December 12, 2009
· Filed under Angry · Tagged application, ass, beanbag, blond, cock, death, dick, feeldoe, fire, fish, fluid, french, garlic, hard, hose, insatiable, jock, kitten, korn, lighter, lost, meat, metal, nachos, oil, pillow, ronsonol, sausage, shove, silicone, slipknot, surgeon, toy, turtleneck, watchmaker, whistle, work
I suppose you’ve heard about how I set my husband’s cock on fire so no one else could have it. Yeah, not the best thing I’ve ever done, although it ranks among the top three in instant gratification. I should’ve listened to my mother: “If you break your toys, you’ll have nothing left to play with!” I had intended to buy him a Feeldoe to stick up his ass. Then I could still have my kitten kebabed, then lock his silicone sausage in a drawer while I’m at work. The whole death thing was kinda accidental. My bad.
So now I’m in the market for a new dick. If you have one, you’re welcome to submit an application on his behalf. That is, provided that said meat mallet satisfies the necessary qualifications (and my insatiable pickle jar). My new pleasure pipe must be able to read at a second-grade level and whistle. He must enjoy metal. And not Korn and Slipknot with their Frenchified size-queen overcompensation. I’m talking Watchmaker, played at eleven. And he needs to be able to complete secondary tasks, such as handing me the scalpel when I play surgeon on my girlfriends and pressure washing the house. Bonus points if he likes nachos.
You know, none of this would have happened if the goddamned thing would have stayed at home like he was supposed to. When I told him that there would be consequences, he just sagged over his beanbags and apologized. Well, sorry doesn’t cut it, jock hose. Everyone saw him at the park, making out with that skanky blond who drools garlic mashed potatoes. It really hurt my feelings. And there’s only one thing that mends a broken heart: a half-pint of Häagen Dazs and lighter fluid.
But, hey. You don’t have to worry about that. I’ll feed you and play with you and buy you toys… I’ll even make a little ID tag at that machine at the mall so you can find your way home if you get lost. I’ll wash your turtlenecks and make sure your pillows are soft and smooth. Oh, and I’ll shove you places that aren’t on the map. But if you work hard, you’ll get a fish oil massage.
December 5, 2009
· Filed under Angry · Tagged 1-900, affair, ass, asshole, bank, beat, beef, bitch, blood, bone, cash, children, church, courthouse, cow, crackhead, cudgel, cum, cunt, damage, dead, die, dirty, eunuchs, fail, fetus, fuck, gun, id, ignorant, infamous, manners, marrow, meat, moan, odor, penal, piss, pride, rat, shame, shit, steak, stupid, suck, tattoo, test, transplant, trash, understaff, university, virgin, wait, wallet, warrior
Lately, I am at my most angry while waiting in line. Not because every establishment is understaffed, making the wait a bit longer. It’s because I’m always stuck behind an ass belch like you. Unfortunately, many places – courthouses and banks, for example – are guarded by balding men with guns. Even I dare not whip out a cudgel in the presence of such capable warriors. But it’s not hard to find out where you live, beef dangle, so stop pissing me off.
When the fuck did knowing someone who’s stupid enough to get caught become a topic of interest? If you’re reloading a penal calling card or sending money so your baby-daddy can get the precious USA Golds that will keep his asshole relatively virginal, shut the fuck up about it. Do your business quietly and get out of the way. Don’t ask the clerk if he knows how the program works, wax ignorantly about the unfairness of the justice system, or complain that your new boyfriend doesn’t want to put his name on Mr. Crackhead’s fetus when it finally emerges. Nobody gives a rat’s ass how trashy your life is. Go back to your gutter where no one has to look at you.
And how hard is it to take your ID out of your wallet? If that clear sleeve is too tight, don’t put the card there, fucksteak. You are completely unremarkable. Unless you have a distinctive facial tattoo, the teller will not remember you. And even if your odor is infamous, she still has to see your license. Pull it out and hand it to her. Don’t bitch about how inconvenient it is or demand to know what features have to be confirmed. And if you do somehow convince her to accept a dirty, half-hidden card with major damage, remember that I’m right behind you. I’m going to follow you to the parking lot, beat the shit out of you, take your paycheck, come back in and cash it with my ID. And guess what? She won’t check, just like you wanted. Asshole.
I’m a great supporter of public cell phone use. I have to keep the 1-900 girls in my ear at all times to drown out the chatter of the cow cunts around me. Otherwise, I’d get blood on my brand new blouse. (Six bucks at Ross, by the way.) But if I hear you above the moaning, you’re fair game. I don’t want to listen to you arguing with the married guy you’ve been spreading for because he doesn’t want to marry you. Newsflash. You’re not worth the cost of the cubic zirconia. I also don’t want to hear about how little Billy needs a bone marrow transplant or the great new church that’s opening where the university used to be. Muffle your cum sucker long enough to make your transaction and get the fuck out. If I remove and gently fold my new cotton-blend treasure, you’re already dead.
Basic manners and a sense of pride – and shame – should already be instilled by the time you reach adulthood. Children should be given a yearlong test when they reach puberty. If you can’t say something nice, or nothing at all, we cut out your voice box and give you a little notepad. If you can’t keep your fluids to yourself, you’re gently guided into the Castrotronic 5000. On the other end, eunuchs and potted meat products emerge. If you can’t stand single-file and keep from being a flaming douchebag for fifteen minutes, you fail life and get to fucking die.
December 1, 2009
· Filed under Angry · Tagged cheesecake, freak, jesus, abortion, math, chicken, david, bowie, balls, life, booze, humanity, hospital, death, fear, toilet, inspiration, surgery, bastard, taint, bullshit, fucking, physical, technology, cheeseburger, turd, redhead, medical, vegetative, consciousness, disorder, subjective, gianna, jessen, cerebral, palsy, monotheism, machine, jaw, break, seat, teeth, survive, caveat, goal, train, flaccid, knothole, kazoo, cremation, guinness
If I were in a conscious state but unable to communicate, resist outside forces, or assist in my own care… and if I had spent more than half my life lying in a hospital bed, listening and thinking… and if someone finally noticed that I was actually awake… and if I regained my ability to “speak” through the assistance of a physical therapist and modern technology… I’m pretty sure my first words would be, “Jesus, get me a fucking cheeseburger. And tell that turd-chewing brother of mine that I heard everything he said about ‘pulling the plug.’ Oh, and hey… don’t tell that redheaded nurse that I’m awake. Something tells me she’d stop coming in at night and giving herself the bowling-ball grab. Good thing she wasn’t looking for ’signs of life’ if you know what I mean!”
According to the medical community, this highlights the difference between a vegetative state and a consciousness disorder. According to this guy, whom I have no reason to believe, the line between tomato and minimally-aware tomato is the presence of intermittent responses that appear to be responses to stimuli (and not just a reflex). Now, I’ve seen a chicken play tic-tac-toe, and I’m guessing that the distinction is completely subjective.
But that’s not the thorn behind my balls. No, it’s the idea that a minimally-aware state constitutes life that has me scratching at my bleeding taint. This guy lived inside his head – and probably on the public dime – for 23 years. Weigh that against actual death after the ‘83 crash that started all this shit. It’s like Gianna Jessen. Yeah, she survived abortion, but only so she could struggle with cerebral palsy, multiple surgeries and lifelong reliance on others because she can’t do basic math. Sure, she can speak, but she can’t put buttons in a row. Plus, she’s part of the monotheistic fear machine that pushes for quantity over quality. Better off in a steel pan? I’ll let you decide… but if your decision is “no,” I’m breaking your jaw like the guy from the Reach commercials and mounting a toilet seat to your teeth.
Surviving solely to serve as an inspiration to others is bullshit. Do you really think anyone wants to be the guy that everyone points at and says, “thank god I’m not that poor bastard”? It’s the PC equivalent of a freak show. The only way to ensure that everyone gets to maintain their dignity, both in life and death, is to accept that there is such a thing as “technically alive, but totally not worth it.” Smash them in the head, turn off their ventilators, herd them into meat grinders, send a Sandman to track them down. Whatever. Just leave the living to the people who can actually live.
Caveat: Before you yank the feeding tube from my gut, make sure my 3 life goals are fulfilled. I want to meet David Bowie and listen to him play Bewlay Brothers and The Gang. Then I want to eat seven entire cheesecakes in a variety of tasty flavors. And lastly, I want to be the wrinkled, unresponsive track upon which the longest gang bang train in the history of humanity rides, each one signing a ledger as he drags his flaccid bloodbag from my overflowing knothole so that Guinness can verify the record. Then play Taps on a kazoo and light a match. Believe me; with all the booze I drink, the cremation will be short and sweet.
November 21, 2009
· Filed under Angry · Tagged shit, panties, ass, balls, ninja, wild, asshole, food, bear, toilet, homeless, animal, bone, cum, twat, suck, chili, cayenne, mice, cheerleader, sulfur, poisoning, dust, mite, water, impurity, toxin, free radicals, bacteria, dirt, glass, nuts, sack, danglers, filth, sister, shark, vaccine, mucous, manly, bag
Have you ever eaten something so spicy that you’d suck a cock just to get something to drink? The chili that’s been sitting in my refrigerator was like that. Basically, my husband emptied about seven jars of cayenne into a stockpot and added crushed mice to taste. Oh, and mushrooms. We like mushrooms in our chili. In cases like this, we end up with enough food to fill a cheerleader’s well-greased asshole, and we eat it for days. I tend to pull the pot out, set it on the counter, and leave it there while I eat a bowl of sulfur and tiny bones, just in case I want seconds. My husband is convinced that I’m going to get food poisoning.
But I won’t, and neither will you. Food that has been out of the fridge for a while is not lethal. Neither is carpet grit, dust mites or tap water. You all have this idea that “impurities” and “toxins” and “free-radicals” are some kind of microscopic army of ninjas just waiting to deplete your body’s whatever-the-fuck. Half the bacteria you douse your hands in alcohol to kill don’t give a shit about you and your neuroses.
The advent of the vacuum cleaner began the process of shrinking mankind’s collective balls. All of a sudden, it isn’t enough to take the rugs out and hit them with a stick until they look less gray. Now you’ve got to get rid of all the “dirt you can’t see.” We used to give dishes a few swipes with cold water and lye soap and call it good. Now we’re in a state of complete panic if we see “water spots” on a glass. Our nuts are now so small that they’ve migrated into the pelvis, allowing the sack to hang in folds and form the wrinkled twat that has replaced our once virile danglers.
Human beings are animals, and animals are built to live in filth. You know what we’d be doing in the wild? Sleeping in the dirt, motherfucker! With ants! We’d be eating raw meat with hair on it and drinking from green, gelatinous pools. (Think your sister’s panties with less stagnant trucker cum.) A wild human would shit on the ground and let his hair grow into actual dreads and never wash his hands or pits. Basically the most disgusting homeless guy ever + the Canadian wilderness. But you know what? One swing of his healthy, red-blooded crotch conkers and a rabid bear with a 30-foot conjoined shark wouldn’t stand a chance.
If you want huge balls, you’ve got to start eating everything off the floor. And no 5-second rule bullshit. It needs to sit there until it’s stuck in the carpet fibers. Refuse all vaccines and sit directly on every toilet seat you can find. When someone sneezes, run over immediately and rub your face all over him. And if he’s already thrown the coveted mucous out in a tissue, retrieve it and lick up the manliness. You’ll need that hearty immune system when you’re trolling for gutter whores with your enormous bag hanging out the back window.
November 11, 2009
· Filed under Angry · Tagged anal, ass, cancer, child, cilento, culture, cunt, dialect, diane, doctrine, eden, edward, fimo, floral, fuck, gangbang, harvest, heresy, human, humanity, ireland, irish, island, isolated, jesus, king, man, missing, monestary, orgy, outlander, police, raffia, spooge, statue, stone, suffering, testament, twat, wicker, woodward
So this guy owns a house on a remote Irish island with a small population. The house disappears when he’s overseas. When he investigates, he (and the police from the mainland) hit a “wall of silence.” 170 people in a space less than 3 square miles, and nobody heard or saw anything. The entire island is made up of artisans, living “off the grid,” under the shadow of the ruined bell tower of a sixth-century monastery. All that’s missing is Eddie Woodward with a corncob up his ass, watching a slow-motion, soft-focus orgy.
I’m serious as twat cancer, you guys. Their tourism information says that they are literally “one of the last places in Ireland that holds onto, rather than simply paying lip service to, traditional Irish culture.” They speak their own dialect and they have a fucking king of the island. There’s a ferry service. That’s it. And if one of the islanders sabotages your pontoon plane, you’re completely and utterly fucked. If a stone structure can be burned and demolished with no justice, there’s about a 247.9% chance that nobody will even report your ass missing.
I think I speak for all of us when I say that it’s a testament to humanity that a place like this exists. And that I want to be the king. Imagine it… a whole tribe of isolated heathens, keeping the community afloat with arts and crafts, desecrating Christian monuments and sacrificing outlanders to improve the Fimo clay bead harvest. Me and Diane Cilento sitting on the floor post-anal, laughing and singing: “Fair maid, says he, your kettle’s cracked. The cause is plainly told. There hath so many nails been drove, mine own could not take hold!” It’s so beautiful, I’m leaking from both ends.
Of course, I could manufacture a similar environment with a little indoctrination and a big-ass wall, but I love the authenticity of the always-been-like-this heresy. And as much as I despise children, I would enjoy watching my minions shit out the next generation of cryptic, increasingly malevolent and intelligent inhabitants of my private Eden. (No anesthesia, of course, because I feed from the suffering of women.) Especially when they get to be about eight or nine and I have the “responsibility” of organizing their first gangbangs. Nothing like the pitter-patter of spooge dripping from cunts that can’t even vote yet.
Now, I know what you’ll say. “You can’t do that to children! I’m bringing the whole police force to put an end to your debauchery! Wait… What the fuck is this? Some kind of statue? Fuck! Let me go! You don’t want to do this! Some part of you is still human! You know that your raffia crop has nothing to do with appeasing the ancient god of dried floral arrangements! Dear Jesus, save me! Arrraggghhhh!”
Or something like that. You know.
November 5, 2009
· Filed under Angry · Tagged sex, god, cook, rape, shit, chicken, herpes, fuck, asshole, monster, mother, child, butt, slaughter, bastard, twat, waffle, house, pot, taint, egg, iq, dane, eat, bill, eyeball, fried, grits, potato, julia, edible, o' charley's, microwave, moron, pus, kitchen, deep, fryer, orangutans, won ton, soup, restaurant, meal
What the fuck do I have to do to get an egg that’s cooked correctly? You’ve got people in the back there who do this shit for a living, and they can’t scramble an egg? You put it in a pan and apply heat until it’s solid. But I always get the runny whites all over my plate, contaminating everything I was gonna eat. Not only am I skipping out on the bill, I’m hunting down every last one of you bastards and serving your eyeballs to your mothers, sunny side up.
And if it’s not runny eggs, it’s undercooked fried chicken or instant grits and potatoes. Why am I paying for meals that are infinitely inferior to the things my husband puts on the table? True, he did study under Julia Child – and by under, I mean literally under, lapping the buttery dribbles from her thighs – but it’s not unrealistic to expect something edible from the twats at O’ Charley’s. Half their shit is shipped in anyway. Microwaving a frozen container of mushrooms is not brain surgery.
A guy with an IQ of 40 could do better than these assholes. Mostly because true morons take direction well and work best with repetition. But the actual salad wranglers are disgruntled former gas station workers who live on pot and Waffle House and shit herpes. They spend too much time thinking about how fame and fortune were cruelly torn from their grasp, and too little time paying attention to my fucking steak. I said medium, you pus-glossed taint beard!
I know what you’re thinking. There’s nothing we can do. We’re at the mercy of the invisible force of incompetence sweating all over our pasta in the back room. Well, I say we stand and fight! We rush the kitchen, taking the flat-top jockies by surprise. Grab any implement that’s handy and swing it wildly, flinging shreds of tenderized twenty-somethings into the deep fryers. Once the slaughter is complete, we will replace the staff with shaved orangutans. Why orangutans? Two reasons: 1. Being able to reheat baked potatoes is a real skill for an ape. 2. They don’t rape the waitresses behind the grease vats as much.
I think we can all look forward to a satisfying dining experience once the revolution is complete. No more runny eggs. No more overcooked broccoli. No more won ton soup with only two won tons in it because some cock-gargler can’t use a fucking ladle. Restaurants will be what the god monster intended: all the enjoyment of a home-cooked meal without the dishes. That way, you can get to the butt sex a lot quicker.
November 2, 2009
· Filed under Angry · Tagged adult, beastial, bile, bitch, blind, buy, children, chocula, circus, cock, count, craigs, cream, cunt, deli, diaper, emo, english, envy, fag, fan, fuck, god, hate, heroin, inbox, jerk, kitten, list, mail, necro, neurology, nuns, nyarlathotep, nympho, offend, pedo, placenta, psycho, slang, slit, spleen, testify, twat, webcam, whip, whore
You know what I love? Coming back from hiatus to an inbox stuffed with fan mail. Like Jay, who wants me to watch him jerk off on webcam. Or SandyBunny, who wants to buy the exercise machine I’ve been trying to unload since spring. But you know what’s even better? The hate mail. There’s nothing that reaffirms a catty, insensitive bitch’s self-value like catty, insensitive diatribes from random bitches. So lets dip into the pot of festering cock-envy and pull out a few gems.
One loyal reader that we’ll call “Jen Connors” (“417 Elm St, Dansing, Connecticut”) just had to weigh in on the overall tone of my blog. She says it’s “adult” and may offend young web surfers. Well, Jen, I think it’s pretty apparent that I didn’t write my piece on Craig’s List whores for a bunch of whiny slit kittens still dangling from a wet placenta. But if they happen on it, fuck ‘em. They’re gonna learn about the birds and the bees somewhere. Might as well be at the hands of a nymphopedobeastialnecrophiliac with an untraceable IP. If you don’t want your cabbages to read, blind them. Bonus: You don’t have to lock them in the closet while you shoot heroin. If they don’t actually witness it, they can’t testify.
I’ve had a universal call for blood over my use of the word “fag” in September. Intellectually, I understand that the word has evolved from an English slang term used to describe elderly and unpleasant women (like we use “canvas-cunted circus whore” today). It is best used to describe a feminine subject with undesirable traits. Like emo kids. On the other hand, I don’t owe anyone an explanation or apology. Within my dominion, I am god. If you didn’t think it was funny, blame it on having a sense of humor like whipped diaper-pail cream, not on my unwillingness to pander to it. And if that doesn’t work, I can always use the “I’m part of the GLBT community, so I can say it” card. Either way, fuck off.
But this is my absolute favorite. I consider the post itself to be a mild boil-over, but the comment I received is priceless. Thank you, Lola, for setting the record straight. Of course we wouldn’t be nearly as shocked if we knew that the woman was practicing adult neurology without a license. And we should, of course, always think of the children. But only select children. Because the children of the patients she treated have no right to be upset that some unqualified psycho was living her dream by poking around in their parents’ heads without any training whatsoever. Oh, and avoid any attempts at spell-check. Perfect. Any other limp-wristed twat waffles want to prove my theory of human inferiority?
So, it’s back to the grindstone… I just hope I still have some spleens to grind. You may not know this, but ground spleen is a proven homeopathic supplement that curdles bile into an ink-like substance. Doesn’t hurt if you harvest your organs from wayward nuns. In an alley behind a deli of ill repute. Under a full moon. While incanting. But watch your incantations. If you end up summoning Count Chocula, you’re just stupid. But if you find yourself staring into the endless face of Nyarlathotep, you’re fucked.
October 30, 2009
· Filed under Angry · Tagged condom, poison, tattoo, gift, necro, anal, shit, satan, kid, murder, skin, blood, death, cock, scrotum, fight, jizz, leather, cum, college, chocolate, virgin, goat, infant, garlic, san, quentin, strangle, vacation, scab, balloon, tragedy, ritual, coleslaw, kroger, colon, punch, coconut, peanut, butter, dark, sacrifice, puppy, violate, vermouth, brand
I’ve missed you, my minions. And by “missed,” I mean “strangled in my dreams in your absence.” I’ve been vacationing in sunny San Quentin, surrounded by perfect specimens of manhood and finishing my college thesis. Wish you were there. In the meantime, the cum scabs have been running free. Some balloon-humping kid disappeared and the news covered it like it was a tragedy. My inbox overfloweth with untimely topics and sweet photos of landing strips and gently trimmed shrubbery. But we need to forget about all of that for a minute and focus on the most pressing matter. And that is the night of satanic ritual and infant murder that we will celebrate tomorrow.
I know you’ve all received your invitations by now. If your invitation didn’t arrive, it probably poisoned your postman before he made it to the mailbox. Check the ditch. The flayed cock in the envelope has been tattooed with the address and other details. If yours had a foreskin, you should have detached it and sent it back to RSVP. If not, just come anyway. We can’t all be gentiles.
Remember to bring a dish to share. I’ve been marinating a virgin for about three weeks now, so all we need are side dishes. Coleslaw and shit. But for chrissake, put a little effort into it. If you show up with a bag of bbq chips that you just picked up at Kroger on the way over, you’ll be eviscerated and forced to gargle your own colon squeezin’s and run through a juicer and added to the punch bowl. If they’re sour cream-n-onion, we’ll let you try the hummus first. If two people bring the same dish, they’ll get to fight for the credit in the cage o’ death. So check with your buddies first.
If you’ll remember, there was some confusion at last year’s festivities. Apparently, some people thought that Halloween is not a gift-giving occasion. And others brought mass-produced chocolate products that contained neither peanut butter nor coconut. Disgustingly inferior. Fortunately, George gave me that hand-scribed copy of the necroguyacon, stylishly bound in a leather of unknown origin, so I could reduce them to a jizz-like syrup in a timely fashion. This time, be sure to bring treasures worthy of my dark grandeur.
Spiked anal condoms, sacrificial goats and fingerbowls of puppy blood will be provided. And I’ve rented one of those bouncy ball pit things. If you like my signature dish: violently violated virgin roasted vertically with vermouth glaze, I’ll be happy to brand the recipe into your scrotum. (The trick is to insert peeled cloves of garlic under the skin.)
