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.)
October 18, 2009
· Filed under Angry · Tagged sex, euthanasia, christian, hate, shit, spam, ass, balls, lord, fuck, asshole, bible, child, faith, fist, future, yahweh, jehovah, buddha, cocksucker, bullshit, earth, scuk, genesis, fundamentalist, insecure, pathetic, hospice, jeho, melon, fucktard, plural, buck, rogers, cornhole, hebrew, hypocrites
I love when shit like this comes up. I can’t not read it. And when I read it, I can’t not feel the kind of glee that sucks it to the balls on the first date. Basically, this chick nitpicked over one word in Genesis and decided that the earth was already created before the story starts. And all the cocksuckers come out of the woodwork to debate the validity and impact of her findings. Fuck, she even says it’s detrimental to her own faith.
Repeat after me, fundamentalist Christian assholes: It doesn’t matter. Even if it’s true, it doesn’t negate the concept of Super-Yahweh: Lord of all Shit, just the concept that everything revolves around fucking people and there’s nothing we don’t know or understand.
Why is it that the one group of people who claim to be solid as a rock and built on infallibility and all that bullshit is the most pathetic wad of insecure chicken fisters? “We don’t need outside validation to believe in Christ!” Then why do you throw a bitch fit whenever anyone suggests that any other belief might be valid? “We are positive that heaven exists!” Then why are you so afraid of death that you stick feeding tubes up your asses, resist holistic hospice care and oppose euthanasia? “We’re all about free will, love for one-another and personal responsibility!” Oh? Then why do you talk shit about everyone you hate, then run between Jehovah’s legs like his massive spam melons will protect you from public outcry?
If the bible is an anchor to which some dude chains his morality, fine. But the fucktards run amok. And we must stop them by segregating them once and for all. Everyone who uses the book in question as a general guide but develops a sense of ethics independent of the lust/fear construct and is capable of social and political pluralism, step forward. Now, you three pick a new name for yourselves. I recommend Robo Sex Machines from a Future Universe, but whatever rubs your Buddha. Choose a symbol that represents your new title, like a cybernetic Buck Rogers cornholing the Milky Way, and wear it as jewelry. The rest of you get to stay Christian and continue wearing crosses. That way I know who to shoot.
I think we’ve all learned something here. Hebrew words – all words – are up for interpretation. Hypocrites are mouthy bitches. Our galaxy is an anal whore. And “Hold Christian Truth” is an anagram for “Teach Children Hate.” With n-e-n-e left over. Fuck you.
October 7, 2009
· Filed under Angry · Tagged afterbirth, balls, bitch, bite, blood, book, bowel, bowels, cocksucker, die, erect, fashion, fuck, gangster, ginkgo, house, jehovah, leaf, market, meat, mma, model, mormon, puke, putrid, shit, slop, treat, tree, trick, un, vomit, yard
I want one of these trees. Imagine it: a beautiful, leafy yard. Lush. Inviting. And dripping with seed pods covered in sulfurous afterbirth. Come to my home, trick-or-treaters, and meet the invisible mono filament trip lines, sending you face-first into the slop. My gate is open for you, Jehovah’s Witnesses. Who will win? The fear of hell that chases you on your proselytizing route, or the tree vomit that gently coaxes your stomach’s contents to join it? I’m not stopping you, leaflet-posting-guy. Give me your best effort.
With a stand of female ginkgoes leaning over the sidewalk, passers-by will get a taste of what lurks inside the house. Most will run. But a few will not be deterred; mostly the goddamned Mormons and guys who deliver the phone books. This means that I won’t waste precious time and acid on whiny bitches who die too quickly. Give me the strong ones. The ones who have the will to live, even when I tear off their legs and pour the blood into their gaping bowels. Even when I pry out their lower jaws and use them to bite themselves. Even then.
In fact, they may force the neighbors to put their homes on the market. With piles of ginkgo shit accumulating at the edges of their property, how can they resist the promise of one-fifth the appraised value? Of course, no one will actually go to the open houses. They may try, but they’ll just puke their balls onto the sidewalk and promptly leave in an ambulance. So I guess I’ll be the only one to make a bid.
As I accumulate more and more homes, I’ll plant more and more trees, releasing more and more putrefying seeds into the world. Soon, I’ll own the entire town. The families on the perimeter won’t give a fuck because they have seven acres of soybeans or something, and they won’t smell it. But within my world, there will be no one but me and the corpses of smokers. No children. No old people. No cocksuckers who think they’re gangsters, fashion models or MMA fighters.
I’ll just lay in wait, alternately burning the houses just to watch the flames and jerk off and erecting new structures so I can say “erect.” Until I hear the telltale sound of a trespasser: “Jesus Christ! It smells like a turbo skunk with diarrhea rolled in kimchi and stuffed itself up a dead Sasquatch’s ass, then burst into flames! What the fuck?!?!” It will be like music to my ears. Fresh meat.
It’s only a matter of time before I become my own country. Then I can finally fulfill my dream of receiving an offer to join the UN. And wiping my ass with it.
October 4, 2009
· Filed under Angry · Tagged breed, god, corpse, rape, whore, job, balls, marriage, secular, disease, murder, moral, fuck, death, asshole, mother, stupid, tit, child, sperm, girl, pussy, douche, violent, gangbang, garlic, study, rage, criminal, candy, mutation, home, relationship, philosophy, camel toe, gonorrhea, earth
In the catagory of “Stupidest Fucking Study on Children,” a new entry is placed. This one says that giving children candy creates violent criminals. We’ve already covered the difference between correlation and causation, so I don’t need to debunk the Necco Wafers = rape at knifepoint assumption. But it does raise certain questions. What is the difference between normal, tax-paying douchebags and the rest of us? Using absolutely nothing resembling the scientific method and thousands of taxpayer dollars, I have unearthed the truth.
What turns perfectly good sociopaths into nine-to-five assholes? It is a genetic mutation that silences the natural, beautiful human tendency toward murder. I call it the “pussy gene.” Individuals with the mutation show no physical deformity. Changes in the brain are subtle and usually not apparent in EEG and MRI data. The most reliable indication of the presence of the pussy gene are a combination of unique behavioral symptoms.
People with the pussy gene, who may be referred to simply as “pussies,” are usually materialistic, seeking to hold steady jobs that will enable them to buy homes and vehicles. They involve themselves in the lives of others by forming “relationships,” which often escalate to marriage. They believe they are recipients of messages from outside sources, namely “god,” “philosophy,” and “secular morality.” These messages cripple their ability to respond to everyday situations in a healthy way.
Instead of abducting young girls who dress like bar whores and gangbanging them in abandoned warehouses, they continue with their days as though they haven’t seen the perky tits and camel toe. When faced with an annoying coworker, a situation that normally calls for a corkscrew and a bucket of gonorrhea, a pussy might verbally express his displeasure in a calm and controlled manner. I know. It’s un-fucking-believable. And, shockingly, it’s widespread.
It is time, my friends, to join together to put an end to the genetic pussy disease. If you’re thinking about wearing a fucking ribbon and getting someone to sponsor you in a walk-a-thon, you are a pussy and should seek immediate treatment. And by treatment, I mean death. The only sure way to eradicate this deoxyribonucleic aberration is to round up the pussies, saw their heads off and fill their mouths with garlic. Identify carriers of the gene, lance their balls with an ice pick and milk all the sperm out so they can never breed. Granted, some pussies may evade the death squad, but in a few short generations the human race will be cleansed. Every walking man and woman will be rage-fucking each other to death. And Mother Earth will swallow the corpses and erase all evidence of civilization. Fin.
October 3, 2009
· Filed under Angry · Tagged victim, money, dead, corpse, rape, fetus, porn, ass, jail, disease, murder, blood, south, fuck, crazy, tumor, dyke, cunt, bitch, warden, danger, acid, fruit, rim, pain, twat, clit, susan, atkins, sharon, tate, carb, roman, polanski, manson, stab, retire, nougat, rot, origami, park, 401k
Susan Atkins, one of the Manson women convicted of Sharon Tate’s murder and the founder of modern low-carb living, has passed away. The 1969 rampage in which Susan partook was devastating, leaving seven people and one relatively viable fetus dead. It was by far the worst horror levied on director Roman Polanski. Except for that part about where he fucked a 13-year-old and they said it was a “crime.” As it happened, Susan was the downfall of the entire Manson family. She told a cellmate about it, which means that she was the one receiving a forced rimjob. That’s how they do it in the big house.
She’s dead, but that’s not even the funny part. They wouldn’t let her out of jail to die. She had one leg and her brain was full of tumors and holes. She was paralyzed, for fuck’s sake. Even the prosecution said she probably should be released. But she was still way too dangerous. Who knows when a geriatric with severe neurological damage is gonna drop some acid and stab some bitches and write crazy shit with the blood? Not you. And that’s why you can’t let anyone out to die, even if they’re already legally dead or a brain in a jar or something.
Needless to say, this fucks up my retirement plan. I was gonna just wait until I run out of money, then confess to all the shit I’ve done. Like that one time I tranquilized a stray cat and filled it with nougat and released it so it could wobble down the street, and the neighborhood hooligans caught it and stuck a firecracker up its ass and it looked like a Snickers bar blew its head off. Or when I dug a hole in the backyard and got caught fucking it and I lied and told the little girl that there was a corpse under there and I was dipping my cock into its dry, papery flesh, but actually it was squishy and rotting. Obviously. Who would want to hump an origami twat?
After I confess, I’ll get sent to prison forever. After five or ten wonderful years of dyke rape and warden rape and fruit cocktail, I’ll get some kind of disease. Not one of those bad diseases. One that kills you gently and justifies a steady drip of an awesome painkiller. But I’ll fake it and be like, “I’m dying, you guys!” Then they’ll send me home and I can spend my last days eating cheesecake and watching South Park. And right before I die, I’ll blow my head off. That means I’ll get away with at least one murder.
But thanks to this cunt, that will never work. When it comes time to croak, the victims’ families will protest my release and cite Ms. Atkins as a precedent. “What about all the cattle mutilations?” they’ll whine. Like I’m gonna just jump out of my wheelchair and get some candy and stickers and start another child porn ring. But it won’t matter, will it? They’re gonna let me die on a piss-stained mattress, listening to my cellmate jerking her testosterone-fueled mega-clit in the top bunk. Damn it. Guess I have to 401k after all.
October 1, 2009
· Filed under Angry · Tagged ability, abstinance, adult, america, asshole, bagel, beat, blood, brain, censor, character, child, cock, coffee, daddy, design, dumbass, education, eternal, friend, fuck, halloween, hampshire, hit, idiot, income, intelligent, iq, job, kid, love, lubricant, magic, mental, msg, new, orgy, parent, party, politics, rage, rectal, school, shit, spank, sperm, study, violence, zoo
It’s laugh-a-minute around here. The University of New Hampshire has determined that spanking unruly ankle-biters stunts their IQ. This is based on 1500 overgrown sperm who were given an IQ test, then another after four years. Murray says that the study took into account “parental education, income, cognitive stimulation by parents and other factors that could affect children’s mental abilities.” And that, “You can’t say it proves it, but I think it rules out so many other alternatives; I am convinced that spanking does cause a slowdown in a child’s development of mental abilities.” I fucking love studies like this, because they are the sweet, supple love tunnel into which I can pound my eternal rage.
For starters, let’s explain correlation vs causation. For all you dumbasses out there, here are two things that correlate: drinking coffee and eating bagels. One does not cause the other. They just happen to occur at the same time because it’s fucking breakfast time and I’m too hung over for eggs. On the other hand, drinking coffee does incite my infamous cross-species orgies. How do I know? Because the orgy only happens after coffee, coffee always signals an impending orgy, and no other variable exists (like, say, a trip to the petting zoo). This study only shows correlation, and can easily be turned on its head to indicate that children with lower IQ scores are assholes that need to have the shit beat out of them. Which is indisputable truth.
Now let’s take a look at their premise: Spanking is traumatic, so it keeps the brain from developing correctly. Children who are spanked don’t learn anything, which further hurts their intelligence. Let me tell you what’s traumatic. Baby rape is traumatic. And Halloween pranks, like murdering an entire family and heckling the lone survivor. And middle school. And we don’t just let kids do without that shit. It builds character. And you know why kids don’t have independent thinking skills? Because their parents fill their heads with intelligent design and abstinence-only and party lines and drugs-are-bad. (m’kay?) They’re told what to eat, wear, believe and do. Their friends are audited by the ‘rents. Their films are censored. Their language is controlled. And everything’s full of fucking MSG. Wonder why the future of America is so goddamned idiotic? They’re bred for it.
But the funniest thing about this whole mug of rectal vomit is that IQ doesn’t mean a fucking thing. It doesn’t make your cock thicker or guarantee a better job. (Isn’t it great to know that the people who pick celery for a living are smarter than the police?) It’s not a superpower, like a laser that cuts through bank vaults and makes you impervious to serrated weapons. It makes you pompous, shallow and boring. Want a better adult? Kick your kid until blood comes out his ears. Then give him some books, the right to disagree with the house standard, and fifteen minutes of alone-time with the cat. Let natural selection weed out the unfit specimens. We don’t need people with magic self-esteem numbers. We need ruthless bastards with firm opinions and open minds. And lubricant. Lots and lots of lubricant.
September 25, 2009
· Filed under Angry · Tagged arbys, balls, bbq, beef, bullshit, carnivore, city, cracker, crotch, dew, digiorno, food, friend, fuck, garlic, hallucinate, lady, meat, mountain, pepsi, pizza, placenta, shit, suck, supreme, syrup, tennessee, twat, whiskey, whore, xfiles
Why is it that companies make something that rocks the dog’s balls, release it, then take it away? That’s rhetorical, by the way. I know why they do it. They think that if they take it away, we’ll stew in our own crotch juice until they bring it back, then buy in bulk. Or they aren’t making enough money because the mainstream twats that infest this planet don’t know what’s good. Or they find out they can make or buy a shitty substitute for less and try to forcefully convert us from actual cheese to “processed cheese food product.” I call bullshit.
Did you know that Mountain Dew was first marketed in eastern Tennessee as a mixer for whiskey? (That sucks, by the way. If you want to drink whiskey, shoot it or get the fuck out. If you want a refreshing citrus drink, put on a skirt.) Since those days, the company has added high-fructose corn syrup, rat placenta, and a whole lot of other shit that makes it thick and cloying. I don’t the Dew. Until Throwback Mountain Dew arrived: cool, simple and way light on the ball sweat. Then it leaves. Nice try, Pepsi. I’m not going to drink regular MD. That shit sticks to my teeth.
And what about Food City’s supreme pizza with the self-rising crust? It’s like the holy grail of ‘za, far above DiGiorno and his cousin-fucking ilk in quality and far less in price. I don’t know about your local chain, nor do I give a shit, but mine does not carry it anymore. I have to choose between meat lover’s on the thick crust, or supreme on the thin-n-crispy. Hear me, Food City! This will not do! I love meat, as you well know, but supreme gives the illusion of vegetables. And nobody likes thin crusts. They’re brittle, tasteless, uppity crackers that can’t even hold toppings, let alone be dipped in molten garlic butter. FC cut the beauty that is the real supreme because its sales didn’t satisfy the corporate pigs. And I base that on absolutely nothing.
Bottom line: Shit that I like should stay in circulation. The shrug must be forever fashionable. The old X-Files needs to come back in a big way. And not that black-goo shit. The lamprey man-hallucination mycelium-carnivorous parasitic twin shit. And stop using the Arby-Q like a whore, taking it out when you need it to promote the “2 for 3 mix and match” and throwing it into the back of the freezer when it’s over! That delicious slow-roasted beef deserves better. If it were my sandwich, I’d love it like my first ladyfriend. Come to think of it, they look a lot alike.
September 24, 2009
· Filed under Angry · Tagged abortion, baby, barbie, construction, cumshot, die, donut, double, egg, embryo, exploit, farmer, fetus, fuck, gag, gangbang, goat, kid, mary, matryoshka, meat, mutilate, normal, parasite, paycheck, pork, pregnant, prolapse, reality, shit, sigourney, sperm, suckling, swallow, toilet, turducken, umbilical, vagina, virgin, weaver
Let me tell you, sometimes I wake up, pull the snap rings from the cuffs, toss the gag into the sink, head to the kitchen for a glass of tea, flip the laptop open, and see the meat of the next post perched defiantly on the front page. Today is one of those days. Pregnant woman, pregnant again. I’d link to it, but it’s one of those stupid Dunkin’ Donuts videos, so fuck it. Search yourself.
Her fetuses are two-and-a-half weeks apart, though presumably from the same guy. Happens to goats. In fact, I’ve seen a goat squirt out one kid from one breed of buck and another kid from another breed of buck, at the same time. Living proof that livestock are sluts, absolving lonely farmers everywhere. Time-delay Barbie says that this bitch ovulated while preggers, and that egg hooked up with the last sperm to leave the bar, and the new cabbage appeared. Disgusting. But everyone’s so excited because it’s really rare, and that makes it nifty!
Let’s talk about rare. Show me a woman who’s pregnant and ovulates, and her egg gets fertilized, then migrates into the developing fetus and starts to develop. A pregnant fetus. Now that’s interesting. I suppose the first cumshot would die if they left it that way, so they’d want to open Mom up, open the “baby” up and remove the embryo. How many fetuses get abortions? Put that on fucking Discovery.
Better yet, what if Mom is a total whore and it all starts at a construction site gangbang? I’d pay good money to see the three of them being separated, like an interracial Matryoshka. Waiting room full of guys in hard hats waiting to find out who gets to pay another 10% of his paycheck to yet another gaping spooge bag. We could turn it into a reality show, interviewing them individually while the doctors remove the womb wart. “Well, I just really hope she swallowed mine. I can’t remember.” “I should’ve known when she came stumbling through, Jager in her hand, salty cream dripping down her legs and pooling in those cheap flip-flops. Sometimes we can’t see the mistake until it’s already made.” “I really hope the second one’s mine, ’cause no way is that little nugget gonna live. And judging by the pork we were throwing, they’re probably not both mine. You know, statistically…”
The only thing more awesome is if they both have a vaginal birth and the first one is breech. Baby halfway down the canal, spreads its fat little legs and starts pushing. Like a blooming turducken… or the gnarliest anal prolapse you’ve ever seen to the power of eight. Double points if the little one starts hissing at Sigourney Weaver and drooling acid. Hey! How about if they leave the umbilical cords attached and pull them around like those wooden duck toys? That’s entertainment.
Because babies are slimy, parasitic biological anomalies. Like taking a shit that screams. I will only admit their usefulness if they’re being fucked, mutilated or exploited. Otherwise, they have no value to me. Or to anyone else. Have a baby. If it’s normal, nobody cares but you. If it has flippers or immediately turns to cannibalism, the media is there in a heartbeat. Now take a dump. Nobody wants to be called into the toilet to see it. But if it looks like the Virgin Mary, expect prime time coverage. In your hearts, you know it’s true.
