Picture this. It’s 12:47 pm. You have thirteen minutes to get back from your rub and tug, heat up a pizza pocket and turn your underwear inside out, when you emerge from Octopussy only to find an empty ‘87 Vega blocking your limited edition diamond Hummer with no driver in sight and a come stain quickly freezing on your cords. Shit son.
Where’d you go Disappearing Double Parker? Pop-in for a haircut? Quick back wax? Express AA meeting? Because regardless of how thin your spry-stache is, non of those appointments warrants the kind of hazard-light hold up you’re exhibiting outside our favorite topless breakfast buffet. Even Hitler had the decency to parallel park the Bimmer when he stopped in for his morning Sausage McSauerkraut. But no. Not you. You are much to busy and important. Especially since getting promoted to Asshole #3 at the Men’s Warehouse Customer Service desk. Better not be late.
Oh hells no. We are not gonna asphyxiate in our child-locked Buick just because you needed an emergency session with Dr. Psycho. Here’s a better idea: come back down here, climb into your Corolla and let us do the head-shrinking. It’s free and much less emotionally invasive. Could be hard on the organs though, so buckle up for safety.
Two hundred and seventy five assholes in, it’s time to talk about one of life’s most flagrant foulers. How it took us so long to call out this life-ruining cockroach vagina probably has something to do with the retarded amount of opium we keep receiving from our readers. Thanks guys. You’re the best. But we digress. Let us seize this moment of clarity to discuss a homosapien so low on the food chain, not even Bruce Phalange would take a nibble.
That’s right Willis. We’re talkin ’bout Shit Disturber, the instigating troll who limps around with an invisible shovel, attempting to unearth some horrible disturbance with every flick of her saggy wrists. In 2004, Will I. Am descended from heaven and proclaimed “the whole world addicted to the drama.” Shit yeah boyeee. And SD is the worst of them all, googling our names + “llama fucking” and forwarding the findings to the manager ten minutes into our Applebee’s interview. We had to use Crest Whitestrips and piss in a cup for that call-back!
What’s up lady? You wanna talk about it? Maybe you wage unnecessary emotional strife wars because you weren’t coddled enough as a child. That is sad. We feel for you. Dubya said no child should be left behind. That applies to cuddles too. So come real close and let us give you the squeezing you missed out on as a young anal probe. No,no, it’s ok. Closer…closer…Shhh, it’s not important to breathe. Close your eyes. Let the darkness envelope you. That’s it. Sleepytime.
Everybody gets thirsty; it is just a fact of life – like death, taxes and Blair Warner’s missing virginity. So when padre stops us and pleads to wet his whistle with a drop or two of our diet Fanta, well, we help a brotha out. Big fucking mistake! Because just as soon as we relinquished control of the aforementioned soda pop, did we witness our parched pal returning half of our Fanta back to the cup.
Dammmn, Big Backwasher, what ’s your affliction? Do you have absolutely no control over your tongue? Have you forgot how to operate your lips? Are you intent on causing SARStastic outbreak 2010? Because we cannot understand why you seem so determined to spike our punch with a mickey of your saliva. Maybe you were raised by Garbage Pale Kids. Perhaps your real name is Mucus Marcus. There really is no other explanation. And like the Massachusetts special election, you too make us want to puke. Taking a sip of someone else’s soda is much like buying a pool ball choker, once it hits your lips, all sales are final.
So listen up Sideburns, the minute you try to sneak a little slime back into our styrofoam, it’s go time. And by “go time”, we mean “go to the hospital time.” We’ve got your prescription right here in our paws, and guess what? Free refills!
Now listen here. We’re all for the new age of technological robotic living. In fact, we’ve gone ahead and set up one of those electronic mailing accounts, but the second some shiny new gadget stands in the way of our tongues and the Jonas Brothers’ lips, we draw the line. Tickets weren’t cheap and we may or may not have had to give a happy ending to the soccer mom who sold us these seats in the back of a Bloomie Nails. So when some tweenie skank obstructs our view with her 167 megapixel Cyberbot, we get pissed like John Meyer relieving himself on a 14 year-old groupie face.
Go fuck a Hanson brother Concert Obstructer. How are we supposed to get a glimpse of Gaga’s gash when the whole show is being filtered through your 3.2 inch screen? Put the memory box back in your fanny pack and enjoy the moment like the rest of us. How often do you get to see Keith Flint drool on someone in person? Your friends won’t feel the spit in their eyes, no matter how many identical pictures you post.
If we’re ever forced to sway behind CO at an Indigo Girls show again, we’re going to give the little paparazzi a taste of her own obsession. And that means muscling her 107 pounds into the lesbian mosh pit and documenting every donkey punch. EEEEH O!
Stupid Slurper. What the Shirley Temple is your problem? There is not one ounce of liquid left in the bottom of that 304-ounce Dr. Pibb. Give it up buddy, it’s a desert at the bottom of that wax cup, you’ve successfully drunk your way to Diabetes. Yet you continue to vacuum the bottom like an anteater on ecstasy.
Why? Why do you subject our ears to such a horrendous hum? Do you wish us harm, do you wish us pain, do you wish our ears to bleed like a heavyset cheerleader on her period? Because you ain’t scoring any more Slurpee, Sanchez. All you’re doing is annoying everyone in your vicinity like a eunuch air-raid siren set to 11. How about you just give up the dream and go find yourself something that can’t be ingested through a straw, maybe a loaf of bread, a cantaloupe, perhaps a Turducken? Just stay away from soup, because if we catch you setting your slurping sights on a cup of New England Clam you’re going down, red coats styles.
But don’t fret SS, because today’s your lucky day. You continue your Hoover act double time, and we’ll ensure you get to slurp through a straw for the rest of your life. With sponge baths too!
With only three and a half more years until global warming melts the earth and leaves us swimming in a tidal wave of Jon Lovitz’s sweat, it’s important to seize every opportunity to show off your wintry quasi-athleticism – snowblowing, icicle dueling, qualude luging, whatever you can do in spandex. So you can imagine our impatience when we get behind Hill-Hogging Telemarker, the Jane Fonda look-alike who glides from side to side at the speed of Kirstie Alley’s metabolism, taking up the whole mountain and forcing us to watch as they scrape away the good powder with every Gold Bond-sponsored lunge.
Skiing is dangerous enough, what with all the camouflaged white people, abominable snowmen and Germans, without worrying about crashing into a human windshield wiper in a urine-soaked ‘88 Spyder one-piece. On top of being a hazard to his fellow pole-wielders, this snowdouche is defying the laws of downhill skiing, namely going down the hill, by practicing a fake sport born in Crested Butte, a town who’s only other achievement is the invention of Heidi Montag, who is now also made of 100% carbon-Kevlar.
Next time you find yourself trailing behind HHT, give him a taste of his own horizontal medicine with a clothesline from the opposite direction. Don’t feel bad. Ski Patrol will be there soon and if they’re from the same year as his snowsuit, they’ll probably be topless and with Chevy Chase.
We hate you. We hate your destruction, we hate your choice of victims, we hate that you can’t strike Jeff Zucker’s house.
Seriously, go suck your own fault line. Next time we see one of you surface shackers shopping at Walgreens we are going to cause some of our own brand of tectonic shift with a 6.5 fist tremor right to your plates.
Oh, and Pat Robertson, you better watch out for an aftershock.
Donate $10 to the Red Cross by texting “Haiti” to 90999.
A topical round-up of people who’ve deserved it over the last however many weeks.
#1- NBC: Never before has a non-living thing had so much trouble making up its non-mind. Move the leprechaun up, push the chin back, get them to switch places – the whole thing is like an amateur porn circus, with no star ringmaster, but a lot of average-sized cocks. And the worst part is, nobody cares, because we all just wish Jersey Shore would play every night at ten on every channel. So here’s our recommendation: get the jacked-up, pumpkin-skinned, meatface who punched Snooki in the mouth to take Zucker out with 30 Rocks to the kepi.
#2- Harry Reid: Oopsie! Looks like the cat’s out of the bag. Senator’s a hood-wearing abolitionist and there’s a fiery cross burning on the lawn of his reputation. Turns out, the whole time ‘Bama was running for Prime Minister, dirty Harry was talkin’ smack about his complexion and vocabulary. And Negroes everywhere are now curbing their dialect to sound like 65 year old white men with glaucoma. You’re lucky Barack’s a pacifist Senator, because if we were in that Oval Office, you’d be dark-skinned by now. The kind that comes from caked-on blood.
#3- Tila Tequila: Ever since Casey Johnson bit the big one, Titty Patrone has lost all her sex appeal. What the Myspace Tequila? We understand you lost your fiance. Bummer. But your tears and confessed abortions are clogging our twitter feed, which wouldn’t be so bad if there were cleavage shots of you attached, like the olden days. Thoughts of loneliness? Really? Didn’t you become the avatar you are today because you had the most friends of any internet being in the history of internet beings? If you absolutely must spiral into darkness, at least rub on some Vicks Vapo Rub. And twitpic that shit.
#4- Whatever Minivan hit Joe Rollino: Dude was 104 years old and he doesn’t even get to die peacefully while having a three-way with Betty White and Dotti from The Wedding Singer? Bullshit Minivan. Take your automatic sliding doors and drive yourself off a cliff. Only after you drop the kids off at soccer though, ’cause that would be even sadder than killing a crotchety, old, almost-midget.
#5- Melodi Dushane (aka Crazy Chicken Nugget Lady): Listen, showing up at a McDonald’s drivethru after a long night of bum-showing at The Sultan’s Palace of Neked and being denied the greasy emotional comfort of breaded bite-sized rat meat would be enough to set us off on a Keifer Southerland-esque rampage too. So we sympathize with Crazy McNugget Lady, the poor man’s Alicia Silverstone who lost her shit and nailed some poor McDo employees in the acne. What we can’t understand is why she would expect nuggets at 11 am. That’s breakfast time biatch. Rub a McGriddle on your pole bruises and call it a day.
Few things in this world are as satisfying as popping a fat one. It’s like winning the Superbowl, sleeping with a super model and eating a super-sized nugget meal wrapped in a corn tortilla. But that doesn’t mean every time we find a volcano on our forehead we stop the press to erupt Vesuvius in front of the entire population of Pompeii.
Unfortunately that’s exactly how Public Pimple Popper rolls. Treating whatever shiny object they can find like a private popping platform, acne excavation is performed in airports, offices and restaurant bathrooms, exposing whatever innocent bystander has a case of the runs to a front row puss parade. It’s disgusting really, akin to watching a miniature face geyser give the mirror a bukake – nobody wants to see that. Especially when the person who just emptied their cheek cheese all over the restroom turns out to be your dental hygienist. That will leave you scared worse than Mark Sanford’s political career.
Seriously P3, do you really need to pop all your zits in front of a live audience? How about you just keep your blackhead burrowing to a minimal while outside of the barn? Deal? Good, because if you don’t, we are going to have to get all Proactive, and that involves deep fist exfoliation until the bruises match the blemishes.
Sharing a bed is nasty enough, what with all the suppressed farts, dried drool and night terrors. And that’s before you even fall asleep. Come shluffy-time, all you want to do is crush up your Ambien, close your eyes, and pray to Allah that the hairless Danny Devito impersonator you just had the sex with is gone by daybreak. Well good luck stallion, because Blanket Hog has other plans. Namely, freezing you to death through long-term exposure to the frigid air of the Flying Uterus Motel, with no quarters left to keep the vibrating bed running.
God dammit Blanket Hog. Where’s the empathy? Do you not see us shivering under the blood-stained top sheet like a shanked Eskimo ghost? Just because you have a doctor’s note describing your abnormally thin skin condition, doesn’t give you the right to bogart the comforter like a shock victim after seeing John Gosselin naked. There’s group therapy for that.
So, let’s make a deal. Next time you unconsciously wrap yourself into a tight little turd roll, leaving the rest of your group sex partners to die a slow hypothermic death to the tune and glow of Carson Daly’s Late Night Vagina Show, we’re going to hog something of our own: your face. And when you get it back, it will be just as wrinkled and come-stained as the hostage duvet.
Coat Check is a pretty great service. When you’re up in da club, getting your sweat on, you don’t want to be burdened by your Charlotte Hornets Starter Jacket. So when you have the opportunity to park that bad boy, you take it, knowing that when you are done two stepping, good old teal and blue will be there waiting for you. At least that’s what you thought.
See, you weren’t counting on leaving your jacket with Delinquent Coat Check Attendant, were you? And you definitely weren’t counting on returning your stub only to wait somewhere between 45 minutes and forever for your leather pea coat. But that’s how the cookie crumbles when you deal with DCCA, you might as well be handing over your fur to a blind goldfish with amnesia, because there is about a -300% chance of it ever being found. When today’s entry is manning the coat cubby, its like surrendering your jacket to the love child of the Bermuda Triangle and a Black Hole, not only is it never coming back, it’s most likely been beamed to a galaxy far, far away. Or at the very least Value Village.
What you’re going to want to do if you encounter a Jacky Loses Jackets-A-Lot, is stay calm. If meticulously describing your jacket’s details all the way down to the brown stain on the back, doesn’t produce said garment, a subtle coat hanger to the larynx, usually does. Just don’t forget to tip.
Whoa now. Before you get your hedge funds in a twist, hear us out on this one. Consider the statistics: 50% of all marriages end in divorce (196% if you’re Charlie Sheen), yet herds of brainwashed sickos continue to sign their lives away at the Oops-I-Got-Knocked-Up Drivethru Chapel and Car Wash every day to someone who will inevitably turn out to be a serial killer/show tune enthusiast ten years down the line. Gold Digger shows up on the scene with clear motives, a business plan and a charisma that could put Regis Philbin in a coma and she gets ripped apart like an Iraqi’s carry-on at DTW? Bullshit.
How about a little respect for a woman who willingly engages in foreplay with penises older than Andy Rooney if he stepped into a time machine and went back to before time existed? This bitch works hard for the money. And we’re gonna treat her right. So here’s to you mamacita. You can spin us into your web of silicone and peroxide any day of the week. And we won’t even make you sign a prenup, because when you find out we’re also screwing Janet Reno, you will be completely entitled to half our vintage WWF action figure collection. Just keep your paws off Kamala.
If you’re like us – and we’re guessing by the comments, you are – then you know when your computer only runs Windows ‘95, surfing the web can be a wee-bit disastrous. Especially when all your bookmarks start with “nude” and end with “chicken coup.” You’ll also know what you’re left with is an Acer laptop clogged with so many pop-up ads it looks like someone from Netscape threw up all over your screen, and herein lies our problem.
How in the Larry Flint are we supposed to catch the latest Lohan beaver shot or nipple slip if we can’t even make it past the coupons for “live girls”, “hot boys”, “diplomas” and “free Extenze” (which we may actually need)? Seriously. Every time we go online it’s all “buy this” and “subscribe to that.” It’s worse than the time we lived next door to the Avon Training Center. Can’t a guy or gal just dial up a little soft core without having to endure a University of Phoenix blitzkrieg?
Whatever MIT dropout invented the Pop Up, we hope they never lose that virginity they’ve so wonderfully cultivated. We also hope they cut us a little slack and stop blocking the door to what the internet was invented for: lots and lots of weird porn. Otherwise, our only option will be to pop-up at some nerd’s door and offer a 2-f0r-1, half price, 15% bigger fist to their face screen – and that’s a deal that can’t be beat.
Craigslist has given us many of our favorite things: above-average paying gigs as professional bone donors, a summer house in sunny Mogadishu, and a string of anonymous sex partners who put on the penguin mask without asking tedious questions. But sometimes, the intertubes backfire. Like when you agree to move in with Perpetually Naked Roommate after only meeting one time. In the “missed connections” forum. Sure his avatar was a huge pulsing cock, but how were you to know?
Now, we appreciate the human form as much as the next guy with a subscription to Hard Bodies and a lifetime supply of Nads DIY Bikini Wax, but PNR crosses the line. Just because Howard L. Brooks hosts the Christian Boys Choir meetings at his house every Tuesday wearing nothing but a baton and a pair of furry hancuffs, doesn’t give PNR the right to wag his prop eight around on game night. It’s like trying to play Trivial Pursuit with Noah Cyrus after she’s had too much happy juice.
If you happen to be rooming with the poor man’s Venus de Milo, quickly remind him you didn’t invest in eggshell terrycloth couches so he could stain them with the leftover hamburger helper meat sweats. Our suggestion? Plastify the furniture with the skin you scrape off his face.
While technically not a person, today’s entry is definitely up there with the all time offenders. In human form, Faulty Coffee Lid would most likely resemble something in between Jim Cramer and a toucher. It’s amazing really, how something with such a basic job can fail so miserably, it’s almost as if Michael Brown from FEMA was transformed into plastic.
There you are enjoying a double hot, no-foam, soy, chi, pump of caramel, pump of GBH, latte, cruising down 1-95 busting out to Men At Work, when all of a sudden you feel FCL making it’s present felt. And if having $80 worth of scolding hot liquid run down your neck wasn’t bad enough, what it ruins – a white cashmere mock turtleneck avec cats – is enough to make you pull an Alec Baldwin/Daughter reenactment with the lane divider.
Damn you Faulty Coffee Lid. Damn you for giving the appearance of functionality only to let us down when we need you the most. Damn you for laughing in the face of human progress. But mostly, damn you for spilling java all over our Men’s Warehouse suit ten minutes before our court-ordered sex therapy appointment.
Enough is enough. Next time you trick us into thinking you’ve got our back, you better watch out, because the fists you are about to receive are marked “extremely hot”. Except, that might make things worse for us. Fuck. You win again.
Ahh, the holidays. A time for Hot Topic gift certificates, Manchu Wok’s beef and broccoli special, and the Hanson’s Holiday Compilation on repeat. What could be better? Oh wait. We know. How ’bout getting maced with the essence of David Beckham’s taint as soon as you pass through JC Penny’s revolving doors?
That’s right friends – this is an ode to Department Store Fragrance Pusher, the jerkstore who’s sole purpose in life is to make as many people as possible smell like Britney Spears’ foopa in a given four-hour block of time. Not interested in reeking like Animale today? Too bad suckas. DSFP doesn’t give a Cattleman’s Whiskers what you want. Instead, he’ll fake you out by spraying one of those tiny horizontal papers over your crotch, leaving your junk smelling like Blackbeard’s Delight for the next four days.
So next time you get accosted by J-Lo’s fumigator, remind him his eyelashes are too long and pesticides are bad with a reverse-macing to the face. Suggested stenches include Smell My Dick by Tiger Woods and Kanye’s Fuck All Y’all.
Jesus’ birthday is coming up! To celebrate, we’re going to do what all good Christians do: hang ginormous socks from walls and stuff them full of shitty gifts we found last boxing day in the CVS damaged goods box. But this isn’t about Christ. It’s about socks. The regular kind you use to vomit in on the way home from a long night in Rodanthe. The kind Sock Thief, that invisible 97 year-old living mothball steals from the machine while you’re looking around for discarded Doritos 3Ds in the laundromat.
Some say Sock Thief is an urban legend, like Tiffany Amber Thiessen, or the All Reds Starburst pack. They say it’s our fault single socks disappear into thin air – that they fall from the basket, or get stuck in the lint tray. Wake up naysayers. The only inanimate object that walks away on its own is that evil Robot Dog with the crazy eye from 2004.
So next time your favorite Dora the Explora dick warmer goes MIA, make like Snuggles and rub this crooked pikey inappropriately in the face. Finish her off with a little mouth Clorox and a spin cycle to the shoulder blades.
When John D. Rockefeller first invented the office, we’re pretty sure he envisioned a plethora of people operating as one, a succinct shrine to capitalism, generating a symphony of sound all in the name of fleecing his gold pockets. What he didn’t imagine, and what is surely having him roll over in his golden grave, is that one day long after he chocked on his golden spoon, his piece de resisitance would be disrupted by one man with a set of golden pipes – and about as much control of his voice level as Tiger has with his long iron.
Well guess what, John John? It happened, and we feel your pain brotha. Every minute we have to sit behind Office Loud Talker is one more minute closer to us spooning you at the bottom of your gilded grave. No joke. Working in the same zip code as OLT is like trying to finish the Q4 numbers beside a bullhorn that is obsessed with the Buffalo Bills and blacking-out drunk. Its all “I TOTALLY LOVED THE WAY T.O. SPIKED THE PIG SKIN” and “FUCK, I WOKE UP IN A BATHTUB WITH BLOOD EVERYWHERE”, Jesus H. Christ, it’s enough to make you want to pull a double Van Gogh.
Now, if any of your out there in the blog-o-sphere also happen to have your own decibel-shattering co-worker creeping around your cubicles, do as we do. The next time Aaron the Air Horn blows his vocal load all over the back of your neck, remind him an office is like a library, and unless he keeps his voice down, a couple stamps to the trachea are way overdue.
Going to the gym is like making love to a wet poodle; you want to get in, get out, and make sure your hair isn’t too frizzy when you leave. Any setbacks just throw off your game, leaving you to think about why you came in the first place. So, you can imagine our malaise when some uncertified meathead in an Ed Hardy leotard interrupts our last set of cagles to offer some unsolicited advice about how our uterine wall would be tighter if we just extended our knees 27 degrees to the right.
Thanks Impromptu Gym Trainer. We’ll be sure to make that adjustment next time we’re working out alone and you aren’t rubbing our asses under the guise of selfless exercise tips. Speaking of which, where do you find the time for such altruistic behavior with all your neck shrinking, headbutting tournaments and lighter fluid chugging contests? Your time management skills rival those of Tiger Woods at an all-you-can-eat prostitute buffet. Bravo friend, bravo.
Should you find yourself being approached by a 235 lb ball of Dippity Doo in the middle of your reverse lunges, make like the lady in this photograph: accept his advice willingly and lay a silent crop duster as he positions himself between your thighs. And if you can’t muster the anal strength after all those cagles, you can always suggest he become a member of Crunch’s elbow-drop location. Membership is free and they don’t mind if you bleed in the showers!
#1 White House Party Crashers – Jesus, Tareq and Michaele! A national security crisis just so you can get on The Real Housewives of D.C.? Come on! Maybe if it was Orange County or even Atlanta we could understand, but D.C? Barf. Washington is like Epcot Center for middle-aged men and second-tier prostitutes. We hope next time you come within arms length of Uncie Joe, the secret service auditions for The Real Face-Punches of Douches.
#2 Fire Hydrants – Usually we have nothing against fire hydrants – they provide outhouses for dogs, sprinklers for kids and water for flaming Taco Bells. But then one of them had to go and lodge themselves into the front of T. Woods’ Escalade. Damn you fire hydrants! Instead of putting out fires, you’re starting new ones and now all we’re left with is a 24-hour news cycle dedicated to which holes Tiger dropped his balls in. Don’t make us tee off on your rosey visage.
#3 New York State Senate – Seriously Albany, when did voting “no” on same-sex marriage seem like the right thing to do? Did you fall down, bump your head and wake up in Texas? Did you forget you represent the state that’s home to Andy Warhol, Marc Jacobs and mother fucking Chelsea! The next time you vote on a bill by asking yourself “what would Tehran do?” we’re going to load Adam Lambart with ecstasy and unleash his crotch on yours.
#4 Crazy X-box Returner – Turns out having your X-Box freeze up the minute you are about to pass COD 2 for the 11th time in you grandmother’s basement is enough to make some people go postal. Just ask the 43-year-old dude who decided to try and return his faulty joy machine with a stun gun. Hey Wolfenstein, how about you relax? The teenage employee with acne and an overbite is not going to have the answers to why you’re still a virgin. If you don’t leave soon, Greg from Cinnabon is going to left, right, up, down you to the next level.
#5 Oprah Winfrey – Thanks a lot Oprah, there you are, all “blah, blah, blah I’ll save the world”, then you’re like “fuck it, I’m going to leave you suckas with Tyra and her giant forehead.” Well screw y…oh who are we kidding, we can’t stay mad at you. Please don’t go.
You know what’s great about hiking in groups, besides the sex breaks and splitting the cost of the shrooms six ways? It’s that warm, fuzzy feeling you get in your heart when you reach the peak and look out yonder next to the ten strangers you picked up at the truck stop two miles out. Except when you get there in the middle of the night because some lazy ass with acute asthma and random sleep apnea dragged tail the whole way, stopping every three and a half steps to refuel on trail mix. And by trail mix, we mean a 2L bottle of RC Cola and a six pack of dunkaroos.
You guessed it folks, it’s Dead Weight, the out-of-shape knitting major with a wooden leg who decided to take the advanced walking tour of Rome, only to drag down the rest of the group and sneak away for a nap in the lion cage at the Colosseum. Oh hells no, DW. We did not pay five gillion lira to watch you wheeze your way to the top of the Spanish steps, one cheeto-scented sweat stain at a time.
Fellow group members, if you should ever find yourself dropping whole sheets of acid while you wait for this useless formation of cells to figure out the whole walking thing, do the tortoise a favor and shove her head back in her shell. Just think how awesome the flashbacks will be.
Here at PWDI, we understand that everyone sheds. A little off the top, a pinch off the back and a smidge from the crack, it’s just human nature really – something exaggerated every time we jump in the shower to wash off the previous night’s tequila-infused Waffle House royal rumble. But what we do with the Cousin It leftovers after the final sausage link has been rinsed from our beards is what separates us from the beasts.
Of course, this is something lost on Ambivalent Drain Clogger, the yeti like son-of-a-gorilla who forgets that the hairball he, and sometimes she, leaves in the drain is not going to wiggle itself free. Instead, it’s going to clog the tub until you have a soupy mix of water, soap, urine (see #148) and hair soaking around the next person’s ankles – like being forced to shower in the Florida Everglades of nasty. And if that isn’t bad enough, once the sludgefinally does drain, all you’re left with is damp toupee staring up between your legs like a pervert caught in stripper headlights. Living with an ADC can make taking a shower scarier than waking up beside a Greek Centurion and Gerard Depardieu after a 36-hour bender in Cancun.
There are only two ways to deal with an Ambivalent Drain Clogger: 1) shave everyone in your house as bald as Michael Phelps ball-sac, or 2) turn your fist into your own brand of Drain-O and break up this little birdie’s nest with repeated plunges to the beak. Both work, but only one involves rogue follicles in your mouth. You decide.
Fellow Internetians, we apologize for the laps in postings, we’ve actually been holed up in our L-shaped bungalow for the past week because Pop In Pooper finally found out where we live. He set up shop outside the front door with a months supply of L.L. Bean catalogues and a long intestine full of revenge flatulence. If it wasn’t for the mini Cu Chi tunnels we built back in ‘93 we might never have made it out to the Internet café. Phu!
Speaking of bodily fluid malfunctions, check out the faulty gas cap on today’s entry – Boozy Bed Wetting Guest. This guy’s bladder control is about as safe as putting a piano-playing baby in a rusty MacClaren stroller. There you are trying to be a good high school/college/military/NAMBLA buddy, letting Ol’Hounddog crash in the spare room while he’s in town for the Bi-Annual Vacuum Salesmen Conference, only for Rummy McRummison to come back from the Bissell mixer so smashed that when he does finally pass out, there’s so much of the captain on the sheets you’re going to need a Wet Vac. Sure he’s sorry and he’ll pay for new sheets, but everyone knows that matters about as much as Carrie Prejean – buddy just pissed all over your mattress. That shit is like herpes, it ain’t going away. Ever. You might as well just turn your new giant urine sponge into a sidewalk trampoline for the homeless and cut your losses.
The only way to stop this pullout sofa soiler is to take some serious preventative measures. Think of your fist as a condom and BBWG as a giant virus-filled shaft – the next time he shows up at your front door, the best thing to do is roll a couple of right handers tightly around his head. To be clear, we mean punch him in the face.
So, here’s the thing: when Tony Danza invented the digital camera, it was with the intention of having the paprazzi upload naked snapshots of Rupaul quickly and efficiently, without the hassle of getting felt up in the darkroom by the old bearded guy who is always in darkrooms. But you, Picture Nazi, have taken the point and click to another level and Ted is very, very angry.
We understand that a trip to Cold Stone Creamery off Highway 50 might be a once in a lifetime experience – after all, the bathrooms do have those awesome glow-in-the-dark blue lights for Magic Card enthusiasts and heroin addicts alike – but come on! Is it really necessary to document the folding of the cookie into your double Mud Pie Mojo? Do we really need to pose with the underage sex worker moonlighting as an ice cream scoopeuse by day as she sings the anthem of obese people everywhere? And how many memories does one man need of the time he stood next to a sign that had a word on it that looked similar to his stepsister’s middle name?
Holy scheisse, Picture Nazi. Enough is enough. We refuse to enable your scrapbooking addiction any longer. So put down the Coolpix, unzip your neutral-toned vest, and engage in some undocumented debauchery for a change. Otherwise, we’re going to take a cue from the pros, stakeout your apartment and sell the pics of you trash-talking your cat at chess to the people at iplaychesswithcats.com. We’re pretty sure the rest will take care of itself. Say cheese biatch.
There you are: 5:45 on a Thursday afternoon, trying to finish up your last I-76 report so that you can prowl the local speakeasy for a recovering sex addict with low self-esteem and an ample supply of Vicodin, when out of nowhere the inappropriate fingers of today’s offender start making crop circles around your shoulders. And before your daydream has the opportunity to progress beyond the linen sheets and a furry 9-iron, you’re snapped back to your cubicle by the cold, hard, creepy hands of Touchy-Feely Co-Worker.
That’s right folks we’re talking about the high school gym teacher from a previous life who treats the office like her own personal Greco-Roman massage parlor, handing out shoulder rubs, back scratches, head taps, underarm tickles, ass slaps, thigh strokes, lower abdomen pats and bear hugs ever time she comes within five feet of your aura. It doesn’t matter if you’re in the middle of typing out an email, taking a call or telling your GP that the crabs have started fighting back, TFCW will take any opportunity she gets to treat your body like a container of Silly Putty at a German rave party – rubbing up on you like an automated car wash set to rape. Why Buffalo Bill feels the need to check every square inch of your epidermis in the work place is lost on us. But whatever the reason, this purveyor of petting makes even the most sexually frustrated sex offender take the lotion off their face.
One thing is for sure; next time Sexual Harassment Sally tries to give us an unwarranted strip search while we finish off the day’s numbers, we’re going to treat her to our own brand of Chinese Fistology, and Confucius say “only thing left to be messaged is heart by E.M.T.” Hi-Ya!
Birthing a human is no small feat. In 2005, a Brazilian woman pushed 17 lbs of baby flesh out of her buceta. If anyone could rationalize giving her kid a life-ruining name, it’s her. But guess what? She named it Bob. Or something. So there really is no excuse for the selfish twats going around knockin boots for the sole purpose of channeling Frank Zappa nine months later and releasing Dweezil Jr. into the world to be taunted and tea-bagged for the rest of his life.
Terrible Baby Namer, this post is for you. Just because Mr. and Mrs. Wiener were high on empty Pam cans when they decided to name you Seymour, doesn’t give you the right to take out your pent up childhood traumas on your own offspring. That’s called transference and our head shrinker says it’s pretty effed up. You better believe that when Wanna Towell is getting anally probed by Big Easy in the stoney lonesome after shooting up a private school wearing nothing but a peacoat, it won’t be anybody’s fault but your own.
A piece of advice TBN: next time you get roofied and forced into a threesome with Gwyneth Paltrow and Sylvester Stalone, better get to the baby-be-gone clinic quick. Otherwise, veto power is going to dub your lovechild Apple Moonblood and we’re going to have to change your name manually. To Smushed Face. Middle name: Bruise.
There are some things you just don’t mess with: a brotha’s family, his hair, or his Gameboy DS. But above all else, you do not screw with another man’s sustenance. Comprende? Why then, do some of you think it’s okay to bogart the Jalapeño Poppers when you explicitly agreed to share said finger food? That’s right Food Hogger, we’re el hablar con usted. And we’re mucho peeved.
Honestly, did you think we wouldn’t notice the half an atomic buffalo wing leftover after we just paid for you to scarf down the rest of the bird? Did you fall and break your mangina on Bernie Madoff’s seed? Because there is no way we’re letting you get away with a potato skin Ponzi scheme. It’s not that we mind going Dutch at the Olive Garden, its just that we don’t appreciate you trying your best Takeru Kobayashi impression on the Tuscan Spinach dip when we’re supposed to be going halfsies. Didn’t your Scout leader ever tell you that sharing is caring? Over “Shirley Temples?” In the backseat of his Winnebago? Every second Saturday? Without pants? No? Weird.
Nonetheless, here’s the lay of the land Rush Limbaugh: you better learn what it’s like to split a plate of crab cakes real fast. Otherwise we’re going to learn how to split your upper lip with a bread stick. And there’s no way we’re throwing in for the medical bill. But don’t worry, ‘Bama should have you covered by 2052.
Not much is worse than having a masked stranger shove their latexed paws down your throat and treat your gums like a callgirl backstage at a B4-4 show. Except when said mouth raper has the audacity to channel Joy Behar in an exclusive interview with Barbara Streisand midway through your root canal.
Holy fluoride Chatterbox Dentist! What the lateral incisor is wrong with you? Clearly, we cannot answer your questions about whether the market is bouncing back. And it’s not only because we don’t understand math, it’s ’cause there are two filthy clown hands blocking our aorta and we’re pretty sure they’re yours. And if they’re not, we demand to know what’s going on, because we refuse to be manhandled like an uncomfortably sexual episode of Seinfeld. Don’t pretend you don’t know the one. You plaque pushers love that shit.
If we show up six months from now and you’re still feeling the urge to make small talk while we gag in your palm, we’re going to turn the squeaky tool tables and give you an oral exam you never forget. So get out the Nitrous, pick a probe, set the TV to King of Queens and open your face up wide. Don’t worry. We’ll let you spit frequently and raid the treasure chest when we’re done.
We get it, being a bus driver sucks ass -you get paid very few shillings to shepherd around an oversized Astro Van full of bratty children, alcoholic receptionists and insurance salesmen. It’s safe to say life hasn’t turned out exactly how you planned, you don’t have a number one hit in Mogadishu, you’ve never scaled Mt. McKinley in a rabbit suit and there hasn’t been a single Keanu Reeves sitting on your bus route. Bummer.
Still, just because you never became a Hooters girl doesn’t mean you have to treat bus 2525 like your personal audition for “Who Wants To Be The Biggest Asshole Of Henrico County”. We know people are annoying, we know people are rude, and we know that people can make you so mad you want to dedicated an entire sliver of the interweb to the delusionary task of ridding the world of their presence while never leaving your mom’s basement. But come on. Nobody on your moving meat locker ever achieved a chart topping reggaetone track in Morocco either. So how about cutting the peeps a little slack Aggressively Anal Bus Driver? Stop yelling at people for paying in quarters, or coming near the yellow line, or for not being able to move any further into the armpit of the diabetic Hare Krishna. How about you just suffer in silence like the rest of us? Sound good?
Because if you don’t, we guarantee somebody, maybe Dennis Hopper (maybe not), is going to take offense to your sass and treat your face like a transfer card, punching holes until you have a free ride to the emergency ward. And we’re not talking about the nightclub in Texas.
Sorry all y’all Anne Frank wannabes. Turns out more people want to punch Aborted Fetus Costume in the face this year. You’ll just have to settle for blatant nonviolent disgust and a vexing by the voodoo rabbis. Not too shabby.
But, enough about you. Back to the filthy swine flu fuck who shows up to the Church of Latter Day Saints Halloween Gala dressed as a vacuumed embryo. Shame on you, Aborted Fetus Costume Guy. Don’t you know it’s offensive to paramedics everywhere to feign the fetal position if you’re not in serious danger? God, you are so insensitive. No, not you God. You’re cool. It’s just an expression. Please don’t give us herpes again.
So in conclusion Aborted Fetus, if you show up at our annual Spookfest dressed like Sinead O’Connor’s premature placenta, we’re going to show you what it feels like to actually be aborted. And we ran out of hangers last week, so it’ll have to be a rusty nail kind of procedure. Be sure to fill out the forms in advance.
Trick or treat suckas. The weather is cooler, the pumpkins are carved and the razor blades are hidden. That’s right interwebbers, it’s our favorite time of year – ironic costume time! But for every Gay Hitler out there, there’s a million Joe the Plumbers. So in the spirit of the season we ask you to pick the number one costume that deserves a punch to the gourd.
Imagine this: you’re up in da club, shit’s getting sweaty and the investment banker who dropped a roofie in your drink an hour ago is grinding up against you like a cocker spaniel on a fire hydrant in heat. The DJ throws on some R Kelly and suddenly you start to feel the pre-game mandarin chicken Lean Cuisine come back up. You run for the ladies/gay men’s room for a subtle upchuck and a quick bump or two, when BAM! Before you know it some lady is massaging your palms with a flowery lotion and shoving a stale mint down your throat, all for the low price of fuck-I-don’t-have-any-money.
We know what you’re thinking; this lady looks a lot like a man. No, wait, you’re thinking it’s not Overly-Aggressive Bathroom Attendant’s fault. She’s just doing her job. Bringing home the bacon to put herself through advanced education CSI night classes. Well guess what? Fuck that. That’s right. We said it. Some of us would like to take a peaceful shit between courses at the Cleveland Ritz Carlton without having to pony up our last shilling. If anything, OABA should be paying us. A good steamer rarely gets rewarded anymore. And another thing: stop forcing us to cleanse. The sign clearly states EMPLOYEES must wash hands. Last time we checked, we weren’t on the payroll at Forbidden Obsessionz. So if we want to get e coli, that’s our prerogative.
If we ever encounter this Coolwater pusher again, poop’s gonna hit the fan. The face fan. And it’s a lot harder to sell a loosie when you look like a regurgitated frozen beef and broccoli dish. We know, from experience.
Remember when people communicated long distances using only Swiss mountain horns like in that Ricola commercial? You don’t? Well, neither do we. However, some folks are still convinced that the only way to convey their reoccurring salad fork nightmare to their therapist, is to shout it as loud as possible into their mobile phones. As if the cellular device was merely a can attached to a string that only functions properly when details of said cutlery dream are belted out at 11.
Ladies and gentleman, members of the jury, your honor, we give you: Cell Phone Yeller. A particularly heinous victim of the technology gap, CPY can come in a variety of shapes and sizes, but is easily identifiable by their inability to realize that a cellular phone works just like a regular one. No need to compensate for the lack of cords and rotary dial, just go a head talk about your patchouli pancakes like you would anywhere else, science will take care of the rest. Seriously, we’re not making this up, and as much as we like hearing about how Uncle Ray may be the father of your thirteenth child from across the room, we’re at the clinic with our own problems and unless your breath smells like penicillin, having you monologue a Jerry Springer episode into your Nokia is not going to make these bumps go away.
Here’s the deal Bullhorn Betty, if you promise to keep your mouth in check when on your Motorola, we’ll promise to stop leaving you fist mail in your voice box. Sound good? Good.
A topical round-up of people who’ve deserved it the last month(ish).
#1- Balloon Baby Daddy (aka Dick Heenes): Every parent dreams of sending their kid away forever in a giant space balloon, but most of us refrain out of respect for the brave men and woman of the air traffic control coalition. What makes you the exception Dick? So you were on Wife Swap. Whatever, that was one time.
#2- The new housewife of NYC (Jennifer Gilbert): We’re pretty sure all the other granny tits on the Real Housewives of New York City have already been punched in the face by upstanding citizens of the streets, so we will take a preemptive punch at the new girl, who will most surely do something deserving of a cantaloupe fisting. Like naming her kid Blaise. Oh wait, she already did that.
#3- First Premier Bank: Their interest rate is 79.9%! Really? At that price we could borrow from Speedy P, the ecstasy dealer across the hall who masturbates to the Outhere Brothers at 4:32 every second afternoon. At least he gives free back rubs with every lend.
#4- Stephanie Pratt: Because her face is weird now.
#5- Christian Leboutin: Dude puts women in 37 inch heels and has the wontons to call cankles on Barbie? Of course she has fat feet holders you crazy shoe troll – she’s been giving hummers in those heels for fifty fucking years! You’d be swollen too. Maybe you should be more concerned about your own problems. Like the fact that your hands are way bigger than your face.
Ever since Eve became the earth’s first star of Girls Gone Wild, people have been slapping the pony. Two million, two hundred and eighty six days latter and you’d think humans would have gotten pretty good at hiding the salami, right? Wrong. And we’ve got breaking news for you Christiane Amanpour: some people haven’t been practicing at all. And last time we checked, laying pipe wasn’t supposed to be as exciting as watching paint dry on CSPAN .
But thanks to Cold Fish Sex Partner, aka Dead Vagine, waking up with a fresh pot of crabs between your legs isn’t the only thing you have to worry about when hauling someone home from Chez Jay. And what’s extra frightening is that the only motion in your ocean is coming from the waterbed you “borrowed” from Uncle Jack’s Goin’ To Prison party. Thanks a lot CFSP. Thanks for ruining our bi-annual, roofie-free sexfest by doing your best cadaver impression between the sheets. Sex is not for practicing mental long division. According to Kama Sutra For Virgins™, sex takes two, and both should be alive (if possible).
Thankfully, we’ve learned our lesson. Next time we catch a Cold Fish, you better believe we’re throwing it back. Right after we hook’em with a couple extra lefts under the gills. And by gills we mean boobs. Or balls, depending on which way you sling your rod.
On October 12th, 1492, Chrissy Columbus first docked his sea palace on the shores of this vast Indian paradise after having spent 40 days vomiting opium overboard and sodomizing nice African ladies. Five hundred and seventeen years later, thanks to Hooters Air, we can fly to China, pick up a garbage pail kid, a young bride and dried squid skewer and be back before dinner. But what would C-Lumb say if he knew that one unemployed T.G.I.Friday’s attention whore with a stand-up act from 1983 and access to a P.A. system was ruining modern travel for all?
“Walk the plank Stand-Up Steward!” he would proclaim. Take your Gilbert Godfried voice and your mild sexual innuendos, step away from the intercom and pop a vicadin like the rest of us. We didn’t shell out $1,200 for the overnight flight to Bangalore to hear you recite an old Dave Coulier act – unless we’re banging Bob Saget in the overhead compartment, in which case you can get us a couple of moist towelettes and a mini bottle of schnapps.
Next time you ruin another Air India flight with your botched Aziz Ansari impression, we’re going to test the dimmer on the cabin lights, forcefeed you the rest of our masala and crush up an ex-lax for dessert. Ain’t no microphone in the can Milton Berle. Looks like it’s gonna be poop jokes from here on in.
Holy Shitake Mushrooms traffic sucks ass. Not only does it keep us from getting home in time for Tom Delay’s big number, but it also traps us inside our sea foam Pinto, one fender bender away from being blown out of Henry Ford’s corn hole. As much as we’d like to be pan seared on a bed of linoleum – thanks to some engineer’s decision to test the strength of Special K instead of gas tanks – we’d rather make it home to cry ourselves to sleep.
That’s where the HOV lane comes to the rescue; it’s a one-way artery to a quick cutting session before bed and the corresponding night terrors. A routine that gets pummeled harder than Letterman’s bed frame the moment HOV Violator swerves onto the scene. Clogging our aorta like a Baconator with extra bacon, this Fart Cake packs his Dodge Neon into the far left lane, believing that the 95 pounds of cat litter, 35 bags of Long John Silver’s and his broken dreams somehow substitutes for the lack of required passengers.
Not on our watch buddy. The HOV lane is for people who put up with co-workers so that they can get home to their parrot faster, not so you can transport a scale model of Neverland made out of Popsicle sticks to the local elementary school. Keep it up and you’ll find yourself suffering a high occupancy of Doc Martins straight up your tail pipe. You’ve been warned.
When Al Gore dreamed up a network of talking computers that could send each other stuff over a bunch of invisible nets, he was most excited for the chance to have a blow up doll delivered directly to his house in under 12 hours without the hassle of making small talk with Bambi behind the counter at the Slut Hut. What he didn’t envision was the whole concept getting fucked by a dilly-dallying truck driver in a one piece shit suit and a hankering for a sloppy joe.
God damn you No Specific Time Delivery Guy. Do you think we have nothing better to do than to sit around for the next eight hours while you pick up transvestite pirate hookers at every Wawa on the way? Just because we’ve been unemployed since Obama got elected and can recite the Bold and the Beautiful credits in chronological order, doesn’t mean we don’t have places to be. The food bank closes at 4:30 mofo.
Next time you decide to re-interpret rush delivery, we’re going to show you our take on please sign here. More specifically, leaving our John Handcock on your face. In feces. Yours. After we shove your electronic pen up your tight little UPS shorts-covered ass. And if you don’t get the message the first time, we’re going to suggest you come back the next day anytime between 9 and 5.
America is a nation built on the principles of honesty, fairness, and imported Asian goods. When we have sordid affairs with Argentinean nightwalkers we come clean, and when our waiters bring our Applebee’s 2 for $20 combos in under 13 minutes, we leave enough of a tip to cover their mid-shift whippets. But some junkies abuse the system.
Loyal followers, let us discuss the morally reprehensible Double Gratuity Grabber. Like a rub-and-tug recipient who requests a post-service rim job, this gluttonous greedbag wants to have his french dip slider and eat it too. Nothing enrages us more than pulling out an old receipt for a quick paper snack and realizing we added our usual $1.23 to an already included 18% treat.
Shame on you DGG. Especially knowing that we’re trying to save up for the new tinted Space Bag® collection. Next time you take candy from these babies, we’re gonna puke up our spinach-artichoke trough and double dip your face.
Not since Adam first discovered his right hand has there been a better friend to our flesh snake than the urinal. A porcelain masterpiece that has allowed modern man to raise up his hands, throw caution to the wind and piss without any concern of hitting the rim. This man toilet is the motherfucking Moses of the bathroom. Its wide basin and gentle backstop has been liberating brothers for decades.
So you can imagine our disappointment when some infidel decides to slide up beside us like Jon Gosselin at a Sorority House. Honestly Urinal Sidler, what the Corinthians is your problem? There are a million billion free stalls that don’t provide a direct view of our twig and berries. Jesus, we hope all the biblical references in this post persuade Jah to shove a lightening bolt down your glory hole. For the life of us we cannot understand why you want to drain your lizard so close to our wilson phillips? Weirdo. Were you never given any personal space as a child? Are you confused by what’s hanging between your legs? Or are you just trying to compare wang boils?
Whatever the reason, it’s wrong, and if you continue to break the 11th commandment – though shall not piss near another man’s shlong – we’ll be forced to strike you down with a rosary bead of urinal cakes straight to the bladder. Thank God for catheters.
When your estranged cousin Sal shows up on your doorstep with nothing to his name but a patchily shaved kitten and a bottle of peppermint schnapps, you should call the cops. But then you risk Sal tattle-taling about the time the two of you poured CLR in the shepherd’s pie at the old people’s home and killed Mrs. Rosenberg (hence the estranged). So, there’s really nothing left to do but take in the dirty schmuck and hope for the best.
And by best we mean hemorrhoids rubbing against your eggshell EKTORP couch, bowls of congealed oatmeal crust littered all over your bathtub, and Lithuanian man-on-centaur porn popping up on your macbook like a University of Phoenix hotmail blast. And for what? A chance at reconciling with Auntie Kiki and an occasional hit of PHG’s PCP? Not on our watch.
When two days turns into two years and couch monster hasn’t paid a cent, nor offered you a free accupuncture session, it’s time to send an eviction notice. May we suggest overnight delivery to the larynx. It’s just as cheap as regular mail and comes with free tracking.
What’s the capital of Ecuador? How many mammals are indigenous to Guam? What is the square root of 646? Don’t know? That’s okay, because today’s public offender will be happy to tell you the answer, right after he tells your girlfriend how he spent the last six months learning sanskrit, studying planetary creation and re-writing the United Nations Charter.
Ladies and Gentleman, brothers and sisters, Internet freaks, introducing Mr. Know-It-All. The Sir Issac of anal bleeds who thinks the road to popularity is paved with the ability to answer any question, even if wasn’t asked of him. Interested in knowing that the GDP of Taiwan is 698.6 billions or that hops is a female flower? No? Doesn’t matter, because if your conversation is anywhere near the vicinity of MKIA, Alex Trebek is going to be replace your “who” with “whom” faster than Ken Jennings re-grows his virginity.
Don’t get us wrong; we have nothing against being s-m-r-t. It’s just that when Dr. Dickcicle starts making our brain freeze with Peruvian mortality stats, we’re left with no choice but to prescribe a couple of shots right to his knowledge factory.
Winning rules. That’s why, when it happens, we count on the loser to pull down our girdles, lick our ass cracks and kiss the feet we clobbered them at Jenga with. Hence our dismay when, after pulling off an around-the back 360 windmill in the final round of W.H.O.R.E., Sore Loser deflates the ball with his needle cock and curls up in a shivering ball, reciting Tony Robbins scripts and cutting himself with the remains of a broken Orangina bottle.
Pull it together SAL. Obviously, you suck at everything. Don’t suck at losing too. Eating shit is your one chance at being awesome. So embrace it like Sarah Palin; give a blowjob, slaughter a bison and move on with your miserable life.
And if you can’t figure out how to do that gracefully, consider this wise Chinese proverb: Sore loser is he who has testicles ripped out and stuffed in eye. Lucky number is 7. Thank you. Come again.
For those of us too poor to afford a bottle of 1787 Chateau Lafite, healthcare or a personal driver, taking a cab is as a close to living the bourgeoisie life as we can get our dirty hands on. Nothing beats being chauffeured around the city while the proletariat suffer with umbrellas that won’t fold, pigeons that go for the jugular and twelve inches of acid rain. However, all the fun associated with looking down on the common folk goes out the window faster than a trader on black Friday, as soon as you find yourself snug in the back seat with Excessively Chatty Cabbie.
Then you’re fucked, because what began as a long trip of sticking your nose up and trying to guess the smell coming from the front seat, is quickly replaced by 30 blocks of Mel Gibson-esque racist ramblings. Favorite topics include: “why the government loves cancer,” “Canadians are stealing our bone marrow,” and “how lamp posts can read our brain waves.” No joke, it’s like being driven around the city by the love child of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and a case of the runs – the shit just doesn’t stop. And if having to suffer through eons of ear colonics wasn’t bad enough, the minute you try to stop the madness with your best Helen Keller impression, ECC gets so pissy he decides to drop you off under tomorrow’s headline, “Cabby and Passenger Plunge into the Potomac.”
Fortunately, there’s a way out that doesn’t involve tucking and rolling. Next time Captain Conversationalist tries to talk your cochlear off, quickly give him directions to quiet town: a left, a right, and then a straight jab to the voice box. Gratuity included.
Growing up in America, we’re encouraged to think big. You want to be the next Ryan Seacrest? Go for it. Dream of building an empire selling faulty credit to Alzheimer’s patients? God bless. But, eventually the bubble bursts and we realize we’ll never amount to anything but the bathroom attendants we are. And we’re ok with that. The mints are free.
Not so with Talentless Busker. Given word by psychic gypsies at a very young age, this harmonica-playing nipple juggler is so delusional about his life calling, he ignores his parents strict warnings of imminent failure and pursues his flight of fancy, posting up on street corners everywhere to assault the world with his synthesized take on K.D. Lang’s Greatest Hits.
Booooo. You suck TB. You make waiting for the subway more painful than sex with Andre the Giant. We’d rather give money to the Hari Krishnas. At least they make excellent fashion choices and take time to do their hair. If we ever catch you hocking your homemade CDs and performing Color Me Badd choreography to a poached karaoke machine again, we’re going to give you a different kind of tip. Like sticking your flaming devil sticks so far down your throat, your prostate pops out. That shit takes skills.
If you are lucky enough to still have hair on your head, and not just your ass, then you know from time to time the hedge needs to be groomed. You also probably know that it is going to run you anywhere from 6 to 6,000 Pesos, depending on how prestigious of an art school your “stylist” dropped out of. But regardless of whether you’re forced to cough up six cents, six dollars or scintillating rim-jobs, the former sculptor holding clipping shears two inches from your frontal lobe, better at least be on this planet.
Well too bad Cousin Itt, because according to Out To Lunch Hair Dresser that’s like asking for both kidneys with a side of liver. Not going to happen. Didn’t you hear? OTDB is juggling four divorces, three custody battles, two outbreaks of herpes and one case of homicidal rage. Sister is way too busy day dreaming about a tubby Kevin Federline and gabbing about her new anal itch to pay any attention to that cowlick. You’re in the care of a bi-polar Edwardscissor Hands after an Angle Dust bender in Reno – just be thankful all you’re getting is a front mullet with a fade and not the Van Gogh special.
Should you continually find yourself in the chair of this space cadet with scissors, give Wolverine a taste of her own medicine, pick up the clippers and don’t stop buzzing until she looks like Sinead O’Connor carpooled with Chris and Bobby Brown. Don’t forget to rinse and repeat.
When on parole, having company over shows you are civilized, mentally stable and able to be in the same room as others without shanking them and selling their livers. But when said company leaves the remnants of a half-digested bison burger with extra gruyere and special sauce all over your new Toto before slipping out unnoticed, our ankle bracelets start buzzing like Madoff at the penny fountain.
Ladies and germs, meet Pop-In Pooper, the jungle animal who uses his five-second visit to unload a week’s worth of feed in your master bathroom. Like a drunk college girl with a vendetta and a Sharpie, this IBS-riddled dump-truck must leave his mark in every powder room this side of an Arby’s #6 combo.
Should you find yourself Fabreezing the shit out of everything after PIP has flown the coop, surprise the dirtbag with your own spontaneous stop-in. It only takes a second to mark your territory on someone’s face. And if you’re lucky, it may just end up on YouTube. Consider the title, “One Guy, No Cup.”
It’s safe to say that most art is subjective; some people see a masterful piece of work that transcends time while others see urine on canvas. Some people see genius while others see a pretentious waif with bad hair and a rampant case of pedophilia who can’t control his bladder. That’s just the way art is; one man’s treasure is another man’s bodily fluid. And that’s fine, great even, just as long as the metaphysical mumbo jumbo is kept in museums and out of the places we spend our first waking moments.
But apparently that most modest request is too much to ask of Sink Toothpaste Picasso, the avant-guard asshole who uses fluoride to turn the washbasin into a Pollack painting, leaving you sandy-eyed and wooden cocked, to deal with porcelain that looks more like the front row of a titty bar than an abstract masterpiece. What the Klimt STP? Jenna Jameson has been shoving white stuff in her mouth for years and she never spills a drop. Did B.A. Baracus break your bronchial tube?
Next time we encounter one of your masterpieces waiting for us in the sink, we’re going to leave you one of our own to analyze. Wendy’s chili was our muse and your face, our canvas.
Monday morning – you’re late for a go-see to be the next face of Nasonex, when suddenly and without warning the H1 infested hipster in front of you brings his leather plaid to a halt for a brief testes adjustment, leaving your nasal cavity to shatter on impact with his solidified rat-tail. Your career is ruined. Your family will starve. And it’s all thanks to Abrubt Stop Walker.
What’s the problem ASW? Do you feel an epileptic seizure coming on? Did you just spot your girlfriend blowing a Jonas brother in the alley behind Taco Bell? Because those would be the only two acceptable excuses for your unruly walking. If everyone stopped mid-stride whenever they damn well felt like it, there would be 10 people pile-ups all over the city and Giuliani would be forced to come back in and clean up the filth. And by filth, we mean you. And by clean, we mean rape. And by rape we mean rape.
If we ever catch you walking like a yellow cab again, we’re gonna teach you what abrupt means by stopping our five knuckles with your good eye. Maybe then you’d reconsider standing in the middle of a crowded staircase to answer a call from your psychic. Also, if she didn’t see the punishment coming, you might want to look into finding someone new.
Ahhhhh milk. Is there anything you can’t do? Sucked from the bosom of another animal, you keep our bones strong, our cereal moist and our Oreos covered with more white stuff than a 38 year-old bukake specialist. It doesn’t matter what breed of tit you come from: big, small, long, short, black, white, shaved, hairy – our lips are blind and our heart is gaping. You complete us.
But like all great love stories, when you leave we’re left broken, crying and ready for a gas-sniffing bender with Jennifer Aniston. We know it’s not your fault and that you wanted to stay and if it wasn’t for Empty Milk Carton Leaver you’d still be caressing our Cap’n Crunch like a thousand small Geishas’ hands in a Saigon saloon. Thanks a lot EMCL! Ass. Teasing our palate with what appears to be a full jug of the good stuff, only to find you’ve only left enough for us to do a line of dairy off a bovine’s ass crack. We hope you’re fucking happy. Our cereal is now more exposed than the time we went to the lacrosse party at Duke. Now we’re stuck with dry toast and what remains of last Kwanzaa’s eggnog, like a British Indian, minus the cucumbers.
Next time you come across a milk carton carcass laid out in the fridge, make an example out of this calcium whore by ensuring the next time you or anyone else sees him, it’s on the side of a milk carton with a measly reward. Suck on that calf-nad.
In 1899, Hitler shared a bunk bed at fat camp with a kid named Moishe Cohen, who sleep-wheezed louder than a sedated Free Willy in a headgear. Thirty five years later, the holocaust happened. Coincidence? You said it, not us.
Fellow humans, if there is one thing we all hold in equally high regard, it’s the chance to escape our pitiful little lives for the six dreamy hours we spend every night in a 3-way with Megan Fox and Guard #2 from Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. Take that from us and we have nothing but the unlimited soup, salad and bread stick combo to look forward to. And that only happens on special occasions. So, you can imagine the Napoleonic rage that rises in our black hearts when Super Snorer goes into a 200 decibel coma just seconds before we doze off into lollipop hand job land, leaving us to sit up all night memorizing the breathing patterns of an obese cocaine addict with sleep apnea and the farts.
This shit is serious. Sleep deprivation can lead to insanity and insanity can lead to buying sweatshirts at Abercrombie. Needless to say, if someone you sleep next to is an SS, follow the Nazi scientist’s orders and perform your very own uvulopalatopharyngoplasty. If the surgery doesn’t take, you can always try the holistic approach. Namely, sticking your fist so far down the snorer’s throat, you can pump their lungs manually.
Since the dawn of travel, man has brought booty back from whatever distant rock he sobered up on – gold from Mexico, ivory from Africa, crabs from Amsterdam – each treasure a reminder of his triumph over nature, nutrition and native people, not to mention the last thing you want showing up in a million pieces once back behind castle walls.
Enter Butterfinger Baggage Handler, the spur in the side of today’s modern “collector” and constant destroyer of every last indigenous artifact you can stuff inside of your dolphin/elephant skin roller. It doesn’t matter if that ancient glass dildo is wrapped in the blubber of an endangered Narwhal, BBH will inevitably find a way to drop your suitcase at the exact moment and angle to position it directly under a tanker truck trying to break the land speed record. Whether this clumsy crackhead means to play dodge ball with your Samsonite or is just so drunk off Alberta vodka that he can’t help treat your luggage like a burning bag of shit, is yet to be determined. But one this is for sure, if you want your chandelier of blood diamonds arriving intact you’d better start treating it like an electric suppository.
Unfortunately, there aren’t many ways to get passed security and confront your favorite BBH (you can thank the terrorists for that). But on the fluke chance you do come face-to-face with a bag abuser, do the rest of us a favor and rearrange his brain baggage by landing a conveyor belt of 747s right at his gate.
Yesterday, we celebrated America’s most favorite pastime: labor! For 24 whole hours, we took off our safety goggles, ignored the assembly line and said fuck you to the 13 kids who will die of lead poisoning today. But someone didn’t deserve to take the day off. Someone takes every day off when she pops an acid tab each morning and serves you whatever her little unicorn heart desires from her window in the sky. Someone is Drive-Thru Fuck Up.
See, the Ayatollah invented the drive-thru to get a quick #3 combo on the way to election rigging. But now, thanks to DTFU, he won’t even notice his filet-o-fish is a 20 piece nugget until he sits down at his super computer and pulls out a breaded rat colon. And by then it’s just too late. Maybe if the brain cavity behind the intercom had spent more time listening to his demands through the intercom and less time french-tickling Greasy Gary on the fryer, the people of Iran would be allowed to fly kites.
Next time DTFU replaces your Dilly Bar with an extra large mozza stick, show her what it feels like to get rused by forcing her to order a quarter pounder and then running her face through the blizzard machine. We’ll show you combo…
A topical roundup of people who’ve deserved it over the last two weeks:
#1 – Spencer Pratt: Aka Flesh Beard, aka Walking Shit Stain, aka “oh god I just threw up in my mouth” wants to change his name again. Unfortunately it’s not to Moist Anal Bead but King Spencer Pratt. Holy Heidi’s fake left tit we hope this is a joke. If not, we are going to rip the silicone right out of her tulip and bitch slap the newly crowned King of the Douche Stubble back to a time when guillotines were in fashion. We smell cake.
#2 DDB Brazil: Hey remember when all those is people died in S.E. Asia after the ocean decided to play wave pool? You do? Well guess what? So does everyone else! But just to be sure the ad douches down in Brazil thought it would be “clever” to remind us all that the tsunami was way more bitching than 9/11. Wrong. Fuck you Senor Draper and your shitty metaphors. We’ve got a concept for you: picture tidal wave of surely New Yorkers crashing into your big apple until you need 9-1-1. Fade to black.
#3 Sexually Confused Embassy Guards: Did we miss something? Did Boy George become president of the United States and decide our new tactic on terror was to shock and awe them with our extreme level of gayness? How else can we explain a bunch of embassy guards in Kabul getting blitzed and acting out Ryan Secarest’s locker room fantasies in front of a Canon Cool Pix? We have no problem with gays in the military, but showing the commies that all it takes is a case of Zima to get in our pants is reckless and dangerous, time for some friendly fire of the fist variety.
#4 Hurricane Namers Is it just us or are hurricanes getting the pussiest names these days? Jimena, Ida, Claudette, Vicente! It’s getting ridiculous, it’s like being water-boarded by a bunch of pre-op flamenco dancers from South Beach. As if having our Chia Pet collection washed out to sea wasn’t bad enough, it has to be done by something named after a French renaissance cross dresser. It’s humiliating really and warrants a storm surge to the face of whichever nerd decided to name storms after his Dungeon and Dragon girlfriend.
# 5 Crazy California Kidnapper: As if kidnapping a little girl wasn’t bad enough, Phillip Garrido decided he’d keep her hostage for 18 years and impregnate her, twice. We’ll give you a second to wipe the puke of the keyboard. But don’t worry, where this spunk stain is going he’ll be impregnated with man shaft way before we can intervene with an in vitro fist to the face. You can go back to googling “one guy, one cup” now.
“Duuuuude! I’m gonna bone that bitch in the thong until my cock falls off in her vagina and she has to fuck the rest of these hoes for me! Weerrd.”
Well, isn’t that just the sweetest thing we’ve ever heard. Bless your tequila-soaked heart and kamakazee liver, you magnetic STD board with the discount ab implants. Twatty Spring Breaker, no trip to Daytona would be complete without our grandma Myrtle getting hurled on in the elevator by your Ed Hardy bedazzled esophogus.
What kind of mold had your parents ingested the night they mutually masturbated and decided to spawn? Not only is it impossible to hear Barbara Walters on the hotel TV over your roofied girfriend’s muffled vomit noise, the Mexican hair gel you bought on the street is oozing through the walls and lubricating our arepas. If we ever come face to face with your pucca shells again, you better run for the wet t-shirt contest and never look back. Otherwise, we’re gonna give you a taste of your own medicine, make out with your mom, and air it on MTV in a special hosted by Heidi Montag and her horse-faced sister, set to a Good Charlotte soundtrack, with extra ads for Proactive®.
There are few things more disturbing than a grown-ass man, with a penchant for virginity, World of War Craft and putting on make-up with the intention of touching entertaining small children. But we put up with it, because the boys down on Madison Avenue have convinced us that when it comes to a child’s birthday party, only a drunken Don Draper is more obligatory than a clown.
And therein lies the problem. Mean Clown has become such a party staple that suburbia will continue to welcome him back like a deported Mexican who re-shingles homes for ¢75/hour, regardless of his monkey-fucking addiction, . Pennywise is free to keep treating the kids like they’re the reason he lives with his grandma, has a right palm like a gorilla and pretends to be a 40 year-old divorcee on the Living It Large lesbian chat-group. So instead of balloon animals, magic acts and funny dances, Mean Clown is teaching children the ABCs of heroin whippets, where to pet his slinky, and how to use cunt nugget in a sentence.
Time for Sweet Tooth’s evil reign to end. Next time one of these recently paroled sex offenders accuses the kiddies of pissing on his copy of Runescape, do us all a favor and drop this joker off the church tower, swap spit with Kim Basinger and get Michael Keaton to touch him in the pants.
Oh, internet. How you shower us with generous gifts of free man on donkey porn, real life University of Phoenix degrees and the ability to stalk people we don’t even like. What did we do before you? How will we survive after? And why is it that under your spell, average joes turn into bat-shit crazy sociopaths with the rage of Tommy Lasorda at a Weight Watchers meeting in the basement of a Dunkin’ Donuts?
Psycho Blog Commentor, this post’s for you – the 48 year old cellphone salesman who is currently reading this in his jockstrap in the basement of his mother’s duplex with a plate of re-heated Sheppard’s pie, a bad case of carpel tunnel and an erection the size of his Atari joystick. What’s wrong PBC? Never developed a sense of humor? Got molested by a blog as a child? Afraid to speak in the light of day in fear of having your balls cut off by an angry mob of domain names?
Well, too late avatar hugger. You can only hide behind the intertube’s veil of anonymity so long. Soon enough, the truth will come out and the whole electronic community will know you’re behind the vivid lolcat death threats. And when it does, you better power down, ’cause otherwise it’s gonna be 1.6 billion re-boots to the face in the padded chat room of your mind. Comment on that biatch.
There is an old saying, “you get what you pay for.” Meaning if your drop 30 Kroners on an Oslonian Hooker named Gertrude, you shouldn’t complain when Gertrude turns out to be Gary, and Gary ends up having more crabs than Maryland. It’s basic economics for anyone with a spinal cord, which apparently excludes super shitty Smash Brothers Moving Man, who pockets your hard-earned company petty cash in exchange for a cardboard box full of broken glass, a severed vibrator and a bill for his overtime.
See, Smash Brothers Moving Man doesn’t give two anal bleeds about the rules of capitalism. It doesn’t matter if you paid $800, $1800, or 18,000 gold feather dusters, buddy is going to treat your stemware like you took a shit in his blind grandfather’s good eye. Man with a van is the judge, jury and executioner when it comes to how many pieces your possessions show up in. Silvester Stallone has already decided to Demolition Man your Cheeseheead beer mug before you even take the time to triple bag it with the styrofoam condoms the landlord lent you.
Next time you move, you better: A) marry a Mormon so you can exploit your 30,000 new brother in-laws, B) develop furniture origami, or C) dolly-up a fist to SBMM’s loading lift. Otherwise, that plasma T.V. of yours is arriving as liquid magma.
Oh, well hello Chauncey! Lovely day for a jaunt on the tube isn’t it? Maybe a quick skim through the condensed works of Dickens? A light Ayn Rand for the road? Or perhaps we should move straight to shoving your ascot up your already clogged anal canal, Pretentious Subway Reader, you sweater-vested twat.
Listen, we’re all for absorbing the great works for the purpose of banging someone with an IQ over 80, but this overt display of intellectual ambition goes a little too far. Are you seriously hauling around 7 lbs of Moby Dick in the hopes of roping in 250 lbs of pussy? Because there are less exerting ways to do that, like sending a burger wink on www.fat-friends.com.
Guess what PSR? The homeless gypsy with the dead parakeet and bag of cat shit doesn’t care that you’re reading Tolstoy. And those of us who have a home are too busy fucking up our sudoku to notice your large-print edition of Faulkner, even with you holding it up at an awkward height for maximum exposure. Next time you offend us with your highfalutin drivel, we’re going to give you the Coles Notes on Plath and stick your face in the oven.
Today we salute the oldest profession on god’s STD-riddled earth: night walking. Ladies and gentlemen, in times of crisis we must turn to the past. Out with the bejeweled Ed Hardy investment bankers and kidney-pawning rabbis of yesteryear. In with the high-yield, high-risk thrills of condomless sex with strangers and consistent possible pregnancies. That’s right Hooker, this Olde English is for you.
How loyal you have been these last 3,809 years. Keeping watch on our streets, smiling at friendly passersby, standing in 9 inch heels for hours on end while ignoring the burning itch of syphilis down below. You really are a trooper, our precious little trick. And with the exception of ShamWow Shlomi, we would never lay a hand on your cakey, cracked-out face.
Unless you jack our wallets. Then you’re definitely fair game.
“Pour some supra on pee, ohh I can’t get a bluff. I’m hot, sticky feet…” Great balls of fire, nothing burns our ear urethra quite like the auditory asshole that bastardizes song lyrics worse than William Hung on Mescaline. It makes us so mad, you could water board us with horse urine and we’d still be more likely to buy you pistachio ice cream than if you butcher our favorite sing-along.
Really, we can’t think of anything worse. Global warming? We need the heat. The recession? Time to appreciate what we have. Killer bees with STDs? At least they pollinate. As soon as Wrong Lyric Singer opens his hell hole to holla nonsensical words, we can’t help but wish a comet would put us out of our misery right that second. And when it doesn’t, we’re left to wonder why we took the time to translate the Koran into rap if the big guy won’t even do us that one simple favor. Honestly WLS, if you don’t know the lyrics then shut up Barbara Streisand, don’t ruin Def Leppard for the rest of us just because your brain is full of dick Bisquick.
Try instead to keep up with this simple song: “if you don’t shut your face, we’ll hit you with some mace, until you need a brace, and an industrial-strength pace. Maker. dooda dooda…” Kinda snappy hey?
In recessionary times like these, the people must prioritize. Curb the spending. Trim the fat. Do I really need this special edition Martin Sheen hair gel? Could I live without my white gold unicorn? How true is it that kids die when they don’t drink water? So, when we finally decide to shell out some loonies, you better believe we’re expecting an obese ROI.
But Stingy-Ass Bartender has a different fiscal plan. Namely, taking your hard earned glory hole cash in exchange for a Harvey Wallbanger without the wall bang. Did Tom Cruise teach you nothing, you miserly scrooge tit? A happy customer always comes back, but a drunk one hands you his bank card and whispers his PIN. So why are you skimping on the Courvoisier like a ladyboy with no cock?
Next time SAB pours you a Ting when you asked for a Tang, show her how it feels to get robbed by ripping the bottle from the well and mixing her a Socket Rocket: 1 oz Sambuca in the left eye, 1 oz peppermint schnapps in the right. Add flame. Serve with complimentary traces-of-urine bar nuts.
Before we get started, all you Eskimos out there reading this might as well just bugger off – go build an igloo or club a seal for all we care, because today’s entry doesn’t apply to you furry cartoon characters. Sorry, we’re just a little menopausey today on account of walking out of the house into an ass crack of Humidity and the bukake of ball-sweat that comes with not living above the fucking arctic circle.
Seriously, there is nothing worse than being attacked by a fog that makes your glands puke liquid ten seconds into your commute. By the time you get to your office you look like a sophomore in a wet t-shirt competition except with larger tits and more nipple hair. Why humidity? Why do you choose to lurk like pedophile at a Miley Cyrus concert waiting to pounce at the first sign of flesh? Were you not loved as a child? Did the other weather occurrences make fun of you for being nothing more than a wet blank of suck? How else can you explain being so vindictive that when the Sun turns up the heat to 90 degrees you have to be the fucker that makes it feel like 184 degrees? Talk about an inferiority complex that even Danny Devito would be jealous of.
Consider this a warning Humidity, because as soon as we figure out how to punch your inanimate stank face, we are going to turn up the heat until you start losing something more serious that electrolytes. And lives.
The workplace presents enough rational to bust out your Columbine – unproductive meetings, excessive emoticons, slutty interns who refuse to sleep with you even after you offer to pay them in Guinean Francs – but none of these compare to the gadfly that is Office Fantasy Football Freak. Unfamiliar with societal norms and running low on Cymbalta, OFFF hurts and only accepting a miniature plaque for the success of his pretend team at the end of season TGIFriday’s banquet can help.
Don’t get us wrong, we’re all for a little healthy simulation, but the 4 am death threats and office bathroom rapings have to stop. OFFF may be peeved about his failed attempt to recreate the ‘76 Buccaneers dynasty, but shitting in our tuna sandwich is stepping over the line. Sorry Ocho Cinco fucked you in the eye socket by sucking so hard, but take it out on your own wife, you fat accounting schmuck.
If your office has its very own mock sport sociopath, you may want to extend a bonus mid-year review. Simply sit him down in a proffesional manner, rub a steak all over his balls and borrow a puppy from the Michael Vick collection. Engagement is the cornerstone of a profitable work force.
Holy Damien Chrysler Autobahn do we love driving – the sense of freedom at out finger tips, the smell of gasoline in our nose, and the gentle vibration messaging our corn hole. One could say it’s our favorite way to pick up the monthly prescription of extra strength suppositories and Neapolitan ice cream. At least that was until we got cut off out of the blue by No Signal Swerver and almost put our Astro Mini Van through the window of Racist Frank’s Whole Sale Medical Supplies.
Thanks a lot NSS, now we have to drive 200 mph, laying on the horn and flashing our lights like the mujahadeen is trying to kidnap us back to their underwater poop lair. Otherwise we’re pretty sure you are going to ram your gasoline-powered rick-shaw down our throats without warning or safety word. How did you pass Driver’s Ed anyways? No amount of rim job colonics could make up for your driving dyslexia, and no matter what Anal Alan from the dealership told you, those yellow lights on the side of the car aren’t there for rest stop man raves. They’re designed to warn innocent bystanders that you’re thinking of switching lanes quicker than a frat boy riding his ruffied girlfriend.
Time to stop with the surprise slaloming and learn how to use those blinkers Spazzy McDrives Terrible, otherwise we are going to have to teach you the old fashioned hand signals – left, right, uppercut, hospital.
Sometimes it seems like the only way to carve out an identity in this homogeneous world is to drop some E and fuck a donkey so you could create the first ever man-ass hybrid child. So when you do actually have something going for yourself, the last thing you want is some two-bit imitator wasting your flavor.
Unique people of the proletariat, we present you Copycat, a blandly seasoned mass of human cells that gets off on xeroxing your shit. Whether it’s your speech impediment, swirly pube designs, or recent mail-order bride, this vapid bag of feces has so little imagination she has to borrow yours, like when Tina Fey’s parents got her embryo surgery to look like Sarah Palin.
They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. We say suck our swirly pubes, because it took us 15 years to grow this ear beard, and some rogaine-popping, hair plug getting, no-personality catwoman is going to take it from us. Next time Copycat tries jacking your steez, show her what an original idea looks like by shoving your fist through her eye socket and pissing in her litterbox.
Admittedly, air travel is not what it used to be. In days of yonder, pilots were revered as golden gods, treated to the finest hand jobs and ginger ale in all the land. From Poughkeepsie to Portland, flying was seen as glamorous, exotic, and place for young perky girls to get knocked-up while on the job. Happy to refill your scotch and top off your knob, stewardesses made taking to the skies a real luxury. Unfortunately, all great things must come to an end – pilots became alcoholics, meals became pretzels and the only thing going south quicker than a stewardess’ tits is her attitude.
What are we left with? Nothing but a dodgy flight on Air Taliban, $5 gruel, and twelve hours trapped with Brutally Bitchy Stewardess. The product of broken dreams and Marlboro Reds, BBS is about as friendly as the electrical wires in Abu Grab. So forget about pressing the servant button, because there’s no way this sky whore is maneuvering her 300lb dump truck down the aisle. It doesn’t matter if the flight is making you nauseous, the guy beside you looks like Richard Reid, or there are mother-fucking snakes on the plane. Sister is busy, she ain’t moving an inch until her and the girls figure out how to best get baggage handler smegma out of their uniforms.
Apparently, in the clouds the customer is always wrong. It only seems fair that you log some frequent revenge miles in return – a full can of soda from the beverage cart and a barf bag bird striking for extra measure. Oxygen mask overdose is optional.
When man invented the wheel his intentions were clear: maybe now we could go out for bison balls instead of having to skin them with our bare hands and wait seven hours for the bitch to boil them. Nowhere in this plan was there mention of a tag along cave doosh who would ride on your back with his licey head up your ass like a Two Girls, One Cup prequel.
5509 years later, we’re still dealing with Backseat Driver, the immortal cockroach in the back of your Ambassador who’s sole purpose on earth is to ruin your trip with his incessant commentary, faulty directions, and anal leakage problem. How many times must we read you the fine print on the Baked Lays bag, you Olestra-sucking DMV nark? As if three hours a week with Snake-Eyed Pete from Blind Eddy’s Driving School for Teens With Turrets wasn’t enough, BD feels the need to channel Dick Cheney circa 1990, questioning your motor skills from behind the scenes, while secretly leading you into Desert Storm.
Last time we checked, the back seat was for fucking when we couldn’t afford to pay the hourly rate at the Oyster Point Motel. So next time Backseat Driver climbs into your 4-banger, kindly suggest he close the peanut gallery. Otherwise, it’s gonna be a fuel-injected EpiPen to the jugular. To keep the body warm, crank up the heated seats.
“You sure you want to buy those chaps?”, “Why do you bite your nails?”, “Smuggling Chinese Water Dogs under the border doesn’t sound like a smart career choice.” Uh oh, sounds like someone has a Constant Life Meddler on their hands. And just like syphilis, if this opinionated intervener isn’t dealt with quickly you’ll end up cutting off an ear and having sex with a dog.
See, CLM makes up for her own shortcomings in the game of life by broadcasting her judgment on every one of your moves. “Are you sure that’s how you want to wipe your ass?” What was once a pastime reserved for Jewish mothers, barely tolerated because they paid for our college tuition and still let us live at home (thanks mom), has now become the full-time profession of some life-sucking dick chickens. If we’re not mistaken CLM, these United States of Pelosi were formed to combat persistent prying. Now, 400 years after we told those gap-toothed fish ‘n chips to go fuck themselves, we’re back at square one? Not on our watch. This is the land of the free, so if you want to buy smokes from an Indian, get a face tattoo, or enroll at the University of Phoenix in Bulgarian Women’s Studies, that is your right as a newly assimilated American.
So if Constant Life Meddler tries to rain on your liberty parade, refresh her memory of the 65th amendment: “the people shall always be afforded the right to go Ron Paul on the arses of ye meddling douches.” Let the eagles sore.
When you wake up with a dubious rash the morning after a night at the Hustler Club with Pauly Shore and a band of Peruvian pygmies, the only thing you crave is a giant line of coke and a straight-forward diagnoses. So you can imagine our subsequent dismay to look up from the barf bag at the Patient First only to notice the Haarverd degree hanging on the wall, officiated by Chairman of the Board, Dr. Seymour Wiener.
Ladies and gentlemen, meet Dr. Quack, the kid in your 9th grade biology class who spent most of his time flatulating on the frog corps and roasting his hairy balls on the Bunsen burner. Ten years later, he’s learning neuroscience from an escaped Nazi in the underbelly of a pirate ship off the coast of Croatia and preparing for his immigration back to your local clinic, where, after a John Mayer quality prostate check, he’ll deem your blossoming Hep C nothing more than a typical case of urban poison ivy. And now, thanks to Obama, all this can be yours free!
Before DQ plays Operation on your spleen, kindly remind him that your health is no joking matter by giving him your own thorough exam. You’d be surprised how many orifices there are to swab. Extra points for “forgetting” to wash your hands first.
Parking in the city is never easy, what with the confusing signs, expensive meters and crocodiles. Okay we made the last one up, but you get the idea. Throw on top of that the ticket hyenas dressed in blue and you basically have the most difficult task man has ever encountered. So when you do finally find a spot that isn’t going to land you with a boot on your car or a tow-truck driver up your ass, you count your lucky stars Pablo. Of course that is until Box-In-Bastard spluges all over your parade, riding up on your bumper like a lacrosse player at Hooters.
Then you’re pretty much fucked, and not in the gentle “hey, I’m your uncle” way, but in the “your car isn’t moving until BIB comes back from having his anal plug fitted” way. So forget about the appointment you had at the blood bank, they’ll just to have to find that quart of AB Negative elsewhere, because Captain Car Crowder has decided feeling up your teal Ford is the most important thing on Tracy Morgan’s green earth. It doesn’t matter who he blocks in, this anus-twat has a date lurking over the pre-teens at Baskin Robbins that he is not going to miss. The only way your car is getting out is with the help from the guys in the Mentos commercial and we’re pretty sure one of them begs for crack outside our office.
Luckily you can prevent this from happening to someone else. When Box-In Bastard returns from his voyeur voyage, simply return the favor by boxing-in his skin colored face. It is the least you could do.
A topical roundup of people who’ve deserved it over the last three weeks.
#1- George “Gym Killer” Sodini: Oh woes you, sexually frustrated white man. Your perils are not at all common for 99% of the population. So we totally understand if instead of beating off like the rest of us you needed to carry four revolvers into a Latin dance class and shoot up the place like Jenny from the blog. You might have used the 36th bullet on yourself, but that won’t stop us from punching your grave.
#2- The Smiths: Tom Cruise fucked the Fresh Prince in the ass while Jada Pinkett slept, and everybody woke up a scientologist. Then they opened a school for little Raeliens, hired a principal, and subsequently fired her for trying to teach the kids about evil computers from a fiery, internet hell. In this kind of situation, you have to ask yourself: what would Mike Lowry do?
#3- Planes: Stop crashing!
#4- Smokey the Bear: Today, the icon of the hairy homosexual revolution turns 65. Well, happy birthday Smokes. Maybe if you hadn’t been so busy oiling up on the Bear Bus at the pride parade, you could have stopped all the forest fires that killed everyone in California. But we understand, duty calls. And by duty, we mean Margarita Mondays at the Bear Cage.
#5- Jeremy Piven: First, he pawns off his garbage acting skills as symptoms of a spicy tuna overdose, then he attacks the world’s most exotic Bollywood star for calling him out on it. WTF Ari? Just because Lloyd stops putting out doesn’t give you an excuse to midget-fight Chris Kattan. Do it again and you’ll be spending the night at the Roxbury, hospital in Shippensburg, PA.
The United States Surgeon General recommends an average of 7-9 hours of sleep a night for adults. Something most of us have trouble getting even with a shot of Drambuie, six Lunestas, and a rub & tug. So it’s safe to say when we do finally let Mr. Sandman take a dump on our eyelids we want that shit to stick. Too bad, because Late Night Door Slammer has other ideas, and they don’t involve you wet dreaming about resuscitating Lindsay Lohan’s acting career. Better get some tissues.
What exactly this door-frame dominator is up to at 5:35am, we’re not quite sure, but what we do know is, it’s fucking late and we have early morning rehearsal for our Man Man cover band. Seriously, it’s not like we’ve hidden Padma Lakshmi in the linen closet (yet) so stop with the Whac-A-Mole Brutus, you are raping our R.E.M cycle and it hurts like leather night with Tom Colicchio. Here’s an idea LNDS, instead of announcing your arrival home with a 21-cabinet salute how about you just use the bidet to clean out what ever Asian businessman you let play “check the oil” and quietly cry yourself to sleep. Sound good?
Otherwise we are going to be forced drag our self out of bed, naked, and slam something else, mainly our ass, right down your nasal cavity. Oh, and we’re out of toilet paper. Bon appetit.
When Hova created the uterus, she had a specific vision in mind. Namely, populating the earth with a species that would do all the work for her and then die. What she didn’t realize was that this new mammal would be savvy enough to use her vaginal canal for evil, popping out little punks as bait for shitty boyfriends everywhere.
See, BWGPOP thinks the best way to score a proposal is to poke a hole in the raincoat and wait for the eggs to get deviled. Then, when things start to go sour and daddy takes the T-Bird away, she cries pregnant and breaks her water all over your plans to dump her ass for the hot chick at White Castle who gives you the free sliders. Because shacking up with a grease monkey when someone else is growing your seed makes you a deadbeat. If you don’t believe us, ask Tom Brady.
Next time this sneak starts stocking the womb, remind her that a baby isn’t a band-aid with a swift jab to the umbilical cord. And if you aren’t keen on bludgeoning your offspring, there’s always the more passive approach: a one way ticket to Cuba, where child support means paying an orphan fifty cents for a Persian rug and an ounce of coke. Arriba.
When man first domesticated canines they were for protection of land, possessions and body. Feral beasts that provided companionship and warmth from the tip of their coats through to their hearts. Fast-forward a thousand years, and booyakasha! Man has turned his best friend into a limping mannequin-accessory-thingy that looks like the lovechild of Rupaul and Robin Williams.
We understand that occasionally, and holy Bill Clinton do we mean occasionally, a dog may need to be covered in some form of garment – during a hurricane, a blizzard or perhaps a Christmas party – but those are for protection. Anything else is just an owner’s bat-crazy insecurities from being turned down on Live Links. And why should the pooch have to suffer? He didn’t ask to be taken in by a bi-polar thespian with daddy issues, and he definitely didn’t ask to be dressed like transsexual British car mechanic. Look at the poor guy; if he had opposable thumbs he’d lump the bullocks out his owner’s broken dreams.
This form of animal abuse cannot be allowed to continue. Our four legged friends are not Barbie Dolls for lonely middle aged tax consultants. If PETA refuses to go ape shit about this growing epidemic, we’ll take matters into our own hands. First we ball them, then we let them off the leash.
Some people smell like shit – pig wranglers, French hookers, Flava Flav – but most of these aromas are the sweet perfume of a job well done. Or an exotic STD. Not so with Deodorant Boycotter, the stank-ass ho you can smell before she even turns the corner on her collapsible freak bike with its basket full of B.O.
Ideologically opposed to the idea of not smelling like a bag of burning dog diarrhea, this emo yuppie refuses to wear deodorant, hiding her desire to attract potential racoon lovers behind the shadowy myth of aluminum. Well news flash curry-pits: poor kids melt crack in aluminum all the time and only half of them die. The odds of living through a packed subway ride reeking like Allen Ginsberg after a night at Chuck E. Cheese are way worse.
If you should happen upon DB in the near future, kindly remind her that proper personal hygiene greatly improves a person’s chance at social acceptance. And if the promise of popularity isn’t enough, you can always rely on the Axe Effect. Simply open her mouth and spray until she picks up NPR. Tin foiled again shitbag!
We’ll be the first to admit, being a bouncer doesn’t sound like an easy gig. You stand outdoors under any conditions, into the wee hours of the morning, dealing with inebriated Neanderthals trying to rub their groins together. Then after all is said and done some chode you threw out earlier for trying to keg-stand the bartender comes back with a shiv and the intention of carving you like a Thanksgiving turkey. No thanks.
This however, does not give Cranky Charon the right to act like he’s sitting on top of Mount Olympus. There are plenty of shitty, dangerous jobs out there, and you don’t see oil workers, sewage cleaners and high school teachers with heads the size of Jupiter’s 12th moon. They just go about their lives self medicating on calories, Chia Pets and denial. Why then does Megalomaniacal Bouncer feel just because he guards the entrance to fifteen-dollar drinks and 300 decibels of Autotune that he can treat us all like a group of Dalits with small pox? Last time we checked we were the ones trying to bring you business. So enough with the rude looks, discrimination and labor camp attitude, we wouldn’t mind going to the back of the line if it wasn’t just to make it look busy inside.
Our pesos deserve better and we have no problem taking them away from your bad cologne, blue tooth and caste system. Rejection may sting, but not as much as a velvet rope to the spry-stash.
Do you know someone who loves hearing the sound of her own voice? Perhaps a friend who leads a less exciting life than a Jersey toll booth operator on qualudes, but who invariably manages to take everything you say and magically turn it into a story about her spouse’s irregular anal discharge? “Funny you should mention your being up for a Nobel Prize, Herb has hemorrhoids again…”
Sounds like you’ve got a case of Conversation Flipper. Like Carrie Bradshaw at a Sunday morning brunch, this bitch swoops in right before your story’s climax and steals your thunder with another of her botched rim job tales. So fast is her self-swivel, you’d think she was Rupaul in a mangina peepshow. A seven hour mangina peepshow. A seven hour mangina peepshow that’s the same every week, over and over, to the point where all the manginas start to look the same and all you want to do is turn the trannies around and rip their cocks through their legs.
But fret not spiteful raconteur, for even Tyra Banks has her kryptonite. It’s called hoof-n-mouth. Yours in hers. Because nothing gets a story back on track like a bad case of tongue sores. Flip that bitch!
Ever since the horn was invented it has played a pivotal role in society, it reminds people the light has turned, that the drive-thru is open, and that those yabbos are boobalicous. Unfortunately, as time has passed certain individuals have taken it upon themselves to pound the middle of the steering wheel like a new fish at Sing Sing.
No matter how small the infraction, no matter how mundane the annoyance, no matter what, Excessive Horn Honker chooses to treat the automobile auditory system like a metronome for lil’Wayne. But unlike Weezy, today’s entry isn’t making hits as he cruises down Main Street. He’s just blasting away indiscriminately to the beat of the invisible gnomes in his head. No one is safe – children, adults, even the deaf – because if you happen to be in earshot of Timmy Turret Hands you better believe your cochlea is ripe for a spanking of seismic proportions.
Why EHH chooses to abuse the gift that the almighty automobile god Kronk gave us, we can’t be sure. What we are sure of, is if this type of behavior continues Captain Cut-Offs will be experiencing the type of horn that accompanies the volunteer fire fighters and the jaws of life.
When the GHB is gone, and all that remains of last night’s party is a rogue donkey and the faint memory of a midget wearing a gag, you can always count on one person to suck you out of your crack haze and spit you back into reality. And that person is the one who’s lying face-down on your vintage Craigslist couch in a pool of her own chunkmeal, which is mostly made up of the pork sliders you splurged on for your annual “X Years Since the Sex Change” gathering.
We’ve all heard of party fouls – don’t steal the host’s diaphragm, don’t piss in Heff’s grotto, don’t feed the Jews shrimp, etc – but Couch Barfer takes it a step further like Dov Charney in an adult video store, choosing to ignore said laws and thank you for your hospitality with a loot-bag full of regurgitated ranch dip.
Please do not let Couch Barfer’s ubiquity fool you into a passive revenge. Frequency only makes schmucky behavior schmuckier, and when the Aztec polyester print on your hand-me-down La-Z-Boy still smells like Eliot Spitzer’s cock three weeks later, you’re going to wish you had dealt with it accordingly. The governor may have only lost his dignity, but Professor Pukey’s gonna lose a tongue. At least then she can use it to shovel up her slop.
In a country with a 97.87% obesity rate, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to scale back the 12-a-day taquito addiction. That however does not give today’s entry the green light to turn every breakfast, lunch and dinner into a calorie-based episode of Night Court. As if you didn’t already feel bad enough just sitting in a Golden Coral, this poo-drop has to go all organic Judge Judy on what you order. Screw you Jenny Craig, not everyone can sustain themselves on water chestnuts, blood and hypoallergenic water.
Besides this is America, land of the free. If you want to order Jalapeno poppers with a side of mozzarella sticks washed down with a buffalo chicken milkshake, god dammit you can (just remember a bib). Because being shamed into eating a diet of tofu cubes and wheat grass is so very Canadian. South of the 49th your right to consume complex carbohydrates and hydrogenated corn syrup is protected by the constitution, the declaration of independence and Colonel Sanders. Sure, Order Judger probably has your health in mind, and isn’t in the mood to see you develop diabetes or end up on the next season of Dance Your Ass Off, but fucking with someone’s food is just not cool. Ask Roseanne Barr’s personal assistant.
Next time you have to deal with a combination of eye rolls, long sighs or underhanded comments from the anorexic communist sitting across the table, remind Skeletor that this type of behavior is why our fore-fathers left soggy Old England in the first place, and if they continue to judge your eating habits from across the table, you’re going to hold them in contempt with a Gavel to the face. Court adjourned.
What gets louder as it gets smaller? A baby in a trash compacter! Speaking of dead babies, it’s time to talk about one of our country’s most ubiquitous personages, Overzealous Pro-Lifer. Now, before you accuse us of being racists fascist love children, let us say that we, of all people, relish the cool shade of the first amendment umbrella. If you think vacuuming a bunch of unformed cells out of a uterus to prevent it from becoming a homeless drug addict is a federal offense, more power to you. But don’t stand outside our favorite baby-be-gone factory with your grammatically incorrect signs and posters of smiling fetuses. Do we come to your house and plant pictures of our fabulous, unburdened lives in your rock garden? OK, but that was only one time.
Seriously OPL? Is it really necessary for you to greet us at the termination terminal with your testicles and your megaphone? Because last time we checked, you never experienced getting knocked up by your high-school gym teacher. At the junior prom. On roofies. So how about you take your penis and put it to some productive use, like donating your spunk to the Limbaugh Jizz Bank. That way you can grow millions of embryos who will have the chance to grow up and die of obesity like the rest of us.
And if you have a problem with this plan, we can always go to Plan B. But we have to warn you, hanger beats poster every time.
When nature calls everyone answers, that’s just the way Obama made us. And if you’re like the majority of us, your bowel movement is set to a clock that even the elves in Switzerland would be jealous of. Whether we admit it or not, this is a time we all look forward to, a few minutes of solitude to sit back, reflect and ponder why Dominos always gives us the runs.
So you can imagine our disgust when our daily regiment of porcelain is disrupted by the auditory assault that is Non-Stop Bathroom Talker. There you are trying to revel in the miracle of digestion when this restroom regurgitator tries to strike up a six-part conversation from two stalls over. At first you try to ignore NSBT, pretending that the verbal diarrhea being flung your way has fallen on deaf ears. When that doesn’t work, you feign digestive difficulties responding only with a mixture of groans and wall scratches. But neither is successful, because if today’s entry is one thing, he is persistent, and no matter how many times you try to deflect his conversation queries, buddy is like Metamucil, eventually he gets through.
The only way to stop the constant barrage of “hey did you hear?” and “what about that game?” from ruining your throne time is to put a plug in the source. The next time stall squawker messes with your solitude keep him out of the loo for good by offering to install a double-catheter free of charge.
Every day, millions of immigrants smuggle themselves in the linings of Ford Pintos for the chance to spit in the streets unpunished and realize their dreams of becoming American supermarket magnates. Yet, here we have a flesh and blood American, wasting away behind the conveyor belt, treating our groceries like dime-store hookers after a night on Capitol Hill: swipe, pass, and pile.
Jesus Christ Bad Bagger. Have you learned nothing from your privileged upbringing on Tetris and Dr. Mario? You are a stain on the tablecloth of Gameboy aficionados everywhere. A mutant chicken fetus in the eggs you stuffed under the wine bottles, to crack and ooze your slimy apathy all over our hard-earned white-collar paychecks.
And if we catch you pinning our organic tomatoes against the 2L orange juice, like Anna Wintour under Bruce Phalange in an episode of Hollywood Squares, we’re going to bag you. In the face. An we’re not gonna use the breathable canvas shit you’re selling the hippie kids for $5 a pop. We’re gonna use the free, old-fashioned, suffocating plastic kind, double-bagged for efficiency. Bitch.
We’ll be the first to admit it, when it comes to technology we have about as much understanding as Frédéric Prinz von Anhalt has about monogamy. So when it came time to turn in the ol’Nokia 8310 and upgrade to something bedazzled, it’s safe to say we were lost.
No problem. Just head down to the local mobile phone warehouse and solicit some help, right? Wrong bitches! Because it turns out this is where Condescending Cell Phone Salesman preys on the weak and defenseless. Pissed-off because Battlestar Galactica is in re-runs, this moody gorgûn with headgear, is determined to transfer his negative chi onto your forehead. So forget about asking the difference between GMS, GPRS, or GGMSSPRS. Throw out your preconceived notions about 3G and don’t you dare ask why the phone continually calls a human trafficking business in Zhejiang province. Because Mr. Mobile Menopause doesn’t have time to deal with your puny earth problems. The Fail Whale is ruining his afternoon twatting session.
Sorry CCS, but this is your job and if you continue to treat those of us without a level 6 D&D rating like Ray Romano at a Mensa conference, you’re going to quickly discover that nothing stings quite like a malfunctioning SMS straight to the inbox.
For this, our second centennial, PWDI brings you, steadfast reader of this internet drivel, a special anniversary treat. That’s right cherubs, it’s Child-Molesting, Murdering, Nazi Double-Dipper.
Like an Aryan George Costanza with a hard drive full of kiddie porn and a freezer full of body parts, CMMNDD is a cornocopia of decaying morals and saliva-laced organic blue corn tortilla chips. Unsatisfied with the good, old-fashioned rush of a NAMBLA reunion followed by a routine Sunday American Psycho repeat marathon with the Schutzstaffel boys, this ogre has to get his fix by infecting the guac with the herpes simplex 1 he contracted from one of the kids in his ethics class.
We only ask one thing of this delinquent multi-tasker: pick one. As the saying goes, no one can be all things to all people, so what’s it gonna be Adolf Manson Ramsey? Tickling, stabbing, lynching or dipping? If you’re having trouble deciding, we can surely help you out. Our services will cost less than your court fees and leave you with an entirely new facial structure. For more information call 1-800-FACE-OFF.*
PWDI presents Bi-Weekly Gangbang, a topical roundup of people who’ve deserved it over the last two weeks:
#1 – Conrad Murray: We know everyone is supposed to be innocent until proven guilty and shit like that, but when it comes to being accused of snuffing out the king of pop, justice ain’t blind. She’s fucking pissed off. And the scales are tilting towards live tiger mauling at Neverland.
#2 – Terrorists: Seriously you guys are just like toddlers. The world forgets about you for like five seconds while we mourn the death of about a bazillion celebrities and you have to go and throw a napalm fueled temper tantrum all over Jakarta. Sounds like somebody needs a nappy-poo of fists to the beard.
#3 – Jumbo Flying Squid: If it isn’t one thing it is always another. First America was under attack by communist, then terrorists, and now its mother fucking Jumbo Flying Squid. Thousands of carnivorous calamari have invaded the shores off of San Diego turning uber-relaxed SoCal into the beaches of Normandy. Where is Bobby Flay and his deep fryer when you need him? We’re hungry.
#4 – Joe Plumeri: Shiat, the world must really hate America this month. Just when you thought aerial sea monsters were bad enough, some broken teethed Brit has decided to wage war on Chicago. Joe Plumeri, the CEO of Willis Group Holdings a UK insurance firm and now the largest tenant of the Sears Tower has decided to rename our nation’s largest rod the Willis Tower. Sorry not going to happen Joe. The only Willis we are naming anything after is Bruce, so on behalf of Chi-Town please accept this deep dish to the face.
#5- Susan Rogge: Way to go Susan! Three cases of beer in the parking lot while you wait for your daughter and her friends has got to be some kind of record. Too bad the little one had to go and narc on your little drinking escapade just because you played slalom with the lines. But don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to break all kinds of records now that you are in the slammer. We suggest starting with “quickest to be traded for a pack of smokes.”
One post away from the 200 mile mark and we still haven’t punched this twat-sponge in the face. Well guess what Dinner Time Texter? You can’t hide in the shadows of your first generation Palm Treo anymore. We will expose you and your sexting for all the world to see and you will pay. You will pay in blood and SIM cards.
Have you no shame, thumb-punching zombie whore? Here we are, trying to enjoy some healthy dinner time conversation – Michael Jackson: wax or silly putty? – and there you are, ignoring the shit out of everyone. Fuck that. You’re the most boring person at the table. You don’t get to brush us off to BBM the Spanish dude you’ve been boning behind the taco cart.
You are rude. Rude and inconsiderate. And ugly. Which isn’t really your fault, so we take that last one back. But seriously, what could the gringo on the other end of your shoe-phone possibly want that is so much more interesting than tabletop coin football and drawing porn scenes on the placemats? Next time we feel sidelined by your fancy pocket holograms, you better make sure you’re in the mood for tartar. Because the only thing you’ll be able to fit through your facecast is mushy flesh food that tastes like fish. Send!
Up until a couple of days ago we here at PWDI were big fans of traffic lights. Not only did they organize society, preventing it from crashing into itself in a cataclysmic wreckage of twisted steel and capitalism, the colors were pretty. But ever since our windshield was sodomized by a plague infested washing wand we’re pretty much against stopping the LeSabre ever again.
And whom can you thank for us treating the crossing guard as a pace car? Well that would be Aggressive Squeegee Kid of course. Because last time we checked we didn’t ask to have our windows dowsed in water colored urine. We’re pretty sure our frantic hand waving meant “get the fuck away from our car with that dripping disease stick.” Not “please cover our windscreen (for our U.K. readers) with teenage mutant slime and then demand we pay for it.” This is America buddy, and in these United States extortion only works in congress, Major League Baseball and Paris Hilton’s bedroom. Seriously, why is it that every time a rich white kid is dealing with an inferiority complex brought on by a backyard pool and loving parents, the rest of us have to suffer?
Luckily we have found a solution. The next time one of these street corner Courtney Loves tries to go all grunge on the front of your ride, try sending them back In Utero by punching more than just the gas.
Hey lady! You just won $37 million! “Mehhhhh.” Bradley Cooper has expressed interest in pleasuring you orally for the next 9 hours! “Mehhhhh.” God called and said if you want to move to Hawaii and never work another day in your life, he’ll pick up the tab and leave fresh pineapple and opium on your doorstep daily! “Mehhhhh.”
Still-angry-over-friday readers of this blog, we urge you to pointedly direct your rage elsewhere, namely at Super Sulker, the sourpuss shell of a lady who’s spent so long marinading in her own fowl resentment, she’s actually dried up into a raisin. And not the hot Sunmaid lady type. The old, hard, generic type that sticks to the corner of the box and gets stuck under your fingernails until you bleed grape juice. No, grape drink.
See, the thing about Super Sulker is she’s never experienced any real problems. So when the colonel runs out of Kentucky Grilled Chicken, bitch goes into a depressive coma and can only be pulled out by the power of her next grudge. Well, here’s an idea: why not give this societal leech something to really sulk about, like losing her two front teeth to a band of angry bloggers who sell them on ebay for the original Pit of Vipers G.I. Joe action figure and a used pair of Lonnie Anderson’s panties.
Okay…well after last week’s freaky Friday we thought it best to offer up an entry for the masses. One so vile, so disturbing, so horrific that no one could argue with its inclusion. No…not Jon Gosselin and his hooker bride, or pedophile Nazis, but Shutter Shade Dude! The 26-year-old man-child that continually shows up at bar mitzvahs with spectacles made famous by Kanye West’s ass crack.
Now we know what you’re thinking, “hey, there is a whole blog dedicated to fucking with hipsters?” Yes there is and we love it, but don’t worry we wouldn’t dare nibble at the forbidden fruit that is Bedford Street. This particular gripe isn’t with tight jeans and daddy issues but with perfectly normal human beings knocking us back a couple notches on the evolutionary ladder. Seriously, what if the first thing aliens saw upon reaching earth was this guy? Mother fucking E.T. would be so disgusted he’d proton blast our terra firma into more pieces than Joey Fatone’s T.V. career. Fuck that! We still have a deposit on a Tesla roadster. There is no way we’re going to allow this walking Venetian blind to get away with that.
Next time we catch ol’ pucker-face disrespecting Geordi La Forge on the dance floor, we are instructing tactical officer Worf to set phasers to anal bleedage and screaming “fire” until our vocal cords feel like they had sex with Tom Waits.
Sincere apologies for the insensitive nature of the most recent, deleted post. We are on our annual trip to Bhutan and have left the office duties to our intern. Apparently, he’s a dick.
We hope you continue to read the regular (non-denominational) offensively inconsiderate posts.
Coming from a blog that perpetuates a certain degree of fist-a-cuffs you may find it a wee bit hypocritical of us to go after today’s entry. However there is a difference: while our herniated rage is focused like a smart bomb, Captain Cold-Shoulder drops the pain like a liquored Scott Stapp – no one is safe.
Convinced that there is just not enough room in this world, and armed with a Jonas Brothers level of God complex, CCS cruises the promenade dump-trucking whoever stands in his way. Babies? Oh yeah. The elderly? Screw you gramps. Pandas? Back to China pinko! If you think for one second that Billy-Bulldozer is going to deviate from his path just because you decided to rock you portable dialysis today, think again.
But don’t worry; there is a way to combat El capitán trata con frialdad. The next time you find yourself playing chicken with this walking Berlin wall, forget dropping your shoulder and instead dismantle his bricks and mortar with a hefty freedom spatula to the twig and berries.
**Extra points for stealing his rainbow pirate ear booty.
Let’s get one thing straight: animals belong on the streets. So, you can imagine our dismay when we found out some people keep them in their houses! They lick their own balls with shit-laden tongues people! But, erroneous. Point is, a man who chooses to share his bed with a beast better make it known who’s boss – a concept lost on Apathetic Barking Dog Neighbor. And Jon Gosselin.
There you are, lying in bed, enjoying a pineapple flan and the end of Beaches, when suddenly it seems the SS have stormed the building and let the shepherds loose on the gypsies. Hilary has jut died, Bette Midler is crying, and all you can hear is the barbaric boom of canine lung coupled with the deafening silence of his master.
Are you blind ABDN? Because your canine is ruining our lives and the only way we’re gonna cut you some slack is if you happen to be Stevie Wonder and your bitch is seeing-eye. But chances are Little Stevie doesn’t live in low-income housing, so you better snatch up a muzzle before we call the SPCA and report a rabid human with no soul. Last time we checked, the man-pound runs out of space real quick, and you know what they do to the unclaimed…
This weekend, like most of you, the PWDI family celebrated soaring-eagle freedom day (see previous post) by throwing every carbon based life form we could find on the grill, including said eagle. It was almost as if Noah’s arc pulled an Exxon Valdeze right into our Weber. Unfortunately, there was one mammal that didn’t meet it’s end through propane and hickory sauce.
His name: Backseat Barbequer.
His M.O.: Cramping your BBQ style by trying to armchair quarterback your entire grilling technique.
Why? Because BSB is a douche bag, and this female flatulence thinks that when it comes to cooking meat-stuffs over an open flame only he knows best. So what does he do? He invades your personal grill space like a teenage boy’s finger on prom night, and proceeds to offer up six thousand suggestions on how the burger you’re cooking perfectly would taste even better with his 12 step program: “Move ‘em to the middle,” “now left,” “flip ‘em once,” “no twice,” “only use your left hand.” Can we not just clog our arteries in peace? By the time the processed cheese has beautifully cocooned the cow patty, the entire opus on grilling has left us wishing we could swap places with the charcoal.
So next time BSB goes Professor A1 on us, we are going to propose this hypothesis: it’s going to be real hard to eat off the meat grill when you can’t even open your own.
Oh come all ye faithful! For today is the day we solemnly ripped our smacking lips from the great English teat. Two hundred years ago, our forefathers had the prostates to stand up and say no! No to the Worchester sauce and the poor dental hygiene and the ambiguous sexuality! Yes to the slaves though.
That’s right, today is Independence Day, and we will celebrate as Thomas Jefferson intended: by setting off overpriced and inexplicable explosive materials over bodies of water, by shooting our firearms into the sky and occasionally at each other, and by grilling lots of mistreated farm animals and slathering them in syrupy sauces. Because, we are American, and we do whatever the fuck we want.
We may be obese and rude to foreigners and drive cars that emit enough CO2 to kill entire solar systems, but goddammit we’re proud. Because in America, anything is possible and Chuck Norris is president. And no Osama Bin Jong Ill can take that way from us. So get out there, drape the flag, fire up the kegstand, and start a pointless war with Budweiser-filled nukes and the remnants of our collective liposuctions. God Bless.
Pop quiz assholes – it’s 3:24 am, you’re driving hopped up on a fine mixture of johnny blue, ganja, and fairy dust and jonseing for two all-beef special-sauced paddies. Where are you? In a ditch? Close. Face down in a pile of burgers? Closer. Stuck behind Slow-Ass Drive Thru Orderer contemplating the sentencing guidelines for fast food related homicides? Bingo. 10 points.
There you are, white knuckled, hallucinating, desperately thinking that if you could only get your hands on some serious grease the evil dolphin from your imagination would stop eating your freckles, when SADTO decides to read every single item on the menu, twice, once in Klingon. You try to take your mind off the hourglass, you twiddle your fingers, shuffle the radio knob and yell at Joey Jeremiah to stop chewing the passenger seat belt, but nothing works. You’re one car length from the squawk box, yet miles from ordering. Like being stuck behind the indecisive spawn of Ben Stein and a slug with mono.
Those microwaved meats and potatoes belong in your belly, and no malaises face, Pontiac Aztec driving, slow motion sustenance selector is going to stand in your way. So instead of sitting idly by waiting for the meat sweats to magically appear, move the asshole in front of you by serving up something waaaaaaaaay better than fast food: your own brand of whopper freak-out to the face.
Some evil is cold and calculated – god’s insistence that our private parts sag, Megan Fox’s insistence on fucking Shia Lebeouf – but, the most dangerous kind of evil is that which requires no brain at all. Enter Spencer Pratt. No, wait. Enter Jellyfish. No, enter Spencer Pratt as Jellyfish.
Point is, nothing ruins a trip to the beach like an invisible alien with no bones puking venom into your bloodstream just as you’re about to put the finishing touches on your Neverland Ranch sandcastle (previous post the obvious exception). And as if the humiliation of crushing the miniature sand Macaulay Culkin wasn’t enough, now you have to stare at some stranger’s sunburned cock as he pisses all over your leg, which hasn’t happened since ‘N Sync played the Metro Dome in ‘95.
If you ever miraculously spot a Man O War posing as a diaphram, first check to make sure it’s not a used magnum condom. If it is, scoop it up with your shovel and chuck it at Negligent Pube Groomer. If it isn’t, give the little fucker a taste of his own medicine with a pleasant mid-morning golden sun shower.
Picture this. It’s 12:47 pm. You have thirteen minutes to get back from your rub and tug, heat up a pizza pocket and turn your underwear inside out, when you emerge from Octopussy only to find an empty ‘87 Vega blocking your limited edition diamond Hummer with no driver in sight and a come stain quickly freezing on your cords. Shit son.
So, here’s the thing: when Tony Danza invented the digital camera, it was with the intention of having the paprazzi upload naked snapshots of Rupaul quickly and efficiently, without the hassle of getting felt up in the darkroom by the old bearded guy who is always in darkrooms. But you, Picture Nazi, have taken the point and click to another level and Ted is very, very angry.
There you are: 5:45 on a Thursday afternoon, trying to finish up your last I-76 report so that you can prowl the local speakeasy for a recovering sex addict with low self-esteem and an ample supply of Vicodin, when out of nowhere the inappropriate fingers of today’s offender start making crop circles around your shoulders. And before your daydream has the opportunity to progress beyond the linen sheets and a furry 9-iron, you’re snapped back to your cubicle by the cold, hard, creepy hands of Touchy-Feely Co-Worker.
Birthing a human is no small feat. In 2005, a Brazilian woman pushed 17 lbs of baby flesh out of her buceta. If anyone could rationalize giving her kid a life-ruining name, it’s her. But guess what? She named it Bob. Or something. So there really is no excuse for the selfish twats going around knockin boots for the sole purpose of channeling Frank Zappa nine months later and releasing Dweezil Jr. into the world to be taunted and tea-bagged for the rest of his life.
There are some things you just don’t mess with: a brotha’s family, his hair, or his Gameboy DS. But above all else, you do not screw with another man’s sustenance. Comprende? Why then, do some of you think it’s okay to bogart the Jalapeño Poppers when you explicitly agreed to share said finger food? That’s right Food Hogger, we’re el hablar con usted. And we’re mucho peeved.
Not much is worse than having a masked stranger shove their latexed paws down your throat and treat your gums like a callgirl backstage at a B4-4 show. Except when said mouth raper has the audacity to channel Joy Behar in an exclusive interview with Barbara Streisand midway through your root canal.
We get it, being a bus driver sucks ass -you get paid very few shillings to shepherd around an oversized Astro Van full of bratty children, alcoholic receptionists and insurance salesmen. It’s safe to say life hasn’t turned out exactly how you planned, you don’t have a number one hit in Mogadishu, you’ve never scaled Mt. McKinley in a rabbit suit and there hasn’t been a single Keanu Reeves sitting on your bus route. Bummer.
Sorry all y’all Anne Frank wannabes. Turns out more people want to punch Aborted Fetus Costume in the face this year. You’ll just have to settle for blatant nonviolent disgust and a vexing by the voodoo rabbis. Not too shabby.
Trick or treat suckas. The weather is cooler, the pumpkins are carved and the razor blades are hidden. That’s right interwebbers, it’s our favorite time of year – ironic costume time! But for every Gay Hitler out there, there’s a million Joe the Plumbers. So in the spirit of the season we ask you to pick the number one costume that deserves a punch to the gourd.
Remember when people communicated long distances using only Swiss mountain horns like in that Ricola commercial? You don’t? Well, neither do we. However, some folks are still convinced that the only way to convey their reoccurring salad fork nightmare to their therapist, is to shout it as loud as possible into their mobile phones. As if the cellular device was merely a can attached to a string that only functions properly when details of said cutlery dream are belted out at 11.
Ever since Eve became the earth’s first star of Girls Gone Wild, people have been slapping the pony. Two million, two hundred and eighty six days latter and you’d think humans would have gotten pretty good at hiding the salami, right? Wrong. And we’ve got breaking news for you Christiane Amanpour: some people haven’t been practicing at all. And last time we checked, laying pipe wasn’t supposed to be as exciting as watching paint dry on CSPAN .
On October 12th, 1492, Chrissy Columbus first docked his sea palace on the shores of this vast Indian paradise after having spent 40 days vomiting opium overboard and sodomizing nice African ladies. Five hundred and seventeen years later, thanks to Hooters Air, we can fly to China, pick up a garbage pail kid, a young bride and dried squid skewer and be back before dinner. But what would C-Lumb say if he knew that one unemployed T.G.I.Friday’s attention whore with a stand-up act from 1983 and access to a P.A. system was ruining modern travel for all?
Holy Shitake Mushrooms traffic sucks ass. Not only does it keep us from getting home in time for Tom Delay’s big number, but it also traps us inside our sea foam Pinto, one fender bender away from being blown out of Henry Ford’s corn hole. As much as we’d like to be pan seared on a bed of linoleum – thanks to some engineer’s decision to test the strength of Special K instead of gas tanks – we’d rather make it home to cry ourselves to sleep.
When Al Gore dreamed up a network of talking computers that could send each other stuff over a bunch of invisible nets, he was most excited for the chance to have a blow up doll delivered directly to his house in under 12 hours without the hassle of making small talk with Bambi behind the counter at the Slut Hut. What he didn’t envision was the whole concept getting fucked by a dilly-dallying truck driver in a one piece shit suit and a hankering for a sloppy joe.
Not since Adam first discovered his right hand has there been a better friend to our flesh snake than the urinal. A porcelain masterpiece that has allowed modern man to raise up his hands, throw caution to the wind and piss without any concern of hitting the rim. This man toilet is the motherfucking Moses of the bathroom. Its wide basin and gentle backstop has been liberating brothers for decades.
What’s the capital of Ecuador? How many mammals are indigenous to Guam? What is the square root of 646? Don’t know? That’s okay, because today’s public offender will be happy to tell you the answer, right after he tells your girlfriend how he spent the last six months learning sanskrit, studying planetary creation and re-writing the United Nations Charter.
Winning rules. That’s why, when it happens, we count on the loser to pull down our girdles, lick our ass cracks and kiss the feet we clobbered them at Jenga with. Hence our dismay when, after pulling off an around-the back 360 windmill in the final round of W.H.O.R.E., Sore Loser deflates the ball with his needle cock and curls up in a shivering ball, reciting Tony Robbins scripts and cutting himself with the remains of a broken Orangina bottle.
For those of us too poor to afford a bottle of 1787 Chateau Lafite, healthcare or a personal driver, taking a cab is as a close to living the bourgeoisie life as we can get our dirty hands on. Nothing beats being chauffeured around the city while the proletariat suffer with umbrellas that won’t fold, pigeons that go for the jugular and twelve inches of acid rain. However, all the fun associated with looking down on the common folk goes out the window faster than a trader on black Friday, as soon as you find yourself snug in the back seat with Excessively Chatty Cabbie.
Growing up in America, we’re encouraged to think big. You want to be the next Ryan Seacrest? Go for it. Dream of building an empire selling faulty credit to Alzheimer’s patients? God bless. But, eventually the bubble bursts and we realize we’ll never amount to anything but the bathroom attendants we are. And we’re ok with that. The mints are free.
If you are lucky enough to still have hair on your head, and not just your ass, then you know from time to time the hedge needs to be groomed. You also probably know that it is going to run you anywhere from 6 to 6,000 Pesos, depending on how prestigious of an art school your “stylist” dropped out of. But regardless of whether you’re forced to cough up six cents, six dollars or scintillating rim-jobs, the former sculptor holding clipping shears two inches from your frontal lobe, better at least be on this planet.
When on parole, having company over shows you are civilized, mentally stable and able to be in the same room as others without shanking them and selling their livers. But when said company leaves the remnants of a half-digested bison burger with extra gruyere and special sauce all over your new Toto before slipping out unnoticed, our ankle bracelets start buzzing like Madoff at the penny fountain.
It’s safe to say that most art is subjective; some people see a masterful piece of work that transcends time while others see urine on canvas. Some people see genius while others see a pretentious waif with bad hair and a rampant case of pedophilia who can’t control his bladder. That’s just the way art is; one man’s treasure is another man’s bodily fluid. And that’s fine, great even, just as long as the metaphysical mumbo jumbo is kept in museums and out of the places we spend our first waking moments.
Monday morning – you’re late for a go-see to be the next face of Nasonex, when suddenly and without warning the H1 infested hipster in front of you brings his leather plaid to a halt for a brief testes adjustment, leaving your nasal cavity to shatter on impact with his solidified rat-tail. Your career is ruined. Your family will starve. And it’s all thanks to Abrubt Stop Walker.
Ahhhhh milk. Is there anything you can’t do? Sucked from the bosom of another animal, you keep our bones strong, our cereal moist and our Oreos covered with more white stuff than a 38 year-old bukake specialist. It doesn’t matter what breed of tit you come from: big, small, long, short, black, white, shaved, hairy – our lips are blind and our heart is gaping. You complete us.
In 1899, Hitler shared a bunk bed at fat camp with a kid named Moishe Cohen, who sleep-wheezed louder than a sedated Free Willy in a headgear. Thirty five years later, the holocaust happened. Coincidence? You said it, not us.
Since the dawn of travel, man has brought booty back from whatever distant rock he sobered up on – gold from Mexico, ivory from Africa, crabs from Amsterdam – each treasure a reminder of his triumph over nature, nutrition and native people, not to mention the last thing you want showing up in a million pieces once back behind castle walls.
Yesterday, we celebrated America’s most favorite pastime: labor! For 24 whole hours, we took off our safety goggles, ignored the assembly line and said fuck you to the 13 kids who will die of lead poisoning today. But someone didn’t deserve to take the day off. Someone takes every day off when she pops an acid tab each morning and serves you whatever her little unicorn heart desires from her window in the sky. Someone is Drive-Thru Fuck Up.
“Duuuuude! I’m gonna bone that bitch in the thong until my cock falls off in her vagina and she has to fuck the rest of these hoes for me! Weerrd.”
There are few things more disturbing than a grown-ass man, with a penchant for virginity, World of War Craft and putting on make-up with the intention of 
Oh, internet. How you shower us with generous gifts of free man on donkey porn, real life University of Phoenix degrees and the ability to stalk people we don’t even like. What did we do before you? How will we survive after? And why is it that under your spell, average joes turn into bat-shit crazy sociopaths with the rage of Tommy Lasorda at a Weight Watchers meeting in the basement of a Dunkin’ Donuts?
There is an old saying, “you get what you pay for.” Meaning if your drop 30 Kroners on an Oslonian Hooker named Gertrude, you shouldn’t complain when Gertrude turns out to be Gary, and Gary ends up having more crabs than Maryland. It’s basic economics for anyone with a spinal cord, which apparently excludes super shitty Smash Brothers Moving Man, who pockets your hard-earned company petty cash in exchange for a cardboard box full of broken glass, a severed vibrator and a bill for his overtime.
Oh, well hello Chauncey! Lovely day for a jaunt on the tube isn’t it? Maybe a quick skim through the condensed works of Dickens? A light Ayn Rand for the road? Or perhaps we should move straight to shoving your ascot up your already clogged anal canal, Pretentious Subway Reader, you sweater-vested twat.
Today we salute the oldest profession on god’s STD-riddled earth: night walking. Ladies and gentlemen, in times of crisis we must turn to the past. Out with the bejeweled Ed Hardy investment bankers and kidney-pawning rabbis of yesteryear. In with the high-yield, high-risk thrills of condomless sex with strangers and consistent possible pregnancies. That’s right Hooker, this Olde English is for you.
“Pour some supra on pee, ohh I can’t get a bluff. I’m hot, sticky feet…” Great balls of fire, nothing burns our ear urethra quite like the auditory asshole that bastardizes song lyrics worse than William Hung on Mescaline. It makes us so mad, you could water board us with horse urine and we’d still be more likely to buy you pistachio ice cream than if you butcher our favorite sing-along.
In recessionary times like these, the people must prioritize. Curb the spending. Trim the fat. Do I really need this special edition Martin Sheen hair gel? Could I live without my white gold unicorn? How true is it that kids die when they don’t drink water? So, when we finally decide to shell out some loonies, you better believe we’re expecting an obese ROI.
Before we get started, all you Eskimos out there reading this might as well just bugger off – go build an igloo or club a seal for all we care, because today’s entry doesn’t apply to you furry cartoon characters. Sorry, we’re just a little menopausey today on account of walking out of the house into an ass crack of Humidity and the bukake of ball-sweat that comes with not living above the fucking arctic circle.
Holy Damien Chrysler Autobahn do we love driving – the sense of freedom at out finger tips, the smell of gasoline in our nose, and the gentle vibration messaging our corn hole. One could say it’s our favorite way to pick up the monthly prescription of extra strength suppositories and Neapolitan ice cream. At least that was until we got cut off out of the blue by No Signal Swerver and almost put our Astro Mini Van through the window of Racist Frank’s Whole Sale Medical Supplies.
Sometimes it seems like the only way to carve out an identity in this homogeneous world is to drop some E and fuck a donkey so you could create the first ever man-ass hybrid child. So when you do actually have something going for yourself, the last thing you want is some two-bit imitator wasting your flavor.
Admittedly, air travel is not what it used to be. In days of yonder, pilots were revered as golden gods, treated to the finest hand jobs and ginger ale in all the land. From Poughkeepsie to Portland, flying was seen as glamorous, exotic, and place for young perky girls to get knocked-up while on the job. Happy to refill your scotch and top off your knob, stewardesses made taking to the skies a real luxury. Unfortunately, all great things must come to an end – pilots became alcoholics, meals became pretzels and the only thing going south quicker than a stewardess’ tits is her attitude.
When man invented the wheel his intentions were clear: maybe now we could go out for bison balls instead of having to skin them with our bare hands and wait seven hours for the bitch to boil them. Nowhere in this plan was there mention of a tag along cave doosh who would ride on your back with his licey head up your ass like a Two Girls, One Cup prequel.
“You sure you want to buy those chaps?”, “Why do you bite your nails?”, “Smuggling Chinese Water Dogs under the border doesn’t sound like a smart career choice.” Uh oh, sounds like someone has a Constant Life Meddler on their hands. And just like syphilis, if this opinionated intervener isn’t dealt with quickly you’ll end up cutting off an ear and having sex with a dog.
Parking in the city is never easy, what with the confusing signs, expensive meters and crocodiles. Okay we made the last one up, but you get the idea. Throw on top of that the ticket hyenas dressed in blue and you basically have the most difficult task man has ever encountered. So when you do finally find a spot that isn’t going to land you with a boot on your car or a tow-truck driver up your ass, you count your lucky stars Pablo. Of course that is until Box-In-Bastard spluges all over your parade, riding up on your bumper like a lacrosse player at Hooters.
The United States Surgeon General recommends an average of 7-9 hours of sleep a night for adults. Something most of us have trouble getting even with a shot of Drambuie, six Lunestas, and a rub & tug. So it’s safe to say when we do finally let Mr. Sandman take a dump on our eyelids we want that shit to stick. Too bad, because Late Night Door Slammer has other ideas, and they don’t involve you wet dreaming about resuscitating Lindsay Lohan’s acting career. Better get some tissues.
When Hova created the uterus, she had a specific vision in mind. Namely, populating the earth with a species that would do all the work for her and then die. What she didn’t realize was that this new mammal would be savvy enough to use her vaginal canal for evil, popping out little punks as bait for shitty boyfriends everywhere.
When man first domesticated canines they were for protection of land, possessions and body. Feral beasts that provided companionship and warmth from the tip of their coats through to their hearts. Fast-forward a thousand years, and booyakasha! Man has turned his best friend into a limping mannequin-accessory-thingy that looks like the lovechild of Rupaul and Robin Williams.
Some people smell like shit – pig wranglers, French hookers, Flava Flav – but most of these aromas are the sweet perfume of a job well done. Or an exotic STD. Not so with Deodorant Boycotter, the stank-ass ho you can smell before she even turns the corner on her collapsible freak bike with its basket full of B.O.
We’ll be the first to admit, being a bouncer doesn’t sound like an easy gig. You stand outdoors under any conditions, into the wee hours of the morning, dealing with inebriated Neanderthals trying to rub their groins together. Then after all is said and done some chode you threw out earlier for trying to keg-stand the bartender comes back with a shiv and the intention of carving you like a Thanksgiving turkey. No thanks.
Do you know someone who loves hearing the sound of her own voice? Perhaps a friend who leads a less exciting life than a Jersey toll booth operator on qualudes, but who invariably manages to take everything you say and magically turn it into a story about her spouse’s irregular anal discharge? “Funny you should mention your being up for a Nobel Prize, Herb has hemorrhoids again…”
Ever since the horn was invented it has played a pivotal role in society, it reminds people the light has turned, that the drive-thru is open, and that those yabbos are boobalicous. Unfortunately, as time has passed certain individuals have taken it upon themselves to pound the middle of the steering wheel like a new fish at Sing Sing.
When the GHB is gone, and all that remains of last night’s party is a rogue donkey and the faint memory of a midget wearing a gag, you can always count on one person to suck you out of your crack haze and spit you back into reality. And that person is the one who’s lying face-down on your vintage Craigslist couch in a pool of her own chunkmeal, which is mostly made up of the pork sliders you splurged on for your annual “X Years Since the Sex Change” gathering.
In a country with a 97.87% obesity rate, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to scale back the 12-a-day taquito addiction. That however does not give today’s entry the green light to turn every breakfast, lunch and dinner into a calorie-based episode of Night Court. As if you didn’t already feel bad enough just sitting in a Golden Coral, this poo-drop has to go all organic Judge Judy on what you order. Screw you Jenny Craig, not everyone can sustain themselves on water chestnuts, blood and hypoallergenic water.
What gets louder as it gets smaller? A baby in a trash compacter! Speaking of dead babies, it’s time to talk about one of our country’s most ubiquitous personages, Overzealous Pro-Lifer. Now, before you accuse us of being
When nature calls everyone answers, that’s just the way Obama made us. And if you’re like the majority of us, your bowel movement is set to a clock that even the elves in Switzerland would be jealous of. Whether we admit it or not, this is a time we all look forward to, a few minutes of solitude to sit back, reflect and ponder why Dominos always gives us the runs.
Every day, millions of immigrants smuggle themselves in the linings of Ford Pintos for the chance to spit in the streets unpunished and realize their dreams of becoming American supermarket magnates. Yet, here we have a flesh and blood American, wasting away behind the conveyor belt, treating our groceries like dime-store hookers after a night on Capitol Hill: swipe, pass, and pile.
We’ll be the first to admit it, when it comes to technology we have about as much understanding as Frédéric Prinz von Anhalt has about monogamy. So when it came time to turn in the ol’Nokia 8310 and upgrade to something bedazzled, it’s safe to say we were lost.
For this, our second centennial, PWDI brings you, steadfast reader of this internet drivel, a special anniversary treat. That’s right cherubs, it’s Child-Molesting, Murdering, Nazi Double-Dipper.
PWDI presents Bi-Weekly Gangbang, a topical roundup of people who’ve deserved it over the last two weeks:
One post away from the 200 mile mark and we still haven’t punched this twat-sponge in the face. Well guess what Dinner Time Texter? You can’t hide in the shadows of your first generation Palm Treo anymore. We will expose you and your sexting for all the world to see and you will pay. You will pay in blood and SIM cards.
Up until a couple of days ago we here at PWDI were big fans of traffic lights. Not only did they organize society, preventing it from crashing into itself in a cataclysmic wreckage of twisted steel and capitalism, the colors were pretty. But ever since our windshield was sodomized by a plague infested washing wand we’re pretty much against stopping the LeSabre ever again.
Hey lady! You just won $37 million! “Mehhhhh.” Bradley Cooper has expressed interest in pleasuring you orally for the next 9 hours! “Mehhhhh.” God called and said if you want to move to Hawaii and never work another day in your life, he’ll pick up the tab and leave fresh pineapple and opium on your doorstep daily! “Mehhhhh.”
Okay…well after last week’s freaky Friday we thought it best to offer up an entry for the masses. One so vile, so disturbing, so horrific that no one could argue with its inclusion. No…not Jon Gosselin and his hooker bride, or pedophile Nazis, but Shutter Shade Dude! The 26-year-old man-child that continually shows up at bar mitzvahs with spectacles made famous by Kanye West’s ass crack.
Sincere apologies for the insensitive nature of the most recent, deleted post. We are on our annual trip to Bhutan and have left the office duties to our intern. Apparently, he’s a dick.
Coming from a blog that perpetuates a certain degree of fist-a-cuffs you may find it a wee bit hypocritical of us to go after today’s entry. However there is a difference: while our herniated rage is focused like a smart bomb, Captain Cold-Shoulder drops the pain like a liquored Scott Stapp – no one is safe.
Let’s get one thing straight: animals belong on the streets. So, you can imagine our dismay when we found out some people keep them in their houses! They lick their own balls with shit-laden tongues people! But, erroneous. Point is, a man who chooses to share his bed with a beast better make it known who’s boss – a concept lost on Apathetic Barking Dog Neighbor. And Jon Gosselin.
This weekend, like most of you, the PWDI family celebrated soaring-eagle freedom day (see previous post) by throwing every carbon based life form we could find on the grill, including said eagle. It was almost as if Noah’s arc pulled an Exxon Valdeze right into our Weber. Unfortunately, there was one mammal that didn’t meet it’s end through propane and hickory sauce.
Oh come all ye faithful! For today is the day we solemnly ripped our smacking lips from the great English teat. Two hundred years ago, our forefathers had the prostates to stand up and say no! No to the Worchester sauce and the poor dental hygiene and the ambiguous sexuality! Yes to the slaves though.
Pop quiz assholes – it’s 3:24 am, you’re driving hopped up on a fine mixture of johnny blue, ganja, and fairy dust and jonseing for two all-beef special-sauced paddies. Where are you? In a ditch? Close. Face down in a pile of burgers? Closer. Stuck behind Slow-Ass Drive Thru Orderer contemplating the sentencing guidelines for fast food related homicides? Bingo. 10 points.
Some evil is cold and calculated – god’s insistence that our private parts sag, Megan Fox’s insistence on fucking Shia Lebeouf – but, the most dangerous kind of evil is that which requires no brain at all. Enter Spencer Pratt. No, wait. Enter Jellyfish. No, enter Spencer Pratt as Jellyfish.
