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.