Please understand that I am not kidding and I am not trying to be funny or outrageous when I say that the guitar solo(s) in Get Back make me feel ill. I literally feel queasy and irritable the second I hear that muffled monstrosity of a guitar solo.
It’s not just the notes that are played, it’s the sound of the guitar. The Get Back lead guitar sound is the audio equivalent of some creepy stranger giving you an unwanted massage on the bus. Oh, and it’s summer and it just rained but the hot sun is now pouring through the bus windows turning the bus into a rolling greenhouse filled with the stale air from 10,000 armpits. And guess what? You also have the flu. You also just whipped up a fresh batch of diarrhea in your pants. Your snow pants. Yeah, that’s right, you are wearing snow pants in August because your fever is melting your brain and you can no longer tell the difference between winter and summer attire. When you turn around to feebly whisper the words “please stop touching me” you see that the sweaty ham hands belong to super-douche Guy Fieri. All you can do is sit in your poo-filled pants and cry while he describes things as “money.”
Stop the madness! Just get married without trying to prove to everyone that you are “the most funnest, kickass couple in Terre Haute, Indiana and all of the surrounding Wabash Valley!” Stop trying to be the last story on the local news. The last story on the news is reserved for important stories, like the various activities of kittens and the kooky places they get stuck.
Is it wrong that 1% of me wants to see one of these “weddings” end in tragedy? That seems wrong. Maybe not tragedy, but is it too much to ask for a couple of broken legs that totally ruin their Six Flags honeymoon? I bet if you broke both legs during your skydive wedding, the local news would do the story before the sports.
“To Stockton, Michael Jackson meant more to us then maybe Jesus did to some people. I think they are both about even, they are both icons.”
Well put dumb-ass, now promise me you will never have children or be responsible for anything living, ever. Don’t buy a hamster or even a house plant. Just sit quietly in your La-Z-Boy, eat pizza-flavored Combos and watch “Jon and Kate Plus 8” until you die.
I’ve already discussed idiots who think they see Jesus in their food, but at least their holy discoveries kind of look like Jesus. This tree stump looks suspiciously like a tree stump. Is this an elaborate joke being played on me? I can’t see ANYTHING that resembles ANYTHING in this Stockton, California tree stump. God, I hate these people.
Michael Jackson rant #2
Did you see the news coverage of today’s memorial service at the Staples Center? All the newscasters were speaking in gentle hushed tones about Michael Jackson and his life. Fuck off, these are the same people who lived to tear him down and exploit any strange thing he did. Too late to play nice, assholes. Yes, Jackson was a weird guy but the media’s relentless condemnation of him helped make him that way.
Michael Jackson rant #3
What could have been the most touching and emotional moment during the memorial was ruined by the Jackson family’s never-ending inclination to “perform.” Michael’s daughter Paris attempted to express her love for her father but was quickly schooled by 50 Jacksons about mic technique. The poor kid literally disappeared in a sea of Jackson hands while trying to say a heart-felt goodbye to her dad. They were telling her to “speak up” while taking turns jamming the mic in her little face. It’s hard enough to speak at your father’s funeral, especially when it’s in a fucking stadium, without being told you are doing it wrong. Watch it here
I once ordered an edamame appetizer at one of these pretentious restaurants and when the waitress brought six individual soybeans to our table a single tear fell from my eye, because I realized I just paid $13 for six soybeans. The next time I went to this restaurant I noticed the menu now included “One soybean seasoned with a single tear.” Clearly they had stolen this idea from me.
Take your tiny, pretentious dollhouse-sized food and shove it up your oh-so-hip ass. Do you realize some of these places actually sell scented air. AIR! My grandfather did not storm the beach at Normandy so some turd in a $300 T-shirt could eat one grain of sea salt with a side of almond-scented air. And don’t even get me started on molecular gastronomy. Don’t!
I’m not happy after a meal unless I feel like I might die. I want to feel HEAR my stomach struggling to sort through all the meat and fat I just crammed down my greasy mouth. A meal really isn’t worth eating unless you need to shower immediately afterward.
The internet isn’t big enough for the number of times I want to say FUCK YOU to the world of slam poetry. Just the thought of these losers sends a chill through my body. What is the point of this bullshit and why ARE-THEY-ALWAYS-YELLING?
Yelling isn’t the only thing you can count on when watching these asswipes slam poetry into your face. You can also expect to see a lot of pseudo hip hop hand gestures. These bent wrists and mangled fingers do not only belong to black “poets” dressed all hip hoppy, oh no my friend, you will see plenty of overweight white chicks in Tina Fey glasses popping and locking like they are Flavor Flav at the BET Awards®.
And what is with that annoying cadence they all use? It’s hard to describe in print, but it goes something like this…
I’m going to be extremely lazy (and lame) and re-post my 4th of July entry from last year. Why? 50% laziness and 50% because when I originally wrote this I had much less readers and I don’t want a single drop of my awesome thoughts to go to waste. So have a great holiday weekend and try to not blow your stupid fingers off with fireworks. Also, don’t be a total piece of shit and drive drunk. Wait, that sort of sounds like I’m implying if you DON’T drive drunk then you are a piece of shit. Just don’t drive drunk you dick.
Nothing shows lady America that you love her like wrapping your smelly pubes in her flag! Thanks for the freedom, now kiss my taint.
Am I wrong to assume that most people who actually walk around in American flag clothing are strongly against the desecration of old glory? Yet these same super-patriots don’t think twice about ripping apart the very flag they claim to hold so dear and jamming their fat, sweaty body parts into it. I think the flag would rather die a quick death from burning than spend the next 15 years pressed against your wiener.
I fully understand what the flag stands for and why people love and respect it. My grandfather fought in WWII and I can remember how upset it would make him to see the flag touch the ground, even if it was a small child letting his tiny flag touch the ground while scrambling for candy at a 4th of July parade. Not angry upset but more like the emotion you would feel if you saw someone accidentally knock your grandmother over and keep walking. It was genuinely heartbreaking to him.
The flag meant something VERY real to him and he was willing to die for it. I wonder how many people would be willing to die for their American flag flip flops? Isn’t it the same thing? What makes one object covered in stars and stripes different from the next? If some dirty hippie can’t burn the flag why can you literally get shit and piss on it while you walk around the state fair? Are you starting to see how smart I am yet? Did you notice my last 5 sentences ended with question marks? Does that make me a bad writer? Probably.
Last night got a way from me and I didn’t get a chance to share my brilliance with the world. So this morning I decided in honor of the upcoming celebration of America’s independence, that I would simply post the “America, Fuck Yeah” song from Team America: World Police. Well, since I could not find it in under 1 minute on Youtube, I gave up. That’s the spirit! That’s the American way! However, I did find this clip. I think it speaks for itself. Either that or it says nothing, I can’t decide.
Nothing shows lady America that you love her like wrapping your smelly pubes in her flag! Thanks for the freedom, now kiss my taint.
