Ok, so Snopes clarified some bullshit in that original piece. Chicken glop isn’t “soaked” in ammonia to kill bacteria and it doesn’t contain eyeballs and assholes. I know. I’m sad too. But it does at least have tendons, and probably some gristle and bone chips. I’ve fallen in love with this mechanically-separated turd. It truly is chicken as god intended.

For those of you who are whining about how gross it is to batter and fry poultry frosting, fuck off. It’s no worse than anything else you eat. Yeah, they treat it with ammonium hydroxide to kill the bugs. But meat is 47% antibiotic anyway, and the PH balancers they use in beef create the same compound. Cake flour is chlorinated. High-end cheeses are mostly mold. Sugar is treated with sulfur dioxide. Pop Tarts are made from the tears of Internet trolls and the foreskins of Jewish elephants. Look it up, asshole.

It’s not like you eat anything better. Your daily diet consists of cum, blood and the other fluids that gush from the cloaca of paying customers. Yeah, ok. I could just stir some cheap barbecue sauce into my beloved cock slurry and drop it in the toilet. It would save time. But I’d be robbing myself of the awesome. Without that, my life would be as empty and desolate as yours. Fuck your life. I’m having nuggets.

Now there’s a case before the Supreme Court to determine whether or not picketing a soldier’s funeral is protected under the First Amendment. Most everyone agrees that Phelps and his ball-slurping goons should be kept away from cemeteries. And schools, and public parks, and animal shelters, and grocery stores, and charity events, and factories, and doctors’ offices, and stop signs. But some people find themselves reluctantly swallowing the cult’s chunky wrinkle foam. Not unlike that kid I used to babysit. Like that kid, these people are worried that refusing will cause more problems.

So we gas the compound, drag them all out, send the kids to kindergarten so they’ll learn to be human beings, and dump the rest of them on Bishop Rock. I’m sure the UK would be more than happy to disown the island so that it can be established as Phelpsopia. Let them see how fun it is to be taint polyps when no one’s there to hear them whine. No international visas, no exports or imports. If they want to jump ship, they get to live in a cage for three years to make sure they’re not just here to puke up their communicable tarditude.

Seriously, why are we letting them stay here? They’re buying American markers to make anti-American posters, and not the “I have a right to express my views” kind of way. More like an “elephant shit has nothing on me” kind of way. Fuck ‘em. Kick ‘em out and see how they like being cut off from our “evils.”

I’m gonna love the satellite feeds from Phelpsopia. “Champions of modesty have to go naked because their women are too fucking stupid to make clothes, and if men do it they’re gay.” “Last Bible rots, so Phelps carves the gist of it into a rock: God’s a Cunt and We’re Made in His Image.” “Monoliths resembling Easter Island sculptures are erected so the populous can shun them.”

I’m all for freedom of speech. Obviously. But this piss cookie is biting the hand that feeds its rotting, syphilitic mouth in a way that can’t be forgiven. When Christians think you’re a jackass, you need to rethink your life. And probably end it.

Fuck everyone who ever told me to stop drinking. I’m looking at you, twat drool. The only reason I went to that AA meeting was to suck the 80-proof from the veins of other attendees. If I wanted to hang out with sober douchebags, I’d go to fucking Utah. And I don’t just drink. I am the only thing keeping the neighborhood liquor stores open. You’re welcome, economy.

I’m waiting for other logical connections to be publicly validated. When are they going to admit that heroin makes your cock thicker? Or that Xanax makes you more successful? Or that Tic Tacs make you jump higher? They’re just afraid that the populace will privatize the drug market, cutting the medical community out of the deal. They’re right to be worried. I can make Tic Tacs out of pickle juice and powdered foreskins. Who needs you, corporate America?

Those of us who are smart enough to get shitfaced can rule the world. I am the charismatic embodiment of superiority and longevity. You will bow to accept the sacrament of my toilet tank sangria and soggy crackers. You will spread before me in Cadbury cream orgies and sacrifice your spawn on the altar of fetal alcohol syndrome. Those who dare to rise against me shall feel the horror that is the DTs, followed by coma and death. But if you follow me faithfully, my disgusting sacks of ball cheese, I will give you the sweet fermented nectar that will keep you relatively healthy.

Jump on the bandwagon, mindless clit-kababs! Mix 2 parts generic mouthwash, 2 parts whiskey – the kind that comes in huge plastic jugs, 1 part week-old orange juice, 1 part friendship bread starter, 3 parts soy sauce and 4 parts Nyquil. Top it with a scoop of rocky road ice cream and waive your right to sue me for damages. You may substitute mint-chocolate chip for rocky road if you prefer. Enjoy your perfect new life as a sexy, mysterious slobbering drunk.

Internet and animation are the new radioactive baby formula. As the new generations spend their formative years suckling at their sagging, ulcerated nipples, they become a new race of deformed genetic rejects. Pretty soon they’ll start rending their mothers’ teenage loins already addicted to Drawn Together. Congenital basement tans. Undescended greaster eggs. Like Pandorum, but instead of badass cyborgs who will hunt you the fuck down and suck out your guts, they’re Robert Carradine.

There’s a good side, though. All the women will have PhD’s, bloated tits and purple anime eyes. And the men won’t be capable of rubbing off their hymens with their kneaded erasers. Fertilization will occur when lab partners accidentally touch while reaching for the same beaker. Herds of tight tang with flaps like tender, delicious veal. I shall paint my bedroom red with the popped cherries of a thousand history majors in South Park panties!

I always thought I’d spend my golden years handcuffed to a bed smeared in liquefied corn dog, pre- and post-digestion, while a corpulent nurse-beast in sweat stained Tweety scrubs shoved a yellow tube up my pisshole. But fingering virgins while watching Happy Tree Friends is almost as good.

How can you help create this utopia? Take a photo of your pet being an asshole. Add a funny caption in Impact font and try your best to spell everything right. Forward it to everyone on the planet along with a coupon for the Aqua Teen ultimate boxed set. Then sit back and watch as humanity evolves into socially inept, cancer-curing, acne-riddled organic nerds. Oh, and get your hemorrhagic fever vaccine booster shot. Just in case.

Yeah, I crochet. And if you make one comment about old ladies, I’ll graft the empty scrotums of the homeless to your face and extremities until you’re the wrinkliest bitch since my grandma had that face circumcision thing. Virile, attractive young sexpots can have free time, you know. I make my living on the Internet. What else am I supposed to do while oily old men leave jizz stains on the back wall of their cubicles for $25.95 a month?

I’ve been doing afghans mostly, but I also have a collection of soul-sucking demons from beyond. And I once made a yarn condom. It was reversible and ribbed on one side. I even used baby yarn so it would feel at home. The Amish loved it. I bet when Granny taught me how to crochet she didn’t envision me altering a baby bonnet pattern to make a sack cozy that heats your sperm to a conveniently fatal temperature.

I love doing shit like that – taking innocent things and turning them into vortexes of perverted bile. Like my S&M-inspired cross-stitch. Or my lovingly quilted cock-shaped pillow. Or my fetus sausage. And don’t get me started on what I do with crayons… unless you want to spray the neighborhood with vomit.

Everything can be perved. That hammock out back is begging to be a fuck swing. You don’t even have to move it! I like to hit the estate sales. Cuntwad grandkids don’t need piano legs but I need a new urethral stretcher. Once I even got the carcass. Finally I can display my “Your Little Princess’s Bloated, Decapitated Corpse is my Little Whore” bumper sticker. Delicious.

But taking normal shit and fucking it up isn’t quite as satisfying as taking fucked-up shit and making it look normal. When I wash the toddler tears out of my killin’ shirt, I can pass as a woman. This one time, they even let me into a church. You probably read about it in the obituaries.

Without my rage, I am a shell of my former self. Do you tear out a lion’s claws or a cannibal’s teeth? Not unless you want lion bites or cannibal scratches. Leave my extra Y chromosome alone. It’s what gives me a spring in my step. Now I have to wind myself up just to pluck out an annoying guy’s prostate like a swollen glandular grape. I think I know what it’s like to be a geriatric porn star.

But I’ve found a solution! Good old American moonshine. Turns out, shine is triple-distilled bootlegged bathtub angry. It makes sense now that I think of it. Who is more likely to kick your ass – that gap-toothed Tanqueray guy or a wrinkled old woman with a length of copper pipe and a shotgun? These backwoods motherfuckers haven’t seen a dentist or a census worker. Ever. And when you mix that sweet canning-jar spooge with knockoff Mountain Dew, you achieve a whole new level of numb fingers.

It turns out that numb fingers are a sign of impending doom. Since I’ve resumed drinking, I’ve poisoned that cunt at the DMV and decapitated two obnoxious children with my throbbing cock. Sure I’ve gone blind in my left eye and I have seven intestinal ulcers, but everything in life is a trade-off. Do I want to drool into my lap and watch the second season of Futurama – again – or swing a bearded axe wildly over my head at a Chuck E. Cheese pizza party? I choose free bloodsoaked pepperoni.

So, my beloved taint blisters, I can continue to squeeze the sweet cheesy lubricant from your faces and use it to rape your puckered violet assholes. It would have been a tragedy to let go of such a beautiful thing. Thank you, militant Baptist Appalachians. Pray for my liver.

So here’s the plan. You sit still. I take this claw hammer and drive a few short screws into your frontal lobe. Let me know when you see god. Don’t worry. If it doesn’t work, I have an alternate plan that won’t leave you disabled. I’ll turn the hammer around, wedge the claws between your cervical vertebra and pry until your head pops the fuck off and twirls around on the floor, spewing blood like a Wacky Water Weasel. Then I’ll cut you into crock-pot-sized chunks, wrap them in butcher paper and save money on Christmas ham.

I admit I have an ulterior motive. If you scroll to the bottom of said article, you may notice a link entitled “Spiritual Women Have More Sex.” According to that article, the feeling of “connectedness” leads to a more happily promiscuous lifestyle. Apparently, “spirituality [is] the strongest predictor for the number of sexual partners, the frequency of sex, and the tendency to have sex without a condom.” Brain damage makes you spiritual and spirituality makes you a slut.

If you’re already a mindlessly religious skank – and you are – then I can only make one assumption. Once I pull the bag of paint thinner off of your head, you will be so spiritual that Buddha, Joseph Smith and the Willendorf Goddess will get together and talk about how fucking nuts you are. Your legs will snap back until you can listen to your heels and grow that way permanently, forcing you to spend the rest of your days “walking” along on your snatch,  propelled by your hormone-fueled clit.

Enter the spork. I’ll push it in alongside your eye and swirl it, like loosening a grapefruit section. Once your eye falls out, I’ll have reasonable access to your brain, which I will then prod with the spork until angels descend and bring your tits up three cup sizes. Sure, you’ll be blind. But between the fucking and the new gospel, you’ll be making a shitload of money. For me.

Like Mandy, I am fucking tired of toy companies taking a shit on childhood memories. Now, I actually didn’t have a childhood. And not in that “sucked cock for Cheerios” kind of way. I gestated for a couple of decades and emerged from mother dearest like a molting spider. But if I had been a kid, I’d have been in love with all that late 80′s stuff. So I have no problem pissing up the nostrils of the merchandisers who are ruining them for everyone.

My Little Pony doesn’t come in “baby” and doesn’t wear diapers. They’re soft plastic horses with ass tattoos and brightly dyed hair. Now all of a sudden they’re dipping their floppy, greased wangs in the ADA and demanding their own soda shops and pet stores. Why the fuck would a horse own a dog? I’ve seen ‘em double-team in a black and white video with one of those “classic” bitches. (“Classic” = “Beef Flaps so Hairy, Phantom Pubes Appear in the Mouths of Everyone Who’s Ever Watched this Film”) But I’m pretty sure they were partners, not some kind of Ivory Coast beastiality spin-off.

And now Strawberry Shortcake and Rainbow Brite are whores. I’ve seen ‘em in the toy aisle, lifting their sardine-soaked miniskirts so GI Joe can get a clear look at their anorexic piss slits. You can’t even rape a 10-year-old anymore. By the time they’ve gotten through preschool, their assholes need hinged manhole covers. Daddies everywhere are sobbing into their palms. I hope you’re happy, fucktard. Your fake-orgasm Polly Pocket has ruined American family values.

And while we’re at it, let’s pour our month-old leftover  jenkem down the throat of whoever decided that Barbie needed a divorce and a Snookie tan. She was a bleach-blond bulimia-factory a decade ago. Now she’s an ironic hipster icon turned fairy princess who sucks the unwanted fetuses from her sorority sisters’ bacon caves. Barbie’s a slut. A stupid one. She doesn’t need any help, taint grater. And her new boyfriend is obviously looking for a beard. His wrist is hinged, for fuck’s sake.

You know what they say. Those who don’t remember history are doomed to have a grade-A anthrax cock douche delivered by an unexpectedly friendly motorcycle gang. Our children need wholesome toys that can develop their self-image and social skills while covering up the fact that they’re doing coke off the headboard while that nice babysitter fucks them with a cucumber. These corporate piss garglers are robbing me of my goddamned innocence.

The deaths of thousands and destruction of their fetal infrastructure is pretty funny, but one thing bothers me like a Zippo being dangled precariously over the toilet after a weeklong all-vodka body cleanse. We’re exploiting their suffering with photo layouts and wounded-puppy guilt trips, and that’s cool. But we’re sending them aid… what’s that shit? I need that money for more important things. Our Economy My Urethral Porn Addiction > Their Lives.

Besides, they brought it on themselves. Don’t want a sudden fissure to swallow your screaming schoolchildren? Bitch, don’t put your country on the edge of a tectonic plate. Oh yeah. The hunter-gatherer-sweatshop types don’t get tectonics. So they can blame it on an angry god and stop doing something that obviously pissed him off enough to allow natural phenomenon to happen in a predictable place.

And why are we the shit sweepers of the planet? Something goes wrong and we fly in on the red, white and blue cock of justice, blasting thick globs of democracy all over everything. When their incompetent governments can’t help them, we’re setting up emergency Wal-Marts to hold them over. And then some shit goes down over here and we’re on our own. Where are these ungrateful bastards when we’re flooded or on fire? The least they could do is paddle over here in a canoe or some shit and throw rocks at the drought.

Bottom line: We just need to stop helping. Let’s take instead. We’re just as good at that, and it’s funner. Instead of turning damaged shopping centers into orphanages and hospitals, let’s just grab a tv and run. Granted, they’re last year’s model because these people are fucking poor, but it’s the principle of the thing. Find some woman carrying her own arm through a smoky alley, kick her in the cunt and put it on YouTube. Set up Red Cross tents and when they start crawling in, tie them to chairs and use them as blood donors. Ship it all to the US. Except if it has the AIDS. Then load it into a crop duster and rain gay death onto the masses. Fewer survivors mean fewer assholes mewling for food.

You know, in the end, I think our new approach to international relations will work out for the best. Watch everyone die, then move in and take their resources. Fuck the world. If they don’t want to drink mud and freeze to death in a cave, they can file the proper paperwork, take a citizenship test and move to the States. Where they can drink Thunderbird and freeze to death in an alley. They’ll still be poor, but at least they’ll be drunk enough to have fuck-to-the-death cage matches for our amusement. Totally worth the cover charge.

It’s about time someone did something about the crotch rot. And it’s not just these guys. You can get tea that makes your clam snot taste like a maple-raisin cookie! No shit! They’ll be tearing your pants off just to get a whiff. Especially fat chicks. Anything edible = instant wet. And you know how I love to super-size it.

Now, the first thing I thought was, “I should find a way to combine this shit with roofies, ’cause I’m tired of getting the bitches with two unwiped assholes.” But my second consideration is price. It’s fucking expensive. The pills are a blatantly ironic 69 cents a day. And the tea is two bucks, but probably tasty. Which one to pick? Well, I guess that depends on how much your cunt earns in an average week. Minus taxes and insurance, and offset by the six days of forced vacation every month. It needs to pay its own way.

It works for men too, by the way. So if his cream of asparagus makes you vomit, try sneaking one of the pills into his daily regimen. Tell him it’s super-Darvon or something. Then squeeze, cup the balls, suck, gargle, swallow and repeat. If you’re looking to get your MRS, this is definitely the way to go. Men like a girl with a great personality, as long as they’re begging to chew their foreskins every second of every goddamned day. Get your tongue pierced and he’ll be on one knee with two carats tomorrow. Drink the tea and he’ll spit-shine your roast beef while he’s down there. Win-win.

Anyway, it beats the shit out of the stuff I’ve been using to cover that beach-at-low-tide taste. Except that it comes in Memphis BBQ. That helps with the tips when you’re working truck stops. Guys who have rifles tattooed on their cocks with “Right to (Confederate Flag) Bear Arms” in an arc over the top love slow-roasted snatch. Proof.