You squeeze. You smash. You stomp. You use a hammer, but still you can’t manage the simple task of applying toothpaste to your brush!
There has got to be a less-reasonable way!
Your pathetic dumb ass is in luck. Introducing Touch-N-Brush, the magic toothpaste machine that does all the work while you do nothing more complicated than sticking something into something. It’s so easy even an idiot like you can get the hang of it after only 30 or 40 tries.
Thanks to your new toothpaste robot, you will never have to clean the bathroom again! Sticky bathroom sinks are a thing of the past, unless you have a teenage son, because I promise you that kid is jerking off in that sink at least twice a week. Probably the kitchen sink too. What is wrong with that kid?
Did your husband throw you down the stairs for walking in front of the TV during Monday Night Football? No problem pretty lady, you can still use Touch-N-Brush with only one arm. One fucking arm! Can you fucking believe that shit?
Are your kids also too stupid to operate toothpaste? Fuck ’em, who cares about those little shits. If it wasn’t for them you would probably be the world’s most awesome and cool and most richest rock star. Those kids stole your dream, Steve, so let their little mouths bleed.
“But what if I accidentally put rat poison in my Touch-N-Brush, will the dang thing kill me and my family?” Yes, yes it will.
I rarely (maybe never) personally call out people who leave moronic comments on this website, mostly because a majority of the comments I receive are pretty decent. When I say “decent” I don’t only mean people who agree with me, there have been plenty of intelligent comments that disagree with my opinions (even though I am always right). But the thing most of my readers do not realize is that I am flooded with comments on old posts on a daily basis. There are some crazy back and forth arguments that go unnoticed by most readers.
At this point I should admit that I LOVE hate mail, I honestly do. The hate mail I receive is some of the most entertaining reading material I get to experience and it usually just reinforces my awesome opinions on any given subject.
I realize it’s kind of lazy for me to write about this subject but I wanted to share a comment I received this weekend concerning those prancing, lip-syncing turds, Celtic Thunder. Actually I get a lot of funny hate mail on that one but this one really made me happy. It’s not the craziest comment I have seen but it still made my day. I don’t even need to explain why it’s ridiculous, just site back and enjoy…
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THIS PERSON CELTIC THUNDER ARE THE BEST SINGERS IN THE WORLD (ESPECIALLY DAMIAN AND RYAN) AND WHO EVER WROTE THIS ARTICLE I’M GOING TO HUNT YOU DOWN.!
YOU LITTLE IMMATURE FREAK SHOW GET A FUCKIN LIFE YOUR JUST JEALOUS BECAUSE THEY HAVE MORE TALENT IN ONE HAIR STRAND ON THERE HEAD THEN YOU DO ON YOUR WHOLE ENTIRE BODY. JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU SHIT HEAD, FUCK OFF, THEN GO AND EAT SHIT OUT OF A DITCH YOU SHITTY ASSHOLE!!!!!!……SUCK THAT…..WHAT!
Remember when we were kids and we would stroll down to the local penny candy shop to buy as many World Sauna Championship cards as our messy handful of nickels and dimes would allow? We would run home, with old Mrs. Walker’s crazy dog nipping at our heels the entire way, to see which of our favorite sauna athletes we got.
After gathering together in one of our various secret backyard clubhouses, the ritual would begin. First, the wrappers were carefully opened and that horrible pink gum stick was devoured as if it was $1,000 caviar. Next, we began to sort though the cards and the faces of our heroes would reveal themselves. It was glorious! Soon our secret fort would fill with the sound of excited young voices saying, “I got a Bjarne Hermansson!” or “No way, a rookie Annikki Peltonen card!” and “Timo, I got a Timo Kaukonen!” Of course some very serious wheeling and dealing took place for the next hour or so. Timmy would trade a sack of marbles for Skippy’s Ilkka Pöyhiä and Bobby would be forced to give up his pet toad AND a slingshot for his chance to own an extremely rare Katri Kämäräinen.
That night, next to me in the blackness lay my oiled blue steel beauty. The greatest Christmas gift I had ever received, or would ever receive. Gradually, I drifted off to sleep, pranging ducks on the wing and getting off spectacular hip shots.
You know how at the age of 10 we would all fill in Mad Libs with witty and intelligent responses like “farty” and “boobs” and “bloody tampon?” Well, we were all infinitely funnier than Lisa Lampanelli and her lazy insult “comedy.”
In fact, constructing a Lisa Lampanelli “joke” is not unlike filling out a Mad Lib. You simply need to follow this boring formula…
“You sir, in the front row, what are you a fuckin’ [racist ethnic term]? Is that [derogatory term for a woman] your date? You’re a lucky lady, I want to bang your [racist ethnic term] boyfriend because after we [overly shocking sexual activity] he will [commit a stereotypical ethnic crime]. Oh sorry, you don’t like it, I hope you get [fatal medical condition].”
Genius!
Fans of this hack will argue that I’m “overly sensitive” and “too politically correct” but the truth is I gravitate to offensive fringe comedians and it’s not easy to offend or shock me. Shocking is great as long it’s FUNNY! In fact the only thing shocking about Lisa Lampanelli is how utterly unfunny she is. She has got to be one of the least clever comedians in the history of comedy.
I would sit through 100 Carrot Top shows before I would endure even five minutes of this tedious bore. I would rather spend a night in Las Vegas with Guy Fieri declaring everything he sees is “money” than allow even one more farty joke from that bloody tampon to enter my boobs.
WHOOPS! All day yesterday I thought it was Friday. Guess what I don’t do on Friday? That’s right, I don’t share my hilariously important opinions on Fridays.
So everyone loses! Well, maybe we all won.
I feel that I owe you something, so here’s further proof that God hates parkour and does his best to sterilize all who participate in it.
Happy Birthday America! You are the best and never do anything wrong!
How the fuck did I ever figure out whether or not my beer was cold before the world’s smartest scientists at Coors figured out how to make the box tell me? Hey box, if you’re so smart why don’t you tell me why my parents got divorced?
I’m wondering if people who drink Coors Light might be mildly retarded because Coors finds it necessary to constantly invent space-age cans, bottles and boxes that attempt to explain the difference between cold and not cold to their customers.
Some of you elitists out there are probably using your East Coast liberal voice to say, “Can’t you just touch the can to see if it’s cold?” Oh yeah? Why don’t you get back on your polo horse Spencer, because the working man ain’t got no time to be touching no bottles and cans all day long. Real men are too busy chopping trees the fuck down and hauling them behind their pick-ups with chains to waste time checking the temperature of every beer they encounter. Even if they WANTED to check the temperature of a Coors Light it would be impossible thanks to their leathery man hands.
Wait, I just realized I have no idea if Coors Light is a “working-class” beer or not. Maybe it’s the kind of beer college guys in puka shell necklaces drink? Perhaps it’s the beer you are most likely to see spewing from the mouth of a 38-year-old woman in the parking lot during her 20th high school reunion as Phil Collins’ “Another Day In Paradise” can quietly be heard from inside the Holiday Inn? I have no clue because I literally don’t think I have ever seen a single person drink a Coors or Coors Light.
Isn’t it funny how, like, women want to, like, shop and get married but guys, like, totally just want to watch sports and drink beer?
I’m going to keep this short for exactly 2 reasons.
1) I got home late after dinner and drinks at the latest trendy hipster whiskey tavern (more on that later).
2) My neighbors are going apeshit because we won the Stanley Cup and there’s a good chance our apartment will burn to the ground by morning.
3) There’s only so much to say about these assholes.
4) It’s late, I’m tired and I hate blogs.
Sooooooooo anyway. Tonight was my second trip to the latest hipster hangout in Chicago. It’s more saloon than “bar” and the amount of waxed handlebar mustaches and suspenders holding up tiny pants is staggering. Apparently now it’s cool to look 90s… 1890s. Just ask loyal reader of this amazing website, Erica, about the transportation of her coworkers.
My point is this… FUCK YOU, YOU RIDICULOUS BORING HIPSTERS.
My point is also this… I have coined a phrase for this new breed of precious turn-of-the-century hipster and all I ask is that you spread it and make it catch on. The “Urban Howdy Doody.”
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.
