You just made my list!

I don’t care how “gay” this makes me, but I hate it when girls do the “hot” Halloween costume thing.

“Oh, what are you dressed as?”

“I’m a hot Guantanamo Bay enemy combatant.”

“But you are just wearing lingerie.”

“I know, right? What’s a com-bat-ant?”

It’s not the “hot” aspect I dislike, it’s more about the lack of effort put into these whore outfits. I’ve spent the last two weeks driving around like an asshole looking for a wig and trying to find the exact right compressed air tank to accomplish my stupid costume and all these sluts have to do is show off their incredibly hot, young, tight bodies. Wait, I’m getting confused.

Here’s the deal, I think Halloween costumes are best when they are horribly uncomfortable to wear all night, either physically or emotionally. For example, my friend sent me these photos from a party she attended last night. This fucking genius deserves some sort of “Halloween Commitment To Excellence Award” for cutting and dying his hair and walking around as king douchebag Guy Fieri all night! This guy even purchased official Guy Fieri wristbands! That is serious commitment. This guy is my hero!

It just isn’t fair that this courageous man has to suffer so greatly while others just get to be slightly more slutty versions of themselves.

Who cares? Ignore me. OK assholes, have fun this weekend.

Was I in a coma?

When did every profession get its own reality show? What do you do when that profession, A.K.A. driving trucks on ice, becomes old news? Take those same truckers and force them to drive on a dangerous Himalayan mountain road and asfvvvvvbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb… Sorry, I fell asleep face down on my keyboard.

The other night, while flipping through the on-screen channel guide, my girlfriend noticed the show “Parking Wars” and asked, “What is that show about?” I answered, “Parking.” Unsatisfied with that answer, she said, “No really, what is it?” I punched her in the eye and said, “I ALREADY FUCKING TOLD YOU, IT’S ABOUT PARKING!” OK, I would never hit my girlfriend but I was forced to say, “No, seriously, it’s a show about people parking” and then cried myself to sleep.

My attention span for watching people drive trucks on TV is somewhere between less than none seconds and none seconds.

2 minutes and 35 seconds of truckers changing gears and saying shit about roads or something. How is this is real?

Guy Fieri… meet the female you. Wait, the female you is actually you. Um… meet a more attractive female you.

Only a few short hours ago I thought there was only one annoying, rockabilly, Swingers, loud, 1995, talentless, douchebag, rocker chef in the world. I will refer to that time of my life as “the good old days.”

Everyone, meet Nadia G, I’m sure you will be hearing a lot about her in the pages of this worthless waste-of-time I call my website.

How can I describe this bore? Mix a pound of Andrew Dice Clay with a pound of Guy Fieri and a cup of Joey from Friends. Stir in some Kat Von D, a pinch of Gwen Stefani and mix until it makes you want to rip your own face off. Words can not begin to describe how much I hate this woman and her two-bit, cartoonish Goodfellas persona!

Try to sit through this entire two minute segment without cutting your sack off, pulling it over your head and suffocating yourself.

I spent most of the night helping my girlfriend (sorry ladies) remove a virus from her PC, so NO POST FOR YOU!

I hate PCs. I hate every single thing about PCs!

Discuss.

You know, just because you are an “emergency” vehicle trying to “save someone’s life” it doesn’t mean you have the right to make me miss my turn at the green light. I mean come on, I sat there forever in a long line of cars watching the lights go from red to green, red to green, red to green until FINALLY it was my turn to sniff the sweet aroma of green light freedom. I fantasized about this moment for the last 5 minutes and even planned on changing my Facebook status to “Woo hoo, finally made it through the intersection. Thank you Mr. Green Light!” but you and your gaudy, flashy vehicle just HAD to be there at the same time and ruin everything!

Fuck you ambulance, what’s the rush? And fuck you dying person in the back of the ambulance too. What, the whole world has to bow to you as you parade around the city in that kickass adjustable bed like some big shot? “Oooooo, look at me, I’m Donald Trump.” Maybe I would like someone to drive my lazy ass around, ever think of that? Selfish prick.

I hope you know I’m secretly hoping you die. Yeah that’s right, you make me miss the first 2 minutes of “The Biggest Loser” and I pray for your death. Seems totally fair and rational to me. You inconvenience me, so I hope you are inconvenienced by an exploding heart.

Ahhhhh, that feels much better.

I’m sure all of you were equally destroyed by the news of Bob Guccione’s death and, if you are like me, you will be taking the day off to mourn and reflect.

Rarely does mankind see greatness like Guccione. Playboy may have shown me my first glimpse of female pubes but Penthouse let me behind the curtain, so to speak. It was as if Bob Guccione himself was taking me by the hand and giving me an intimate tour of the female anatomy. Not too many grown men would do that for a 13-year-old boy and he deserves all the praise in the world for it.

Sure, it was scary at first, after all the first issues of Penthouse I saw were from the late 70s and early 80s when a woman’s pubic hair extended 6 inches from her body. Once I worked through the fear it was an incredible journey filled with head bands, baby oil, tan lines, Venetian blinds lit by red and blue lights, naked women washing cars and, most importantly, girls having sex with other girls. My eyes are filled with tears as I type this.

I fear that Guccione’s greatest gift to humanity will be lost. I am speaking, of course, of Penthouse Forum. Forum was better than the pictorials and it was nothing more than real letters from Penthouse readers telling real tales of getting laid. Yes, they were real and I don’t want to hear any more about it! I couldn’t wait to grow up because, thanks to Forum, I was under the impression young adulthood was going to be an endless parade of sex with hot housewives in their pools, sex in the woods with hitchhikers, sex in the grocery store parking lot, sex with triplets and sex that produced a minimum of 8 male orgasms. That son-of-a-bitch Guccione had me masturbating to words. WORDS!

Rest in peace sweet sweet Bob Guccione.

When I walk in to a house and see one of those awful display cabinets filled with little porcelain clowns and angel statuettes I immediately know two things… 1) I accidentally walked into the wrong house and 2) I am within 15 feet of a TV playing America’s Funniest Home Videos… ON A VCR!

In general, I hate clutter and believe less is more when it comes to home decoration and nothing is more horrifically cluttery than a small army of Precious Moments figurines staring you down with their giant heads and soulless eyes. Get a room! I really don’t need to have your filthy toddler love and under-aged romance shoved in my face. How do you think it makes me feel when I’m home alone, drunk, with no girlfriend* and no chance for sex in the near future but somehow these two children have managed to meet, date, fall in love, get engaged, plan a wedding, PAY for a wedding and go to Disney World on their honeymoon, all at the ripe old age of seven? What’s so fucking Precious about that?

We’ll see how long it lasts.

*Sorry ladies, I actually have a girlfriend.

You proud of yourself, God? I bet you think you are king of the fucking universe right now, don’t you? All high and mighty, sitting up there on your cloud, killing two beloved TV parents in the same week. As Christian Bale says, “OH, GOOD FOR YOU!”

Well you finally did it, you made Wally and Beaver orphans. I know you have been dreaming of this day for a long time and now you can kick up your old man feet on some stupid cloud La-Z-Boy® recliner that’s made out of clouds and smells like clouds and give yourself  a nice slow clap. I watched “Leave it to Beaver” every day after Junior High so I can’t help but think some of this was aimed at hurting me.

Let me get this straight, God… Guy Fieri gets to wake up tomorrow and put on his favorite flame-covered bowling shirt but June fucking Cleaver is six feet under? Yeah yeah, don’t give me this “she was 94 years old” bullshit, you’re God, give unto her the ability to live forever! Dick.

Barbara Billingsley being awesome

And then this shit happens…

Sunday, Monday, Happy Days.
Tuesday, kill Mr. Cunningham?

What’s wrong with you? Tom Bosley was Father Dowling, A FUCKING PRIEST, for your son’s sake. Were you jealous that Bosley was on pretty much every classic TV show ever… Car 54 Where Are you, Get Smart, The Mod Squad, Bewitched, Mission: Impossible, Maude, The Paul Lynde Show, Love Boat, Happy Fucking Days, Touched by an Angel!?!

You wish your resume was that strong, God. Let’s see, what have YOU done with your life? You created the Earth 6,000 years ago. BFD! I entered a video in Madonna’s “Make My Video” contest on MTV in 1986 and they fucking played it on the air, TWICE, and said my name, but you don’t see me going around bragging about it every two seconds.

Let me see if I understand this… Mr. C. is dead but right now, as we speak, Guy Fieri is buying a totally “money” belt buckle that looks like dice? It just doesn’t add up.

I realize this Happy Days intro is from the time period when the show sucked and it started to look like the 80s even though it was still the 50s and Fonzie was a teacher or something, but I wanted you to see the super douche move that occurs at the 0:49 mark. Watch closely.