Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Bitches You Gone




So when I last heard those mouse squeaks I thought they were squeaks of pain leading to an agonizing death, but I was wrong. The next morning I walk into the kitchen hoping to find the mouse fighting for its life, but I was wrong. And I was filled with such anguish. The anguish did not stop me from vacationing to Ohio, getting extremely drunk at my friend's wedding reception and in the process hopelessly gyrating to Soulja Boy's "Crank That" in a dance off with a 10 year old boy in which I lost, but I was still harboring much resentment for the manufacturers of the glue trap even as I was driving back home 4 days later.


Well much to my surprise I found not just one mouse stuck by 3 mice adhered to plastic. Remy, the smallest fuck of the three, was dead already but his two bigger partners, Pinky and the Brain were flailing helplessly as they saw their doom personified as a lumbering 6 foot mass with a penchant for tugging aimlessly on his penis (refer to Winky Pull post). Instead of devising a plan to take over the world, every night these two bastards sought out to eat, piss, shit and fuck all over my fucking kitchen. Well their plotting and scheming was about to end and this chapter in my life was going to be finally over. I immediately cackled to myself and let them know their fate.


You're gonna die.


Well seeing these fuck sores move, squirm and eek their last cries sincerely fucked with my being. These disease riddled mutants grossed me the fuck out and I searched all over my apartment for a pair of tongs to handle the trap as I would man it across several treacherous obstacles including winding 3 story staircase, a 20 foot stretch of slick pavement, and a slew of vehicles parked in a manner much similar to how special needs children scribe their name until I would finally reach the dumpster graveyard. Well since I live in an apartment and do not own a grill, I never had the necessity nor desire for tongs until this very moment, so of course this meant I had to handle the trap by hand fearing the dynamic duo would spring free, bite on my hand, give me Rabies or super AIDS and then run back to their lair under my oven. I held on and extended the trap away from my body as far as I possibly could and pussied my way down the stairs, over the sidewalk, past the parking lot and to the trash cans where the duo would be tossed into a tomb of Mandingo semen, rotting chicken carcasses and shredded credit card bills as the final incomprehenisble words were uttered into their insignificant ears.

Bitches, You Gone.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Mouse Capture Update

I have just heard your sharp cries for help as you have just been baited into a glue trap with some Kraft American Cheese expertly placed in it. You are quite the fighter though as you keep on clanging melodically against my oven as if you are praying to your savior in Morse code. Your fight however is for not as you won't be emancipated. Even Obama, our resurrected Jesus can't save your rat ass now. Your only hope is to gnaw your limbs off one by one and use your nubs to hobble your way to safety. However since you will perish before that occurs, I leave you with this final image.


You is fucked.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Old School



I forgot how funny this song is. Extremely inappropriate.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

I'll get you motherfucker

Yeah you, you piece of shit.



You may have slipped past me tonight you prick. You may have squeaked in my oven, munched on my dog's food, and slipped past my poison for your extended stay at the Higgy Hilton. But your scat trail in my kitchen will come to a close very soon. You made the fatal fucking error of scurrying past in my periphery, then having the audacity to choose my unused kitchen vent as your future grave. Well you rat fuck, I just sealed your grave. I hope to hear you eek out your last shrill cry pleading for your life.



I'm sorry Remy but you're gonna die.

This is Your Face On Meth

Thanks to Sartastic Meg, I display before you the following anti-drug message.

http://www.drugfree.org/Portal/DrugIssue/MethResources/faces/index.html

If only you could put in a picture of a loved one into this website and have it show the aftermath of a meth addiction. I think that would send the message home.

This site however told me 3 things:

1) Meth causes herpes of the face to ensue.

2) Meth causes you to awkwardly grow an abnormal amount of hair.

3) Meth causes you to not wash or maintain in any fashion said hair.


I think Darwin would be a proponent of running a meth lab to get rid of wasted spawn.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Hobo Ice Capades

Feel like you're too old for the ice capades? Live in the city? Well my friends if you follow these steps, you can recreate ice skating magic you enjoyed as a child with your friendly neighbor hobos.







1) Gather some hobos. As T-Pain has told me, the best place to find these outcasts are at hobo dumpster fires. If you start to smell the combination of urine cake and the sweat of desperation, you're close.


2) Make sure it is a somewhat Wintery day. Actually it doesn't need to be snowy, or even freezing for that matter. It just needs to be brisk. Make sure the hobos aren't wearing their normal 5 layers of worn flannel. This should add to the effect.


3) Grab a garden hose and spray some water on the concrete. Coupled with their worn shoes, this should recreate in the hobo's mind the slick surface of ice.


4) Make sure your hobo is high or allow them to ingest food laced with PCP and Meth. This will allow the hobos to recreate some of their favorite Disney/Pixar movies in ice capade form.


5) (Optional) Add a trashcan for good measure. Do so only if you could acquire 1 hobo so that they have an romantic interest in the tale on ice.


6) Watch the magic begin. Brian Boitano, eat your heart out.




Do you feel like watching Cool Runnings but don't want to go to Blockbuster? My friends, I present to you Hobo Bobsledding. Follow these steps to recreate that cinematic tale right in front of you.


1) Repeat steps 1 through 4 listed above.


2) Make sure to grab a hobo from the fire that has a shopping cart. Grab 2 of them if you can to make it an actual race, but the PCP should provide some dramatic twists and turns. If you are stingy about accurately recreating the movie, grab hobo's with dredlocks.


3) Make sure you have your copy of the Gideon's Bible onhand. This can be used for a pre-race prayer letting the hobo's know that Hell is real and the forthcoming race will help slay the demon, or to possibly save yourself from eternal damnation for manipulating hobos.


4) Let the race begin! Make sure to have some branches and rocks to throw at the competitors to create volatile race conditions.








If Hell isn't fast approaching me then it can't be real.



Sunday, January 11, 2009

Reasons Why My Gape is Growing

I try to act like a hardass by making fun of the weak and the meager, picking fights with people who honestly can't defend themselves even if they had the mental capacity, and pretty much being the bastard that every expects me to be. Well to you nimrods, retards, cleft-palatte owners, hoes, hobgoblins, and hebrews, today is your lucky day. Finally here is some ammunition you can and should use against me.



So I have a little secret. You may have seen this coming from me being disbarred from the Man Card holding club, but now there is a legitimate reason. I've been harboring a vagina for years. Everytime I do something effeminate or something that shames all straight testicle carrying citizens, my vagina weeps then grows. Below are several reasons my gape is in full bloom.







1) My girlfriend has my testicles in a jar. Sad part is that she made me give them to her. I did so willingly. At least Lance Armstrong put up a fight.





2) I cried during Marley & Me. Yep. We're just going to leave it at that.





3) After finding out I had a mouse (or mice, not yet confirmed), I got my dog out of the apartment, put down some rat poison, and locked myself in my room for fear that the mouse would ignore the dog food it has been throwing to enter my room and nibble at what's left of my genatalia.




4) Besides the aforementioned fact that I have a shit ton of pictures of my dog on my phone (read Why My Man Card Should Be Revoked), I worry about all of the little scratches the dog gets from baiting other mutts at the dog park into chasing her around and around until they get pissed off enough to start attacking her. I treat the dog as if it were my fucking pussy child who couldn't stand up to the bully. A side note, it's pretty fuckin hilarious to see these dogs try to chase her when they don't stand a chance in hell.


What a way for me to out my girlfriend as a lesbo.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

The Illegitimate Children of Star Athletes

Have you ever pondered to yourself any of these questions?

"How many dumbass athletes are there that actually don't know how to use contraceptives?"

"Who is more of a bad father, Karl Malone or Gary Payton?"

"How is Shawn Kemp doing?"

If so, read the following blog.



http://www.faniq.com/blog/Athletes-With-Illegitimate-Kids-The-Comprehensive-List-Blog-17243



Priceless.

Sunday, January 4, 2009

The Winky Pull

I've had this blog way too long and I have not had a post about my exquisite penis.




Yes you read that correctly. Every guy thinks their penis is the exception. They think they're packing heat. They think if any girl caught just a glimpse of their mammoth cock, that girl would drop trough, spread legs and prepare herself for her gynecological exam. I'm no exception, except for the fact that my penis is way more awesome than yours. Guaranteed.



My penis is special. Unique. Breath taking. Some of my friends and people who don't even know me know my penis. They could pick it out of a cock line-up. Some could and would sculpt it out of clay as a memorial. You may ask, "Why is your penis so renowned that Ron Jeremy has grown envious?" Valid question. Some of my friends believe that it started with an unfortunate incident with an Ewok mauling. Other colleagues believe it began with a trip down someone's Yangtze River where only my innate immunity to malaria and jaundice allowed me to survive.


However these people are wrong. It actually all started early in my youth, before I was tainted by the stank of stale gapes, with a song my mom sang to me as a young child. A song written and performed for me about my love affair with my penis.


As a young boy, I did not have the ability to purchase my own clothing since I had neither a job nor any other skills besides the ability to build structures out of Legos. My mother would buy me briefs that wrapped my package just a little too tight. I had no idea that underwear was not supposed to chicken choke your developing nutsack; I mean I was fucking 5 years old. At the age of 5, you are able to dress yourself, but with clothes your mother picked out for you. Also at this age, I was knowledgeable of the fact that you aren't supposed to puppeteer your penis in public. So while I was playing games like "Duck, Duck, Goose" (probably the most discriminating game out there, blog post on that to follow) and Freeze Tag, my childhood genatalia would find itself in precarious situations. It would twist and turn and end up underneath my balls becoming rather uncomfortable. So knowing that I could not grab my junk at the time, I had to adjust myself by gyrating my legs, stretching awkardly, jerking at the waist of my jeans, and any other indirect effort of futility. So trying to remain inconspicuous, I turned away from everyone and grabbed my shaft through my shorts or pants and placed my prick in neutral position.


neutral position - a comfortable position for the penis and gonads in briefs where the balls are beneath the penis and the penis points straight up. Also known as 12 o'clock.


My mother noticed me grabbing at my junk and would start singing the song aptly titled, "The Winky Pull." If you don't understand where the term Winky is derived from, please wait for my remedial course. Here are a few of the lyrics of this simple, yet timeless classic.


"Ah do the winky pull, the winky pull,
Higgy's doing the winky pull, the winky pull

Uh Uh Uh Uh Uh Ah Uh Uh Uh Uh Uh"


This would prompt the following response said in the whiniest of child voices.


"Moooommmmm!!!!"

"Don't you bathe child? Stop pulling on your winky. You'll
get a stutter."



And sure enough I got a stutter. Many sessions with a speech pathologist and the late discovery of J-ing the O and voila! Stutter is gone. Ok the stutter was a complete fabrication. However what is not a lie is the fact that later on in my youth my mother purchased me a cup for tee-ball (I wasn't even a fuckin catcher) which was a couple of sizes too small. That made the winky pull even more of a public phenomenon.

Dad - "Do you think we got the boy too small of a cup"
Mom - "Well he sure does pull on his winky alot."

Fucking awesome.

But honestly, how many people have a song written by another person about their dick? Not too many. How many people have had that song written and performed to family members, school faculty, and any schmuck walking in the vicinity by their own fucking mother? Hopefully that population is limited to just myself and the inbred male population of West Virginia.


So the question you must ask yourself is, how much more awesome is my penis than yours? Huh? I think I've made my case.

Fuck, I've said too much.