Work Saftey (aka Banned From The Cubicle)

I got in trouble at work for visiting my own site on the internet. I was pulled aside by my manager, and told that a site I visit is not work appropriate. That it’s full of vulgar language and themes that are not alright by corporate standards. The IT department may even need to ban the site.

…HOW FUCKING AWESOME IS THAT?!

Seriously, if I had to set a goal for my blog, it’d be that someday it would be the site that gets fuckin’ banned. I want to be the one protested, threatened, blocked. Hell, I’d love if someone took my blog out back and burned it like Christian’s do with Harry Potter books! That’s be fuckin’ fantastic! Perhaps, if I’m lucky, I’ll get you fired from your job for reading me bitch about stuff! Your unemployment would be my biggest victory!

I am going to take this time to present to you the NSFW logo. A logo I wear like a badge of honor. It’s like a big middle-finger to P.C. culture. Both kinds of PC culture, really.

Let it be known that when I Google Image Searched “NSFW” to find that logo, it turned up a bunch of porn. Some of it very weird. Some of it… VERY weird. None of it safe for work. Hell, half of it wasn’t even safe for masturbation.

The real beauty is the fact that I have to stop and think of what it was that pushed them over the edge. I’ve been visiting, and writing, most of these blogs there since the beginning. “Teh Co-Worker” often visits the site while at work as well. So, at some point, I wrote a blog that triggered the IT departments cache of “no-no’s”, forcing them to spring to work!

Was it the blog about a child-rape video game? Or maybe blog number two about Hitler? I suppose the over-use of the word “cunt” doesn’t help matters any. Maybe my site hit their “Cunt-Limit”? Or perhaps it was… no, you don’t think?! Maybe it was the… VEGEMITE?!

I mean, let’s face it. What terrible offensive thing haven’t I covered yet? Seriously, what? I need ideas for future blogs! Let’s make a list of all the things I’ve talked about that may have set off the censors:

-Rape
-Abortion
-Homosexuality
-Cunts (that makes three in this blog alone… a new FiS record!)
-Hitler
-Murder/Genocide/fuckin’ Omnicide!
-Child Abuse
-Various Disgusting Sexual Acts
-Miscarriages
-Pedophilia
-Beastality
-Racism
-Muskrats
-Spousal Abuse

That’s a pretty handsome list, if you ask me. Which you didn’t. But I’m telling you anyway, because that’s how this blog works.

But that does beg the question: Where do I go from here? Sure, I’m nowhere near out of creative obscenities. Nor do I think I’ll ever get tired of taking shots at things I shouldn’t make fun of. I’m sure I have at least four or five more blogs about hitting children with blunt objects in me. And I know I can talk all day about weird sex acts. In fact, I’ll have to tell you some other time about the website I found dedicated to women fucking squash.

Well, ok. I can talk about it now. Since you’re so interested, and just can’t wait. You see, I once stumbled upon a website for women fucking squash. You know, like the vegetable. The stuff you heat up in the oven with brown sugar? Yeah, jamming them in their crotches. Various other things like that too. Now look, I’m a pretty perverted guy and I dig the ladies and all, but somehow Gourd Fucking just doesn’t do it for me. And it ruined Thanksgiving!

“Bob, could you pass the squash”

“…you’re not going to fuck it, are you?”

And that, friends, is why every Thanksgiving I now have to eat in the Garage. False story!

Oh, and I suppose I haven’t talked to you about Necrophilia yet, have I? You know, I’m actually quite against necrophilia. And not for the obvious reason which is: “EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!”. No, I’m against it because I don’t like to know that there are dead people out their getting fucked more than me! That’s just not alright…

I actually told that necrophilia joke on stage once! In front of my mom! I’m such a classy dude. I’m NSFM. Not Safe For Mom’s. Unless your mom likes dick jokes and abortion material. In which case… is she seeing anyone?

What else is there? Incest? Don’t fuck your family members, that’s just not alright. They deserve a better lay than you! Seriously! If you absolutely MUST fuck a family member, make sure it’s a really young family member. Like your 7 year old cousin. That way, they won’t KNOW you’re a terrible lay, because they have nothing to compare it to! If you’re going to be incestual, be smart about it!

I’d apologize for the horrible crudeness of that incest joke, but at this point the apology for going too far is implied as soon as words start coming out of me. I’m actually quite proud of that.

Ultimately, you all know I’m joking. I don’t advocate child molestation. I don’t think we should all go out and start killing niggers. And don’t even get me started about how wrong it is to jam your penis inside a Giraffe. Seriously, I could go on for hours about how that’s just not fuckin’ alright. Not even when you’re drunk!

Now I’m starting to wonder what the point of this blog was? It was a reason for me to be even more vulgar than usually while recapping all the fun times I’ve already had with hell-sent thoughts.

Right, right, I was talking about how it was NSFW. And if it wasn’t before, it probably is now just for that bit about fucking your 7 year old cousin. Sorry about that. You’ll just have to read this in the comfort of your own home now, where you can read it without pants on. The way it’s meant to be read.

Anyway, I have no way of ending this, so I’ll just end it by saying:

Mohammed… Muhammad… however the fuck you spell it… was a child-molesting, giraffe-fucking fat bastard with man tits! He also had the smallest penis in all of the Muslim world.

…how about now? Can I get my death-threats from Muslim Extremists now? Please? Fuck…

Jesus Loves You! Send Him A Wink Back?

Ladies and gentleman, what follows is the worst three-word phrase mankind has ever come up with. When you read the three words that follow this unnecessary introductory paragraph used to artificially lengthen this blog entry, you may be instantly incinerated. If that happens, I’d apologize but… fuck are you gonna care, you’re a pile of ashes. So suck it.

Anyway, I shall now unveil the worst concept I’ve ever seen my fellow humans come up with. Are you prepared? Here we go…

Christian…

Dating…

Website…

Christian Dating Website.

I’ll give you a minute to recover. If you need extra time to go out back and burn your Bible and denounce your faith publically, please go ahead. Take all the time you need. I’ll be here when you get back. Unless God strikes me down. But if he hasn’t already, I’m probably safe.

Are you alright? Good, than strap in and let’s dive deeper into this well. The site is called iChurch. Either the worst Apple product ever or the BEST Apple product ever, I haven’t decided yet. No, really. What’s with the lower-case “i” dominating the world all of the sudden? First Vegemite iSnack 2.0, not Christian dating sites? Is there no God? But, if it is made by Apple, you can find love through God AND hold up to 3000 shitty Michael W. Smith songs. Double whammy!

Jesus loves the power ballad!

Now, this isn’t the first time I’ve taken shots at strange specialty dating sites. Need I remind you of the evils of Cougar Life? And I’m pretty sure if you joined both sites, God would erase you off the planet. And if you joined both sites, odds are you’re so alone no one would notice.

I understand the concept, to help Christians meet other Christians. Potlucks at Our Lady Of Perpetual Fear aren’t a good enough place to get some good ol’ God-crafted pussy anymore, I guess. Not to mention, normal dating sites aren’t a good place for those with a moral compass.

“Hi, I’m Jill. I’m a Christian, I like seafood and puppies and long walks on the beach.”

“Hi, I’m Jack. I like death metal and coming on women’s elbows. My ideal date is sacrificing a goat and having sex on it’s corpse.”

“…Jesus Christ…”

So, we need to keep them away from the rest of the sexual deprived fat people that plague the dating networks. And as such, they went off and built their own dating site. Here is a little bit about the iChurch, compliments of their “About Us” section:

“iChurch is an online nondenominational Christian community for singles interested in meeting and dating other Christian singles. Whether interested in finding dates, friends, or a future spouse iChurch strives to create an easy-going, comfortable cyber environment for singles (including those who have never been married, are divorced or widowed) to connect. In addition to our unique matching algorithm, our subscribers have access to each other’s profiles, pictures and values in order to maximize the chances of finding someone similar to themselves. Once a connection is made iChurch provides an online chat tool and anonymous personal mailbox so that subscribers may get to know one another at their own pace.”

Never, not ever, did I expect to see the words “Christian” and “algorithm” in the same paragraph. It just doesn’t seem right, does it? The other thing that kills me is the following sentence: “Our subscribers have access to each other’s profiles, pictures and values...”.

Values? They have access to their values? That’s something you’d put on a dating website? Fuckin’ hell, only the Christians would slap something like that onto a dating website. How would that profile look, anyway?

Name: Jill
Age: 24
Hometown: Seattle, Washington
Interests: Puppies. Seafood. Long walks on the beach.
Values: Anti-Abortion. Queers are the work of the devil. No sex until married.

*sniff* You had me at “Queers are the work of the devil”.

How could things get worse? Let’s look at their Terms Of Use. They have rules, thank God! Including this little tidbit about what kinds of things could lead to a profile being deleted. I suppose it’s more a profile being condemned to eternal e-hell, huh?

“Any of the following actions could result in profile dismissal:

● Postings from minors or incarcerated individuals
● Defamatory language of any type, such as racism, hate speech, illegal activity, etc.
● Any means of direct communication such as email addresses, URLs, instant messenger, IDS, phone numbers, full names addresses, etc.
● Lewd references, language or images
● Business solicitations
● Significant amounts of text in languages other than English”

Let’s take this one bullet point at a time. First up, “Incarcerated individuals”. Wow. Really? That’s out there? People are hooking up their friends in prison with dating site profiles? I guess they got tired of white-trash women writing them letters from trailer parks. But what about all those mass murders, child rapists, and cat-arsenists that find Jesus while in prison and get set free because God forgives them for being sociopathic? Don’t they deserve love too?!

Next up, we don’t want any “defamatory” langauge. No “hate speech”. So I guess those Christians standing on the side of the road with the “God Hates Queers” signs aren’t allowed on here either? Wow, you’re really limiting the number of Christian singles that can access this site, aren’t you?

You also can’t give them any actual contact information. That way, you can’t do something really indecent like… meet. God forbid that you want to give this person your MSN messenger screen name. The church can’t keep an eye on you there!

No lewd stuff either. Lewd. Lewd and Defamatory. Words that only Christians would use. When’s the last time someone called you “lewd”. Vulgar, maybe. Obscene, perhaps. Douche, yeah, lots of times. But never “lewd”. I’d like to officially state that for now on, I’d like this site to be known as “Lewd In Shadows”.

No business solicitations either. They’re talking to you, Voss Lighting! You go sell your Jesus Light Bulbs elsewhere! We’re trying to find people to give us their seed here, dammit!

And the last one is my favorite. You have to make sure everything is in English. Ah, there we go. Now we’re getting somewhere. The racism of American Christians is shining bright today. I hate to break it to you, but eh… a lot of non-English speaking people are Christians. So once again, you’re alienating a part of your potential customer base. Can you find love here, Mexicans? No way, Jose.

Now, I don’t want to sound like I’m against this. Everyone deserves love, and everyone deserves a place to find that love, but it just strikes me as odd that every kind of culture has it’s own dating site. Is it just me, or is the concept of speaking to someone in person a lost art? Pretty soon, no one will go out on actual dates. The art of courting a girl will be shrunk down to a series of text messages. The wink emoticon will be our only source of flirtation. And that will just lead to dry, sterile relationships. I say this as next Friday I’m set to go on a date with someone I met online. I’m a hypocrite, but it’s still funny to think about.

The online dating industry is booming, and it makes me wonder what other kinds of weird specific dating sites are out there. Time for a little Fun-With-Google!

Here we find a Vampire dating site.

Oh, how about a website for Cat Lovers dating?

And look, it’s a site for people who want to date fat people.

Over here, we find a website for those that seek a partner who is into fitness. Guess they aren’t also members of the fatty site, huh?

Awww, it’s Dwarf Date!

Golf mates? Runner date? Hell, even pot smokers have their own dating site!

If you like doing it, I guess you can find love through it. I think it’s time I made a dating site for people who love joining dating sites. I’ll call it Dating For Dating Site Lovers. It’s genius!

This whole thing has basically made me give up on love…

The Complaint Department: Volume 3

I would like to file a complaint against…

-Sports-Related News Stories or Scandals – Really? This is news? I could give less than a squirt of steroid-positive piss about sports star’s lives. So what if this football player is on crack. So what if this professional bowler has an addiction to albino hookers. So what if this basketball star got drunk at a party and tried to land a lay up with a ladies infant. I just don’t care! And it’s always some major team too, like the Yankees or the Celtics. Just once I’d like to look at the news and see “The backup catcher for the Pittsburgh Pirates was caught having sex with a park bench the other night…” It’s not going to happen, but a man can dream!

I would like to file a complaint against…

-Subway – Breakfast sandwiches? Fantastic, now I can be late to work AND have a sandwich. I spend thirty three minutes a day watching you put together my fuckin’ lunch, now I can spend thirty three more minutes watching you slap an egg patty together? It’s bad enough I have to figure out what the Mexican guy making my sandwich is saying when he asks if I want oil on my sandwich, which I always mishear as “Would you like Oil on that Man-wedge?” NO HOMO! Now I have to worry about SYRUP on my man-wedge too?

I would like to file a complaint against…

-Christian Rock Music – Nothing pisses me off more than listening to a great band and thinking “Hey, this band is pretty… AH DAMMIT DID HE JUST SING THAT JESUS IS HIS KEEPER?! FUCK!” Seriously, keep religion out of music, please. We have music about God, it’s called “Gospel Music”. God hates your band, sorry. And I have an extra added boost of hate-rage for Christian METAL MUSIC! It’s out there, and it’s embarassing. I don’t like metal music, but I especially don’t like having someone scream “JESUS IS THE ONE TRUE LOVE!” in a deep-throated growl just after a bitchin’ Pantera-style guitar solo.

I would like to file a complaint against…

-Myself – Seriously, the “Things Jesus Hates” piece was an indirect rip off of my own fuckin’ complaint department idea, and no one pointed it out. Fine, I’ll do it: Bob, you’re a hack! Quit re-using jokes! And for the love of shit, enough with the Vegemite lines, it’s getting old.

I would like to file a complaint against…

-Vegemite – Seriously, I still taste you, you salty hell-spawn. Oh, and England, Marmite, really? That’s like coming up with your own version of SATAN! Batan, our version of the God of the Underworld! Ah yes, Marmite: All The Yeast Flavor, None Of The Barley! Why not just call it “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Vegemite!” I’m slapping a new label on the side of the jar: “Don’t feed after midnight or let it get wet”.

I would like to file a complaint against…

-Nintendo – Really, you’re going to attempt to make a 3-d video game system? Do you recall the Virtual Boy? My eyes are still pretty badly damaged from that piece of shit. Hopefully, with the Nintendo 3ds, you can at least get more than one fucking COLOR!

For three years, I couldn’t see anything but red! And for once, it had nothing to do with my uncontrolled rage. I’m just praying that you have the common sense not to make it a giant headset this time. No one wants to walk around with the top half of a weed whacker on their head!

I would like to file a complaint against…

-Celebrities Who “Tweet” – Great. As if TMZ was bad enough, now I have to listen to your bullshit first-hand? And the same rules that apply to normal people, apply to you on Twitter. If it’s something that would be boring as fuck to say to a person IN person, it’s probably just as boring in the format of a >160 word status post. Also, leave John Mayer alone. I don’t care if he’s a total douchebag, so are you and you can’t blast out a Hendrix cover, so shut up you whiny bitch.

I would like to file a complaint against…

-Dancing With The Stars – FUCK! There’s Kate Gosselin again. I’m sorry, but I thought “Dancing With the Stars” implied you were dancing with STARS! Not some shallow cunt who exploits children and spends all the money on hair styles which don’t take away the fact she still looks like an alien from Jupiter. Who watches this show? The people who aren’t hip enough to watch American Idol, that’s who. And if you’re not hip enough to watch a show which is 80% wannabe drunk karaoke covers and 20% Simon Cowell’s nipples, you are a big loser. Not quite as big of a loser as someone who watches The Biggest Loser though, hence the name…

I would like to file a complaint against…

-Flavored Water – Nature already invented this, it’s called “fruit juice”. And guess what, it isn’t 3 dollars a bottle! Why the fuck should I pay you extra to put three drops of lemon into water? For the price of one bottle of this shit I could by a water treatment plant and a lemon tree and be set for life. What’s next, are you going to start charging us for flavored air! Sure, call it an Oxygen Bar… wait… FUCK that already exists. YOU BASTARDS!

I would like to file a complaint against…

-Radio Stations – “We’re in the middle of a commercial free hour of music here on CRAP 102.5322566 FM. Don’t listen to crap, listen to CRAP!” Hey, um… isn’t doing a commercial about not having commercials the same as a commercial for anything else? The only difference is, you don’t make money advertising for yourself. So, you’re still doing the commercials, but now you’re not making money off of them. Congratulations, you’ve discovered the most retarded marketing decision in the history of the world.

I would like to file a complaint against…

-Muslim Extremists – Death threats to the creators of South Park, huh? Do you realize how that proves the point they were trying to make in that episode to begin with? You played into their hands, because you don’t think about things before you say them. Of course, I’m mostly just jelious that they reached that level, so in an attempt to send myself to the grave, I want to cash in on the Muslim Insult Death Threats:

Muhammed was actually a hermaphrodite! However, s/he was so ashamed, s/he hid it from the world. And that’s why those Muslim extremists are so good at hiding. They’re just trying to keep you from finding that PUSSY Osama Bin Laden! Now you know the truth about Islam! Censor that, you fucking dipshit extremists! Where is MY death threat?!

/end

I’d Like To Thank The Academy…

Guess what? I got a blogger award! My mom will be so proud. That is, if she ever starts answering my phone calls… fuckin’ caller ID.

Yeah, anyway, Pauline over at Brightest Blue, who says that this place is “Humorous musings from one of my favorite blogger misanthropes”  gave me this:

 
I guess it implies that I am “Kreativ”. Which isn’t a word. I mean, not only is it usually spelled with a “C”, but for no apparent reason they got rid of the ”e” at the end all together. Unless that’s German. Fuckin’ Nazi’s. So, what this means is, I’m something that doesn’t actually exist. I’m nothing. That does very little towards boosting my self-esteem. But, look at it this way. While I’m absolutely nothing, all of you that didn’t get the award are, that’s right, LESS than nothing. Eat it, bitches. 

But there is a catch to this. I have to follow a base set of rules and requirements. Fantastic, a homework assignment! Now you’re calling me nothing AND giving me work, not to mention making me waste a blog entry on this stupid award. So, of course, I’m filling this blog with unnecessary bitterness just to make it funny and more Me-like. To keep up appearances, and also ’cause I’m kind of an asshole. Anyway, here are those rules I was talking about:

1. You must thank the person who has given you the award.

2. Copy the award logo and place it on your blog.

3. Link the person who has nominated you for the award.

4. Name 7 things about yourself that people might find interesting.

5. Nominate 7 other Kreativ Bloggers.

6. Post links to the 7 blogs you nominate.

7. Leave a comment on each of the blogs to let them know they have been nominated.

Let’s get started, shall we?

1) Alright, fine. Thanks bunches, Pauline, for this wonderous honor. I feel so accomplished. I’m going to print out a copy of that picture, and slap it on my wall. That way, everyone can see how I am so “Kreativ” and do what most people do when you flaunt your “achievements” in front of them: Not give a rat’s ass. So yes, thank you. You’ve given me a reason to live on, and for that, I thank you very little.

I’m of course kidding, and am honored that out of all the people she could have picked, and she does have a blogroll longer than a black man’s… well, you get the idea, it’s really long! She had to pick seven people, and I was one of them. That just goes to show that I am Top 7 on the awesome list (for this one person). I swell with pride.

2) It’s up there. You can go look at it if you want. It’s fancy. I could do without the foo-foo color scheme and unnecessary use of designs and stuff. It’s just a tiny square image on the internet, it’s not a Victorian-style dining establishment. Someone with Microsoft Paint was bored one day, and now we have that monstrosity.

3) I did that up there too. This list thing isn’t going according to plan. But, I guess it doesn’t hurt to do it AGAIN. Go read her shit over at: Brightest Blue. Even though, to be honest, I’d have to say there are brighter blues. Sorry hun, your blue’s bright and all but… I mean… come on. BRIGHTEST?! I’m not “Funniest in Shadows” or “Funny in the Darkest Shadows”, now am I? Be humble, girl, people will love you more. Not that I’d know anything about humble… or love… or people, really.

4) Oh, this’ll be just DANDY won’t it. Seven things about me that are interesting? Really? There really isn’t anything. I can name seven things about me that’ll make me seem like a heathenish bastard? How’s that? Close enough? Good. Here we go.

-I used to play the trombone in middle school. I also didn’t spend a lot of time in high school getting invited to parties or getting laid. Not sure if the two are related, but I’m also not sure the two aren’t related either. So, kids, if you’re going to choose a musical instrument: Play the Sax. It sounds like “Sex”, and it doesn’t have phallic implications.

-I used to have ferrets, since we’re on the topic of things with phallic implications. They’re interesting. They’re like giant pipe cleaners with feet.

-This blog is really just the next step in a serious of related humor things. In Middle School, me and my best friend had something that become known as “The Book” amongst most of our grade level. It was a 300+ page, multi-year project. A collection of random “comedy” shit that we wrote. He drew comics. I wrote skits. He wrote skits, I made lists. None of this is funny. Not a damn word, ‘cept maybe the comics I drew about sperm. Those still make me chuckle. By the way, the book DOES still exist in some form, I haven’t thrown any of it out. Why? Because it gives me a lot of fuel for making fun of my friend. And that’s how I roll!

-Despite my tiny frame, I love food. Eating is a big thing for me, man. You all know about my crack-like candy addiction. And I’m sure at some point I’ve mentioned how happy pie makes me. But I love food in general. Great food. Shitty food. I don’t care, just let me put it in my face. This, however, does not apply to Vegemite. Which is the devil in a jar. FUCK YOU LOONY! You’re not getting this Kreativ Award JUST because I’m punishing you for the Vegemite!

-I used to be on medication! “NO WAY?!” Yes, way. It lasted all of two weeks. It was a long time ago, and it didn’t help. It just made me boring. And you wouldn’t like me when I’m boring.

-I got stuck in Mexican customs once as a kid. Not for anything I did, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t there. It’s quite a fascinating place. Luckily, I was too young for them to look for things in my ass. That’d have been a bummer. A big bummer. And as you all know, I don’t want a dude’s digits in my ass.

-I’ve had a grand total of ONE girlfriend. Interestingly enough, women don’t like guys with a sense of humor. They like guys who aren’t me. And I’m sorta stuck being me. So guess I’m fucked. Or not fucked, if you really think about it. I’m going to start crying now, I’m so lonely… DAMMIT PAULINE! This is all your fault!

5/6) Nominate other people? But I hate other people? And I don’t even read their blogs! I just post comments so they think I care and then read my shit (I’m kidding (No I’m not (Yes, I really am) ) ).

Here are the seven people I would call “Kreativ”.

Alexandra’s Sick Mind – If I had to pick only one, this would be it. This girl is me, only really hot, really smart, really interesting, and really unique. So she’s not me at all. But if you haven’t read her blog, it’s the most amazing shit you’ll read all day (other than here, of course), so get on that!

Blurt – Oma, Oma, Oma. Why would I give you this? What the hell makes me think you’re “Kreativ”. Well, your blog was the first one I stumbled upon on wordpress that didn’t bore me when I was starting my blogroll. I guess that’s worth something.

Defenders Of The Mirth - Does a podcast blog count as a blog? Who cares, I’m going to give it to them anyway. Friggin’ Europeans! These boys are interesting, and have on occasion made me “Lol”. So, here, have an award. I know it’ll make you all warm and fuzzy inside. Also, you should really include more stuff from that Bob Reinhard guy, he was the highlight of your show so far! Oh, let it be known that this award is double-applied to Ben at Cosmicstresshead , if only because he’s associated and a part of the Defenders now. I can do that, right? Double-award? Wow, you guys have caused me to break all kinds of rules for this thing. Kudos.

The Friggin’ Loon – Alright, I was kidding. You can have the award, Loony. The most reliable source of news on the internet. Taking news stories and writing quick blurbs about them might not be “Kreativ”, but at least it’s funny and worth reading. However, she still gets the award because she came up with the most “Kreativ” way of torturing another human being: Vegemite.

I Want Ice Water – You wish you were as angry and rant-tastic as I am, but nay-nay. But you’re good enough to get the award.

Shouts From The Abyss – The SECOND person not to be boring. And he blogs entirely too much. Because of these two facts, an award you get. Make sure to tell everyone how I re-defined blogging for you when you re-post this. It’ll most likely be your… third? Fourth? post today.

Everyone else gets one too. ’cause I love you guys.

There, that’s six, is that good enough?. The rest of you are gonna have to find your own source of awards!

7) I’ll leave comments on your blogs later. I’m too lazy now. I had to write all this crap! I have to take a nap now. DAMMIT PAULINE!

There, was that a long enough acceptance speech? If this was the Academy Awards, the cut-off music would not only have played, but they’d have to start over at the beginning of the song. I talk a lot, damn. But hey, that’s what makes me “Kreativ”.

420 Reasons For Me To Hate You

High everyone!

It’s 4/20. And if food stores were smart, they’d have sales on snack food. And make a fuckin’ fortune!

Since it’s 4/20, Did you all bust out your bongs and smoke a bowl today? Did you “wake and bake”? Did you “roll a fat one”? Did you “puff, puff, pass”? No? Neither did I. Because I’m not a fucking doucheweed (all insulting made up vulgar words will be pot-related in today’s blog).

Now, I’ve written a blog about marijuana before. However, this one is going to actually cover the subculture that this drug has created.

It’s 4/20 today, which means pot smokers everywhere are smoking pot… which is what they do every other day. The only difference is, this time… um… well, no, no fucking difference at all. I guess the main difference is now they get to think they’re even MORE cool for doing something they already think they’re cool for doing. Of course, they’re not cool for doing it. Not even a little.

Look, smoke all you like, I’m not against it. I’ve even said legalize it. However, do the world a huge favor: shut your fucking yaps about it, please. Stoners, I love ya and all, but smoking pot is just like various other things: It is to be done, not to be discussed. I put pot-smoking on the list with some items such as these:

-Talking about your children

-Explaining your bowel movements

-Telling me about your car, truck, or motorcycle

-Fishing stories

-Success stories that make me feel like a failure

That’s just a sample of a pretty fuckin’ large list. Basically, if it only applies to you, and is totally uninteresting to anyone who ISN’T a part of it, please don’t tell me about it. If you want to tell me a story about how you found a way to trick the IRS into giving you a million dollars, or you want to strike up a conversation about the time you watched a girl fuck a car muffler, I may lend you an ear. If you want to tell me about Smokie McPott’s Adventures In Boringness, I’m going to have to start shin-kicking.

You know what I mean. THOSE stories. Pot stories. Stories about people on pot. HOLY FUCK. Stop that. Never in my life have I heard more boring shit spewed out of someones mouth. I’d rather watch CSPAN. C-FUCKING-SPAN! Not only do I have issues with what is being said, but how it’s being said bothers me too.

It may come as a surprise to all of you, but stoners are terrible at telling stories. If you want to know what a stoner’s story is like, read War And Peace. But imagine that instead of a plot and beautifully crafted sentences, it’s just “Yeah, dude… and… uh… shit man… then… uh, hah, this is great…da, um…”

Let me give you a great example, for those of you who still can’t imagine it.

“Oh man, dude, check this shit… so, this one time… we were at Johnny’s place, just… you know, like… chillin’ in his basement and, like, smokin’ pot and stuff, and I was all like ‘YO’ Johnny, man… dude, we need like… munchies!’ and Johnny said that he had those like… um… pop tarts upstairs. So, like, we went to get some and uh, hah, shit, they were gone and stuff, man… so we like… um… uh… went to the store, you know to like… buy new ones and shit, and, hahahaha oh man, this is hilarious man, so… yeah, we wanted the strawberry WITH the icing, but… dude, get this… they were OUT of the ones with the icing, and yeah… so we like… totally got the ones without the icing and then, um… yeah we went back to Johnny’s and… ate them and stuff, yeah dude, it was crazy… oh, yeah, but the funny part was Johnny wasn’t wearing pants…”

I think I got to “chillin’ in his basement” before I was attempting to stab myself in the ears with my own fingertips. Your pot stories are boring. Pot is not a drug you take and do cool shit on. Pot is a drug you take, and then you sit around and listen to Pink Floyd and laugh at fart noises all afternoon. Not a bad time, but not an enthralling tale either.

However, if you do a drug like LSD, please feel free to tell me everything. I’ll knock old ladies over to move closer to you so I can hear the story of how on one bad trip you broke three knuckles fighting a car that turned into a giant dragon spewing rainbows. That shit is fucking fascinating!

If they aren’t telling you a story, they’re telling you about their great idea. Which is anything but great. And usually not much of an idea. Bonus points goes to the stoner that invents something that has already been invented.

“Dude, man… what if they like… made this thing. No, seriously, this is huge… like… ok, so, you take like… you know, bread and stuff… that you want… warm, yeah. So you take it, and you put it in this thing, and it like… warms up the bread so it’s like… nice and toasty and shit! Oh man! Warm bread! That would be so awesome!”

“Toaster. You mean like a toaster?”

“Yeah dude, except… like… it WARMS the bread…”

“WHOA! You mean a Toast WARMER?!”

“YEAH DUDE!!!”

“Yeah, I basically hate you right now”

And if it isn’t that, then you get the conspiracy theory stoner. The one who just solved the biggest cover-up in the world’s history. 93% of the time, it’s something to do with John F. Kennedy. The other 7% of the time, it has to do with some totally mundane household object that is usually within eyesight at that moment.

The worst part is, these are usually profound thoughts! That’s the scary part. They’re total bullshit, but they’re said in that way that makes sense for some reason. Like how “Lather, Rinse, Repeat” is just a ploy by the shampoo companies to make you use more of their product than you need to, hence making you buy more.

Now, at first you go “Well, that’s a fucking retarded thing to say”, but in a few hours, you’ll be taking a shower. Holding that bottle. Looking down and yelling “THOSE MOTHER FUCKERS!”.

Can I back track a second and restate something. This does not apply to EVERYONE that smokes pot. Some just smoke pot and chill in their house for awhile, leaving the rest of us out of it. And not every stoner over-uses the word “Dude”. But, I bet most of you know at least ONE stoner, if not many, that fit this profile exactly.

I bet they have horrible hair too, huh? Jesus, pot smokers, while you’re in the shower for two hours figuring out that damn Suave Plot, why don’t you go ahead and pour some of that controlling substance on your fucking scalp? You smell like Cat Stevens’ wardrobe.

Now tell me that that doesn’t look like it stinks to high hell? And why the fuck is he sitting like that?!

You know what else bothers me about the stoner culture? Bongs. Not bongs themselves, but homemade bongs. Stoners are perhaps the most genius engineers on the planet. When it comes to bongs. They can MacGyver themselves a bong out of just about everything. Apples. Pop Cans. Dildos (I’ve seen it. I’ve FUCKING SEEN IT!). I’m pretty sure that if we legalize Marijuana, they’ll actually make the Statue of Liberty into a huge water bong. Which, actually, would be kinda cool…

Alright, so let me make it clear. I don’t care if you smoke. Go ahead. In fact, I hope you have a joint in your mouth as you’re reading this (which would make that picture of Cat Stevens funny as hell, I’d imagine). But, do the world a favor: keep that shit to yourself. Don’t be that guy. No one likes that guy.

And if this offended all of you stoners out there… well… you’ll just forget about it all anyway.

LEGALIZE IT!

Curry’d Away

“Curry is a generic description used throughout European and American culture to describe a general variety of spiced dishes, best known in South Asian cuisines, especially Indian cuisine. Curry is a generic term and although there is no one specific attribute that marks a dish as “curry”, some distinctive spices used in many curry dishes include turmeric, cumin, coriander, fenugreek, and red pepper. The word curry is an anglicised version of the Tamil word khari, which is usually understood to mean “gravy” or “sauce” rather than “spices”. In Urdu, an official language of Pakistan and North India, curry is usually referred to as saalan. In most South Indian languages, the word literally means ‘side-dish’, which can be eaten along with a main dish like rice or bread.

Curry’s popularity in recent decades has spread outward from the Indian subcontinent to figure prominently in international cuisine. Consequently, each culture has adopted spices in its indigenous cooking to suit its own unique tastes and cultural sensibilities. Curry can therefore be called a pan-Asian or global phenomenon with immense popularity in Thai, British, and Japanese cuisines.”

However, what Wikipedia fails to tell us about Curry is: It makes your shit SMELL LIKE A MORGUE!

Now, I’m not going to really get into the concept of outsourcing. I’m not going to bitch about how you call a tech support hotline and have to decipher what the mother fucker on the other line is saying. I don’t care about stolen jobs or any of that jazz. I’m just tired of the bathrooms at work smelling like someone just turned inside out.

As you all know, I’ve had my fair share of terrible experiences with shit and bathrooms. Need I remind you of the Phantom Pooper? That was pretty gruesome, but a few episodes at work may very well top it.

We’re currently training a bunch of people from India in my area of the building. By “my area” I mean the basement they shoved our department in. Me and “Teh Co-Worker” are quite friendly with the sewage pipe that carries over our heads, sounding like a river rapids. It’s calming. Or, it would be, if… you know… it wasn’t a river of shit-water.

There have been moments where I, an unsuspecting nose-bearing man-child, have stumbled into a situation that is beyond explanation. I have walked into the Lil’ Dude’s Relief Room, and have had to turn RIGHT THE FUCK BACK AROUND. It’s as if I opened a door into Narnia, and Narnia is filled with dying walruses.

Ever since they came here, they eat their curry, and then they participate in bio-terrorism. Not a threatening kind, just a really, really stinky kind. Have you ever opened up a can of paint thinner. A brand new, factory sealed can. You know that split second when the smell nails you in the face, and you physically have to recoil to avoid your eyes evacuating your head? Yeah, it’s like that. Only it’s not your eyes, it’s your SOUL that makes it’s exit.

I’ve actually had to resort to using that bathroom too. Ever held your breath while taking a piss? It’s a dangerous operation. In fact, I’d rather be put in charge of finding the Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq. It’s easier. And a lot less likely to end with me peeing on my own leg by accident (hasn’t actually happened… yet…). The real trouble comes when I realize I have a very low lung capacity. Now we’ve reached a dilemma. There are two options:

1) Take a breath - One of those BIG, holding-your-breath breaths. That’s a whole lot of curry-shit-stench to inhale all at once. I’m pretty sure that could cause permanent brain damage…

2) Find some way to either finish, or post-pone the piss – Yeah, like that’ll happen. Once you start, you can’t really stop. It’s like your cock turns into a ketchup bottle. And forget about forcing it, that’s how you get testicular cancer, I know it.

It’s a race against the clock. It’s like the movie Speed. If I start peeing under 55mph… well, you know. Let’s just say even Dennis Hopper can’t unleash a terror quite like this. Well, that is unless Dennis Hopper eats curry everyday. Which, I suppose, is a possibility… that diabolical bastard! I’m onto you Hopper! You’re going down!

Please ignore the fact I just called out Dennis Hopper in my blog for no reason…

Let me get one thing straight though: I like curry. I think it’s delicious: ON OCCASION. But everyday? It turns your body into a nightmare factory. It causes your colon to become a vassal of pure evil. I’m about ten seconds away from sending an exorcist up your ass, in hopes of exorcising the demons that now reside in your poop chute.

So, I’ve decided it’s time for drastic measures. That’s right: Time to close the fucking borders!

I am officially not letting anymore people from India into our country. Until you stop making stinkies in my bathroom, you’re not allowed in. Sorry, those are the rules. Now… can you tell me how to get Windows Vista to stop being a bitch?

Obviously, I’m being facetious. I’m not ACTUALLY suggesting we kick Indians out of our country. I’m not even really that angry at them for enjoying their culture’s delicious (and it is REALLY fucking delicious) food. I guess I’m just venting. Trying to get it out there, so hopefully some visitors from India will think next time they decide to pinch a loaf of curry into a public toilet. Think of the children! If the smell almost obliterates me, imagine what it’ll do to a child! They’ll be afraid of going to the bathroom for the rest of their lives! That’s almost as bad as my all-time favorite phobia: Barophobia. That, for those of you who don’t know, is a fear of Gravity. That might suck just a BIT more than a bathroom phobia, but only a little bit.

Like most of the problems I bring up in my blog, I have no real solution. I’m just blowing steam at this point. I mean, we can’t have a “Curry Eaters Only” bathroom, can we? That’s just not going to fly. I mean, we could make them take a dump outside, but all the Green Peace mother fuckers will be up their ass (figuratively, as physically would cause them to instantly be vaporized).  And I certainly don’t recommend lighting a match. I’m still waiting for my eyebrows to grow back after that inferno…

Oh well… I guess I’ll have to hold it.

Edit: Since writing this blog, Dennis Hopper has passed away. He was a great character actor and seemed to be a well-respected man. May it be known I was taking a shot at him in jest. Pop quiz, hotshot!

Fishing For Trouble (aka Like A Fish Out Of Prison)

I can’t think of a good way to jump into this, so I “fished” out an old picture of me. A rather sad one. Please ignore the quality, and the content, but it does serve a point:

It’s not the size of the fish, it’s what you can do with it. And baby, I can work WONDERS with this tiny fish.

Now, I showed you this picture as proof that when you live in a state known for it’s lakes, you get dragged into fishing at least once in your life. Some people do it from time to time, just for shits, and other people are near-religious about it. They shall hereby be known as the “Cult Of Boring Fuckers”.

In Minnesota, there are two types of people. Those that fish… and those that bitch about those that fish. I am happy to fall into the latter. Now, before you all dive down my throat with your “Fishing is great because…” bullshit, let me just say that I understand why you want to do it. Believe me, I’ve heard the reasons behind it more times than I’ve heard my own mother’s voice. Every fisherman has to hit you with them.

“It’s relaxing”

So is a nap.

“It’s sport”

So is bull riding.

“It’s a source of food!”

So is McDonald’s.

“It’s a great way to spend time outdoors”

So is camping out in someone’s bushes and spying on them while they take a shower.

“It’s fun”

No, no it isn’t.

I’m serious, it’s not fun. At all. Not even a little. I’ve had more fun at the DMV. Why do you think every fishing trip involves copious amounts of beer? Because you have to be drunk to find any enjoyment out of sticking string in water and waiting for some dumb fuck animal to bite down on half a night crawler.

The worst part is, it’s no longer something you can idly do. You have to work for it! Here in Minnesota, and most other states, you have to get a fishing “License”. Imagine that. I have to get legal documentation just to go fishing! I have to apply to do something I don’t like doing! Not everything you do requires government involvement. Next, they’ll be requiring my to register for my right to jerk off!

Now that you have your license, you have to abide by the rules. There are rules. Laws, even. About fishing. About… FISHING. We can’t stop child molesters, but we’ll make sure you aren’t keepin’ too many big fish. You’re not allowed to have a certain amount of large fish in your possession. They actually use the term POSSESSION! Suddenly, we’re using drug terminology for FISHING. FOR FISHING!!!

“What are you in for?”

“Possession”

“Oh yeah? The weed? Some black tar? Maybe a lil’ Colombian Nose Dust?”

“Sturgeon, actually…”

What’s worse, they actually have POLICE that go around and CHECK! LAW ENFORCEMENT ON FISH LAWS! Jesus fucking christ, no wonder we can’t stop terrorists from blowing up our buildings, we’re too busy trying to stop Old Man Huckleberry and his over-zealous fishing habits!

You know who you should arrest? People that tell you fishing stories. Sweet mother of all that is good and pure, stop that shit immediately please. Fishing stories are the only thing that even comes CLOSE to edging stories about your children out of the top spot on my list of things that forfeit your right to be alive.

“So, I was out fishing this weekend and…”

Let me stop you right there. Does this story end with: “But we had to throw it back…”? ’cause if it does, please shut up. Please? The only time I want to hear your fishing story is if it ends like this:

“…and we had to take him to the hospital to have the hook removed from this testicles surgically…”

Now THAT is an interesting fishing story!

I never understood fishing, nor storytelling about fishing. But even worse: it’s on TV!

Got that?! It’s on TELEVISION MOTHER FUCKER! People WATCH THIS SHIT ON TV! They will actually stay in their home, and watch OTHER PEOPLE do something that is near-deadly boring to do! Holy shit! And we wonder why we’re a nation full of lazy, obese shit-for-brains! I think the source of all American stupidity lies in Fishing on TV.

I swear to you, if I see a fishing show on DVD, I’ll go on a killing spree right there in the TV on DVD aisle. There will be corpses leading out the store and straight to the networks that produce this shit. I’ll bust in with the head of some unsuspecting child in one hand, waving it at the television producers:

“DO YOU SEE WHAT YOU MADE ME DO?! TAKE FISHING OFF TV IMMEDIATELY!”

Then, I’ll drop the head on the desk and walk out calmly. And they’ll know that that decapitated child is all their fault. Fishing on TV kills children. It’s that simple.

Of course, I’m more concerned about the people on these shows. The so-called “professional” fisherman. People that are boring as a profession! They do NOTHING for a LIVING! It’s usually some fat, loud mouth, with an ugly beard, floating around a lake all day long trying to find that “one that got away”. Which is code for “Big Mother Fuckin’ Fish!”

They talk to you. The viewing audience. They talk to you about tackle and hooks and the right way to troll and various things you care about NOT AT ALL. And they do it with conviction. As if they were reading to you an enthralling novel, or an important legal document. And they act like their lives have meaning. They don’t. They are useless. If they all died tomorrow, no one would notice. Not even their families, because their families are USED to them being gone all day.

Listen, I’m sure it’s a perfectly relaxing activity, but it’s annoying to hear about. And all spring, summer, most of fall, it’s all I hear about from certain people. In fact, they usually can carry it on year round. They’ll tell you how badly they want the lakes to melt so they can “Get out on the lake”. Some will even… oh man, it hurts to even type these words… ICE FISH.

…wow, sorry, I want to a dark place for a second. Everytime I think of someone drilling a hole in a frozen lake surface, sitting in a tiny Biffy, and shivering for hours at a time, I actually enter a temporary berserk state. It’s without a doubt the dumbest past time activity mankind has invented. Except, of course, for getting emotionally involved in American Idol. That’s just slightly worse. But just slightly.

So, my point is this: please don’t tell me about your fishing trips. Or your fishing gear. Or your fishing blah blah. Or your fishing fishing fish fishy fuck fishy. FISH FISH FISH!

… now I kinda want a tuna sandwich. Damn…

I’m Not Fuckin’ Canadian!

So, here’s the process. I come up with various ideas for blogs throughout the day. Based on things I see, news stories I read, conversations with Teh Co-Worker, and various other random thoughts that flood my head. I have a lot of ideas for future blogs, most of which will probably never actually see the light of day. However, today’s is just a bit different. I’m going to send you over to someone ELSE’S site. A Counter Culture Clown approved trip to someone else’s awesomeness.

For those of you who don’t pay any attention to my blogroll over on the sidebar, you’re missing a lot of great blogs. One of the more recent additions to that blogroll is the guys over at Defenders Of The Mirth.

 

 
Anyway, they recently did an episode featuring none other than yours truly. My hell-arious stand up routine audio and a shout-out are featured in this weeks damn funny episode: The Wii Fit Pun Delusion.

In it, the Defenders discussed the fact they thought I was Canadian. To which I respond with a heated: As long as it wasn’t FRENCH Canadian… that’s like calling my mother a cunt!

“Bob… we thought you were a French Canadian”

“THEM’S FIGHTIN’ WORDS!”

And then I’d proceed to punch their podcast in the nuts.

They discuss some interesting stuff in this recent More Counter Culture-y episode. Such as the Wii Fit system apparently making some broad into a sex addict. I knew Nintendo was up to something, I just didn’t know what.

Then, they switch gears (actually, I suppose it’s all one theme…) and discuss the scandal with the Pope covering up all the deaf-kid rape and stuff awhile back. Wii Fit Nympho… Priests Fucking Deaf Kids… sounds like 40 high quality minutes, doesn’t it?

So, I don’t really have much else to say. Today’s blog is more or less just returning the favor. A shout-out promotion for a shout-out promotion. Now, get your ass over to their site and listen to their podcast, or I’ll stuff Vegemite in your mouth and make you SWALLOW IT!!!

Things Jesus Hates

So, I don’t know how many of you knew this, but I’m actually pretty close friends with Jesus Christ. Or, Sussy C. as I like to call him. The other day, we were texting back and forth (he does not, by the way, use Apple products. He think’s Steve Jobs may be the Devil in hiding), and he came up with a great idea!

“Yo’ B, I gotz an idea, and this shit be HAWT DAWG!”

Jesus is very street. He and his Posse (known to you as the Apostles) actually invented laying out cardboard boxes and break dancing on them. True story.

“Jesus, can’t it wait? I have some more important people to talk to.”

“Bitch, my daddy be GOD motha fucka!”

“Yeah, but this girl has BOTH her nipples pierced!”

“…oh damn dawg, my bad. This shit can wait…”

Anyway, we finally got down to it, and he thought it’d be cool to have a little guest appearance on FiS. And who am I to say no to such a close personal friend. Jesus is a fan of Rant Therapy, and thought maybe it’d help him better deal with that whole being-pinned-to-wood thing. And here we go:

I hate the Grammy awards. Why else do you think I had it arranged so that Taylor Swift would win Album of the Year? Now let’s see you take the music industry and the Grammy awards seriously.

I hate any and all references to that “Pants On The Ground” song. It was a rip off of one I wrote years ago, called “Robes on the Ground”. Thou looketh like a fool with thy robes on the ground.

I hate people with too many key chains on their keys. Seriously, it’s one step away from the crazy old lady that collects cats.

I hate NASCAR. Dad only let it exist so that rednecks would be too distracted by taking left turns at 200 miles an hour to kill any more black people.

I hate “What Would Jesus Do” bracelets. You have no idea what I’d do. Don’t try to pretend to. “This guys being an asshole, I should punch him in the kidney. No, wait, that’s not right. WWJD.” You know what I’d do? Punch that fucker in the Dad-damn kidney!

I hate Amsterdam. You think you’re so special ’cause you have legalized pot? Blow it out your ear, my dad INVENTED pot, bitches.

I hate snuggies. Every article of clothing I owned was a fuckin’ snuggie.

I hate public restrooms. If I have to try and pee that close to someone taking a loud poop, including splashes and grunts, I’m going to have dad wipe out the human race with another flood. Can’t you wait until you get home for that shit?! Heh… that shit. I made a funny.

I hate Barbara Streisand. That’s it. I hate Barbara Streisand. Do I really have to give a reason? Really?

I hate people that call their dogs, their “children”. Stop that. Dogs are not children. Unless you squeeze a dog out of your twat or are forced to put your child to sleep for biting a neighbor, they are not the same.

I hate having to hear your phone conversation on the bus. You’re talking way too loud, and you’re saying nothing but uninteresting and annoying things. Considering what is being said, I’m pretty sure even the person you’re having the conversation with wants you to shut your stupid face.

I hate Pat Robertson. Really? The earthquakes in Haiti had to do with their pact with the devil? Really Pat? I’m sorry, but that isn’t true. You should go ahead and get your prostate checked, Dad’s got something special planned for you. I’ll give you a hint: It’s ass cancer.

I hate those Moon Bounce castles. What do you mean I’m too old to use them? If I can walk on water, I can walk in a moon bounce.

I hate fish sticks. I bought a box the other day, and on the back it said: “Ingredients: Fish”. Well that’s a little vague! Even I picked a particular KIND of fish with the whole “Loaves And The Fishes” thing.

I hate 404 errors. If I could perform one more miracle, it’d be to get this mother fucking website to load.

I hate the word “unfriend”. You know who unfriended me? Judas.

I hate snowplows. Sure, the snow is off the road. And now it’s on the sidewalk. You do know people use those right? Now I have snow in my sandals, thanks a lot. Would it be too much to ask to plow those too? I can walk on water, but not when there is three feet of frozen water.

I hate the tv show Lost. Seriously, the Bible makes more sense than this shit. THE BIBLE!

I hate tags on underwear. Either you rip them off and risk tearing a hole in the ass part, or you leave it there and have it running up the end of your crack all day tickling you like some perverted frat girl.

I hate the dollar menu at fast food restaurants. If it’s only a dollar, I don’t want to put it in my face. Either you made it so small that I could actually choke on it, or you removed the “food” part from it and are just giving me the bug parts.

I hate anti-Abortion billboards. We get it, a fetus can get hiccups. I still don’t see you putting one in your uterus! Until it’s hiccuping all up inside you, shut your fucking mouth.

I hate “Going Green”. You know what would save the planet? If less people were on it. How about you stop having kids, and go out and start killing some people. You know: to help save the planet.

I hate those stupid state quarters. North Dakota’s is total bull. You turn it around, and it’s got NOTHING on the back. At least they’re going for accurate.

I hate overdraft fees. Really, you’re going to re-arrange my transactions so that I over-draft seven times instead of once? That’s a real douche thing to do. If you pull that off one more time, I’m going to have to directly deposit my foot up your ass!

I hate people who use hand signals while on their cell phone. Listen, fucknuts, the person you’re talking to cannot see your hand motions or facial expressions. So stop doing that. Until Steve Jobs charges you 500 dollars for a phone that can transfer motions, you look like a lunatic, ok?

I hate when fast food restaurants put way too much mayo on my chicken sandwiches. Honest to shit, does the chicken taste THAT bad that you have to completely cover it up with mayo? I ordered a chicken sandwich, fucker, not mayo mouth rape.

I hate Super Bowl Sunday, I really do. I haven’t seen anything this over-hyped since… well… me!

Baby Got Back (Her Taxes)

Tax Season.

Two words that either make you shiver with disgust and hatred, or with glee and hopefulness. It’s either the worst couple months of your life, or the moment you’ve waited for all year. Basically, you’re either going to get fist-fucked by the IRS or walk away with thousands of dollars in your pocket. I’ll let you decide which one sounds like the GOOD result.

I already got my tax return. Months ago. And as such, like any good American, I spent it immediately. Hell, I don’t want to risk that money being taken back, or worse: SAVED! Could you imagine?! Being an adult and putting that money in a savings account and keeping it for an emergency?! Ugh, being mature, who needs that shit, I HAVE A THOUSAND DOLLARS! Eh, well… HAD a thousand dollars…

I love watching all the people deal with the tax season. You can watch the true diversity in this country simply by how people handle their taxes. For those who handle it well, to those that completely collapse, the best and worst of human condition is brought out by the thought of taxes.

Take, for example, Miss Deductions. The person who will stop at nothing to suck every last drop of juice from the Government Teet. These are the annoying ones you’re exposed to all year, because they spend most of their time saying things like: “I wonder if this is a tax write-off?”

It’s a grapefruit. That you bought at a deli. It’s not a fuckin’ tax write-off, I assure you.

Line 26b of your Tax Form: Did you buy any citrus this year?

Well, son of a bitch…

These are also the people that I’m almost positive have kids simply for the tax breaks. I know it’s a financial burden, and ultimately sucks up more money than the return could give you anyway, but some people don’t think that far ahead. But hey, all the more power to you. That’s right, you go out and shake the deductions bein’ a momma gave ya!

The same applies to charity work. I hate that. “Hey, you wanna go get a tax write-off…eh… I mean help retarded children?”

Is that all charity is these days, a way to stick it to the man? I think charity is an admirable thing, I do. However, does it really need to be written off as a money scheme too? It all seems dirty to me. Like we’re taking those poor retarded children and using them to get money. Exploitation. And I don’t know about you, but I am NOT OK with exploiting retarded people for money. That’s why I refuse to watch reality television shows.

Then you get the “business” people. Not actual people that own their own business, that actually requires a lot of tax work. I’m talking about people who have to find everything they do that is related to business, and attempt to write it off.

“Well, I’m TECHNICALLY driving to work on a weekend. So that means… I can deduct the 3 and a quarter miles it took to drive. How much gas is that? Like… 35 cents?”

These are the people who’s tax return ends up looking like a scientist’s blackboard. Just numbers and lines and letters all over the fucking place, and no sense to be found. They’d be better off trying to figure out Pi to the 7 thousandth decimal. When your tax sheets start to resemble NASA calculations, you’ve gone too far. And you’ll only get about 4 dollars more in return. Not even enough to buy that gun you keep asking for while you’re doing the math!

The next tax-person we get is the “Ha ha, I get to claim zero” bastards. I get to claim zero, but I don’t act like it makes me a better person. Some people do. You know what I call them? That’s right: Zeroes! Because they’re losers. Just because no one on this green planet of ours wants to bear the fruit of your loins or sign a legal binding contract saying they’re past the point of being betrothed to you, doesn’t make you any more or less an idiot than those claiming 2.

Next up we get the people that attempt to do it themselves. And suck total ass at it. These are the ones with the TurboTax box and “Idiot’s Guide To Fucking Up And Getting Audited… Again” book spread out on their kitchen table for about six months every year. They want to be financially intelligent and do it themselves. Why over-pay someone when you can do it yourself? Probably because one slip up lands you in prison. Even rape isnt punished as harsh as putting down the wrong numbers on a tax sheet. And rape is FUCKING RAPE!

Then you get the people that DO go to H & R Block or some other tax “professional”. I’ve never been, but I can imagine it’s a sad trip.

“Hi, welcome to H & R Block, please kill me, how can we help you today?”

“Yeah, I need to… did you just say ‘please kill me’?”

“Of course not! So you need your taxes done, that’s quite easy, oh dear God end the pain now, if you could just come over here and take a seat by my desk…”

“…o…k.”

“So, the first thing we’re going to need is for you to stab this pen into my neck and end my eternal suffering, also, could you fill out this form?”

“…I think I’m going to to go Jackson Hewlett…”

I can only imagine how much it would suck to have to do taxes for a living. You know why all tax professionals seem so young? Because by the time they reach 35, they’ve thrown themselves off a high rise and became pancakes wearing cheap ties.

Then we reach the “guy who knows a guy”. The second guy is usually refered to as “My tax guy”. The first guy is known as “Lucky Bastard”.

“You mean… you get your taxes done… for free… by someone else…?!”

“Yup. I also have a blah-blah guy and a blah-blah guy and a blah-blah guy!”

Seriously, these people have more “guys” than a mafia kingpin. And they’re not afraid to tell you about it. I bet they even have a guy who’s job it is to keep track of all their other guys. Quite the operation you’re running just to avoid having to take responsibility for your own life there, chief.

The last tax person I’d like to talk about today is the “OH FUCK IT’S APRIL ALREADY?!” guy. They got their W-2 in January, but you know… sorta just slipped their mind. For three months. Guess they had more important things to do. Like inventory their junk drawer, or play online poker. For three months.

And then the race begins. They frantically throw together their forms and cram them in the mailbox. And then spend the next few weeks with a giant vein sticking out of their head as panic sets in.

“Oh fuck, I know I did it wrong. I’m going to get audited, oh God. If anyone needs me I’m going to be drinking a lot of booze and praying.”

But don’t fret, because soon after comes the good part. The return, mother fucker. Or at least for most of us. Some people *sigh* end up OWING money.

“Wow… that just simply blows, buddy. Well, if you need me I have over a thousand dollars of spending cash to spend! PEACE OUT BROKEY McPOORSTER!”

And spend it we do. I guess this is what is known as “stimulating the economy” or something like that. I consider it “spending my government whore money”.

It’s insane how fast that thing goes, isn’t it? Who would have thought that spending your entire tax return on a new sex swing ’cause the last one broke during that Nazi themed orgy you had last month was a BAD way to spend money.

But more importantly… is that sex swing tax deductable?