Hey great, you found a way to make creepy mannequins even more nightmarish!
Maybe it’s because I accidentally said “excuse me” to a mannequin once, or maybe it’s because female mannequins with erect nipples honestly turn me on a little, I don’t know but I just sort of feel animosity towards them. They stand there judging you with their perfect bodies and handless wrists, convincing you to buy shit at Old Navy that you don’t even like. They suck you in with their spell and make you ponder unthinkable things like, “maybe those Dockers would look good on me.”
Mannequins are assholes, but living mannequins are the poo that squeezes out of that asshole. I feel dumb enough at the mall without some vapid, shiny model giving me the stink-eye while I check out the crotch of their jeans. I’m sorry, I just need to see if it’s a zipper or a button fly. I can’t help it if you happen to be wearing those jeans as I slowly run my pizza-covered hands up the inner thigh of the Levi’s I may or may not purchase. Who told you to be a fucking mannequin for a living?
The word mannequin, when broken down to its Latin roots, literally translates to.. how the fuck do I know what it means? I just know it doesn’t mean 19-year-old-dumb-model-standing-there-making-me-feel-uncomfortable-while-I’m-staring-at-her-nipples.
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!
OK, here’s the situation, my parents went away on a week’s vacation and they left the keys to the brand new Porsche.
Sorry, those are the lyrics to Parents Just Don’t Understand. OK, here’s the REAL situation… I went out to dinner tonight, had a great time, drank some wine and now I don’t feel like writing about the topic I was planning for today. I would much rather eat beef jerky and watch Lost on the DVR, even though it will cause rage-induced vomiting from the lack of ANYTHING FUCKING HAPPENING! Why do I continue to watch this fucking show???
So, I will leave you with this. This is actual footage of the world ending. A friend (soon to be ex-friend) sent me this today and I felt like ruining your day too. I dare you to watch this all the way through until the end when things really get emotional. Did you ever wonder why Kurt Cobain killed himself?
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!
Lucky you, today you get to hear me complain about two things that suck.
1) The Apple store!
Let me first say that I love Apple products. However, I’m not a blind “fanboy,” rather I love Macs because they FUCKING WORK and as a graphic designer there is no substitute. Unfortunately I have had to spend a lot of time in the Apple store this week due to the cockless anus face who stole my computer. Have you been in an Apple store recently? They are bucking the system by eliminating any form of check out counter. Instead, each hip t-shirt-wearing employee has the ability to complete your purchase right there where they are standing in their skinny jeans. This may look cool, but it means the end of waiting in a orderly line to be served. The only way, literally, to be served in an Apple store is to stand in the middle of the floor with a confused look, like a sad puppy begging for a Snausage. It makes you feel like a whore standing on a street corner trying to out-whore the other whores.
2) Threadless iPhone cases!
If you have any doubt as to why I FUCKING HATE Threadless, please watch this video and it will all be clear. These fucking assholes at Griffin Technology and Threadless are acting like they cured cancer when they accidentally mixed their cure for A.I.D.S. with their cure for multiple sclerosis. Mark McGlon (never has a last name so perfectly described a lumpy tub of crap) practically has tears in his fat eyes as he describes the printing of doodles on plastic iPhone cases as “brilliant.” Brilliant? BRILLIANT?!? And if you ever wanted to see inside the empty mind of a Threadless design winner (and Threadless employee… hmmmmm), please watch douchebag hipster nerd Joe Van Wetering describe the BRILLIANT design process behind his doodles. Please get your gentle voice and Hitler hair out of my dreams and into my car, where I will drive you to a warehouse and force you to makeout with a girl.
Under the best of circumstances I rarely feel whimsical. I hate precious whimsy and I hate effervescent French clowns who run around spewing their made-up jolly language all over wide-eyed suburbanites who happily pay $100 to sit on their fat asses in a tent and watch miniature Chinese slave girls throw each other around with their tiny doll-sized feet.
Did I say I rarely feel whimsical? I meant to say I NEVER feel whimsical. It’s this lack of whimsy that prevents me from pissing my Dockers with excitement when the gay Cirque du Soleil clowns pull some “dad” from the audience and suddenly Mr. Pretend Audience Guy can fly across the tent, powered only by the warmth of his heart. Is it possible to groan so hard that you pass out? And don’t give me any of this, “Why can’t you leave your troubles at the door and see the world through the eyes of a child?” First of all, this stupid tent has no doors, and secondly, prepare your balls for the kicking of a lifetime.
The second worst thing about Cirque du Soleil is the way they keep repackaging the exact same show over and over by simply throwing some new bullshit meaningless name like “Zeedoo” across the marquee. “Oh, Zeedoo is totally different than Pü. In Zeedoo the contortionists are tortured Chinese girls and in Pü they are tortured Romanian girls.”
So what’s the worst thing about Cirque du Soleil? They gave this fuck face a job. If that doesn’t suck the whimsy out of you, nothing will.
I give up. What in the fucking fuck is going on? I honestly don’t know what is worse, a lamb born with a human face or a straight edge douchewad with tribal earrings and a fucking Adam Duritz back tattoo. For once, I am speechless. I need you to decide for me while I drink myself to death.
