Archive for April, 2009

TED lectures – save your time for porn instead

Friday, 24 April 2009

WHAT IF the world’s most overrated assholes all got in one room and that room didn’t mercifully explode or launch itself into the sun?

There’d be TED, once a name for a boy, now probably some acronym for smart people who think they’re too smart for even smart people.

TED freaks, you are too smart, but only compared to yourselves. You’re only there at that auditorium in Fuckflorff, Sweden because you’re somehow rich off whatever scam you’ve been selling.

No one gives a fuck about your specialness or combined altruistic horse manure brainpower. Have you looked at the WORLD around you GENIUSES? This is the best it can do WITH YOU IN IT!


I could’ve saved all this typing by linking to the video showing fat fascist and liar Al Gore in your audience, er, TEDience.

Now go show a fucking car commercial at lecture’s end to pay for your rubbish because a roomful of ingenious millionaires couldn’t all chip in to broadcast for free.

Since no one asked, I just want you to know I hate all singers

Thursday, 23 April 2009

I hate singers.  All of them.  Yeah, I listen to music and it has singers in it.  So fucking what?  They all suck balls.  Fuck them and their giant-ass egos.

Fuck singers!  They didn’t earn shit.  On-key singing is a genetic accident, nothing else.  It takes a some training to sing, but not a whole lot.  It’s not like, say, ACTING.  Har fucking har.

Do you know how to breathe, fucker?  Then even you can sing.  Just badly.

Susan Boyle? Fuck NO.  Voice like UH ANGEL and a face like my ass.  A bodybuilder puts in REAL WORK to get in shape…nobody is born ripped.  Did Boyle wake up one day and start doing VOICE UPS?  Crap.  Bitch you won the genetic lottery, now fuck off.

The cruelest thing about these fucking singers is what they do to the rest of us, the second cruelest is the bullshit lasts and lasts like a stick of dogshit gum.  Without a gimmick or rich husband a “model/actress” is finished in 10 years or less.  Faces shrivel and fall off, tits board a bus for Silcon Scalpel Ski Resort, but those goddamned singing voices barely ever change, they just switch to animated features.

Jealous, you say?

Of course, twit! Why should I be doing niggerwork while some idiot with an IQ of SPAM recycles some Sinatra for 1 billion dollars?  Don’t think jealousy counts for everything, either, I’m jealous of people with the cohones to kill themselves.

Fuck all singers, vocalists, crooners, carolers, musicians, performers, songsters, songstresses, throat-sucking ear-fucking dickwad assfucks.

Except Don Dokken.

There’s nothing cute about acute gastroenteritis

Tuesday, 21 April 2009

I’m guessing it was the lone strawberry I ate after dinner. On one side he was fuzzy and ugly with a small puke green patch on him…the other side was still a deep and succulent red. I nibbled the red side and it was sweet. Soon after my body temp plummeted and hours later I was pissing shit out my ass in a laserlike brown stream, funny because at work I enjoyed telling others: “If you can’t be happy for any other reason, thank God you don’t have violent diarrhea (and if you do have it, thank God you’re not constipated”).

Violent puking joined the dia-chorus an hour later and would continue at two hour intervals all night long. I’d be reading in bed when first the squirts, then the puking, then using an entire roll of toilet paper, then back to bed quaking with chills, repeat as needed. I was wearing three shirts, two pairs of socks, two pairs of sweatpants and lying wrapped beneath two giant blankets, the larger one made of super-insulating goose down, and I was still shivering.

During one of the liquid breaks I managed to get online (WebMD sucks, BTW, nothing like than struggling with an unintuitive POS website when you’re dying). I was terrified I had signs of appendicitis or a kidney stone, and though my insides felt like Mike Tyson’s heavy bag I still didn’t have the sharp pains that accompany each of the really bad conditions.

I must have squirted enough brown to fill an oil drum, and by the time early morn arrived, there wasn’t a single grain of rice or bit of fish (or strawberry) or drop of liquid in my system. The last round of puking, without any water left in my body to move it, brought up pure Alien grade acid from the pit of my stomach, burning the hell out of my throat. I was too weak to drink water, but eventually managed to get some down.

I was only too happy to miss work today, the downside being I still haven’t the energy to slink over to the grocery for Gatorade. Life’s been reduced to a quest for electrolytes. I prefer it to the existential pain of living every day as a healthy but gormless fugazi.

You’re not dreaming, asshole: America **is** under siege by communist tyrants

Wednesday, 15 April 2009

The current President of the United States is a communist piece of shit, voted in democratically, just like Hitler. He has no self-respect as well as no respect for America; bowing like a subservient coward and slave to a raghead monarch during his recent Bash-America/Asslick Muslims Tour. The only people The One makes a show of strength against are Americans who don’t want to serve Big Daddy Government (Please don’t mention our heroic SEALS sniping a few Somali fuckfaces…if YObama had real balls the sky over that area of ocean would be DARK with Predator drones and the whole Somalian COASTLINE would already look like a crawling catepillar of NAPALM).

A fascist cunt-dyke leads the Department of Homeland Tyranny, releasing groundless statements like this, trying to bait the 50+ million conservatives in this country.

If you voted for the Marxlatto, you should feel stupid.--not forever–but at least once this year you should look in the mirror and say:

“Self, I fucked up real bad voting for this fascist asshole. Dumbo didn’t legalize my weed, he didn’t get me a job, he didn’t fix jack shit, he took all my hope and left me with loose change. I got fucked in the ass like I was on my gay honeymoon in Iowa. I won’t make the same mistake in 2012.”

For those of you who think everything is just fine or getting better—WAKE UP.

The USA won’t remain free under the thumb of a Dumbo-eared Castro wannabe, it will either shrink into a communist hellhole or shrug off these motherfucking tyrants before it’s too late.

If it takes another Civil War, so be it.

First Time in a Hookah Bar

Friday, 3 April 2009

It wasn’t smoky. A young girl behind the counter with fine tits, thick lips and a shiny forehead greeted me. I told her I’d never been, but my money was green, and how does it work?

While she explained the process the pot-bellied hippie who owned the place (I’d seen him on the bar’s website) stared unhappily. I took it personally. There’s a communist nigger in the White House and his business was hopping, so why the long face to go with the long, gray beard?

I motioned to an empty table behind me, dropped the $$$ and the little girl brought out the hookah. It looked like Aladdin’s bong. I was nervous because I thought I’d have to set it up myself, water and charcoal and shit. But they did it all. The rules
were that the hook could only be moved around by the staff. Break it and you’re out 50 bucks.

The girl hooked up the hookah pipe. She’d recommended the “Purple Haze” flavor for me. I took a hard drag on the hose. Purple Haze tasted like moth balls floating in Grape Kool-Aid at Grandmother’s house.

Thursday was Trivia Night. A loud, young, obnoxious prick on a stage nook was reading off questions and the crowd was shouting out. They were having a good time.

With dawning horror I realized that except for the pot-bellied hippie owner, I was the oldest one in the place. I was sitting by myself at a large blocky table that could seat four. Comfortable looking couches flanked the table but there were people nearby, young people, and I wasn’t about to move. Youth surrounded me: baby faces and cell phones and a few girls with short-shorts that looked painted on their cute little bobble-asses.

I decided it was all a Lie, I was really 25 and these were middle school kids. In another 5 years they would all be elementary school kids. When you’re very old every person under 40 must look like a child.

I took serious drags on the hookah, savoring the taste of Grandmother’s mothball cunt. I had nothing else to do. When I was young I was a young loner, I would always be one. My youth had been wasted. I would always be afraid of people.

I made that hookah water DANCE with my long serious drags. The flavor grew on me, a little. Flavorful smoke alternately blasted in a narrow cone and squirted out of my tired lips.The hookah menu had almost 40 flavors to try and golly gee, I’d keep coming back almost 40 times this year and try them all!—I lied to myself. I wondered if I would ever go back. No one I knew smoked.

The trivia portion ended. Loud rock music now blared on the PA. One of the songs was Europe’s ‘The Final Countdown’. The young people seemed to like it, singing along in places, but they didn’t understand it; they mocked it as cheesy and it was, but it was beautiful to me and marked a certain time in my life and I didn’t like hearing it mocked.

I was sad and felt sorry for myself. I’m always alone in crowds; that other people might also feel alone didn’t matter because you can’t be alone together.

The Purple Haze was making me slightly giddy, almost high, except it was an illusion. It was likely my high blood pressure kicking on, making the body’s race towards death an easier downhill coast instead of the slogging speed of inevitability.

I wanted to kill the hippie for not welcoming me to his hookah bar. Times are tight and he probably needed all the business he could get…I didn’t want him to kiss my ass but just say hello, say, “Welcome” to a potential new customer.

The bar was getting ready to close. Laser lights danced on the walls. The young pussy hugged and kissed the young cocks goodbye. They were all happy, if only for this moment. I knew they were afraid and got picked on by the world and needed to band together.

I left alone, the same way I entered.

No one I know smokes.

Not even me.