Yes my friends, the grass is always greener on the other side... except when your neighbors are puking cheetos on it. My girlfriend and I introduced ourselves to our fellow campers with a shot of booze, and we hit it off from there. Naturally, they wanted to reciprocate, and naturally, we couldn't let them one-up us like that, so what followed was a vicious cycle of shots and beers that only one of us would recover from. Needless to say, I was the hero of this debacle, and I got a front row seat to the ensuing puke festival - which happened to coincide with lobster fest, but that's another story. Yes fans, I woke up triumphant, while the others languished in self pity, betrayed by the alcohol. At what cost? Well - I was naked when I awoke in our tent, and my clothes from the night before where strewn about the campsite... My shorts, but not my underwear stank like pee. Either someone pissed on me, or I took off my shorts and pissed on them myself. Either way, for an undetermined length of time, I was naked in a public place. That doesn't matter because I felt well enough the next day to go on, while my neighbors and my girlfriend spent most of the day decorating the campsite. Being the competitive type, I admit I was jealous of the volume and magnificent display of colors they where achieving, but I wasn't jealous enough to join in. It didn't help that I was yelling, "come on, pussy, you can do better than that!" What's strange about the whole thing is that I actually felt a bit guilty for ruining our neighbor's day. It's strange not only because it wasn't really my fault, but I seldom feel guilt. One time I knocked over three legless war vets, and a nun just to get the last 'tickle me Elmo', and I felt nothing but glory. I didn't even want the damn thing; I ripped its cute little head off while laughing my ass off walking out of the place.
I guess I felt bad because they where determined to have a good weekend, but we proverbially, and I can't stress that enough, helped them blow their whole load in one night. In conversation they stressed a strong desire to go tubing down the river at 9am the next day, along with partaking in the lobster fest, but we helped them to do none of that. The thing is, we all had a blast the night before, but the next day, I didn't seem to feel welcomed by them any longer. Their cordiality was replaced by an overall malaise, and was no longer receptive to my friendly advances. I reasoned with myself that it must be difficult to be hospitable when cheetos are coming out your nose. So for the time being, I let them be.
When I finally wrestled my girl out of her funk, her and I wished our neighbors well and went tubing down the river ourselves at around 1:00pm. When we returned... our neighbors had dramatically transformed: One had a beard and was taller, and the other was a little boy! WTF? I thought to myself, "these can't be the people we where with last night!" As it turned out, those weren't the people we where with that previous night. They had left when we where gone. Being the conspiracy theorist that I am, I immediately thought to myself that they left because of us. Because I have no proof of this, I have no choice but to continue believing that that is the case. How could they treat us like that? I thought we where pals! After I finished crying, I flew into a rage and trashed the imposter's tent then kicked their dog into the river. They where not happy campers, but neither was I, damn it!
This is why I hate making new friends. Every time I do, some poor dog suffers.
I had half a mind to go looking for them, but half a mind just isn't enough to do anything so I simply gave up. My girlfriend gave the 'everything is going to be alright' speech as we where being thrown into the back of the police car. I hate that speech - but for some reason it helps a bit, especially when you where just maced. When asked by the police why I kicked the dog, I said I thought it was a rabid beaver bent on stealing my neighbor's firewood. After being pistol whipped, I fessed up to the whole thing. The story was so sad that they felt bad enough to let us go home with a warning and a donut. The donut was a nasty cream filled donut, but at least they tried.
After this harrowing experience, I decided to give up on making friends on vacation. It just hurts too much... Being maced, and pistol whipped is no good time, but on the bright side I got some sweet loving, and not from the cops. Apparently that's all one needs to do in order to procure some sweet intercourse - lose some teeth, your eyesight, and you're in!
Even though I told a heart breaking story about our trip, I would like to clarify that the trip, besides the above mentioned happenings, was a great success. We had a very good time, and will be doing it again soon, hopefully. I would also like to say that no animals where harmed in the making of this blog... except for that one.... who sustained no life threatening injuries and will be walking again in a few months.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Peace and Harmony is a fish sandwich away.
This world is so messed up and it is all because of me. No just kidding, I wish I had that much power. But seriously, our maleficent socio-entity can be summed up, only if we are able to determine the depth in which we are unable to understand each other. Understanding truly is the key to being able to live in peace and harmony. So - when I say I want a fish sandwich, give me a fish sandwich. Chicken is not fish unless you are eating at McDonald's. On a side note: It's a well known fact that everything on the McDonald's menu is made of grade D Mexican Turkitos (turkito is Mexican for chicken, and D is Mexican for digestable), they just use various flavorings (beef, fish, apple) developed by the Ronald McDonald house. And in case you where wondering, the answer is yes - that money you put in that little box on the counter is to pay for child flavor. Don't worry, that wasn't a Typo - McDonald's in no way condones child labor. Children actually serve as an excellent flavor enhancer - curiously, the lost ones taste better having something to do with over sized tear and snot ducts.
*Don't feel bad, some side notes are just bigger than others, just the way god intended.
Because TV told me so, I know, that over 6,000,000,000 people die each year because of such simple misunderstandings. Some will say that this is an exaggeration, others will say - "Shit - that has to be true. I can't count as high as the number of times I wanted to murder those bastards for fucking up my order!" Either way, this discussion will have to wait because my breakfast is ready...
Anyway, like I said, 6,000,000,002 people die each year as a result of simple misunderstandings. Whatever, it can't be helped. World peace may only be a fish sandwich away, but who wants world peace anyway? Want to know what world peace is? World Peace is a herpes commercial, or an episode of Lamb Chop, or worse yet - Mr. Roger's Neighborhood! A dicksgusting turkey meat sandwich is a small price to pay to not have to live next door to a talking lamb or a pederast, wouldn't you say?
*Don't feel bad, some side notes are just bigger than others, just the way god intended.
Because TV told me so, I know, that over 6,000,000,000 people die each year because of such simple misunderstandings. Some will say that this is an exaggeration, others will say - "Shit - that has to be true. I can't count as high as the number of times I wanted to murder those bastards for fucking up my order!" Either way, this discussion will have to wait because my breakfast is ready...
Anyway, like I said, 6,000,000,002 people die each year as a result of simple misunderstandings. Whatever, it can't be helped. World peace may only be a fish sandwich away, but who wants world peace anyway? Want to know what world peace is? World Peace is a herpes commercial, or an episode of Lamb Chop, or worse yet - Mr. Roger's Neighborhood! A dicksgusting turkey meat sandwich is a small price to pay to not have to live next door to a talking lamb or a pederast, wouldn't you say?
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
The fat girl infomercial.
I can't recall the name of this stupid little device, but it is supposed to remove up to six inches from a females waste line. Ostensibly, it is a tourniquet for your torso that squeezes the crap (Literally) out of your guts.... it may have been called the shaper... not sure. The question in my mind is, as a male, if confronted with such barbarity in the bedroom donned by a lying bitch, what do you do? While I would pull out my gun and force that fat lying whore off the premises, some of you will choose to persist in your goal for carnal pleasure because let's face it--the club is far away, you're drunk, and it was hard enough sneaking this chick into your parents house in the first place. You worked hard for the pussy, and you're not giving up - you are a trooper. Congratulations on being one of very few people in this world that can trigger my gag reflex with out sticking things down my throat (not dicks). So you made the decision to say fuck the gold, I'll take whomever was in the race. Fine. Here are some tips to get past the gut squeezing gadget:
Now unless you have one of the those nifty machines that separate tires from rims as they have in most mechanic shops, you will need a couple more beers to keep your buzz up through this amazingly difficult process. You might also want a pair of safety goggles to protect you from flack, and a lead vest to protect you from radiation exposure that I'm sure must accompany a release of energy of that magnitude. Finally you will need to download a set of instructions from the company's web site. I'm already on the FBI list, and because these instructions resemble those to disarm a nuke, I can't be bothered posting that shit here. We all know how hasty the FBI is. Plus, they're fucking gross, and I have a respectable reputation to uphold. I read up to step 38 before puking on my apple jacks (I like to challenge myself), and I can tell you that removing a tattoo with a spork would be easier.
If you have made it this far with success, you are one sick, horny dude. You are a locomotive and there is no stopping you.... but here's the thing: You have managed to get past the fact that she was the chick from the Wonka movie who got her rolly-polly-blue-berry loving ass kicked out by the oompa loompas, but there are other more disturbing things waiting to be rattled loose. You must take great care during coitus because it is a fact that when you reveal one physical lie there will be more waiting to fall off. I'm telling you, it's like an addiction for girls: they'd screw on a new head every week if they could. If you get to rough, it is likely you will pop out a glass eye, or pull off a wig which can completely ruin the mood. Of course, you are one horny dude, and I shouldn't put it past you that you like girls with glass eyes and bumpy scalps - 'to each is own' is what I say. But that's the least of what you might uncover--I heard about this guy in Houston who went through all the above mentioned hassle, screwed this chick with way too much enthusiasm bopping off her prosthetic arm to reveal a ghastly stump that was giving him the 'thumbs up'. He puked all over her back and ran off whimpering in the night. Poor guy can't even watch the Happy Days anymore.
In my opinion, it's much safer hiring a homeless guy to choke you while you masturbate. In this case, everybody wins; they need a job, and you have one for them. Now, you are one horny dude who is not endorsing the lying fat chick, who is helping the economy, and who is still getting there needs taken care of. But hey, besides being a fucking genius, who am I to tell you what to do - right?
Now unless you have one of the those nifty machines that separate tires from rims as they have in most mechanic shops, you will need a couple more beers to keep your buzz up through this amazingly difficult process. You might also want a pair of safety goggles to protect you from flack, and a lead vest to protect you from radiation exposure that I'm sure must accompany a release of energy of that magnitude. Finally you will need to download a set of instructions from the company's web site. I'm already on the FBI list, and because these instructions resemble those to disarm a nuke, I can't be bothered posting that shit here. We all know how hasty the FBI is. Plus, they're fucking gross, and I have a respectable reputation to uphold. I read up to step 38 before puking on my apple jacks (I like to challenge myself), and I can tell you that removing a tattoo with a spork would be easier.
If you have made it this far with success, you are one sick, horny dude. You are a locomotive and there is no stopping you.... but here's the thing: You have managed to get past the fact that she was the chick from the Wonka movie who got her rolly-polly-blue-berry loving ass kicked out by the oompa loompas, but there are other more disturbing things waiting to be rattled loose. You must take great care during coitus because it is a fact that when you reveal one physical lie there will be more waiting to fall off. I'm telling you, it's like an addiction for girls: they'd screw on a new head every week if they could. If you get to rough, it is likely you will pop out a glass eye, or pull off a wig which can completely ruin the mood. Of course, you are one horny dude, and I shouldn't put it past you that you like girls with glass eyes and bumpy scalps - 'to each is own' is what I say. But that's the least of what you might uncover--I heard about this guy in Houston who went through all the above mentioned hassle, screwed this chick with way too much enthusiasm bopping off her prosthetic arm to reveal a ghastly stump that was giving him the 'thumbs up'. He puked all over her back and ran off whimpering in the night. Poor guy can't even watch the Happy Days anymore.
In my opinion, it's much safer hiring a homeless guy to choke you while you masturbate. In this case, everybody wins; they need a job, and you have one for them. Now, you are one horny dude who is not endorsing the lying fat chick, who is helping the economy, and who is still getting there needs taken care of. But hey, besides being a fucking genius, who am I to tell you what to do - right?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
