You just made my list!

There are times in life when we must balance comfort with money. Often times one’s financial situation wins this battle and you find a can of Milwaukee’s Best pressed up against your lips. But this is OK sometimes. It is entirely wrong, however, to find a stiff slab of cheap toilet paper pressed up against your butt lips!

There simply is no excuse for choosing toilet paper that feels about as soft as a lemon zester when perfectly good, triple ply quilted toilet paper is sitting right there on the shelf. What is this, Russia? The great thing about being American is that we can smear our feces on toilet paper so luxurious a princess would gladly sleep upon it. Not the feces… she would gladly sleep on the toilet paper!

Pooping is already a horrible experience as far as I’m concerned, so why turn an ugly situation into more of a nightmare? I don’t want to hear about your budget or the environment or blah blah fucking blah. Grow up, buy some real toilet paper and watch your life change, you dirty ass (literally) hippie.

What’s that you ask? Which brand do I allow to touch my sweet bottom? I prefer Charmin Ultra Strong or Charmin Ultra Soft. I mean look at this… you can drag a 3 pound block of shit across your table and it won’t even rip!

What is it about highly decorative facial hair that hypnotizes douchebags like a moth to a flame?

Walking around with a soul patch or a god-awful chin beard is like announcing to the world “I grew a pussy on my face because that’s the only way I will ever get near one.”

While the soul patch and chin beard are equally horrifying, they tend to attach themselves to an entirely different group of tools. Your average chin beard can usually be found sprouting from the unwashed face of most species of white trash, including suburban metal heads, guys who work as bouncers at suburban metal clubs, guys who weld metal by day and play in metal bands by night and guys who pretend to be UFC fighters while listening to metal in their bedrooms. If you really want to take your chin pubes to the next pathetic level just ask your little sister or your mom to dye and/or braid your little face forest (see Alice in Chains, Korn, Anthrax, et al.)

The soul patch is more elusive and difficult to nail down. Tiny lip pussies can be found on middle class beach hippies, jazzbos, ultimate frisbee enthusiasts and old white guys in blues bands. It’s a regular United Nations of douchery. The chin beard sends a “I’m not playing by your rules” message but a soul patch meekly whispers “I’m playing by most of your rules.”

In both cases everyone loses.

Fuck you.

Chef Daniel Angerer wants you to know he’s cool and the only way he could think to convince you is to milk his wife like a cow and start churning titty milk into boob cheese. Keep your disgusting hooter cheese to yourself, you douche.

The female breast is meant to be soaked with icy water and judged in Mexican bars, not used as an Easy Cheese can. God made boobs so young girls have a way to acquire beads and T-shirts, he never intended them to be used as nacho cheese fountains.

On his blog, Angerer rambles on about some hippie bullshit and wanting to donate his wife’s excess milk to Haiti, but somehow that morphed into sweater cheese. This guy craves attention even more than I do!

Congratulations, you can scrape two things together, now that’s what I call talent!

Not since the invention of the hacky sack have smelly fuckheads had such a useless form to express themselves. Isn’t it ironic that filthy hippies would choose an object made for cleaning to make “music?”

I guess it makes sense really. Some folksy turd was probably sitting around his shack when something shiny in the corner caught his eye. Having never washed his clothes or body, he stared and poked at it like the apes in 2001: A Space Odyssey when the monolith appears. He probably grabbed his booger-pickin’ spoon from the cluttered floor and threw it at the washboard, thinking it was some sort of a dag-gone space monster or something. Well there must have been something about that horrible clang of metal hitting metal that sounded like music to his dirty hillbilly ears, because the next thing you know, he’s jiving and shucking all over the woods with his jug of xxx moonshine and his new “instrument.”

Now, thanks to this dick, I’m forced to see these assholes every Fat Tuesday on the wacky morning news, jamming with some shitty Zydeco band. You know what? Zydeco, you just made my list too. You suck!

From the beginning, let me say I agree with trying to be environmentally responsible and I do things in my own life to reduce my “carbon footprint.” Now that I have that out of the way… stop trying to ruin EVERYTHING you stupid hippies!

Earlier in the week I heard some dingbats on NPR babbling on and on about how to be “green” on Halloween. Not awesome green like a zombie, but lame green like your costume is made out of recycled toilet paper and yard waste.

They had some fantastic tips, like using a beeswax candle in your pumpkin because it’s more sustainable than paraffin, or having a composting party where you compost half of your kid’s candy. You know, the candy they waited all fucking year to collect. Yeah, just go ahead and toss their yummy candy in a bin with kitchen scraps, leaves and worms. Why don’t these parents go ahead and force their kids to dress as Ira Glass or Terry Gross* while they are at it. Dicks.

Do these busy-body hippie turds have to strip the fun out of everything? I’m pretty much a left-wing liberal but when I hear shit like this on NPR it makes me want to have sex with a bald eagle while Ted Nugent pours beer all over me. This program made me want to dress up as a Transformer this Halloween. My costume will consist of real, running motorcycles attached to my arms, a gas-powered lawn mower on my head and my feet will be two actual Hummers that will drive me from house to house. Oh yes, you will hear me coming down your block.

*OK, Terry Gross could be a good costume because you could play with the “gross” angle and be a zombie NPR host. Wait, no, forget I said that. That is the dumbest idea ever and I hate myself for not deleting it right now.

“Dance like no one is watching.
Sing like no one is listening.
Love like you’ve never been hurt
and live like it’s heaven on Earth.”

Fuck you like no one is watching. Go fuck yourself like no one is listening. Fuck off like you’ve never been fucked and suck my dick like it’s heaven on Earth!

I HATE shit like this so much! First of all, don’t tell me what to do. I don’t need some jackass wall “art” from Bed Bath and Beyond telling me how to live my life. Guess what asshole, you SHOULD dance like people are watching because they are and you look like a convulsing idiot. Maybe it’s best if you simply stop dancing, singing, loving and living altogether. And another thing, why is “altogether” one word? It’s like the word “nonetheless.” Stop showing off and just be separate words like everyone else!

Sorry, back to your shitty store-bought philosophy. It sucks.

“Hey everyone, look at me, my bike is different and I love NPR.”

Oh brother. I just rolled my eyes so hard that I lost my balance and fell off my chair. Speaking of chairs and balance, I sure do hate recumbent bikes. What’s it going to be? Are you going for a bike ride or are you relaxing in your favorite chair? Take your pick, because you look like a douche-sack when you do both simultaneously.

We get it, you love world music, you aren’t afraid to eat Ethiopian food, you mow your yard with one of those old timey push mowers and nothing gives you a bigger boner than listening to Garrison Keillor on your iPod while riding around on your wacky bike.

I use the Johnny Cash formula to decide if something is cool or not. Anyone can use this proven method, it’s easy. For example, would Johnny Cash have ridden a motorcycle? Yes, ergo motorcycles are cool. Would Johnny Cash wash a handful of pills down with a beer? Yes, therefore abusing prescription medicine and alcohol is cool. Now, would Johnny Cash cruise around Connecticut on some asswipe recumbent bike? Fuck no!

Yeah, I know, why can’t I just enjoy wacky art cars like everyone else? Shut up hippie, don’t you have some armpits to not wash?

While you are excitedly posing for a photo with these cluster fucks, I shoot hate lasers out of my eyes at you. You can’t feel it, but from my point-of-view, it’s pretty devastating. I can’t decide who I hate more, you for liking these dumb cars, or the hippie turd who spent the last 5 years gluing doll heads and action figures to his mom’s car when he could have used that time showering. It’s such a sad cry for attention, even more so than blogging.

The thing is, there is no art involved in the creation of an art car. Sticking dirty toys to something is not art. These lazy hippies can’t even come up with an idea more original than doll heads and Happy Meal toys. Does anyone like hippies? I don’t even think hippies like hippies.

I’m tired. This post sucked. It sucked, but not as much as art cars, you hippie.