If there’s one thing I think we can all agree on, Internet, it’s that thank God it’s finally November, and we can all ease up on being quite as aware of breast cancer, and go back to thinking about normal, healthy breasts.
As God intended.
I’ve tried and I’ve tried and I just cannot seem to get off whilst imagining malignant tits during my all-too-rare alone time. Not even if she’s Asian, and you know as well as I do that that’s saying something.
Happy September 14th, Internet, a date which will forever remain in our memories — nay, our hearts — as the very day when, just nine short years ago, cable television networks ceased broadcasting 24-hour news coverage of the terrorist attacks of 9/11/2001 and finally resumed their regularly scheduled programming.
Muslims hated us. We got it. So it was time to let the healing begin, the sort of healing which we all knew could only be made possible by way of the return of the Real World/Road Rules Challenge.
So Stephen Hawking doesn’t believe God created the universe. There’s a shocker for you. As if it’s even plausible to believe that God, having created man in His image, would look like this.
Although now that I think about it, some sort of cyborg crippled God would be pretty bad-ass.
Question: as a parent, were you ever to receive one of those creepy Megan’s Law postcards in the mail stating that a pedophile moved into your neighborhood, and if this very same pedophile lived with his girlfriend and her six year-old daughter, would you consider allowing your kid to play with their kid at their house?
Because I’m no child rapist. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Kids are gross.
If there’s even the slimmest of chances something like this might keep the neighborhood kids from running in and out of my house, yelling and screaming and slamming doors and freaking my dog out and spilling shit all over the place…
Well, I may just have to consider raping a child.
Listen up, ladies: if you never take anything else out of our short time together — that is, other than the toe-curling ecstasy of an orgasm so powerful you’ll likely die alone, forever shunning all other sexual contact with the newfound knowledge that you could never be as satisfied by anyone else, ever again (obviously) — it should be that, no matter how hygienic your husband/boyfriend/teenage son’s best friend (while he’s sleeping over (and you’ve been drinking (duh (and anyway, it’s not pedophilia when the woman is the adult)))) may be, if you decide to play with the head of his penis immediately after he leaves the bathroom, you’re going to get a little bit of pee on your hands.
He can shake it all he wants, but it doesn’t matter; touch the penis right after he pees, you’re going to need to wash your hands.
Best to let that thing air dry for a few minutes.
Listen up, men: if you ever switch to one of those front pocket wallets — on the advice of your chiropractor who said sitting on that old back pocket wallet was causing you back pain (on account of it being so fat because of all the money you have) — you will inevitably touch your ass on the back pocket, feel that it’s empty and, for a second or two, you will think you lost your wallet.
Also, this will happen probably five times a day.
And you’ll laugh it off the first few times, because silly you! Of course your back pocket is empty! You switched to the front pocket wallet a few days ago, remember? OMFGLMAO!
But let me just tell you, it gets old after a while.
Write this down, Internet: if I should ever @ you on the Twitter after, oh, 8:30 or so in the evening, you can rest assured that a) I was drunk, and b) I thought that shit was hilarious when I wrote it.
Speaking of which, do you know what’s even more fun than eBaying while you’re hammered? Waking up the next morning, checking the blackberry and seeing all the stupid shit you bid on, all whilst hungover. Yay!
Thank god for last-minute bidders. Although in hindsight, he did get a pretty good deal. And I probably could have gone $20 more. Maybe.
Hey LeBron. I hope your children contract the AIDS after having been fingered by a homeless person.
The next person who tells me “Happy Fathers’ Day” is getting a fork to the eye.
Here’s a haiku:
I don’t need a card
to yell “who’s your daddy?” and
slap your mother’s ass.
Happy Fathers’ Day, Internet. Even to you, prison tatted Waffle House guy.
I wonder if that oil slick floating around in the Gulf is going to help the Mexicans swim here more quickly. God knows we could use some more, what with Cinco de Mayo coming up. Hector! Otra cerveza, por favor. Ahora!
Good thing Arizona isn’t on the Gulf Coast. Am I right people?!?!?
So I flew to Baltimore last week. In coach. I was upset initially, but then I tried to convince myself it would be a fun sociological experiment, sitting so close (and cramped) near people that are so very far beneath me, intellectually and financially. Sort of like that TV show where Paris Hilton and her friend (who used to be cute but then she got knocked up so there goes that) went and did poor-people things like vote Democrat or wait tables or go to church.
It would be fun, I thought. Maybe even a tad humbling. But then I got on the plane and oh my christ you poor people are obnoxious.
I mean, waking me up to tell me the drink cart is almost to our aisle? Are you fucking kidding me!?!
No wonder they serve coffee in Styrofoam cups to the people in coach. Why should poor people care about the environment, anyway? It’s not like they have anything to live for.
But I digress.
In addition to digressing, I also saw a midget one morning in the deli next to my hotel. And I know you’re probably assuming I’ll make some witty comment about how gross midgets are (and omfg they so are), but you know what they say: when you assume, you make an ass out of yourself.
My first thought (clearly) was to demand the manager call an exterminator pronto or they could keep their three-dollar bagel. But having been humbled by the horrors of coach just one day prior, I decided not to freak out and, instead, to show a shred of compassion.
So I snuck up from behind it with plastic cup, caught it, slide a piece of paper beneath the cup, then went outside and let it go
I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately — sketching up diagrams and researching patents and organizing focus groups and the like — and I’m pretty sure I’ve stumbled upon what could possibly be my greatest idea for an invention yet:
A color-changing vibrator.
Turn it on, it glows a bright red. Turn it off, it turns to a darker maroon. Or maybe burnt sienna, but that’s something the aforementioned focus groups can help us figure out.
Because really, what woman wouldn’t love to be able to masturbate while on her period without the having to deal with the considerable inconvenience of clean-up?
That’s right. None of them.
And I know you’re sitting there wishing you’d have thought of this first, but haven’t we been over the whole “me: smart/you: not so much” thing again and again? I’m getting rather annoyed with your lack of focus, Internet.
If there’s one thing you absolutely must take away from this conversation we’re having, Internet, it’s that on the day before Valentine’s Day, the card section at Hallmark is no place to pick up chicks.
I’m not even kidding here. I don’t care how cute she is, chances are she’s already got plans.
And I know you were banking on the whole “you’re shopping for a Valentine’s card, so obviously someone else wants you, thereby making you instantly more attractive and desirable” angle working in your favor. But that’s only true for wedding rings, and not overpriced greeting cards. For all she knows, you’re buying the card for a fat girl. And really? You think the cute blonde in the Shoebox section is going to leave her boyfriend for some dude who can’t do better than a fat girl?
And look, I know you’re puzzled at the wedding ring/Valentine’s Day card distinction, because a wedding ring could mean that you’re with a fat girl, too. And you’re right. In fact, she probably is fat. But odds are she got fat during the marriage. Because who in their right mind would marry a fat girl?
Anyway, the point is that instead of casting doubt in the cute blonde’s head as to your desirability, the ring lets her know that a) you are, in fact, desirable to other women, and b) you’re married (i.e. miserable and desperate), so she can get what she wants with little to no effort on her part, thus making you more desirable.
Wake up and smell the coffee, Internet. Then take a sip. It may be bitter, but it’s eye-opening.
Happy Valentine’s Day!