You just made my list!

Finally there’s a way I can also not care about what your baby is doing.

Let’s see if I can describe this new invention without killing myself. Twoddler may look like your average Playskool activity center but this little piece of shit is hooked up to Twitter so every time little Susie moves the plastic piece with your face on it a tweet is sent to you saying something like “Hey asshole, look what I can do… randomly touch things.”

Am I the last sane person on this planet? If this takes off I’m moving to a cabin in the woods. I don’t want to live in a world where babies keep me up to date every minute of the day. “I C poopies on da floor. LOL.” Come to think of it, how can you tell if a tweet is from a baby or an adult with the ridiculous way people write these days? I’m guessing a baby could tweet something just as intelligent as, say, Miley Cyrus.

Let’s see if you can guess which of these tweets (I fucking hate that term) are from babies and which are from adults…

“jus ate sum soup”

“spendt da day on da couch in PJs – LMAO”

“life is a jurney, U just half 2 take the furst step”

“yo, yall need to see ma new crib”

See? What’s the difference? It’s all inane, utterly useless bullshit nobody needs to know.

Nap time!

You want to know what keeps me up at night? (See above)

When did this shit start? Not only are they all wearing matching pants, but they all have matching genitalia crammed into those matching Walmart jeans because no man who allows this to happen has a penis.

I guess if your goal is to make everyone think your entire family works at the same electronics store this is a good idea, otherwise knock it off. Put your foot down, Steve, and say, “Gosh dang it Brenda, I told you ten times, I’m wearing my jean jacket embossed with the Coca-Cola logo and my favorite jean shorts and I really don’t give a hoot what you and the kids wear! I’m me. I’m STEVE! Steve likes his jean jackets with corduroy sleeves and Steve likes his jorts. If you need me I will be in the basement playing with Steve’s, I mean my, trains.” (Door slams… framed “Footprints in the Sand” falls to the floor and shatters like so many of Steve’s dreams.)

Steve doesn’t need this shit, not now, not like this, Brenda.

Not much to say about this other than it grosses me out to see someone smoking while riding a bike. Actually, as a non-smoker, smoking in general is pretty repulsive to me but there’s something so wrong about a person smoking while bicycling. Your lungs must be like, “hey asshole, I’m working here.”

Not only did I see someone smoking on a bike today, I also watched some lady smoke on her way into the gym. Yeah, she was literally sucking it down seconds before walking in the gym door. Why not drink a beer and eat some bacon while punishing that sweatsuit of yours?

Wow, I sure talk about bikes a lot. It’s probably because my parents never loved me enough to get me a BMX bike. I was stuck with a YELLOW stingray. Pathetic.

How is this real?

Writing about getting your fat ass massaged at the mall reminded me of another utterly useless form of relaxation. I am of course speaking of reading a good book on the beach. Oh, and also oxygen bars!

If the sky was made of free beer would you still bother going to a bar to BUY beer? (And with that sentence, I complete my journey to becoming the world’s bestest thinker. Me smart!)

Do you realize these idiots are paying over a dollar a minute to breathe flavored air? Suck that concept up your nose holes and try to understand it. Oh, but it must be special oxygen because look at all those colorful beakers of bubbling potions! If it looks like science from the classic 60s Batman TV show it must be good!

The meaningless fun does not end there. If you are feeling a little frisky you can have one of the bartenders(?) mash a piece of hard plastic into your spine or dig out your brain with a German mind-scraper used in the late 17th century to extract homosexual fantasies and other demonic thoughts from your skull.

I quit.

“Blah blah blah. Yap yap yap…”

“Is he talking to us? Is he a crazy person talking to a mailbox or is he a high-powered attorney?”

What’s that? You lost both of your arms in a farming accident? Great, you may use a bluetooth earpiece. You might still look a little douchey, but realistically people will mostly be staring at your stumps and will not even notice that dumb thing in your ear. It’s up to you.

For the rest of you two-armed humans, I implore you to stop walking around like some pathetic cross between the Pillsbury Doughboy and the Terminator. This is where you say in the fucking annoying voice of yours,”Shut up jerk, in my town it’s illegal to drive while talking on a cell phone unless it’s hands-free.” (Have you ever heard a recording of your voice? It sounds like a cat in a meat grinder.) Listen you pussy, break the law like a real man and quit cryin’ bout it.

I guess I don’t really care if you want to look like a tool walking around with that shit in your ear but stop looking at me and talking to your imaginary friend. I’m old and it confuses me! In my day, when someone looked in your direction while speaking it meant a conversation was being initiated or possibly a wise drifter was going to teach you a life lesson. Nowadays, apparently it’s OK to broker real estate deals 4 inches from my face and somehow I’m supposed to be the asshole for thinking you were talking to me.

I hate everything.

(world’s largest sigh followed by eye rolling so intense it causes vomiting)

Video games are fun, I get it. I practically got an erection on Christmas morning, 1983, when I saw a present under the tree that was the exact size of an Atari 2600. I hadn’t even unwrapped the thing yet and I was already pissing my Yoda jammies from excitement. But I’m sorry, it just seems wrong for the Cub Scouts to award kids for playing video games.

Maybe “wrong” is not the best way to describe it, “lame” is probably more appropriate. Cub Scouts should be all about tying knots, burning stuff in campfires and watching your dad build you a kickass Pinewood Derby car, because let’s face it, he’s more excited about building that car than you are. Say, that reminds me, did you know you can now buy pre-built Pinewood Derby cars that require no effort other than slapping a few stickers on it? Fuck that! Pinewood Derby was all about seeing whose dad was awesome and whose dad was no better than a little girl. Want to know which dads have a sweet set of tools and which dads secretly give handjobs in forest preserves… you need look no further than Pinewood Derby day. Pinewood Derby was a thinly veiled pissing match for the dads and it should stay that way.

Where was I? Oh yeah, video games. Um… I’m bored with that subject, I should have made this post about Pinewood Derby. Fuck everything!

When I heard that melty face Celine Dion spent millions constructing a water park in her back yard for her ONE child, Rene Charles, I immediately knew I had to write about it but I had a hard time finding a justification for hating it so much. Then I decided, fuck it, it’s obscene and wrong, simple as that.

I am not some dirty, tall bike-riding hippie who thinks nobody should be rich. By all means, get rich singing your shit songs, have a big house and a fancy car, but at some point I can’t stomach ridiculous displays of wealth. What fucking 9-year-old needs a private water park? I’m sorry, it’s just kind of sickening when you think about the fact that there are millions of kids who go to sleep hungry every night. Now this is where Celine Dion fans put down their doughnuts (a rare occurrence) and chime in with “Hey jerk, Celine Dion has given X amount to charity.” I don’t care, I will never be on board with shit like this.

Plus, what kind of a monster are you creating when you treat your kid like king of the universe? When I was a kid, all of my toys fit into one toy chest and my childhood didn’t seem to suffer. Somehow I found the strength to face each new day even though a miniature Mercedes with a working DVD player was not parked in my driveway.

I swear to God, if one person says that I am jealous I will hunt you down and I will destroy you with my incredibly potent farts. I wouldn’t mind being rich but I honestly could never live like Celine Dion.

Sorry this one wasn’t very funny. Sometimes I just have to deliver hard-hitting, award winning commentary.

I quit.

When you “double down” in the game of blackjack you are essentially doubling your risk with the hopes of doubling your reward.* When you force Kentucky Fried Chicken’s latest crime against humanity, the Double Down sandwich, down your gaping maw you are doubling your toilet’s reward.

Is it possible KFC is playing an elaborate, multimillion dollar prank on the world? Is this one of Andy Samberg’s HILARIOUS Digital Shorts? Even Kentucky Fried Chicken needs to convince themselves this monstrosity is not just a bad dream. The first sentence out of their greasy mouths on the official Double Down page is “The new KFC Double Down sandwich is real!” Even they can’t believe how fucking disgusting people are. I would not be surprised if they started pushing the limits even further just to see what they can get away with. Chicken fat shakes? Napkins made out of chicken skin? Perhaps they can bypass the whole eating thing and just force grease up your ass with a giant hose.

The thing I love about how uneducated we** are about food is that I actually found a few girlie “diet” websites taking about what a great diet sandwich this will be because it doesn’t have bread, A.K.A. carbs. Do I even need to waste my time dissecting this theory? TWO SLABS OF FRIED CHICKEN, TWO STRIPS OF BACON, TWO MELTED SLICES OF CHEESE AND THE “COLONEL’S SAUCE!” I’m going to get into those skinny jeans by June!

I’m exhausted just from looking at the photo of this piece of shit.

*Shut up, I realize this is not technically correct but I’m not writing a Guide to Blackjack here!

** Not me, I’m a genius.