at the shop to look at the sign and think "Hey, that don't sound ra-at." (say it just like it's spelled, that's how they say it down here.) I know it's not generally a business that employs members of MENSA or even people who just barely missed being invited to join the National Honor Society, but Jesus, people, this is basic shit. Not being able to type out a three word statement without fucking it up as if you've only spoken English for a few days is inexcusable, mostly because it's just fucking lazy. I know pride is a bitch, but next time, just ask ol' Jimmy Jack how the sign looks. Maybe he's heard enough on them learnin' shows that his kids watch on TV to be able to point out any dumbass mistakes. Or maybe just ask him to bring one of his kids to proofread that shit.

The worst part is that if I were to drive around for a day and really look, I could probably find 50 more examples that are as dumb or dumber than the one above. I don't expect everyone to speak with perfect grammar or to never overlook a misplaced comma when writing, but I do expect people who are going to put shit out that the masses will see to take a few extra seconds to ensure that it's correct. It's not that hard. Really. The business owner will be happier, the manager will be happier, and judgmental pricks who blog about human stupidity will be happier. Mostly. Maybe not, though, because then what would they blog about? Don't worry, they'll find something. Proofread it, bitches.

Man Girdles?

As I was sitting in my chair early yesterday morning, wasting a few more minutes of my life on the internet before passing out, I also had the TV on. At one point, I hear "How would you like to get these same incredible results without dieting, without exercising, without pills, instantly? That's right, instantly!" I look up to see what fascinating new diet fad bullshit product they're hawking, and I'm totally fucking blown away by what I see. Not the good kind of blown away where you think "Damn, that's amazing" or "Why didn't I think of that?" No, this was the kind of blown away where you want to weep for mankind and build a shelter and prepare for the imminent doom that surely is coming because people are so fucking dumb to have invented such a stupid fucking product.

If you don't know what I'm talking about yet, Google "SlimTs." Go to the official site. Watch the embedded video of the commercial. Be amazed at the levels to which dumbfucks will stoop in an effort to not look like the fat fucking tub of goo they are. Then find yourself thinking "Holy shit, Matt is right, this is one of the most ridiculous fucking things I have ever seen. Mankind is doomed."

What bothers me slightly more than some fatass sitting in his basement trying to think of a way to make corsetry for men that won't show under a tucked-in t-shirt is the fact that somewhere there is someone picking up the phone to spend $19.95 plus shipping and handling to buy one of these stupid fucking things. Somewhere, some dude who can't stop himself from atrophying on the couch while he chases handfuls of deep-fried pig fat with a 2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew is thinking "Hell yeah, if I get that, I can eat whatever I want and still look like Edward Norton, Jr. in American History X! I'm gonna call as soon as I get done waiting for this chest cramp to go away."

To any dumbfuck who might be considering buying one of these things...don't. This idea is stupid. I know, I know, it's been going on for centuries with women: corsets, girdles, "spanks," (and other forms of false advertisement like padded/push-up bras...if you're advertising C cups, that shit better be there when you get naked, bitch...), and I think those are stupid, too. If you're a fat fuck, shoving your fat into some sort of compression gear does not make you thin. It won't even really make you look thin, because you will still have fat elsewhere (if your fat is only in your gut, put the bottle down and give AA a call, Drunktard). It doesn't make you look slimmer, it makes you look like some douchebag sucking in his gut to try to impress a chick. And, if somehow, you manage to fool that chick into believing you're not a complete tool and she goes home with you, how is she going to react when she tries to run her fingers down your stomach only to feel the ribs of your SlimT? Is she going to think that's hot? No. She's going to think it's fucking stupid and hopefully kick you in the balls for being so lazy in your vanity. Is she going to love it when you take off your shirt and the 6 pack she was expecting to see is actually 3 gallons of Jell-O? Probably not. And again, a swift kick to the testicles is in order.

If you want to lose two pant sizes or look slimmer, it's really fucking easy...stop shoveling so much food in your mouth and get the fuck up and do some exercise. Really. That simple. Not fucking rocket science, not some miracle of modern technology, not the brain child of some third-rate inventor who is just re-marketing some bullshit that has been mangling the bodies of women for centuries to appeal to men. Or, since you're lazy and don't like effort, and the only reason you'd wear the man girdle is to pick up chicks, you could take that $19.95, add a nickle and go get a blow job from some cheap hooker. Then it doesn't matter what the fuck you look like. You can let that gut hang out with pride and eat your pork rinds while being pleasured. Just don't get crumbs in her hair, she has to look good for the next guy.

Aww Yeah.

Guess who's back, bitches? I know, I know, you've had to spend almost four months finding ways to entertain yourself during the 2 minutes a day you had been spending reading my shit and scratching your head. You've had to read shit about oil spills (a conspiracy, it's not real, it's all done in a studio with a green screen.), dams breaking in China (Yeah, "Made in China" isn't so appealing anymore, is it American companies?), some American dude whacking people in Panama ("State the nature of your visit, please."), more lost jobs (that is, in fact, change), and Chelsea Clinton's fucking wedding (isn't she just an ugly bitch?). Why does anyone care about her wedding? Because she once was a teenager in the White House? Big fucking deal, she didn't do shit other than embarrass America by looking goofy around all the other foreign dignitary children gathered for whatever "we care about the little people, too" bullshit meetings their parents attended. I don't give a shit what kind of dress she wore, it didn't hide her face, so it sucked.

I'm sorry that I've been an absent blogger and put you through that. I'm sorry you've had to miss out on the random shit I think about and my prolific use of words that would get me fined by the FCC if they ever went out over the airwaves. Thankfully, the FCC doesn't control a fucking thing about the internet, so suck it, FCC. Fuckers.

Anyway, I had some shit go on and some things to work out in my very complicated brain, but I'm back. No, I won't tell you what they were. Fuck you, that's private. Nosy bitches. Sorry. You're probably clapping or dancing in your seat or thanking whatever deity you pray to. You should. The Hippie Popcorn is back, and with the help of some medication and a renewed outlook on life, I may actually keep this up for a week or two.

I don't think you should bet the house on that statement, unless you're looking to lose it. But, I'll do my best to give you people 2 minutes of entertainment whenever I can. Heh, that's what I told her, too. (Fuck, that was lame, Matt. Why would you write that? You should edit it out. No, you're just rusty and you need something to build on. Leave it there. Dumbass) Anyway, it's good to be back, I'll be looking for shit to be pissed off about.

Bitches.

Littering Fucktards

OK, you lazy, inconsiderate fucking pieces of shit who seem to think the world is your own personal garbage can...fuck you. It's not. I know, I know, when you're driving down the Parkway and you finish eating your greasy artery-fuck burger it's impossible to consider just putting the empty wrapper on your passenger seat until you get to a proper trash receptacle. Yeah, I know those little ashtray thingies in the console are made for change, not for cigarette butts. Plus, ash in the car is a pain. It's much better to throw a still lit cigarette onto the side of the road...I mean, it's not like there is any grass or bushes or trees that could burn as a result of your careless fucking stupidity or anything. I know, I'm being judgmental because I am one of those pretentious douchebags who takes the 8 seconds and makes the minute physical effort it takes to put a fucking empty wrapper in a trash can, what an asshole I am.

Are you really that fucking lazy and dumb? Do you just throw trash on the floor of your house because walking to the garbage can in the kitchen is too much of a hassle? It's really not that hard, you retarded shitbags. There are trash cans all over the fucking place, just keep the shit in your car until you get to one. It really is that fucking simple.

Put your fucking trash in a trash can, you stupid fuckmonkeys. It's so easy to do, even you in your obvious mentally challenged state could figure it out. I'm not saying you have to go green or become a hippie and hug porcupines or make love to badgers (100 cool points to anyone who can name the song I referenced there...well...maybe nerd points would be more appropriate, because if you know the song without Googling, you're a nerd) or anything like that, but dammit, have a little consideration for the good of the environment. Or at least the aesthetic of the environment. I know, it's a lot to expect someone of you lacking mental acuity to comprehend thinking beyond the safety of your vehicle or the ignorance of your house or the pressing issue of what off-ramp is going to have a Wendy's, but try it. It's really easy and you may even find that not being a complete fucking waste of skin is enjoyable.

Worst. Show. Ever.

I have seen a lot of bad shows. I have worked too many shows that I wished were over 3 minutes after they started. I have endured small club misery for the sake of watching friends' bands play. Hell, I sat in garages when I was a teenager and listened to friends destroy garage rock. Never have I witnessed an absolute clusterfuck of musical suck like I witnessed last night. I hope I never witness anything like it again.

Let me begin by saying that I am not a huge fan of George Clinton or P-Funk. I know a few of their songs from back in the day, and they're kinda fun. I thought the show would just be an entertaining night of silly 70's groove songs. Well, there were a lot of sounds being made on stage that could potentially have been 70's groove songs...but what was actually happening was a butchering of music that would have anyone who ever played a recorder as a child turning in their graves.

First off, P-Funk is apparently some conglomeration of a bunch of crackfucks George Clinton knows and wants to have up on stage, whether they have any talent or not. Not that they would know they were untalented, as baked as those people were, I doubt they even knew what planet they were on, much less that they were supposed to be putting on a musical show. If you've ever seen the Family Guy where Peter and Lois get high and enter the talent contest and sing that song about God doing the fattest chick you know and they thought they were awesome but in reality, they sucked ass...you can imagine what last night was like.

At one point in time, I counted 19 people on stage. 19. Unless you are a highly skilled orchestra, there is never any need for 19 people on stage. Especially when only 4 of them were playing instruments. The four who were playing instruments apparently have never spent a day practicing together, because at no point in time did they seem to be playing the same song at the same time. The other 15 people who were back-up singers (and I use the word 'singer' very loosely, what those people were doing was more akin to cats mating in a garbage can full of broken glass or something) or dancers or people there to catch George if he stroked out or whatever were a mish-mash of cracked out Halloween failure. It was like a Goodwill store from 1974 exploded all over the stage and left no survivors. Most appalling...the heavy-set black chick with the big ol' ghetto booty wearing hot pants. Oh no, big mama, your ass should never have been anywhere near that rack in the store. Perhaps you didn't see Lane Bryant across the way, but you should maybe go over there. Please.

Other ridiculous things I saw in the crowd last night included the 60 year old black chick wearing silver tights; the 300 pound chick wearing a denim top that barely covered her ample chest...and nothing else; the young chick wearing a very small, very tight tube dress...which might not have been as bad if she had any sort of ass or tits that weren't saggy A-cups; and way too many fucking douchebag guys wearing Cat in the Hat type lids and/or feather fucking boas. This isn't a drag show, dumbfuck, leave mom's feather boa at home. You just look like a moron. No, nevermind, just get up on stage with the rest of the fucking freaks and bark like a dog or make noises like a fucking seagull or whatever the fuck those "singers" were doing. You'd fit right in. Here's your crack pipe.

It was atrocious. At no point did any of the music sound at all cohesive. Never did the "singers" ever find the right tune, key, pitch or zip code of anything resembling musical talent. And the worst part is, they played until one of the managers turned on the house lights (which is the international music venue symbol for 'get the fuck out of the building you douchefucks') and turned down the volume on the stage mics at 1am. Unreal. Never have I so badly wanted a show to be over. Never have I hoped for a stage collapse or random indoor lightning strike or simultaneous crack-induced coma like I did last night. I'm not usually terribly critical of shows I work, even if I don't enjoy them, but this was the pinnacle of suck.

Oh, and my concern about George's age? Well, anyone at any age can probably stand on stage and mumble a few things into the mic and point at everybody else on stage while they destroy the reputation of what you spent the last 40 years of your life building. He didn't do much, certainly didn't sing every song, and unfortunately, didn't realize that the people he had on stage were the worst excuse for musicians to ever annoy a room full of people.

Fuck, it was awful.

Old Musicians.

Tonight I get the pleasure of working the George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic show. Not that I'm upset, I like some of their stuff. You know, the stuff they put out 35 fucking years ago? Some of it is classic, timeless, and always fun to listen to. That's the beauty of music, once created, if done well enough, it can live on forever and inspire people for generations to come. Good music lives forever. Unfortunately, so does bad music, but I digress.

Artists do not live forever. No. They get old and then they die. It's the circle of life and shit. Sadly, many artists feel the need to continue to tour until the day they die. Not that they lose their talent, but they definitely lose the ability to do things like move around on stage or perform for more than 20 minutes without taking a break or control their bladder. For some reason, watching people who created music that has influenced and inspired and filled people's lives hobble and wheeze around the stage for a few minutes isn't that appealing to me. I worked George Thorogood recently, and while he was more mobile than David Allen Coe, it was still pretty sad to see someone trying so desperately to keep a grasp on the things that (somehow...I'll not get into my feelings about these artists here) made them famous 30-40 years ago. It's like watching that athlete who once was great flail around several different teams when they've lost 6 steps at the end of their career. Just hang it up.

I can imagine that if you build your life a certain way, giving it up would be hard. Many people have an impossible time accepting retirement after working their entire lives. Many people have a hard time accepting that they can't do at 65 what they did at 35. The human psyche is a bitch. But, it's a little different when some dude who pushed paper from a desk for 40 years has a hard time sitting on his couch watching daytime TV. That dude isn't standing up on stage in front of people who paid money to watch him fill out TPS reports, hoping he can get 6 done in a show when in reality, he can only do 2. Old musicians seem to be content to sacrifice their dignity and forfeit the chance to just let their music be their legacy for the sake of holding on to the good old days. Or to pay bills, because they've wasted their money on hookers and booze and blow.

While I can understand the difficulty in just letting it all go, I still think it's sad. People don't really want to watch old musicians spinning in circles in their Hoveround on stage. People want to listen to the beat of the drums, not the sound of a hemodialysis machine keeping kidneys alive on stage. No one wants to see their musical heroes taking shots of Metamucil in between songs. Or, no one should. But, the shows still sell, so apparently, some people do.

I'm not saying that the show tonight won't be enjoyable, hearing the music will be fun...but watching a bunch of old dudes hobble around the stage might not be. Unless one of them falls and breaks a hip, then I'll be laughing my ass off.

Shut up, people falling down is funny. You'd laugh too.

Yeah, I Know.

I suck. I know this. I have not blogged in about 10 years or so, and people are getting angry. I've been getting threatening hate e-mails letting me know that if I don't blog I will be unceremoniously mocked, which in the cyber-world is akin to getting your kneecaps badly bruised by some thug who lacks enough strength to break them. Annoying, but not debilitating.

The truth is, Bitches, you've chosen to follow the blog of a very temperamental writer. I am a scatter-brained perfectionist, which is a combination that makes life interesting for anyone around me (and borderline psychotic for myself). I create best when I'm inspired by something (most often anger at someone or something I deem completely stupid), but even then, if I am not happy with the product of my inspiration, I refuse to share it with anyone. As a result, I have about 4 drafts from times that I have started blogging about something in the last few weeks, but didn't like them enough to actually hit "Publish Post." It's certainly not that I've had any lack of the ridiculous in my life, it's just that I haven't been satisfied enough with my musings about the ridiculous to share.

I know, that's not fair to my Bitches. You should know by now that life isn't fair, so get the fu...wait...no...I shouldn't lash out at the people who have made me the blogging celebrity I am today. It's not your fault I suck. I should just shut the fuck up and rant about something so you junkies can slip back into that euphoric state of bliss where nothing else matters but the pleasure coursing through your veins as you read my creative uses of swear words and insulting adjectives. It's the least I could do, right? I mean after all, without my Bitches, I'd be nothing but a guy with a blog nobody reads. That just doesn't sound like a life I want to lead.

I apologize, Bitches, for slacking. I'll stop being such an unreliable dealer.

Rubberneckers and Traffic Lights.

Yeah, dumbass, we all see it. It's an accident. There are a lot of flashing lights and emergency vehicles and a car that has been hit by another car and a bumper lying in the street. That sucks for those people. Their day is ruined. Please do not annoy my day, motherfucker, by slowing down to 10 mph so your nosy ass can look at busted taillights. It's on the other side of the road, there is no need for you to impede everyone who is traveling on this side of the road because you need to witness someone else's bad day. Just keep fucking driving, preferably somewhere near the posted speed limit. The traffic engineering in this city is bad enough, we don't need your stupid ass further clogging the roadways because you hope to see some blood. But, you won't see blood because it's a fucking fender-bender, you moron. Drive.

Expounding on the traffic engineering issue, here's an open comment to the city of Asheville and Buncombe County: Your traffic engineering skills suck balls. You fuckers are the Detroit Lions of traffic engineering. Except instead of drafting Wide Receivers with every pick of the draft for the past 10 years, you've "solved" every potential traffic problem by putting up another fucking traffic light. Here's a news flash, dumbasses: putting up more traffic lights doesn't fix traffic congestion. Especially if you make no effort whatsoever to synchronize any of the lights. Having a fucking traffic light every 200 yards, none of which are in any way synchronized to each other makes the problem worse. It seems like a simple enough concept for this undereducated bastard to comprehend, how is it that you geniuses who somehow have earned the title of...whatever the fuck they call you retards...can't figure it out?

I understand that you are fighting some unfortunate realities of this being a mountainous area, and I also know that the lack of zoning regulations in this county makes life tough (yeah, no zoning laws, fucking brilliant, right? It's normal to have a bank next to an industrial concrete plant next to a house next to a school, isn't it?). Someone throws up a business in some random spot and then complains that their customers can't make a left turn into their poorly placed establishment, so what are you to do? My idea? Tell them to regret choosing such a stupid fucking place to put a business and accept their fate. Clearly, my idea and your ideas are different. Your solution seems to be "just put up another light." Dumbfucks. The idea could potentially work, if you were to use a technique many other cities mastered about 50 years ago called synchronization.

It's pretty simple, you put all of the lights on staggered timers so that traffic can be allowed to flow at a fairly consistent pace throughout the entire maze of lights. Wow. That's it. It's so fucking simple that I can't even come up with any way to further mock your inability to figure it out. Yeah, you're so dumb that I can't even insult you. Congratulations. In that way, you are nothing like the Lions, because one can never stop making fun of them.

I suppose I could clean up the language in this and maybe actually send it to someone who could make a difference, but like most Americans, I'd rather just bitch about something I don't like. Making a difference and trying to bring about change is a lot of work, and quite honestly, I hate work. Apparently, so do the fucksticks who work in the traffic engineering department.

No, You Can't.

Happy April Fool's Day, Bitches. I was going to come up with some sort of elaborate post hoax to lay down on everybody, but nothing good came to mind in the 30 seconds I devoted to the idea before I poured a bowl of cereal this morning, so I scrapped the whole plan. I'm lazy like that. It's better this way; far less brainpower needed on my part, far less "What the fuck is this dumbass talking about now?" on your part. Go ahead, thank me.

Hey, douchebag who is 20 pounds overweight and considers carrying a case of soda a workout...no, you can't get rock hard abs in 30 minutes or 10 minutes or 45 seconds with the help of the electro-shock testicle slings invented by a guy who once fought Chuck Norris in a movie or whatever the latest stupid fucking claim made by people getting rich off of the lazy are making today. That guy in the paid advertisement inside Men's Health or Men's Journal or GQ or Maxim or whatever magazine you read while you're getting your hair cut...he's a fitness model. His entire job is to make his body look like that. And, the airbrush artist helps him out a little. That guy spends hours a day in the gym and eats a strict diet that does not include that 64 ounce Coke and the bag of Doritos. He didn't get those abs with any 8 minute program. That actor on the screen with perfectly toned abs that your girlfriend wants to tickle with her vagina...he has also spent hours a day in a gym with a personal trainer and has a personal chef cooking meals for him that aid in the formation of those panty-moistening abs. He did not get those abs with any silly anti-gravitational abgasm 5000 space chair thingy. He worked his ass off. If you want those abs, you're going to have to as well. Stop buying into all of the stupid shit those people are telling you and just do the work, mainly so I don't have to be inundated with 4,000 pics of too-tanned dudes with their shirts of every time I open anything remotely health related.

Hey, yo fat girl. Yeah I called you fat, look at me, I'm skinny...er...where was I going before I got distracted by the sounds laid down by the Underground? Oh yeah...fat girl, no you can't lose 50 pounds by taking that pill. Unless that pill is meth, it's not going to magically reduce your weight while you go on eating the same 5,000 calorie diet. If it is meth, have fun being skinny, the attention you get from having sores all over your yellow skin, no teeth, and stringy hair that may or may not fall out in clumps if the wind blows is far better than being called fat. No, those magic diet pills that have no medicinal qualities whatsoever aren't going to make you thin, no matter how herbal the name sounds or how many washed up Jazzercise instructors endorse them. Those supermodels...well...forget the supermodels, their secrets are eating disorders, and Bulimia is probably worse for you than some stupid pill. Those chicks on the aerobics video you picked up at Barnes and Noble who don't make spandex seem like the worst invention in the history of mankind...they work their asses off to stay fit. They aren't taking the latest green tea supplement proven effective in a "clinical trial" that was conducted in some guy's basement in New Jersey. Those ladies put in a lot of effort, a lot of time, and pay a lot of attention to their diets. They don't just expect some magical cure for laziness. You shouldn't either.

Like it or not, being "in shape" takes a lot of work, a lot of time, and attention to what you shovel in your mouth. Magic tricks don't work. Stop trying them. Stop giving these fuckers your money. Seriously. I'm tired of all of the stupid fucking ads and commercials and infomercials. I don't want to see John Basedow's stupid fucking haircut and freakish physique anymore; I don't want to see that old fucker hanging upside down in that stupid fucking contraption he has; and I don't want to see Tony Little's ridiculous fucking spiral permed mullet flying around while he yells at people on that stupid fucking Gazelle thing. The Ab Circle commercial could probably stay, because watching chicks on that thing is kinda hot...wait...I mean, no, that has to go too. The only thing you lazy bastards are accomplishing is fattening the wallets of these douchebags who are all too happy to let you. Stop chasing the solution from the comfort of your recliner, get up and do something.

Yes, I am just mad because I am not making loads of dollars off of lazy people. As soon as I can figure out a way to mass-market the idea that reading my blog will make you have rock hard abs...my tune will change. Is that wrong?

(The answer is "no.")

Blog Losers.

I hate people who don't update their blog on a regular basis. I mean, why the fuck are you going to go through all of the effort to sign up for an account if you're not going to make the effort to continue the endeavor? You obvioulsy seem to think that the stupid shit in your head is important enough for the masses to read, Mr. Blogger Guy, why keep that brilliance from us for weeks at a time? You lure people in with promises of comedic ranting and humorous observations, then you disappear. Well fuck you, you non-blog-updating piece of shit. You suck. I hope your "Last updated 10 days ago" blog becomes an example of everything that is wrong with the idea of people thinking that others give a shit what they think.

Fucking loser.

Seriously, people start following you and expecting certain things from you and you just let them down? How dare you, you selfish fuck. Don't think about your followers...oh no, it's all about you and you living your life and not updating people on every mundane thing that pisses you off, isn't it? Prick. I hope you've enjoyed whatever it is you've been doing the last few weeks that you haven't been updating your blog, because everyone else has really enjoyed clicking the links to your page only to be disappointed again. That was sarcasm, if you didn't catch it, fucker.

Update that shit, you non-blogging bastard. Don't welcome the responsibility of entertaining a minute fraction of the internet if you can't carry the load.

It's Raining, Call the Fucking Game.

OK, I can understand professional soccer players having to nut up and play in the rain. It's their job. It's a multi-gajillion dollar global enterprise. Some of them get paid ass-tons of money. Sack up and play in the rain. My nine year old daughter is not a professional, and this is a county league that is nothing more than formative soccer at best. None of her teammates are professionals (as evidenced by the excess of "swings and misses" at routine kicks). There is no fucking reason that any of us should be standing anywhere near a fucking soccer field on a rainy Sunday afternoon. None.

Why this game was played is mind-boggling. It was fucking raining. Not just a drizzle, but full-on non-stop rain. It had been raining since mid-morning. The rain wasn't a surprise. It didn't just happen to start falling halfway through the game. That might have been o.k. But when we show up and the rain is already falling and it's cold and puddles have already started forming near the goals...call the fucking game. It's not really that important. The universe will somehow continue to survive another week if you don't get this 9 year old girls soccer game completed. Everybody was fucking miserable, especially the girls. The parents who weren't hiding in their cars in the parking lot (fucking pussies) had umbrellas, so we were able to stay somewhat dry. The poor girls were stuck running around in the rain chasing a ball while probably wanting to be anywhere else but playing soccer while (to paraphrase my daughter) "feeling like [they] took a shower in [their] clothes."

I don't know what dumbshit was responsible for making these poor girls play soccer in the cold rain of mid-March, but fuck you, whoever you are. Next time, call the game. Or I will find out who you are and deliver the fuck you in person...in the form of throwing you in a river along with a soccer ball. Have fun playing, dickhead.

However, I will take a moment to be a proud dad and brag that tat2brat received the Sportsmanship Award for the game because she played her best and not once did she whine about being subjected to waterboard soccer.

Drive-Thru Etiquette

As I have mentioned before, I am fairly strict with what I eat. Because I am, I almost never eat fast food. I try to plan my days and my meals in a manner that I can easily limit my need to utilize the near-instant food convenience of these purveyors of artery clogging crap. In the very rare case that I find myself needing to grab something quickly to stop the hunger pangs from annoying me, Chick-fil-A is my choice. This morning was one of those rare occasions. A late shift last night at the club and an early morning shift today at my "real job" made me have to choose between breakfast at home or the beauty of the "snooze" option on the alarm. I chose snooze.

On my way to work, I stopped at the Chick-fil-A that is on the way (hey, that rhymes) and went to the drive-thru. The drive-thru has been a staple of fast food joints for what, 40 years now? Long enough to be considered a very simple concept. They've done their best to further streamline the process by providing two menus to look at; one at the ordering point, one prior to the ordering point so that presumably, you'll know what the fuck you want when you get to the ordering point. A place like Chick-fil-A, where they pretty much only serve various forms of chicken shouldn't be a place that ordering in the drive-thru is difficult. However, the bitch in front of me today has either never utilized a drive-thru, never eaten at a Chick-fil-A, or is just dumb enough that the state should reconsider her having a license to drive a vehicle.

First off, dumb bitch: You should be somewhere within 10 feet of the speaker box in which you speak to make your order. The acoustics on those things are shit to begin with, you throwing in the debilitating factor of distance just makes the process more difficult. Your car is fairly new, so I know you have power steering, you could have easily made that difficult gradual left turn and found yourself in the same zip code as the speaker.

Second, dumb bitch: It's Chick-fil-A. They serve chicken. Just decide if you want your overgrown chicken nugget on a bun or a bagel and order. You shouldn't need to study the menu for 4 minutes.

Third, dumb bitch: The time which you wait behind the two cars in front of you while they get their food is the opportune time to get your method of payment ready. Waiting until you pull up to the window to count the change from your center console is not appropriate. They tell you when you complete your order how much you owe...maybe if you had been somewhere near the speaker box, you would have heard that.

Fourth, dumb bitch: Once they hand you your food, immediately drive forward. If you want to check your food because Quentin Tarantino says "they fuck you in the drive-thru," that's fine. Just do it 15 feet in front of the delivery window so the rest of us can get our food and move on with our days. My order is simple (I decided on the chicken), I have my money ready, and it should only take me about 8 seconds at the delivery window to complete the transaction. Why it has taken you over a minute to move forward is perplexing and pretty fucking irritating after all of the other ways you've fucked up a very simple process in front of me this morning.

Seriously, the drive-thru is not as difficult as this woman made it, but it did remind me of one of the reasons I choose not to frequent fast food joints. I will now go another 3-4 months before going back to Chick-fil-A, at which point I am certain someone else will find a way to amaze me with their inability to conquer simple tasks.

For the record, I got the chicken, egg, and cheese sandwich on a sunflower wheat bagel. It was pretty fucking good, quite honestly. It is also probably the sandwich that most says "Fuck you, chickens." A deep fried chicken breast and an egg? "Damn right, chicken I'm going to kill you and your baby and eat you both at the same time because I am one deranged motherfucking human. If they could make this bagel out of your feathers, feet and beak, I might even enjoy it more. Fuck you, chickens."

Next time, I need to avoid the snooze.

Happy St. Green Beer Guy Day

Welcome to another holiday that has been bastardized into little more than a reason for people to drink way too much and wear completely fucking ridiculous holiday themed garb. Most people couldn't even begin to explain St. Patrick's relevance to Ireland, all they know is that it's a chance to get really fucking drunk drinking beer that is dyed green (yeah, just like the beer they drink in Ireland...only not at all like it) and act like an idiot while wearing stupid fucking leprechaun hats or dumb-ass headbands with foam shamrocks bouncing around on springs. (For the record, St. Patrick is the patron saint of Ireland, a missionary who grew Christianity in Ireland but did NOT drive snakes from the country or invent Lucky Charms or Irish Spring or whatever else folklore says he did. Being that he was a man of God, I'm sure he would love how the holiday bearing his name is celebrated today...)

So, if you go out tonight, be prepared to deal with a bunch of morons who probably couldn't find Ireland on a map getting fucked up and pinching you if you aren't wearing green. Just like St. Patrick himself would have. "No green? God hates that you don't wear green! Allow me to pinch your forearm as a symbol of God's wrath, you non-green wearing heathen!" I don't know where the tradition of pinching someone who isn't wearing green started, but I hope the fucker who started it is being subjected to an eternity of Purple Nurples and steel-toed boot kicks to the balls in Hell. Dumb bastard.

I don't have any problem with people celebrating something, and it's easy to understand how St. Patrick warrants a holiday in Ireland. Of course, it's only been the last 20 years or so that the holiday has morphed into the debauchery-riddled drunk-fest that it is now at the hands of people who likely couldn't tell you the capital of Ireland or anything else about the country other than Guinness (which isn't green) is brewed there. It just strikes me as silly that people seem to need to find a reason to go out and get fucked up. Or make everything green. Or buy stupid trinkets from Hallmark or WalMart or whatever other fucking store has a litany of stupid holiday themed shit. Yeah, the shamrock banner that reads "Erin Go Bragh" really does show your allegiance to Ireland, black lady from Detroit in accounting. Excellent job. Your Gaelic brethren appreciate you and your $3.99 banner of pride.

I need to branch off a little here, and address a very real problem in American society (and I assume other societies, but can't speak for them)...holiday related clothing. I don't know when it became acceptable for older women to wear sweaters with Christmas wreaths or Easter eggs (yeah, just wait for the Easter blog...) or shamrocks or pre-slaughter turkeys or whatever other dumb fucking holiday related symbol upon them, but stop. Stop it, middle-class white bitches. Stop wearing those stupid fucking holiday sweaters. We all know what time of year it is, and I can promise you that 99.999% of us don't give a fuck that you're brimming with holiday spirit. That .001% who does? Other dumb bitches wearing stupid fucking holiday sweaters. They're not cute, they're not stylish, and they certainly don't put people in a cheery, festive fucking mood. They make people want to kick you dead in the poorly fashioned reindeer antlers that adorn the sweater across your chest.

Even worse, holiday socks. Why are these worse? Because nobody can see the stupid fucking things unless they are shown, and every dumb bitch who wears them feels the need to show everyone. "Hee-hee, Did you see my spooky Jack O' Lantern Halloween socks?" No bitch, because I don't give a fuck what socks you are wearing. Those aren't spooky, they're fucking retarded. You have pumpkins on your feet. That shit might be cute on a baby or something, but you are a grown fucking woman (most likely overweight, because for whatever reason, fat bitches seem to like to do silly shit like this...I don't know why...but pay attention...you'll see that I'm right), you do not need to wear those dumb-ass socks. I don't need to see those dumb-ass socks. Put your fucking Crocs back on and leave me the hell alone. I am not amused by your cheery fucking hosiery.

Whatever. Go out tonight and drink your green beer while you wear your green shirt and your stupid fucking head wear that screams "Look at the drunk bastard who has no problem looking like a complete fucking idiot in public!" Then, tomorrow, when you're hungover and feeling like you have a thousand Leprechauns jack-hammering green clover marshmallows out of your skull and you can't remember why your fingers are dyed green, you can start planning your outfit for Big Bird's Birthday (3/20) or Chocolate Covered Raisin Day (3/24) or Something on a Stick Day (3/28) (I'm surprised this holiday doesn't coincide with Gay Pride Week...yep...totally went there...) or whatever the next "holiday" is that will justify your gluttonous binge drinking and ridiculously poor clothing choices.

And, I double-dog dare you to pinch me, motherfuckers.

Being Sick Sucks Ass

I had almost made it through the entire winter without getting sick. Almost. It caught me today, and I feel like shit. I'm stuffed up and lethargic and having hot flashes like some menopausal woman (but no random crying fits...whew). I can't taste anything, but I am hungry as fuck. Seems pointless to eat if I can't enjoy the taste, but my stomach keep getting pissed off if I'm not cramming food in my word hole. This sucks.

I took some liquid Tylenol Cold shit, holy fuck that stuff is awful. "Refreshing Mint Flavor" my ass, Tylenol, that shit tastes worse than...well...pretty much anything I've ever tasted in my life. And I've eaten in the Middle East. I imagine that if you could somehow bottle baboon ass funk with a hint of rotting fish it would taste better than this medicine. Clearly there are no medicinal properties in the stuff, the scheme is simply to make it taste so fucking horrible that the body says "Fuck it, I'll get well right now, just don't throw any more of that God-forsaken mint-flavored liquid shit down your throat." Good job, Tylenol, finding something that pierces any cold symptoms that negate the ability to taste and sucker punches the taste buds. I can't taste this snack mix I'm throwing down by the handfuls, but I can still taste the sewer in a bottle I choked down 4 hours ago.

I suppose it is wise to not make that shit taste good, people would get addicted. If that shit tasted like chocolate chip cookies, I'd be chasing breakfast with it every morning.

I was supposed to do my long training run today, but I will not. I am sitting my fat ass in this chair and doing nothing until I have to go to the club to work the Rodrigo y Gabriela show tonight. I am excited for this show, it should be incredible. If you've never heard of them, look them up. No, I will not link you to them, I'm sick. I don't have that kind of energy. Find it yourself, this isn't a full service blog. It's worth the effort, they are exceptionally talented guitarists. If you like the guitar, you will like this duo. If you like attractive Latinas with fingers that move faster than the eye can comprehend, you'll at least like half of this duo.

So yeah, I'm going to have to work the show while feeling like shit, which sucks. I may get one of those white masks that most of Asia was wearing during the SARS outbreak just to scare people at the door. "Can I see your I.D., please...the mask? Oh, I have Swine Flu. Don't worry about it. Enjoy the show." I bet I could get people to behave inside with that method..."You want me to breathe on you, Motherfucker? That's what I thought."

Shit. It's time to take more of the piss in a bottle. Let me tell you how excited I am about that. You know that feeling you get when you're stranded in the wilderness and you have to pull an abcessed tooth with some make-shift pliers you fashioned out of tree limbs? Me neither, but I imagine that feeling would inspire more enthusiasm than does the thought of swallowing 2 more tablespoons of that liquid Tylenol taste bud rape. Fuck you, Tylenol.

Roller Derby.

If you like watching a bunch of marginally attractive chicks with creative names and a few not even close to potentially attractive chicks (also with creative names) skating in an oval and knocking the shit out of each other, roller derby is for you. If you like watching chicks fall on their asses on a regular basis, roller derby is for you. I like those things, so I enjoy going to watch the local roller derby team.

I'm not overly fond of the asinine prices the bitches at the Civic Center charge for concessions, but that's typical for those types of places, so I just don't bother buying anything while I'm there and that problem is solved.

The problem that obviously hasn't been solved since last season is the completely fucking awful announcers during the event. If you've ever been to a roller derby, you know that they have a couple of announcers pretty much narrating the action, explaining some of the rules and such. Ideally, the announcers would be witty, funny, and enhance your roller derby experience. The announcers at this particular event were not witty, not even in the same neighborhood as funny, and did not enhance the experience. If anything, they made it harder to enjoy, because wishing they would shut the fuck up took away from the amusement of watching any one of the fat chicks on the Kentucky team trying to remain upright.

Speaking of this, I feel as though I need to provide a little bit of unsolicited, completely amateur advice to the opposing team:

1.) Roller derby is an athletic event. I understand that there are some blocker positions that are probably better filled with heftier chicks, but you might want to stock your line-up with a few athletic chicks. It is impressive that the bigger girls can maintain balance and stop that momentum without falling down or needing a runaway truck ramp, but maybe just get a few toned, fit chicks onto your roster. Might help you score some points in the next match.

2.) Roller derby is an athletic event that takes place on roller skates. It's in the name, so it's not like it's a surprise. Perhaps you should ensure that all of your chicks can actually skate. Especially if you are going to put them in the scoring "Jammer" position. That's clearly the position that requires the most skating skill, you should probably keep Happy Gilmore on the bench until she can keep from eating shit on a straightaway when no one is around her. Or maybe one who can generate enough momentum to actually keep moving without having to use one of the other chicks to sling her around. Roller derby should be a fast-paced event, your Jammer shouldn't be struggling to maintain forward motion.

I know, I'm just some dude who may not understand the intricacies of roller derby, but judging by the fact that you were down by 100 points at halftime, I may be onto something.

I digress. Back to the dumb fucking announcers. The jokes were lame. The attempts at pop-culture references were feeble. The only entertainment that could be taken from any of the lame-ass shit they were saying was mocking them. The "like a rhinoceros in a tree" joke wouldn't be funny to you bitches at this point, but in the moment, that shit was funny, because of the mock value. Trust me. But, as funny as it was, it still didn't overwhelm the utter stupidity of the announcers who had the microphones. Fucking microphones, amplifying the completely unfunny bullshit of a couple of droning motherfuckers. I hate you, microphones.

Kinda like internet blogs, amplifying the completely unfunny bullshit of rambling motherfuckers...hmm...

Anyway, go check out some roller derby if you get a chance. Watching people fall is always funny, so even if you have to endure two dumbasses and a microphone, you can still have some fun.

It's Called a Bra, Bitch.

Hey bitch coming through the door at the club last night, I know you know they exist. You are a woman in her late 20's, and I don't give a fuck how hippie you think you are, you have to have heard of those wonderful items called brassieres. They have them in all sizes, even the 46GG you probably need, you fat, disgusting fucking hippie. Part of me is curious as to how you got so fat on your earth friendly, sustainable vegan diet anyway, but I cannot ask you anything because I am distracted by the fact that your gigantic tits are almost tripping you. I am disgusted by the fact that you not only decided that your gargantuan knockers needed to be free to sweep the ground, but you decided that you needed to wear a very low-cut, flowing hippie dress so everyone could gag a little more by seeing the skin on your chest stretched like a fucking over-filled Hefty trash bag. Nothing wimpy about your chest skin, that's for damned sure.

What the fuck, you dirty fucking hippie bitch? I know that you subscribe to the anti-establishment mantra, and that bras are simply a way for The Man to oppress the breasts, but come on. Even in your marijuana and patchouli induced funky stupor, you have to acknowledge the fact that your knockers are far to big to just "hang out." How can that be comfortable? How can your back take it? Do you have to do something similar to a pitcher's wind-up to get some inertia going to turn around? I can't imagine those things just move (or stop) on command, do you have a warning system in place to let people know when you're about to swings those wrecking balls around? How do you get out of bed? Do you sling one over the side and let gravity roll you out? Fuck, so many disturbing, disgusting questions that should never have to be asked.

Seriously, get a bra, bitch. Even Betty Friedan or Helen Gurley Brown or fuck, even Germaine Greer (the leader of the bra-burning movement, for my less feminism knowledgeable followers...you're welcome) would say "Bitch, control those fucking puppies." Ms. Greer would probably take you to WalMart herself and buy you a bra, because even she understood that going braless as a rule was not a good idea. Especially for a chick with jugs as big as yours. You tripping over your tits while walking up a flight of stairs does nothing for equality or world peace or Tibet or saving fucking Brazilian Mergansers or whatever noble battles you fight via bumper stickers on the back of your piece of shit VW bus that barely passes emissions testing. Put them away.

Look, I know you think that every living creature is beautiful (you are seriously fucking misguided) and that everyone has the right to be free and blah blah fuckity blah, but in your case, bitch, you need to take a look in the mirror and understand that some things are a socially accepted rule for a reason. No one wants to see your big, fat, venous fucking udders banging your knees. And don't say "well they just shouldn't look," because you know that's impossible. Some things are so fucking freakish that you just can't help but look. God knows I didn't want to look. I had no desire to see all that you showed me last night. But I couldn't look away. I was just in awe at the nerve you obviously have to walk out the door in some sort of poorly chosen fight against gravity and physics and physiology and common decency. I was also amazed at your Lumbar strength, because it was incredible that you were upright.

It's called a bra, bitch, and for the love of God or Mother Earth or Vishnu or Cernunnos or whoever the fuck you believe in, please buy one. Then wear it. Any time you go out in public. Any time. Never ever walk out of your commune without it on again. Inside your fucking hippie haven of circus freaks, you do whatever the fuck you want. Out here in the real world, put the girls in a sling. Please. Society begs you. Our eyes beg you. Even the fucking Mergansers beg you. Yes, ducks that are on the verge of extinction want you to control your mammoth fucking mammaries, bitch. Do it for the fucking ducks, hippie.

About Damned Time

Thank you, Mother Nature, for finally taking off the bitch slippers and giving us some good weather. The last three days have been damned near perfect, and I appreciate that. I got to run outside today in shorts and a short sleeved shirt...awesome. I got to take the dog for a nice walk in the woods without freezing my ass off. Such a beautiful day.

But, then I got to thinking. People don't read this shitty, randomly updated blog to listen to me be happy about shit. None of the readers want to read me praising good weather and having had a good day outside. It's a bit of a conundrum, made even worse by the fact that nothing silly or stupid or retarded has happened to me in the past few days. While I know I should blog, I can't just bring some paragraphs of happy to this wasteland of cycnicism and anger.

That being said, Mother Nature, don't do anything stupid. I like this gentler you, I like not freezing my ass off every time I open the front door. Other people will take care of the stupid shit I need to blog about, you just go on not being a wicked cunthole. I work at the club tomorrow night, surely something will happen then. I'm good. Mother Nature, just keep doing what you've done the last few days.

All the other retarded, annoying fucking shitstains around me need to step up the stupid. Do some shit for me to blog about, anonymous dillweeds. Not you, bathroom masturbator guy, I've had enough of you. But come on, I live in a melting pot of unintelligible hillbilly and pseudo-hippie and pretentious yuppie fucks...there has to be someone that can give me material out there. I know, I could always do the watching TV thing I said I would do last week, but I still haven't been able to bring myself to tune in to one of those shows. It looks like I may not have a choice anymore.

OK, I'm off to find something stupid on TV. I'm sure I'll have no shortage of choices. I hope to bring you something better than a few paragraphs of me complaining that I have nothing to blog about tomorrow. But, I must say, making an entry on not having anything to enter...that's skill, bitches. A useless, pointless, completely fucking stupid skill. Kinda like that thing I can do with my toe...

What. The. Fuck.

As previously mentioned in the estrogen-powered lesbian gaze of death post, I work part time at a music venue. It is a wonderful gig, I get paid to listen to live performances and check out hot chicks in the club and sometimes ruin someone's night. I have a lot of fun most of the time, and my love of music has been greatly increased by this job.

I've been doing this for a year now, and I have seen a lot of interesting shit. Every show has a unique mix of people; sociologists and/or aliens watching from above could spend years dissecting the behavior of people who come to the club. What I saw last night would make the aliens say "Fuck it, we'll find another planet with intelligent life somewhere else." Of course aliens say "fuck." It's a universally perfect word.

One of the job requirements of a door person is to randomly check the bathroom for anyone doing drugs, sneaking in liquor (retarded NC liquor laws don't allow the club to serve anything but beer and wine), washing the X marks they get for being under 21 off their hands, or anything else that would be considered unacceptable behavior. It's very common to find several people doing any of the above at any show. However, what is uncommon is to walk into the bathroom and find some black dude standing in a stall, door open, facing outward, with his dick in his hand, stroking that thing with reckless abandon.

Perhaps I should repeat that as the beginning to a new paragraph so you can grasp what really happened. I walked into the bathroom and caught some guy spanking his monkey. I was at a loss for words. The only thing I could get out was "What the fuck are you doing?" His reply? "Sorry." Sorry. All that motherfucker could say was "Sorry." I suppose if I really cared, I could have grilled him about why the fuck he was greasing his wheel in our bathroom, which might have been an interesting story, but I didn't care. All I cared about was getting that masturbating bastard out of the club.

Of course it was funny as hell, and once I told the guys at the door why I was kicking that guy out, it became the entertainment of the night. Tales of it happening spread through the club staff faster than herpes through a prostitute orgy. I walked backstage and somehow the guy working back there had already heard. Naturally, when I walked back there, he acted like he was having a stroke (and I don't mean his left side was limp and he was drooling on himself).

I understand that people have fetishes. I understand that some people like to dress in PVC and asphyxiate themselves with a bungee cord while a morbidly obese chick spanks them with a cheese log. Some people like to wear diapers and act like a baby. Some people have foot fetishes and like to lick toes and drink vodka from ladies' pumps (which is fucking disgusting, you fucked up foot fetish freaks. Feet are nasty.) Apparently, this guy is an exhibitionist. Or, he is a black guy who likes to come to southern rock shows and choke his chicken while watching rednecks take a piss at the urinals. Maybe flannel and trucker hats turn him on (he would have had a blast at the lesbian festival show, but none of that flannel would have been in the mens room...). Whatever the fuck it is, I was not prepared to see some dude fapping vigorously when I went to work last night. If his fetish is shocking people...he definitely got his.

Looking back on it now, I'm a little upset that the best I could come up with in the moment was "What the fuck are you doing?" I'm normally pretty witty, but I just didn't have anything quick and funny come to mind (no pun intended). However, even now, I can't think of anything else to say. What does one say when they walk in on a black guy with his jimmy in his hand? Other than "What the fuck?"

I had to do some mind-cleansing exercises last night, but even after taking a mental train to my Happy Place, that image keeps popping into my head. I am scarred. I may need therapy. Or, if I see that guy in the club again, I just need to kick him in the chest. Once for scarring my mind, once more for making me doubt the skills of my wit. Fuck you, you disturbed, cock-stroking motherfucker.

Happy Place...I'm coming. (Again, no pun intended.)

Your Kidney Stones Do Not Impress Me.

Apparently, somewhere, sometime way back in the beginning of human interaction, someone decided that telling another person every little physical ailment they had was appropriate conversation. Over time, people have perfected the art of boring other people with inane tales of kidney stones or gall stones or sciatica or diarrhea or achy penis or whatever. In my time on this planet, I have perfected the art of not giving a fuck. I do not care about your trivial personal ailments. At all.

I can understand some things are fairly big and traumatic and become a major part of someone's life and the life of those around them. Cancer? Yeah that's a big deal, so I can understand conversing about it. Your arm got ripped off by a bear? Yeah, that's an interesting story. I want to hear that shit. "Your friend" somehow got a light bulb stuck in his ass? Fuck yeah, I need to hear that story. But, you feel like you're pissing a flaming bowling ball because you have stones? Your Carpal Tunnel is acting up again because you spent 7 hours surfing porn on the internet last night? I don't give a fuck. Really. Don't tell me about that shit, I don't want to hear it. Just like I don't care about your kids and the cutesy bullshit thing they did last week at Chuck E. Cheese, I don't care about your stones. Or your Carpal Tunnel. Or your achy penis.

What is even more torturous than someone just randomly telling me about their most recent hernia is when I'm near two people who seem to think that these topics are appropriate conversation. It makes me cringe when one person asks the other "How's it going?" and the other goes into a lengthy description of their kidney stones; which then invites the other person to talk about their uncle and his kidney stones; which then turns into a one-upping contest of mundane medical bullshit that is usually exaggerated for effect. "Well, my grandpa once had a tapeworm the that measured 63 feet long and craved buttermilk..." It's never an intelligent conversation, and it's usually riddled with one of them butchering any number of medical terms that may or may not be accurate and/or related to the ailment being discussed and one or more completely stupid Wives' Tale. "My Granny says the only way to get rid of a malignantated tapeworm is to set your ass hairs on fire and the smoke chases it out." I was subjected to similar conversation recently, and that shit made me want to choke bitches like Wayne Brady. I ended up leaving the room because I was very close to losing my mind and crushing their feelings to the point that kidney stones felt like a massage with a happy ending.

In hindsight, maybe I should have. Then they would have had something else to discuss with their friends, family, and random strangers in line at the grocery store. "My sternum hurts because Matt kicked me in the chest because I wouldn't shut the fuck up about my fucking kidney stones. My Granny says the only way to fix a perforatiated sternum is to mix some bleach, Vicks Vap-o-rub, and whiskey with a turnip green and pink Play-doh and rub it on your lower back. I don't how it works, but it does."

Fucking dumbasses. I think from now on, I'm just going to bitch about a headache caused by an annoying sound in my ears every time someone wants to tell me about their random ailments. Or just kick them in the chest and get it over with.

Playing Roulette and Fucking Pop Culture

Allow me to begin today's entry by expressing my sympathies to our runnersworld.com friend Steph. Because Mother Nature is continuing to be a nasty fucking bitchface and brewed up another Snowpocalypse or Snowmaggedon or Chersnowbyl or The Snowlocaust or whatever witty politicians will be calling this storm, Steph didn't get to go to Florida to run Gasparilla. (I'm sure that Pat Robertson will insist that this storm is God punishing New Jersey for Snooki, but that's not important right now.) She will probably be drunk all weekend, and I don't think she even reads my blog, so she won't see this; but I figured that since she was really upset about the whole thing I would show an ounce of humanity and not mock her for missing yet another race. I'm a good friend like that.

Now that I'm done being what I would call nice, I will move on. Thanks to comedian Daniel Tosh and a repeat of his Tosh.0 show on Comedy Central, I was introduced last night to chatroulette.com. The premise of chatroulette is that you log in with your webcam on, and the system randomly connects you to another person with their webcam on. You can click "next" at any time to run away from whatever you see, so there is a safety. The potential for abject hilarity is there, so I decided to check it out.

I was quite disappointed. In my 40 minutes or so of experimenting, I was subjected to 1 fat, hairy, naked male torso (Really, fat fucking man-sweater? This is how you get your jollies on a Friday night?); 1 dude wearing a black wife-beater and nothing else (Nice, you fucking whack-job. The wife-beater really accentuates your lack of arm definition and completely distracts from your lack of penis size...); 4 individual, random guys sitting with their faces about 2 inches from the camera (Hey guys, it's called soap, and you can use it on your faces); 1 person who had the webcam pointed above their head so only the crown of their head and the dead flowers on a shelf behind them were visible (Psst...you can adjust the angle...); 1 group of 4 dudes sitting on a bed (fully clothed, but still...a little fucking lame, guys, that you're sitting on your friend's bed scanning chatroulette on a Friday night); 2 young chicks who made some weird screaming/cattle dying sound when their camera turned on (Yeah, I know I'm ugly, but lowing like you're cattle and the bolt gun didn't do it's job? That kinda hurts); and 3 young, somewhat attractive chicks who quickly clicked "next" when they saw me (take that, ego). At no point did I actually get a chance to interact with any of these people, and I assume that it was because they were just looking for the same random craziness I was or I wasn't naked enough. My search for something hilarious fell quite short.

I also spent a lot of time waiting for the system to find a random stranger to connect with, which was annoying, considering that it said there were 20,000 people online. There had to have been plenty of random fucking goofball strangers for the system to connect me with. I was let down by what could be a very funny site. I think I may get drunk and try again the next time I have a free night. Maybe I'll take the reverse angle and be the freak...I could paint my face to look like a clown and wear a dress or something to inspire reactions...maybe I went about this search for comedy all wrong. Maybe I need to be the comedy, and just document what happens. Stay tuned, this might be an idea.

Anyway, I got to thinking about the whole chatroulette thing and realized that I am not quite as in touch with pop culture as I might need to be for this blog to be truly EPIC. Yeah, I made a Snooki reference, but I've never watched that dumb fucking show. You would think I would love watching people make complete asses of themselves on television, but I don't. It actually pisses me off. I don't like stupid people, I certainly don't enjoy watching them further dumb down society by broadcasting their idiocy for the world to see.

However, I think I may need to start tuning in more to those types of shows. It would be solely for the sake of comedic blog writing material, of course. I don't want to be that grumpy old blog guy, standing on my e-porch, yelling at the cyberkids to get the fuck off my server just because I'm out of touch with the world outside of my Ben Gay and microwaveable chicken pot pie scented bubble. So, with an admittedly begrudging spirit, I will do my best to watch some horrible reality TV in the next few weeks. You will either (eether, which is the proper way to pronounce that word, if you didn't know) see some brilliant fucking assessments of these shows or you will see the beginning of my descent into complete fucking anti-social madness because I just can't take it anymore that dumbfucks like that are getting rich off of their stupidity. Either way, it should be entertaining for you bitches to read.

Check out chatroulette.com for yourself. Perhaps you will have better luck than I did. If you see bottomless wife-beater guy, maybe don't click "next" too fast. Say hi. See if his personality is bigger than that silly little vienna sausage looking thing he calls a shlong.

Sweet Chili Shut the Fuck Up

In a revisiting of a previously ranted upon theme, I am going to discuss another fast food commercial that pisses me off more each time I see it. The commercial of choice today is a McDonald's commercial; one in which some douchecake walks into a McDonald's where a bunch of people dressed in various Winter Olympic sports uniforms sit around feasting in the processed, greasy, pseudo-food that is McDonald's cuisine. The voice-over is stating that McDonald's wants to give the fat-asses sitting on their couches a taste of the Olympics, and then proceeds to introduce some sweet chili dipping sauce for McNuggets.

What the fuck? How the fuck is sweet chili dipping sauce at all relevant to the motherfucking Winter Olympics? How is sweet chili dipping sauce supposed to make anyone anywhere think about Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, Skiing, Luge, Hockey, or those stupid fucking wastes of air-time and human energy that are curling ice dancing? Yeah, McDonald's, when I think of an event where elite athletes from countries full of thousands of years of culture gather together to compete in ridiculously difficult tests of their athletic abilities, I think of sweet fucking chili dipping sauce. I am going to drive my fat ass to McDonald's right now so I can get in touch with the Olympics by dipping my deep-fried chunks of what may or may not be ground up chicken sphincter in sweet fucking chili dipping sauce. Thank you for making me feel like I'm in the heart of Vancouver, McDonald's.

The commercial then goes on to say at the end that you don't have to be an Olympic athlete, "...but you can eat like one." Really? Really, McDonald's? I know you have a gajillion dollars that you've invested in sponsoring the Olympics and advertising and finding ways to lie to the general public so they don't find out that you're Satan's slightly more evil twin brother, but this is too much. Olympic athletes eat at McDonald's? Yeah, these elite athletes who spend most of their days training without oxygen running up hills while carrying boulders in the fucking Himalayas so they can dominate their respective sports eat McDonald's. Nothing helps an athlete maintain peak physical condition like a box of greasy deep-fried shit and a side of greasier deep-fried shit; all washed down with a 600 ounce Coca-Cola. It's not like these streamlined, physically perfect athletes need to eat anything specific to maintain their athletic edge, they're all just cramming Big Macs down their necks any chance they get.

No, I do not think that none of the athletes ever indulge in fast food. I'm sure that when one trains as hard and as religiously as they do, they are allowed a few moments of culinary indiscretion and they probably eat some fries. But, what pisses me off is McDonald's implication that their food is quality enough that Olympic athletes eat it on a regular basis. Or that these athletes are gorging on Chicken McNuggets (dipped in sweet chili dipping sauce, of course) while preparing to compete in the games. It is not, and they are not. Of course, anyone with any semblance of intelligence would know this, but these companies wouldn't make these commercials if they didn't have evidence that the stupid shit they say affects someone. Somewhere, there is some fat fucker who plays golf twice a year who will see this commercial and think "I'm an athlete, too, I should eat at McDonald's because that's where Olympians eat!" That fat, stupid piece of shit should do the world a favor and get hit by a bus on his way to the golden arches. Maybe if all the dumb fucking morons who buy into the stupid shit commercials say were to be eliminated, those of us who don't live our lives with our heads up our asses when we're not cramming food in our mouths could stop being subjected to these stupid fucking commercials.

Fuck you, McDonald's. Fuck you for dropping an exorbidant amount of money in an effort to further fool the ignorant general public into thinking that your food isn't shitty heart-attack death in uniformly cut meat by-product patties or nuggets. Or that you don't only make these commercials so you can continue make 500% profit off of the cheap shit you buy from corporate run farms. Fuck you for continuing to be a great big player in the "What's Wrong With Society?" game.

Suck it, McDonald's. Go ahead and slather some sweet chili dipping sauce on it if you need to.