You just made my list!

Sorry, no real post today. I spent the weekend trying to get ready for Christmas (and an impending move), so I’m using the remainder of my free time to pray for death. Here’s a little Christmas tip, never go to Target. In fact, never go anywhere. Never leave your house.

Does anyone still enjoy Christmas? Discuss.

Fuck you.

I hate these two assholes. Can I just say that I hate them and their fucking ridiculous 15′ x 10′ Manhattan apartment and leave it at that?

I guess we are supposed to find it charming that they spent $150,000 on this shit hole but it has the opposite effect on me. I want them to die. I don’t find anything cute about people who use their kitchen cabinets to store their clothes. I hate their 3′ wide bathroom and I feel sorry for their cats. Not because they also have to live in such a tiny space, rather I feel bad that the cats have nowhere to hide while these creepy douchebags have creepy douchebag sex in their creepy serial killer apartment.

I think this story is supposed to make me think Manhattan is wacky and unique, but it just makes me think Manhattan is absurd.

One of the perks of living in Chicago is our shitty weather. I would estimate that we get about 4 nice days a year. Spring lasts about 15 minutes. Summer is so hot and humid that it regularly kills the elderly. Our fall is basically the 2-hour period between 90-degree heat and 30-degree bullshit. Accordingly, it’s already freezing and snowy here, with a “major” snow storm on the way. Now is the time for all the old-school Chicagoans to start saving public street parking spots with chairs and piles of garbage. It’s a wonder Chicago came in dead last for the 2016 Olympics!

What was I talking about? I should be able to look up at the top of my screen to see my post title, but this new iMac monitor is so fucking huge I have to climb one of those library ladders to see the top of the screen. Boy I’m cranky today!

ANYWAY… I had to break out the giant winter coat today and I’m already suicidal about it. Sure, I could continue wearing my smaller, more aesthetically pleasing coat if I want to freeze my balls off, but I need my balls if I’m ever going to fulfill my dream of putting them on Guy Fieri’s face. So my only option is to wear one of those giant coats with a furry hood and 300 pockets. You know the style, rappers like wear them in the middle of summer. Sure, it’s a warm coat, but climbing into a car while wearing it is like trying to stuff yourself back into your mother’s vagina. Cramming your puffy ass into the car only causes your coat to twist, fold and seemingly grow 5 sizes, so getting the seat belt on is impossible, but no worries, you are literally wearing the equivalent of 8 airbags.

To sum it up… why do I bother getting out of bed?

Lame.


What could possibly go wrong? You’re jumping off a roof with wheels on your feet. I only pray that this sterilized him.



I masturbated to this.



What’s with these assholes and roofs? Best case scenario is two broken ankles. It’s as if someone has been videotaping my wet dreams.



I filled the bath with hot soapy water, lit the room with 25 candles, poured myself a glass of white Zinfandel and watched this on a continuous loop for 45 minutes.

Hey thanks leg, I was hoping that my innocent morning stretch would end with a pain so powerful it would cause me to piss my pants and scream into my pillow for mommy. I love to start my day by pooping my pants and whimpering like a lost puppy. What, you don’t pee and poop your pants when you get a charley horse? I do that and more. I cry and vomit too. I also sweat, sneeze, bleed out of my ears and ejaculate. It’s a real freaky scene, man.

I’m sure we have all been reduced to tears by a tiny foot cramp, but I can top you all. Your pussy cramps pale in comparison to what happened to me one morning. I don’t literally mean cramps you might get in your vagina, I was simply trying to imply that my worst charley horse could kick your charley horse’s ass! Anyway… one morning I was yawning and my motherfucking TONGUE cramped and stiffened like a brick. Do you understand what I’m talking about? I got a god damn charley horse in my mouth! A tongue boner!

Top that.

You know how I know your band sucks? Because you took your band photo on the railroad tracks.

Sure, you tried staring right at the camera with that “What, I don’t fucking care about this stupid photo” look. When that failed you looked away from the camera and off into the distance with that “What, I don’t fucking care about this stupid photo” look, but that made you look like you cared even more. Damn it!

My advice for your band photo? Take a photo of your shit band selling your shit equipment to a pawn shop, then photograph yourself applying for a job at Circuit City. Then a few photos of you realizing Circuit City has been out of business for a year and you just applied for a job at a vacant building. You idiot.

Feast your eyes on the gallery of failure!

The mission of the Klingon Language Institute, is to “bring together individuals interested in the study of Klingon linguistics and culture, and provide a forum for discussion and the exchange of ideas.” If you translate that into normal human language, their mission is to “never bring a vagina anywhere near their penises.”

When I think about how little extra time I have in my life to do worthwhile things, and then imagine these buttholes sitting around on a Saturday night with a 2-liter of Mountain Dew and a Klingon dictionary, it makes me want to… what’s the word… makes me want to tlhaw’ these nerds right in the DIrons!

If this isn’t ghuH ghong, I don’t know what is!

OH-MY-GOD-I’M-GOING-TO-BARF

I know, we all have at least a couple of these unwanted little shits hanging around, but if there was ever proof that God is cruel, it’s skin tags! Their official name is “acrochorda” but you could call them “happy pretty sugar sacks” and they would still be just as disgusting. It’s not even that I think they are gross on other people, it’s more that when I find one on my body I feel like cutting my own head off.

I get happy pretty sugar sacks on my neck sometimes and usually don’t notice them until they get poked or snagged by my shirt collar. I can promise you this, the second they make themselves known I reach for the tweezers. Yeah, that’s right, I rip them off with all the subtlety of a wolf shaking a bunny to death. Do wolves eat bunnies?