It’s The Japanese Symbol For “Bob Hates Me”

Long ago, before man had fully developed into what they have become now, there were still major dill weeds. Unfortunately, you would leave your mud hut or cave, and have absolutely no way of telling which people were the nimrods and which may be tolerable.

But we evolved. We invented the wheel, discovered fire, and created the ultimate tool bag warning label: The tattoo.

That’s right. At some point in time, people began to cram heavy loads of ink into their flesh. This idea would have probably been the worst idea man has ever come up with, but a few weeks before that someone was curious what was inside their ass and the prostate exam was invented. So doodling on the inside of your outside came in a close second.

I know what you’re saying: “But Bob, tattoos are cool and hip!”. No, tattoos WERE cool and hip. So were motorcycles. And now every time you see someone on a motorcycle, the first thought that crosses your mind is “Jesus, what a dickhead!”. And that’s how I’m starting to react to tattoos.

Each archetype of tattoo comes with it’s own stigma. And because I’m an immense asshole, I will take the time to explain to each and every one of you why you might as well just tattoo “Annoying Cunt” on your forehead. And I will do it tattoo by ugly tattoo.

1) Crouching Tiger, Hidden Douchebag

As mentioned in the title, these annoy me to no end. It’s an attention thing. People get these so they can explain them to other people. And why do they do that? Because they’re too boring to come up with anything else interesting to talk about.

“It’s Japanese for Peace and Love!”

Oh yeah, wanna see mine? It’s the Japanese symbol for “Go Away”.

Culture-rape is a common occurrence amongst the hipster crowd. Being “cultural” means you’re not only intelligent, but really, really awesome-cakes. Well, that’s what they THINK it means. When someone tells you they’re “cultural”, it usually really means: “I ate at the Panda Express once…” The same goes for Japanese tattoos.

I’m more than convinced that the Japanese symbol tattoo is what caused the Japanese to snap and bomb Pearl Harbor. Thanks to you, a lot of people’s Grandpas were blown to smithereens. I hope you’re happy.

2) The Chest Bone’s Connected To The… SWEET JESUS?!

Neck Tattoo.

I’ll give you a second to ponder that one.

Neck.

Fuck.

Tattoo.

It’s a tattoo. It’s on your neck. And now it’s on your face!

Face Tattoo.

FACE! FUCK! TATTOO!

If you have a tattoo above your shoulders, you have officially forfeited all your rights as a human being. It’s now legal for me to take an axe to your head.

“Jesus Christ! You killed a guy with a HARPOON GUN, are you out of your mind?! Death penalty for sure!”

“Your honor, if I could please direct your attention to what’s left of his face, you’ll see that most of it is covered up in a face tattoo.”

“Oh, didn’t see that before. You’re free to go. Continue the heroic deeds, Hero of the People.”

Face tattoo. You can’t possibly go further than that, can you?

Oh, you can:

That’s right. That’s a tattoo INSIDE SOMEONES MOUTH! It’s a tattoo that no one can see unless you show it to them. Now, if only you could put a Japanese symbol in your mouth, you could rule over the Douchedom as the King of all Douches.

3) Stamp Of Disapproval

Did you know that on rare occasions, gentlemen enjoy having sexual intercourse with their lovely ladies from behind? Well, now they can have a tiny art gallery to look at too!

The “Tramp Stamp” is somewhat of an enigma to me. You are aware that you’re going to be an old person eventually, right? You try to explain to your grandchildren what the fuck that’s about!

“Hey Grandma, what’s that on your back?”

“Well, kiddo, you see, when I was a young lady, I would go out to bars wearing half-shirts and pants that were low enough to see the top of my lady parts. I would do what was known as “trolling for poon-tang”, hoping that some random stranger would take me home and cram several inches of hot, man-beef in my crotch, possibly even while violently smacking me on…”

“…I have to go beat myself in the head with a brick repeatedly until I have enough brain damage to get that image out of my head now, Grandma. See you… never again.”

4) Your Stomach Says “Hungry Like The Wolf”

A musician sits down, pen in hand. For hours, days, weeks, months, hell even YEARS they work on perfecting their art. Lyrics scribbled out, new ones written into the margins. All to make the perfect masterpiece of poetry to put to music.

Then some retard goes and slaps their hard work on their ass.

The “Song Lyric” tattoo is there for one reason: To let me know you like shitty music. It’s just like the band bumper sticker. Congratulations, you have an entire a-Ha song printed across your chest, you’ve ruined all music for me forever.

By the way, if someone actually gets Hungry Like The Wolf tattooed on their stomach, I may let it pass as cool. I mean, come on, that’s funny shit right there…

5) Animal Instinct

Nature is a beautiful thing. Each animal is special and majestic in it’s own way. And there is no reason for you to plaster pictures of them on your body.

“Check it out, I got a Puma, my favorite animal, tattooed on my scrotum!”

“…I have to go Grandpa. Wow, my grandparents are seriously fucked up…”

It’s a good thing animals don’t do this behavior with us, or we’d see a bunch of Giraffes with pictures of people printed on their necks.

An animal tattoo AND a neck tattoo… that fictional giraffe is a jumbo-douche.

6) …I don’t get it?

Enough with the “relevant only to me” bullshit.

“Oh, you don’t get it, this tattoo is something only I understand.”

It’s like an inside joke. It’s all cute and funny when you’re on the inside, but it’s epic annoying when you’re on the outside. Ever listened to two friends discuss an inside joke? It makes you want to strangle them with an extension cord and leave their bodies in a ditch. This is what your “special me-only” tattoo does to everyone that see’s it.

Why do people take it that personally, you ask? Because we see something, our brain immediately has to figure it out. It’s just how things work. And here we see your tattoo. And now our brain has to put the pieces together.

“It’s a square with an arrow going through it. Um… maybe she’s a big fan of… shooting… squares. Um… or it’s… a box! It’s a box! And the arrow… is um… represents cancer! Her mother’s box was shot with a cancer-arrow! Yes! That tattoo is a reminder of her mother who died of ovarian cancer! Wait, what? That’s stupid. Maybe it’s not an arrow, maybe it’s…”

It’s about this time we notice the blood dripping out of our ears. Our brain blew it’s brains out. And it’s YOUR FAULT!

7) When that sun goes down on you, it’s gonna get herpes…

Flip that tramp with the stamp around, and the cock-gobbler has a tattoo right above her happy place.

I’ll give you a hint: It’s the Japanese symbol for “Whore”.

8 ) Lookin’ Sharp! Even though you’re anything but…

Barbed wire. Wrapped around your arm. You’re a bad ass! Except it’s not actually barbwire at all. It’s a PICTURE of barbwire. I’ll never understand this one. Not ever.

Does it make you feel tough? Because it makes you look like a pansy-ass trying to look tough. I can’t help but notice these people almost always have a motorcycle. And are dressed in army camo-pants. Over-compensating for much?

The only thing that baffles me more is the “Tribal Armband”. Pretty sure whatever tribe you belong to is a fucking lame one…

9) Cover that shit up, would ya!

If only we had Tattoo White-Out, huh? Occasionally, you get drunk and get a tattoo of your penis on your penis. Sometimes, you’re a fucking brain dead idiot and get “Property Of…” and your boyfriend’s name written across both of your boobs. And one time, you passed out drunk and your friends got “I love cock” printed on your forehead. Time to cover that shit up!

So what do you do? You go out and get another tattoo on top of it to cover it up. The problem is, you have to get a dark tattoo. Usually black ink. So you get a black falcon or a horse or something. You cover that penis tattoo on your penis with a BLACK penis tattoo on your penis. Something like that.

10) …do you even HAVE skin?!

And sometimes it goes too far. Sometimes these people cover up most of their body. Sometimes they cover up ALL of their body. At least it’s easy to avoid now!

“Holy shit, look up ahead, someone with a FULL BODY tattoo!”

“…wanna cross the street now. Maybe go a few blocks down. Shit, do you have your passport on you, let’s get the fuck out of this country all together…”

Ultimately, tattoos aren’t going anywhere. They used to be cool, only found on tough guys. Now teenage girls are getting them on their crotch so that drunk Frat guys can find their vaginas. Admirable, but ultimately obnoxious.

If you have a tattoo and this offends you, take a look at this. It’s the Universal Symbol for “Fuck yourself!”

I’m Older Than I Am (aka Halfway To Midlife Crisis)

I’m twenty-two years old.

Now, I’m not saying this for your benefit, because most of you probably already know this. I’m simply stating that fact so I can remind my brain to stop making me act like I’m seventy! And eleven. At the same time.

I’m finding it difficult to balance my bizarre child-like obsessions with my premature old-fuck moments. Trying to figure out if I should spend my money on orthopedic shoes or a big bag of candy. Working out fart jokes and thoughts about retirement. Writing a blog while I attempt to figure out how the hell to make this stupid DVD player work.

How in the hell does it work that I both seem much older, and way younger, than I actually am? Well, let’s break it down on the Bob’s Mental Age Timeline. We’ll start at my inner child and drive it home to Old Fart City (a town that even rivals Detroit for Worst Smelling Place To Live).

1) I love me some Pokemon – Oh, that’s right. I’d be willing to throw an elbow into the eye of a eight year old kid just to get the last copy of a Pokemon game. I’m a gamer at heart, and I know far too much about the world of Pocket Monsters. I play it regularly, and I play it with vigor and excitement. It’s addicting. It’s like cocaine, only you can’t get a hooker’s panties off with a Pikachu.

And it goes beyond the games. I love watching the cartoons. That’s some good quality television. Shit, I gladly chose to watch Pokemon over Lost. Pokemon makes more sense and seems to be better thought out anyway.

So, my inner kid loves to participate in a fiction equivalent of animal abuse. That’s basically what it is, if you get right down to it. You think it’s weird that Japan made a video game supporting animal abuse? Need I remind you this is the same culture that has rape video games? The Japanese are fuckin’ goofy.

I know, you all just went out and bought your kids, your cousins, whatever, the game. And now you’re wondering how I figure it’s about animal abuse. Well, since I know far too much about it for someone who also has to pay bills, I’ll break it down for you.

Step 1: Beat the fuck out of something to capture it

Step 2: Throw a ball at it’s head

Step 3: Trap it inside said prison and carry it around with you

Step 4: Use it to battle other animals (Michael Vick was a Pokemon Master for reals…)

Step 5: Force-Evolution so much it makes Darwin shit in his coffin

Lovely. So, not only does my childish age make me play the game, but my sinister adult sense of humor makes me see evil in it. I may need professional help. Thorazine, I choose you!

2) Candy is the base of my food pyramid – I’ve mentioned my candy obsession before.

Is it unhealthy? Oh sure. Am I going to put myself in a diabetic coma? Eventually. Do I give two squirts? That’s a big Fuck-Nope there.

3) Pee-Pee Jokes Are Happy-Fun-Time – Why write a sophisticated joke about politics or the state of the world when I can just as easily talk about my nardsack? If only I could combine the two…

4) Bills or Shiny Shit… Yeah, I’m goin’ with the shiny shit… - Fuck responsibility. Electricity isn’t that important, not when I can buy this friggin’ cool thing. It serves no useful purpose, but it’s cool looking and it makes noise and stuff. I’ll spend my money on this, and worry about feeding myself later.

5) BUNNY! – Chasing animals = always fun. Do I look like a buffoon while chasing a squirrel across the parking lot? Oh sure, but it’s got a puffy tail and I simply must touch it.

As you can see, I often act younger than I actually am. But I also have moments were I feel a few dozen years older. Moments I’m sure you all have.

1) …I could have fuckin’ sworn I came over here for something… – What is it about walking across the room that makes you forget why the fuck you walked across the room?! I often find myself standing in a room in my house, curious as to why the balls I wanted to be there in the first place. I’ll start investigating the room, hoping maybe I discover something that sparks my memory into reminding me why I’m there.

“Let’s see… nope, nothing in the medicine cabinet. In the shower? No, I didn’t need a shower. Perhaps the toi… OH YEAH! I had to pee…”

Yes. I have forgotten that I had to pee. Which leads me to my second old-fuck habit…

2) Peeing is like a game of chance – I have to pee. Then I have to pee again, twenty minutes later. And again in an hour. Did I drink something in the last ten minutes? Gotta pee it out, pronto. Flomax, I choose you!

On occasion, I’ll forget to pee, and my multiple urination-bursts will add up. And I’ll take a piss that takes slightly longer than cooking a baked potato. You know the piss, the one that consists of five stages:

Stage 1: Relief – “OH THANK GOD! I’ve had to pee since last Tuesday…”

Stage 2: Pleasure - “Wow… oh man, this feels like a massage for my urethra…”

Stage 3: Surprise - “Hah, holy shit… I didn’t even think I had room for this much liquid…”

Stage 4: Irritation – “Alright, come on. Let’s wrap it up…”

Stage 5: Fear – “Ok, pretty sure I should have stopped by now. Am I going to have to courtesy-flush my piss? I’m starting to feel light-headed…”

This is, of course, all assuming it comes out all in one consistent flow. Sometimes it’s like a lawn sprinkler.

PSH PSH PSH PSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHH… PSSSSSHHHHH…. PSSSH… PSH.

3) Now, how the hell did I lose… – Ever lost something within a three foot radius of where you currently are. And can’t find it for a year or two? I do it all the damn time. And after searching the dumbest fucking places, you find it in an even more dumb place.

“Alright, my keys aren’t in the freezer. I didn’t leave them in my cat’s litter box. I… holy shit, my keys are in the toaster…”

4) “Hey, do you want some…” “No, I can’t eat that, I’ll die.” – Remember when you could eat food, and that’d be the end of it? You eat it. And you forget about it. Not anymore. My body can’t process certain foods anymore. Not only will my stomach hurt, but random other parts of my body will hurt too.

“Wow, that was a delicious ham sandwich, but it made my knees hurt like a mother-shit.”

5) When I was your age… – Oh, you’re thirteen minutes younger than me? Allow me to tell you about the “Good Ol’ Days”. Here I am, standing by the vintage video game kiosk at Mall of America. The sixteen year old is playing his fancy new video game system, the one that you plug into your head and the game appears inside your mind. And here I am, staring at games that consist of “pixels” and telling him about the wonders of the Sega Genesis.

“I had one of these when I was like two. Oh man, that feels like three forevers ago. Wow, it’s been THAT long since this stuff was new?! If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go kill myself now…”

I’m not old by any means. And I still qualify as an adult (or as the Government puts it: “Taxable”). Eventually, things will start shifting in favor of the aged. And that’s when I’ll know I’m getting too old to be hip and cool. Not that I was hip and cool when I was young, but eventually it’ll be too late to even fake it.

By the way, I hope a 22 year old bitching about feeling like an old man makes everyone older than me feel ancient. The only way I’ll feel better about myself is tormenting you geezer fucks.

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 Got Graduated, Too!

Now, I know this may come as a surprise to anyone that’s ever read my blog before, but I’m a people person. Yeah, I love people. Maybe not in the way you’re thinking, but I do indeed love people. I love people in kind of the same way a zoo keeper loves his animals.

I do, however, loathe their very existence. This may seem like a contradiction, and I assure you: it is. But that doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is my explanation of why.

I love people in the sense that they allow me, a non-apologetic rage-oholic, to get a huge dose of that rage-ohol that I crave on a day-to-day basis. And I loathe them because I was plagued with common sense and dignity, and most other people weren’t. At all. Especially that dignity one.

And what displays the lack of dignity and self-respect most human beings have these days? Cellphones. Nothing makes me hate the human condition more. It’s not the cellphone itself, really. It’s the fact that humans can converse through them that bothers me. I can’t blame a knife for stabbing someone, now can I?

Speaking of knives and stabbing someone, I was on the bus yesterday, and I got to witness one half of quite possibly the most moronic conversation I’ve ever heard. It led me to coin the term “Buffoonism”. That was what this girl was practicing. Buffoonism. The act of being so ridiculous and inane, that it made me wish the entire bus just exploded right then and there, with me on it.

Let me say one thing, I’m not a racist. Oh sure, I hate black people. But I hate white people. I hate everyone. You can’t be a bigot if you hate everyone, got it? I do, however, especially hate this “Ghetto” culture that has spawned over the last ten years. Originally, it was only from people who lived in ghettos (imagine that), but it soon spiralled out of control (imagine THAT!) and everyone started acting like that, even middle class white people. This girl wasn’t middle class or white, but you get my point.

“The Buffoonist” was everything I hate about ghetto culture turned up to 11. I was overhearing the conversation, which was of course unnecessarily loud like everything that culture says, and it was just a typical dumbass conversation that I could mostly ignore. That was, until she uttered one of the most fucking stupid sentences I’ve ever heard. Ever.

“Yeah gurl, I heard that you got graduated!”

Got graduated?! Oh please tell me that “Graduated” is an STD or something, and that she didn’t mean graduated as in “from school”. GOT graduated?! She acquired graduated? Recently, I was informed of the term “Omnicidal” (compliments of “Teh Co-worker” and his near-Cocaine like addiction to TV Tropes). It was at this point in time, that I, the Counter Culture Clown, became an Omnicidal Maniac. Or at least wanted to. All humans must die because of this Buffoonist.

Alright, Buffoonist, you have my attention now. You can’t possibly make me more enraged, can you? Oh, I should NEVER under-estimate the power of failure.

Next up, discussion on a mutual friend of there’s who just had a miscarriage. That, for those of you who don’t know, means hitting eject on the VCR LONG before this fetus-movie is finished. Stillborn, ya know? Delightful, I know. And definitely conversation that should be yelled into a cellphone on a crowded bus. Oh, Omnicide, where have you been my whole life?

The Buffoonist: “Yeah, gurl, when I lost MY baby…”

Let’s just hit the brakes there for a second. There was the potential of a Little Buffoonist to carry on the legacy? Someone stuck their penis in this dumb piece of garbage? The baby didn’t make it into this realm alive?

I take it back. There is a God. And he loves me. Apparently, a miscarriage is God’s form of abortion. This Buffoonist was apparently SO dumbtarded, that even God didn’t want her to have a kid. Son of a bitch, all my atheist ranting, and God proves himself like this?! Mysterious ways indeed!

Of course, apparently she also thinks this was God’s doing.

The Buffoonist: “You know, that’s just God  ‘doe!” (that means “Though” for those of you who don’t speak Buffoonist) “If I would have had my baby with that man, I’d probably be dead, he’d be in jail, and my baby would be in foster care!”

Wait, what part of any of that sounded bad? Let’s look at the good in that last part.

“I’d be dead…” – That’s good.

“He’d be in jail…” – Probably good too. I mean, he was dumb enough to misuse his penis in such a way that it brought forth a child from YOUR loins.

“And my baby would be in foster care” – I don’t care if that baby was being raised by wolves, as long as it’s not going to learn from YOU!

They then turned the conversation back to miscarriage lady number one. And yet another buffoonistic statement.

The Buffoonist: “Was she bleedin’?”

SHE JUST EXPELLED A FETUS OUT OF HER CROTCH, OF COURSE SHE WAS BLEEDING?!

Fuckin’ hell, I need a nap. This is all too overwhelming at this point. Even my hate has reached its capacity. I hate her more than I hate Vegemite. Alright, that may be pushing it, but you have to make strong statements to get this kind of anger across.

Next, I learn that yet another of their mutual friends is pregnant. And this one is, unfortunately, still on it’s way. I’m really hoping for a miscarriage hat trick at this point.

The Buffoonist: “Man, she be pregnant with that man’s bab-ay? Shit gurl, me and her ’bout to fight…”

Oh please let it be to the death, with the winner getting a nice DEATH as a reward. Oh pretty, pretty please. With a stillborn fetus on top…

It’s at this point she finally left the bus. An air of dismay seemed to follow her, and as she walked past, I felt a gust from that wind. A shiver ran down my spine from the chill of the fuck-up breeze that followed her. It was as if this God I now believe in (hah, no, not really!) had blew out his final breath as he too died of a pissed-off overdose.

This whole event only lasted roughly five minutes. Or, in my new anger-related unit of measurement, about sixty two Mental-Screams. That’s 12.4 MSPM (Mental-Screams Per Minute)! That’s fucked up.

You see, this whole thing just proves one thing to me: I should never, ever, have to be exposed to your phone conversations. Ever. Because now the human race must die. I haven’t quite figured out how to do it yet, but soon enough I will discover a way to kill everyone at once. And the omnicide will commence! And when it does, I’m starting with you Buffoonist!

Maybe, if the rest of you ask real nice, I’ll let you watch her die BEFORE killing you. Maybe. Not making any promises though.

DIE… alogue (aka Conversation No-No’s)

I, the Counter Culture Clown, have made a huge mistake. One of those mistakes you know you’re making as you’re making it. A decision that leads to nothing but mental turmoil and unrelenting sadness. Unfortunately, I make this mistake frequently (about five times a week, well… ten if you count twice a day…). I guess I’ll never learn…

What is it, you ask, that could have been such a failure of a decision? Well…

I rode the damn bus again.

Again! Nothing good ever comes from it. And today, without the aid of my trusty headphones, I had to actually listen to what people were saying as ambiance for my trip. And I don’t know if you know any people… but they say stupid shit. A lot. Today, I over heard a lady talk to a friend who she had bumped into on this particular journey.

“Yeah, so I’m headin’ to the hospital today. My mother is dying of leukemia, and I’m a donor match. So today I’m going to save her life again, like I have been doing for the last few weeks. Yeah, they’re going to suck the bone marrow out of me to give to her to give her a chance to battle the leukemia that she’s dying from. It’s been tough, the needle they use to suck the marrow out of my bones is huge! It hurts, but I have to, right? It’s my mother that’s dying, so I have to try and help her live a little longer. So, what’s new with you?”

What’s new with him?! You can’t actually expect someone to respond to that after the whole “mommy dying of leukemia” thing?! Are you out of your fucking mind?!

How the fuck do you respond to “What’s new with you?” after hearing that?! Ultimately, it would be rude NOT to answer that question, considering the person just poured their soul out. But what do you say?!

Certainly you can’t COMPLAIN about something going on in your life! It’s going to take something truly horrifying to top dying mothers and bone marrow suckage. You’d have to have the worst sob story of all time to go against that one.

“What’s new with me?! Oh man, it’s terrible… my daughter, the three year old, tripped and fell the other day outside. Well, apparently, she fell on a fire ant colony, and the queen was dislodged from her central room. Well, I guess fire ants need homes, and they adapt quickly to their environment.

So, she climbed into little Kimmy’s ear and worked it’s way behind her left eye. So a few weeks ago, it gave birth to an entire new colony, and we wouldn’t have noticed expect they started to spill out of her nose. We had to go in to the doctor’s office at that point, and he said that the fire ants are slowly moving through out her entire body, devouring her internal organs.

But not fast enough so that it kills her! No no, instead, they’re eating them JUST enough for them to struggle to work. So Kimmy’s whole system is shutting down, but she’s still alive. So, it’s kinda like she’s on fire, at all times. Nothing but screaming fits of pain. And the blood! She bleeds at least two pints out of both eyes every day!

So, You know what we had to do? We had to have the doctor give us an anteater! We lay Kimmy down twice a day, naked, and let the anteater shove it’s snout up her ass and suck as many of the little red fuckers out as it can.

It gets worse! Unfortunately, we didn’t know that the anteater is allergic to garlic, and the other day we had chicken with garlic seasoning. Well, when the anteater had a reaction while sucking the ants out of Kimmy’s half-consumed colon, it went into shock and in a fit of rage, it prolapsed her anus. We had to have it surgically put back in! And to top it off, on it’s way out, the anteater killed her goldfish!”

That’s about it. That’s the only story you could have that would top that. And how many times do fire ants nest in little girls, really? Once… twice a week, TOPS!

Alright, so let’s assume you’re not going to take the “more tragic” approach to responding to that question. Can you actually respond in the opposite direction?! You can’t give a POSITIVE story, can you? That’d be like rubbing it in. “Your mom has cancer, bummer, ’cause my life is fuckin’ awesome!”

The only way you can respond positively, is if it’s something SO great that it makes the other person’s life wonderful too. And as I did last time, I will now provide a way over-the-top example of that:

“Oh man, get this. So, remember how I was trying to become a professional female roller derby referee? Well, I was working an exhibition match between the Cedar City Kitten Murderers and the St. Vincent Man Eaters, and the captain of the Kit-Mur’s accidentally smashed me into the wall. I ended up with a broken collar bone!

But it turns out that the wall wasn’t manufactured with the right amount of give, so I sued the company that made it. And won! A huge settlement, 6 figures! So we took the money and took the kids to Sea World! Yeah, we were there when that one trainer got eaten. It was fantastic! We have it on film and everything! Already 2 million hits on YouTube! Oh man, then we took the money and invested it in a candy factory! So we get free candy whenever we want, and we never have to work or do anything but sit around, eat candy, and enjoy life!

Oh, if you’d like, we can buy the hospital for you and make sure your mom is number one priority always! Also, want some Skittles?”

Now, neither of these seems like very good responses. And that’s because it’s an impossible situation. The only thing you can do is give sympathy, which just increases the depressing nature of an already awkward encounter.

I guess my point is, if you’re going to have a conversation with someone: Don’t open with cancer. Ok? Maybe save that for a little ways into the conversation. Let’s ease ourselves into the water, shall we?

“Hey, how are you?”

“Not bad, not bad, and you?”

“Pretty good. Nice weather, huh?”

“Sure is! Beautiful day out. Oh, did you watch the latest episode of Trading Genitals?”

“Yes! When that Amish husband traded genitals with that rock star! Oh, Jebodiah was in so much trouble when his wife found the genital warts and pierced scrotum! Hah, classic!”

“Yeah, oh hey guess what?”

“What?”

“My son has AIDs!”

“…this is my stop…I’ll talk to you… um… well… eventually.”

See, wasn’t that MUCH better!

I’m a pretty sympathetic person (shut the fuck up!) and I don’t mind people telling me about their horrible lives in conversation (makes great joke material later on!), but sometimes it’s not necessary. Perhaps a conversation between you and some guy you’ve only met twice at a party that you happened to be sitting next to on public transportation shouldn’t jump right into the life-ruining experience department? I know when you’re in a funk, the thing that makes you feel better is to drag other people down with you, but this is out of hand.

Think about the other person. Put yourself in their shoes. When you spew sad at them faster than a sorority girl puking up ruffies, you’re really making them uncomfortable, and ruining their day! Misery loves company is not a suggestion, it’s just a cliché!

Save those kinds of things to private, personal conversations. With friends. And no one else around to get depressed from it.

Moving on from that, I’d like to speak of one thing that shouldn’t be discussed publically, OR in private: Anything involving body fluids or secretions of any kind.

“I have been constipated for the last…”

Shut the fuck up!

“Oh man, I have to go to the bathroom AGAIN! We ate at a Mexican restaurant last night, and I’ve been shitting something that looks like industrial…”

SHUT THE FUCK UP!

“My husband’s sperm looks kinda…”

SHHHHHHHHHUT THE FUCK UP!

This is never ok. Ever. If it’s not something someone would ask about, it’s not ok to talk about it. I may ask you about your dying mother. I will not, however, ever ask you about the condition of your colon. Not ever. That’s your business, let’s keep it that way.

These are the kinds of things that kill conversation, and make people not like you. And people are having enough trouble liking you to begin with, so let’s not give them that last shove over the point of no return. I’m only trying to help.

Jesus And Pancakes

On the 21st day of the 9th month, year 1987, a baby was brought into this world in the usual way. You know, squeezed out of someones crotch covered in slime and piss. Ah, the beauty of childbirth.

That child, was me. And it was pretty much all down hill from there.

Because soon after, I learned about religion. I was baptised Lutheran, much like a lot of people in the Midwestern region. Just a few years ago, actually. A priest had me take a bath with him, is that how they do it now?

I was even in Sunday school for a short while. I say a short while, because people like me don’t fit in there. At all. In fact, after only a few weeks of my logic-fueled questions, the nun teaching the class lost her faith. Last I heard, she was turning tricks in Reno and making a pretty penny. So, I guess it all turned out for the best.

As of now, I am a devout atheist. Which is a fancy word for “Logical”. And I’m telling you this, so you know who I am and what I am thinking as the short event I’m about to talk about unfolded. I am letting you into the mind of the Counter Culture Clown. Bring a lantern, it’s dark in here.

I’ll just start off at the beginning, because… that’s how you tell stories. Unless you’re Quentin Tarantino. And if you are, and you’re reading my blog, Pulp Fiction is over-rated and you’re obsession with Uma Thurman’s feet is unhealthy. Seek help.

Anyway, the other day I was bullied by a voracious pack of Christians. That’s right, I was a victim of a love crime. God’s good graces done scared me to death.

I was walking across the parking lot of my mansion… er… ghetto-ass apartment complex, and there they came. As if sent by the Lord himself to annoy me. And what’s that in their hands? Oh hell, they have flyers! RUN ROBERT RUN!

But I didn’t run. Because I’m not rude! Well, mostly because I was lazy, but I can say I wasn’t being rude. So, they caught me. And the game began.

“Hey, we’re from the Assembly of God up the street, would you like to come to a free breakfast on Easter! We’re going to have pancakes!”

Son of a bitch, they found my weakness: tasty breakfast consumables. I had to think about it. Would I be willing to ditch my beliefs and start worshipping an invisible man if I knew that I’d get free flapjacks from the deal. Hmm, maybe if they’re blueberry. I didn’t ask.

They handed me their little flyer, and I, not wanting to be a total dick, said: “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME YOU CULT-FOLLOWING NUTCASES!”

Alright, so I didn’t say that. I said it in my head, but out loud I said “I’ll think about it”. I even smiled! Sorta.

End of conversation, right? Apparently not. Because there they stood. I guess I was supposed to think about it right then and there. About twenty more seconds went by and they were still kinda talking. I slowly inched away, hoping they’d get that I had ended the conversation by giving them the ol’ “I’ll think about it equals fuck no”.

In those awkward seconds of them smiling their big Jesus smiles at me, I began to realize why I dislike Christians a lot of the time. There are three types of Christians. First, there are the “God Hates Queers” sign-holding cretin who deserve to be lit on fire for the good of mankind. Those judgemental douche-drinkers aren’t worth my time. Everytime I see one of them, I can’t help but want to walk behind them with a sign that says “God Loves Burritos”. Just for shits.

The second type are the type that believe, but don’t talk about it. I call them “People who are allowed to be near me”. You can worship a thing of brocoli for all I care, but just be sure to keep your beliefs on the DL when we’re having a conversation. Otherwise, I’ll have to start talking about things I believe in, and for those of you familiar with my blog and my way of thinking, you know that could lead to some pretty scary chit-chat.

The last type, and the type these three fell into, is the over-zealous Guy Smiley people. You know the type:

These people may be even worse than the “God Hates…” people. If you smile during every second of a conversation, I’m pretty sure it’s a sign of a mental condition. Your only god should be in a pharmacy at this point. That’s right, just take two of these and that sunshiny optimism will be cured in no time!

These are also the ones that go door-to-door and hand out pamphlets. Pamphlets, yet another word to add to my “This word doesn’t need to exist” list. They want to talk to you about “God’s everlasting love” or how “Jesus gives you hugs for your heart” or whatever. I do not want to talk about Jesus hugging my heart. I want to talk about boobs. They aren’t usually game for that, and believe me, I’ve asked them.

I have no problem with people being happy all the time (Lie #1), but I do have a problem with them trying to make ME happy all the time. I don’t want to be happy, I love being a miserable, cynical, free-will totin’ asshole. It’s good times. The over-the-top happy-go-luck more-hyphenated-phrases type of cheer is just awkward and comes across much like a plastic tree does: tacky.

However, I do care about these people (Lie #2) and would like to offer my assistance. As you all know, I am always trying to better the world one obnoxious brain-molesting idiot at a time. I love to help! (Lie #3)

Listen, my over-stuffed with love friends, let’s discuss your methods, shall we? You are not going to convert atheists with happy thoughts. Atheists are naturally bitter and resentful fuckers. We don’t do faith or God or whatever, because we don’t like blind joy. And the best part about an atheist is, they won’t go door to door with fuckin’ pamphlets.

“Hey, I’m being forced to go door to door and talk to you about Atheism. Here’s a pamphlet, there isn’t anything in it, but if you unfold the whole thing, it’s a picture of a naked lady. You can go ahead and wank off to that, we really don’t give a fuck. Do what you want. If you need me, it’s Sunday, so I’m going to sit in my underwear and watch football. I have a couple hundred on the Giants game.”

That would be how you’d get our attention: through blatant apathy. Instead of telling us about God’s endless supply of chuckles or whatever, perhaps you should adhear to our needs.

“Hi! We’d like to talk to you about the Jesus. Did you know that our church has at LEAST 40 cute, young virgins!”

“…I guess I could show up for an hour or two on Sunday… do you happen to have their cup sizes in that pamphlet of yours?”

To be honest, I’m wondering if this is what they did with the pancakes. Which to me, seems like a dirty trick. According to the flyer, right after pancakes is choir singing and worship. In other words, those pancakes are basically going to come right the fuck back up anyway when I throw up in the pew from all that gospel music, so why bother.

I think they should add an 11th Commandment. I don’t care if it throws off that nice round number they have going now, because it needs to be in there. And so, I will end this with Bob’s 11th Commandment:

Thou Shalt Not Use Delicious Breakfast Food To Trick People Into Your House Of Worship In A Similar Way Pedophiles Use Candy To Lure Kids Into Their Basement.

It’s a bit wordy, but it’s a work in progress…

Now go bless yourself!

Date a Cougar NOW!

Demanding, aren’t you sidebar ads! Jesus, fine. I’ll go looking for a Cougar to date.

That’s what greeted me this morning when I logged onto the ol’ Facial Tome. Since I have “single” listed as my relationship status, FT has apparently taken it upon itself to find me a mate. “Bob, seriously… you need to get laid…”  Go fuck yourself, Facial Tome.

However, these side bar ads are at least a source of constant amusement. So I, being Curious Bob, decided to take a little gander. The link took me to the wonderous world of Cougar Life! It’s a web site for those of you who are looking for women who are “a little more experienced”. “A Little More Experienced” of course meaning: Has had more cocks in her than a chicken coop.

Right there on the front page, I’m greeted with a wonderful summary of what a Cougar and, get this, a “Cub” are:

“Cougars are women in their PRIME: independent, sexy and wildly successful. They enjoy men who are youthful, fit with the same zest for life. Cougars are classy, confident women that already possess many of the finer things in life – but now want the young, hot guy to go with it.”

If you please direct your attention to underneath your seat, you will find a convenient little barf bag. You’re welcome. Anyway, let’s analyze this epic failure of a paragraph, shall we? We’ll begin with “Wildly Successful”.

What does that mean? I know what “Wildly” means. I know what “Successful” means. But for some reason, these two words don’t seem to click when pushed together. It’s the same response I get when I see someone write “Dane Cook is Funny”. The two just seem to not work at all together. I’m concerned that I’m missing something.

Wildly to me seems to imply a lack of control. A wild animal is that which is free and without control. It’s something that could go loco at any moment and tear you into pieces. Success seems to be something that needs a deep grasp of control of ones life. You need to be in control of yourself, and everything you do, in order to become successful. So, one can only assume that it is their SUCCESS which is wild. Their success is beyond their control and could rip this planet a new one. You know who else was “wildly successful”? Hitler.

And unfortunately, not even that odd combo of words was enough to distract me from the use of the word “zest”. That pretty much lands on the top 25 Dumb-Fuck Words list. It’s right under “Synergy” and “Enthusiast”. Words that no human being should let stumble out of their mouths, else be raped by badgers in punishment. Yes, you heard me correct: badgers, plural. A whole pack of them.

“I am a boating enthusiast, I enjoy sailing the ocean with a zest that is only rivaled by my profession of trying to make office places work with a true synerg… OOOOOWWWW A BADGER JUST STUCK IT’S COCK IN MY ASS?!”

Until I gain the powers to control an army of badgers, you are safe. But someday… oh someday…

Anyway, let’s return to our regularly scheduled rant. When we last left the Counter Culture Clown, he was glancing down, below the Cougar explanation, and reading about this new term: Cub.

“To snare a true cougar a man needs to be youthful, fit, unintimidated, and of course sexually driven! These men can range from athletes to intellectuals, and from technologists to entrepreneurs and all points in-between; they can come in all shapes and sizes, but one thing they have in common is the desire to possess a sexually charged older woman.”

And I thought the cougar explanation was bad. Let’s start with “a true cougar.”. None of those fake cougars! Really, are there old women out there PRETENDING to be cougars? I’m pretty sure the only true cougar, is this lovely right here:

Dude, she’s totally winking at you!

Just a side note, athletes aren’t interested in old women trying to relive their youth. An athlete becomes an athlete basically for one reason. No, not the heart of competition or any of that crap, I’m talking about 18 year old big-breasted bimbos who’ll give blowjobs to whoever throws the winning touchdown. Just ask Tony Romo.

Also, I’d like to call bullshit on a particular passage of that explanation: “They come in all shapes and sizes”. No, they don’t. You already said they have to be fit, so I’m pretty sure a 22 year old, 325-pound guy who wears a Star Trek t-shirt, smells like Funions, and lives in his parents basement probably isn’t getting in your seasoned panties. And guess what: A lot of those very people are “technologists”. If you count being Guild Leader in World of Warcraft as “technologist”.

It says on the bottom of the site that you have the chance to join the “#1 Dating site of it’s kind!” Oh crap, that means there are more than one?! They’re spreading! Much like the legs of these 40-somethings looking for one last beef injection before the tanning beds give them face cancer and the hair dyes cause them to look like Danny Devito.

Luckily, the site provides us skeptics with a whole slew of informational links to check into things a bit more. Like the information on the CEO & Founder of the site.

Meet Claudia Opdenkelder. A proud cougar and the creator of this site. I have her to thank for introducing me to the prospect of dating someone that’ll die when I’m only in my 40s.

“So what are you waiting for? You don’t have to be Demi Moore or Madonna to land a cute cub (young man).”

Yes. You do have to be Demi Moore or Madonna. They have money. And plastic surgeons on call 24/7. Oh, and they’re FUCKING DEMI MOORE AND MADONNA! And let’s face it, Demi Moore is fucking Ashton Kutcher, that isn’t exactly a win for ol’ Demi-Goddess.

It gets worse though:

“Whether you’re recently divorced, never married or just one yummy mummy; I promise you will find what you’re looking for at CougarLife.com – your personal playground where you can lose your inhibitions, play the field or even find someone special. “

If you are down south right now, you probably have a gun pretty close at hand. Please pick it up, and get on the next plane my way. I require your services. You see, my brain has gone rabid, and we need to put it down.

YUMMY MUMMY?! I wish I didn’t speak English, and couldn’t understand what I just read. But alas, I can speak English, and I did understand. Fuckin’ hell. I’m all for single mothers looking for mates, but calling yourself a “Yummy Mummy” is epic gag-worthy. It sounds like a fuckin’ Halloween-themed Ben & Jerry’s flavor for shit-sake.

The site is a playground. A playground. A place that used to be all fun and games and innocent. Not a place where you can “lose your inhibitions”. You know losing your inhibitions at a playground is? Using the fireman’s pole as a stripper pole. Which I’m assuming is something these chicks would be into. Plenty of strapping young lads at the playground.

I love that it ends with “or even find someone special”. So this site’s LAST priority is to actually find you a meaningful relationship. Go figure.

Uh, I have some questions for Cougar Life. Luckily, they provide a nice FAQ for those of us who have a few more inquiries. Do you think “WTF?!” is covered in the FAQ?

Alright, look. I have no real problem with people dating people younger or older or whatever. You love who you love, but this site makes it all a little creepy. A cougar is a wild animal that would probably take a cub and tear it into shreds and eat it’s guts for sustenance. That’s really not what I’m looking for in a woman. If I was, I’d go to a vampire dating site or something.

I wonder if they have “Cougar Vampires” looking for “Young Blood” sites? If they don’t, I may have found my way to make millions! I too could be a young, unintimidated entrepreneur who could attract a woman my mom’s age! Or I could not do that, and use the money to buy a gun so I don’t have to rely on you southern peeps to blow my gray-matter out of my skull every time I trip and fall into one of these sites.

Either way, I think we may be on to something here… quick, we need a spokesperson. Who’s the oldest vampire woman you know?!

Um… maybe I better go back to the drawing board…

The Out Of Context Collective

Let’s play around with my blog a bit, shall we? Today, I am going to go through every blog I’ve done so far, and take one line or piece of every one of them that I consider funny. I’m going to just put them here, in a list, with no context. We’ll see if things are more funny, or less, with nothing else to go on.

This also makes up for my lack of wanting to do a real blog today. Here we go.

How many times has the world ended in my lifetime now… five… six?

My Liberal Arts degree will no longer be impossible to achieve.

Keepin’ JIZZ OUT OF YOU!

Then just look at them with meat-juices pouring down my face, and smile.

But when a grown man talks about how one time he “ripped a big one while we were in the elevator, and it brought tears to his eyes”… I have a tendency to quiver a little bit.

He lines the halls of his mansions with your douche-baggety pictures of you pulling your shirt up and showing your abs.

I am no less a man because of the fact I can play my rib cage like a Xylophone.

So your baby was born without a head, your sister has a 300-pound tumor growing out of her 400-pound tumor, and your war-veteran brother-in-law has a piece of shrapnel in his left testicle that looks oddly like Ned Beatty.

A bus is a giant metal device filled with assholes, idiots, weirdos, cripples, old people, cheap businessmen, hippie college students, and a lot of guys named “Stewart”.

How in the name of Fuckity F. U. Fuckworth are those supposed to pierce the necks of unsuspecting villagers in the middle of the night?

I’m all for women’s rights, African American rights, Latina rights, Minority Female rights, Gay rights, Czech Transexuals rights, Half-Woman/Half-Echidna rights, hell, I’ll even support Invisible Skinned Peoples Rights!

That’s a potato with a ton of nails sticking out of is!

Not to mention the fact that I could finally use the little horsey ride outside of Wal-Mart without waiting in line!

If we drained just Rosie O’Donnell we could run a 747 to Europe.

A Hamburger with some 2-week old Seasame Chicken on top, and some of what we BELIEVE was that cassarole from last March. Tuna, perhaps?

Like hideous footwear, and things to stab into our faces to end the pain.

I have to be CAREFUL while removing the film, or else the trapped souls will escape.

It’s a human appendage going up your poop chute like some twisted Jim Henson porn video.

You want to be covered in I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter and have twenty six midgets in little dominatrix outfits lick it off?

Then you introduced me to mental stimuli and erections, and things got awkward for awhile.

And can that little guy stop peeing on things already?

And of course Space Hookers… er… I mean “Space Escorts”

OH man… I would FUCK that toaster, turn that bitch all the way to DARK.

The Hoff, is clearly displaying his man-nipples.

All that is left is to actually cover the thing in fatback and lard and call it a day.

You are delicious and nutritious, but more dangerous to eat than a cheap hooker.

Of course, the Pot-Fairy may go to prison for it, and you’ve seen Oz, you know what they do to fairies in prison!

This is going straight to Admiral No-Shit.

Ghandi was a trend-setter.

Sorry sir, we’ve discussed this with Anal Sphincter, and he see’s no way we can contain the blast.

Don’t use innocent Snicker’s bars for your evil half-assed schemes!

Sexy Professional Bowler.

Skip the cream cheese, and add some crack!

Please send me more pictures of your fuckin’ chicken.

I’d give my whole paycheck to watch a gang of lil’ 14 year old kids bring that dude to the ground!

And you spelt “Cuntface” with a K, you dumb ass.

Don’t tell me the Detroit Roman Catholics condone eating HIM

Now why don’t you get on your knees and let me put these scissors in your face.

I’m sleeping with your publicity stunt sheep

So here, from the bottom of my heart, I have given to you a Stuffed Squirrel Torso.

It’s as if they carved a statue of your face, then beat you with it repeatadle until shards of your own face stuck in your face.

Maybe I’m wrong, maybe that’s what the Queen of England calls her breasts.

So now I’m sticking charcoal in my pants?

You see, they are forced to trudge forever through a vile pile of their own fecal matter.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go light one of my makeup artists on fire for warmth.

The thought of something so beautiful and delicious like cream cheese being mixed with something that closely resembles the black pus that came out of the victims of the Bubonic Plague sends me into a dark place.

Then they have to spend the rest of the “ride” butt-scooting the way down while a fat kid leaps in and kicks them square in the back.

Giant mounds of butts on every corner, on every street.

I’m shocked we haven’t just started BOMBING the homeless.

I.O.U. one mentally-crippling fact that’ll leave you weeping like that did to me.

In fact, if a dude mouths off on his 18th birthday, feel free to kick him straight in the spine.

I saw Mommy doing something to Santa that involved beads and two of his reindeer

Perhaps they have their guts ripped out for eternity while wearing silly hats?

Just once I’d like to see a vasectomy on the sidewalk.

It wasn’t a picture of someone going up inside a girl with a coat hanger and repeatedly stabbing it in the head and tearing it out like a dead squirrel in a rain gutter.

Even Mr. Christ would have to kiss his Holy ass goodbye if a nuke came his way.

Unless it went something like “Hallelujah…. TORPEDO!”

I better get out of the bottom of the ocean or I’ll miss Ugly Betty

It ranks just under “having a pickle shoved in my anus”

Eat my frozen ass with a spoon you wimp!

Sometimes it’s just a giant purple foot sticking out of a toilet.

Toasters are better technology than the human brain.

I’m really surprised it wasn’t a Nazi Condom.

You’d never guess he was the type to invent a robot sex slave, would you?

It’s supposed to be like ExLax for your crotch

She is here today, wearing a vagina emblem on her helmet as a special homeage to her mother and her disorder.

I do not want Green Eggs & Ham, I do not want them Sam I Am. I’d rather have fried chicken and watermelon because I’m a negro, I am I am.

NO LIGHTBULBS FOR YOU!

I think I speak on behalf of handicapped ducks everywhere when I say that you are less useful than a duck that is lame, so it’s a little late for that.

I have this boil on my vagina that is shaped like President Hoover.

I thought maybe he was talking about that one time I ate some bad Mexican food, and I “went Green” for like a week, if you know what I mean.

Squirrels being swallowed up by a black hole is the definition of hillarious.

Well, out of context that all makes me sound like a psychopath. In context… it makes me sound like a psychopath. So, is this stuff more funny or less funny without anything else? And what the hell is your favorite? Not that I care, just askin’ to be nice. Now piss off.

Did Darwin Have A Theory On De-Evolution?

Compliments of Merriam-Webster

Fast: Characterized by quick motion, operation, or effect:

1) moving or able to move rapidly, swift
2) taking a comparatively short time
3) imparting quickness of motion
4) accomplished quickly
5) agile of mind

Could someone please send that definition to the makers of the “Fast Lane” self-checkout lane at Cub Foods grocery store, and it’s users if possible.

I’ve never been so astonished by human stupidity as I have been while watching people attempt to figure out the self-checkout lane. For those of you who haven’t witnessed these things in action, allow me to give you a brief summary.

Looks like some Star Trek shit, don’t it? It’s actually a fairly simple device. You follow the on-screen prompts, scan your stuff, bag it, pay and get the fuck out. Or so I thought. Apparently, what you really do is stare blankly at the screen and ponder each decision as if the wrong choice could activate a nuclear countdown and kill off the human population.

And it doesn’t even take a small amount of intellect to use one of these. In fact, you don’t even really need to be literate. It TALKS to you. Got that? It fucking walks you through it like a life coach. “Please scan your first item”. That means: Please scan your first item. “Please take your change”. That means: please take your change. It doesn’t get too much more clear-cut than that.

And if people telling you what to do is still too complicated, they also show you PICTURES! They give you moving pictures that SHOW you what to do. Now you don’t even have to comprehend speech, you just have to imitate what’s happening in front of you. Monkeys can do that, mother fucker, why can’t YOU grasp it?!

I spent twenty five minutes waiting in line to use one of these things the other day. There were FOUR of them, and each one was taken up by people who, frankly put, I’m surprised were even able to dress themselves that morning let alone get to the grocery store. And I got to watch as my fellow human beings de-evolved right before my very eyes.

As if I needed any more proof than this, allow me to tell you of a few more instances of human stupidity that are proving my point that we’re moving in the wrong direction in the evolutionary pathway.

1) “A Drunk” made it’s triumphant return to my life! – That’s right, it’s BACK! I sat in the exact same seat on the exact same bus and witnessed the exact same dumb-ass carving. At least I hope it’s the same one. I really hope someone didn’t repeat this process on yet another bus. As I stared at it AGAIN, I began to wonder if I was stuck in some kind of endless Groundhog Day-esque loop of suffering. As if I was being tested.

“Alright, Bob, we’re going to re-expose you to something that almost lead to a mental breakdown last time, and we’re going to see if you can keep from stabbing out both your eyes the second time.”

I can assure you I did, but it took a lot out of me. So I figured, why not wander the skyways in Downtown Minneapolis to cool my head a bit? Unfortunately, that’s where I witnessed case number two.

2) GUY Guys - Now, when you sit down to watch a television show or movie, you often see a stereotypical type of man: The horny perverted brainless slug type. You know the ones. The ones that drop onto bar stools and drop stupid pickup lines. The ones that say things such as “CHECK OUT THE TITS ON HER!” to complete strangers. The real die-hard jerk-off pigs. Did you know they actually exist? And they’re far worse than their fictional counterparts.

I had the unfortunate luck of being stuck behind two of these wonderful upstanding citizens as I walked. First and foremost: They were disgusting to look at. Fat, hairy, uncleaned, poorly dressed. They were pigs, without a doubt. And to make things worse, EVERY time a woman with a decent body walked by, they, as if their heads were attached to her ass via string, would turn IN UNISON and check out her ass as she walked away. I emphasis the concept of “In Unison”. It’s as if they were one. They moved as one. They widened their eyes as one.

Could they get more annoying? Sure they could. One of them could WHISTLE at a girl.

WHISTLE! I thought that was a myth. I didn’t think men actually did that to attractive women. I thought it was all made up. Nope. The guy whistled at a girl.

And to make matters worse, bozo numero dos decided to swing back with an even less classy response to his friends audible dumbassedness.

“That wasn’t me, honey. I would never treat a pretty lady such as yourself like that.”

Yes you would. But you figured if you pull out the “nice guy” approach, you’d… what, get a blowjob right there on the escalator? I didn’t see the girls face, but I could actually FEEL her eyes rolling from where I was walking.

I couldn’t take much more, so I cut my loses and got onto the second bus to make my way home. I could make it home without anything else terrible happening, right?

You know by now this is not the case. Wish I would have known that before getting on the second bus. ’cause if I knew what I’d witness 30 blocks later, I’d have thrown myself UNDER the bus instead of getting inside it.

3) Mr. Sag E. Pants - Who’s that coming up the aisle towards me? Why yes, it’s Mr. Sag E. Pants. And boy are his pants a-saggin’. So much so, that he is actually HUNCHED OVER holding the waistband of his pants somewhere around the gray area between his shins and knees. It looked as if he actually froze in time JUST as he was starting to pull them up. And he was WALKING like this. Either he was in-transit mooning the bus driver, or he was taking a dump on the go. That, or he’s a moron. I’m leaning towards the latter myself, how ’bout you?

I’ve never understood the pants-sagging clothing fad. I can understand if the pants sag A LITTLE, but down to the tops of your fucking FEET?! And in the dead of winter, no less. Why not just fuckin’ go pants-less? It’d save you a ton of trouble.

Now, as I think about this, I think about one of the worst things I’ve ever witnessed. And yes, I will share it with you, but I’m going to give you a moment to prepare. Consider this a warning. What I am about to show you could damage you greatly. If you are in an area without a vomit-recepticle, may I suggest getting a bucket handy before moving to the next piece of this blog.

Are you good? Alright, let’s continue shall we.

Someone once informed me about pants actually manufactured to appear sagging. Here is a picture, in case you don’t believe me.

That’s pretty bad, ain’t it? Don’t worry, I wouldn’t put it up if I couldn’t make it even worse. If you’re still with me, let’s take a look at the FRONT of these beauties.

Well, that’s just plain ol’ hideous, ain’t it. I’d wear them, if I didn’t have ANY sense at all. I mean NONE. Not ONE inkling of sense in my whole being.

It did get worse, however. Apparently, out there somewhere, there are also pants that exist with BOXER SHORTS stitched to the waste. So basically, it’s boxers, then pants, all in one. I luckily can’t seem to find a picture to back this up, so maybe it was only made up by the demons in my head. Oh, and if you do find a picture: Please do NOT feel free to send me the picture. I don’t want to see it. I can’t take it. It’ll destroy me.

One good thing DID come from this though. It made it so I don’t feel AS bad about the High Heeled Sneakers.

So let’s keep the ball rolling with a news story that struck my eye. About the latest in technological advancement. I’m of course talking about the ROBOT GIRLFRIEND!

That’s right, the Roxxxy Sex Robot is here! Too late for Christmas, perhaps, but just in time for Valentine’s Day! No more shall you be lonely on Valentine’s Day when you have THIS pretty lady at your disposal:

Sure, I’d hit that. Or flee from it in terror, not sure yet.

That, by the way, is the creator who is fondly adjusting her head. You’d never guess he was the type to invent a robot sex slave, would you? He doesn’t look like a creeper at all.

These are all just cases that are slowly draining my faith in mankind. As if I had much faith left to sap out of me to begin with. I do believe, however, that it helps push my case that the human race is actually de-evolving.

We’ve already seen it in speech. Back in Elizabethan times, we spoke with such elegance and word-variety. As it kept going, as we reached America, our language began to slowly get filled with contractions, shorter words, and slang.

Then we reached the internet age. As we began “web speak”, new, shortened versions of words came into practice. “Ur” replaced “Your”. “Thx” replaced “Thanks”. “Rly” replaced “Really”.

Then came the abbreviations. LOL. IDK. TY. They came in waves, more and more as years progressed.

Then we got to the text-message stage. These became over-used. No longer were there a few of them, we basically ended up with abbreviations or shortened words for almost EVERYTHING that could be said.

We even got to the point where people started saying them OUT LOUD. I’ve heard, on more than one occasion, someone say “LOL” out loud. It hurt my ears. I, of course, told them to STFU!

This is really only one step away from caveman speak again. Communicating with grunts and roars. We will start dying off in droves because we can’t understand that “OOO GAH GRRR” means “Look out, you’re about to be hit by a garbage truck!”

The human species is going to de-evolve itself out of existence. And I, for one, say good riddance.

Or is that “GR”?

The Priorities of Modern Man

The Future.

No one knows what it’ll hold. It could be filled with great achievements, or it could be filled with great evils and even greater disasters. Considering our track record as of late, I’m leaning towards the latter.

I know, we’ve made leaps and bounds in technology in the last few decades. We’ve cured diseases. We’ve solved many problems to up the speed and efficiency of life. We’ve also made it possible to do almost everything without thinking. A prospect which sounds lovely to most, but terrifying to me.

You don’t know what I mean? Allow me to explain. The Lexus LS series parks itself.

Got that? The car parks ITSELF! This was a big thing for about twenty three minutes a few years back, and it’s really just a drop in the bucket of things that frighten me. All the futuristic thriller sci-fi movies show robots taking over the planet. The AI gets too smart and they snap and kill us all. I’m pretty sure at the start of those movies, cars are parking themselves. At least we don’t have robots that clean up after us!

Oh, nevermind. First, it’ll sweep your floor of all the dirt. Next? It’ll clean THE WORLD of useless humans! I’m on to you vacuum robot. You little waffle-iron lookin’ mother fucker.

Now, before this sounds too cynical (like anything I ever say sounds cynical. Psh.), I’d like to say that these two things do serve a purpose. Sure, it’s lazy as hell to sit on your ass while a giant circle cleans your house, but at least that’s a purpose. Predating these two things however, was the moving sidewalk. Moving. Fuck. Sidewalk. Really, this marked the beginning of the end of us as a species. And no one seems concerned but me!

These are the obvious ones though. The ones that stick out the most. The ones everyone looks at and laughs. And then wishes they had them.

Now, the human mind has achieved many great things. We really have. But for every intelligent person, there are about thirty thousand idiots. And that ratio is being turned even more in the favor of stupidity by the people who are intelligent, but utilize it in useless ways. For now on, we’ll refer to them as Smartards.

The Smartards have taken over the world. The reason we can’t fix any real problems, make real advancements, is because of the Smartards. We don’t have those flying cars I was promised, and that pisses me the hell off.

I’m going to present now a small list of things the Smartards have given us that serve no real purpose other than to shorten our stay in this universe.

We’ll start with chewing gum. Yes, chewing gum. Originally, a simple concept. Take gum resin, and flavor it. Awesome. Helps people with oral fixations. Sweet and simple. The way it should have stayed. But no, no no, it kept going. They couldn’t stop with just flavored. That flavor had to be “Extended, Long Lasting!”. Why? Because we are too cheap to buy another pack, and we need to be chewing on something every second of every day!

That’s what gum has become. We, the nation of big-fat-fatty-fatasses has to be eating every second of every day. But if we did that, we’d explode. So, we use gum as a means to keep our mouths occupied so we don’t accidently shove your own young into our mouthes and eat them like gerbils.

But it didn’t stop there. At some point in my life, gum became a dental tool. Now it’s “Dentist Approved! Long Lasting Flavor!” gum. They’re trying to make it surpass brushing our teeth! How fucked up is that! We can’t even lift a stick up to our face and move it up and down for a few minutes!

Speaking of toothbrushes. Let’s put those on the list of things the Smartards have ruined for me. Remember what it used to be? It used to be a brush. For your teeth. That’s it. A fuckin’ brush.

Then they added that little blue strip. The one that tells you the toothbrush ain’t good no more. Because we’re too dumb to go “…wow, this thing looks sorta nasty… I should probably not stick it in my face anymore…”

You’d figure that’d be enough. But no, no no, it was NOT. How can we make brushing easier! Less energy consuming. Well, we could make them electric. And why not!

I wouldn’t put something like that in my mouth if you paid me to. It looks like it could be used for self-defense. Or rectal pleasuring. When toothbrushes begin to resemble sex toys, it’s time we dial it back a bit.

The Smartards have really spent a lot of time in your mouth, haven’t they? Well, they can continue that trend with flavored condoms. Because sexual protection needs to taste nummy.

The condom may be the single most advanced thing mankind has ever come up with. Does that scare anyone else? We’ve got spermicide, ribbed for her pleasure, extra-strength, lubricated, reservoir tipped, biodegradable, flavored condoms. And ample supplies of them. So ample that we can’t help but litter the streets with them!

Sex is something that’s real important to the Smartards. It may or may not be because most of the Smartards aren’t HAVING any sex, but that’s beside the point. The real point is… well, the real point is a giant rubber cock that is scientifically sculpted to hit your clit perfectly. That’s what the real point is.

Vibrating buttplugs? We got ‘em. Sex swings? Check. Giant devices that literally fuck you where you lay? What kind would you like?! Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a good time, but there has to come a point where we stop spending so much effort and time on getting off. I suppose I should be happy, most of these toys and the protection prevent some pregnancy, but it really is getting out of hand. “Out of hand” may or may not have been a masturbation joke.

And the good news is, if you’re too ugly to get fucked, the Smartards can help you there too. Because even medical school is now plagued with Smartards as well.

That’s right, we have plastic surgery. Sure, there is plenty of it that’s necessary. Let’s say the Vice President of the United States accidentally blasts off half your face with bird shot while hunting. Don’t worry, we can put it back on.

But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the vanity medical stuff. The botox and face lifts and implants and hip shaving and the chemical peels and the hair plugs and the laser surgeries and the liposuction and the “natural male enhancement” pills. Keep in mind we can’t cure cancer. But your tits look fabulous!

And how can we contact Miss Flawless-For-A-Price and get her over to our place so we can fuck her with the vibrating remote controlled butt plug, with out breath that is fresh from the Sonicare 2000 Super-brush and new Dentist-Approved Ultimate Toothcare bubble-yum pelting her in her chemically treated face? Easy, we use our cellphone/camera/gps tracking device/personal media and mp3 player/text messaging/internet ready device. That’s how.

Fuck cellphones. How the fuck do we think we’re ever going to stay on this planet if we keep pumping so much shit into cellphones. You know what they’re doing, right? They’re making it so our entire life can be carried on one tiny fucking handheld thing. Imagine that. A monopoly on life itself. I’m waiting for the day when cellphones actually spew out Starbucks coffee. It’ll happen. It’ll fuckin’ HAPPEN. You’d figure with all these amazing additions to portable communication, they’d actually make a phone that could fuckin’ work as a PHONE!

You know what the most used feature of a cellphone is today? Checking the time. Didn’t we used to have an article of clothing, an accesory, that did that once? Oh yeah, a watch! The Smartards figured we might as well over-haul those as well. And thank your imaginary higher power that they did! They have divers watches. Divers. Watches. Do you know what those do? Tell time UNDERWATER! Are you SHITTING ME! What the FUCK possible real life application could that have?! Divers dont need them. No diver is underwater and then goes “Oh shit, it’s almost 7 I better get out of the bottom of the ocean or I’ll miss Ugly Betty!” Alright, maybe a diver needs one so he can make sure he doesn’t run out of air or something. I guess I’ll let that slide, but…

How do you explain the regular watches that still work underwater? Are we too lazy to take it off when we shower, is that what this is? Outside of being a diver, I see no reason why you’d need to check the time when you’re under water. Unless you’re looking for an exact time of death when you drown, it seems useless to me.

And whats with the watches that have multiple different times on them. Have you seen this shit? They’re expensive too. All so you can tell what time it is where you are, and what time it is in Pango Pango. Helpful, I’m sure, if you’re The Flash.

ZOOOM!

“Shit, I’m in New Guinea now… damn, that means my watch is going to be off. Oh wait…”

Well, speaking of time. I think it’s time for me to close the book on this riff about Smartards. I’d usually end this with a plea of some sort. Trying to get them to focus on more important shit. Such as blowing up the moon or keeping my farts from ruining social interactions. But no, no no, no plea today. Instead, I’m simply going to throw my hands up on this one. The Smartards are plentiful, and they have their dicks in everything around you. They’ll be the undoing of mankind. But don’t panic. They are good for something.

They give me a lot of funny shit to bitch about!

—

Also, I’m really sorry about that picture of The Flash. It’s even more creepy than the one of Aquaman I put in my blog about
muskrats.