“Cost of Living”

Found this paper blowing across a parking lot six years ago; scanned it front and back.  Story of the average wage slave, told better than I could.

I’m 40, she’s 20

Don’t know how I did it but I got the cute Japanese girl with big tits from this post to go to lunch with me this Monday.

“Platonically!” she all but yelled.

Oh, that’s how.

It’s an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet with a huge sushi zone, not that I’m being racist. No, really!—she doesn’t like pizza or wings.

I’ve been trying to lose the same 10 pounds so I’ll eat light all weekend and make my “cheat day” the day of buffet. I also plan on being slightly stoned. I expect her to be fully horrified by how much I put away. I don’t care.

Not caring is how I got her to agree to lunch. And I’m not caring in the best way: I truly don’t care. I told her three times before I got her number that it’s OK to cancel if something comes up.

“Like what would come up?”

“I don’t know, you win the lottery or something.”

She claims she is shy, and the only reason she’s able to talk to me is because she’s not interested in me ‘that way’.

“If anyone falls in love,” I warned, “it will be you with me.”

I’m using this non-date as a test, to see if I remember anything about table manners and listening skills.  

The girl is beautiful with perfect teeth, and such fierce, callow energy you have to witness to believe.

I would love to fuck her with ultimate tenderness or even just eat her pussy for an hour, but the price would be terribly high.

Whether she chickens (or sushis) out or not, I’m going to that motherfucking buffet and eating till the manager says, “YOU GO ‘WAY, WE CLOSED, ALL FOOD GONE, WE LAUNDRY NOW!”

FINALLY, a muslim comedy!

First off:

MUSLIMS DON’T NEED A REASON TO ACT LIKE SAVAGES.

This trailer for a “controversial” muslim comedy is just the latest excuse.  Crack open a history book once in awhile. 

If anyone should be (laff) rioting against the film it should be over the shitty production values.  

I was only moved to write about this because I thought the director had been arrested for exercising his right to free speech.  Turns out he’s not allowed online because he’s a run-of-the-mill identity thief, which could prove useful since even the “fooled” actors he hired have been fingering him to save their own necks. 

Gotta give credit where it’s due, at least this low-life thief had the guts to speak out against the 900-lb bomb-strapped camel in the room when no one else is.  While in no danger of winning an Oscar, Innocence of Muslims (the trailer) currently has 14 million views on youtube.  Who knows, it might prompt a few more people to find out more about the “real” mohammed.    

The no-ballses running the American and other so-called First World governments are trying to wait the ‘muslim problem’ out.  Not going to happen.  The barbarians are ALWAYS at the gate, and now, in some lands, already inside.  If history proves true, there isn’t going to be a muslim Renaissance and/or Enlightenment period in the next 30 years.  

Look, I’m telling you this as someone who believes Islam is as legitimate a path to God as any other faith:  the only way the world is going to end the jihadist muslim threat is with a promise of complete and utter religicide.  There will be no list of “moderate Muslims” to protect and no time to sort it out anyway; when the real revolution begins, “moderate” Muslims are going to be threatened to join with the other kind against the West or be killed.

Don’t say you weren’t warned.

 

Braco: greatest of all super-geniuses

This guy is the greatest super-genius in the world, yet I know people who would be too lazy to even stand and stare lovingly at a crowd for 5 minutes.

Did you see that broad at the beginning? With the OK face and fantastic titties?

I would’ve stared at her titties for free, but Braco (pronounced “Braht-zoh”) made her pay $8 before he would.

Braco = greatest super-genius in the world.  

Soon Braco won’t even have to leave the house to stare at you.

You’re damned right I would

Original found here.

 

Connie Schultz, white female version of The Giggler

I don’t like her her crazy eyes.

I don’t like her douchebag taxocrat husband, who invoked Godwin’s Law on the Senate floor.

Her sentimental drivel in PARADE magazine is a dull spoon.

Normally I just roll with it—-like reading Marmaduke as a knee-jerk reflex when I know it will create absolutely no mirth at all—-but this column stuck in my craw. I understand not liking Mitt Romney, I recognize the right to vote against him, but I HATE intellectual dishonesty, and painting Romney as a callous buffoon who has “written off” 47% of the nation is dishonest.

The column romanticizes the hard work of the wait staff, which is self-defeating, because Romney wasn’t talking about people who work hard.

I ask you also to consider what it must have felt like to be a server in that room. Imagine what it must have felt like to be those hourly wage earners listening to a presidential candidate depict them as lazy. Now multiply them by millions.

Schultz knows Romney isn’t talking about hourly wage earners; he wasn’t referring to retirees living on Social Security or people collecting Unemployment and temporary welfare.

Everyone knows someone–usually at the periphery of their circle–engaged in welfare fraud and faking disabilities. When I went to jury duty, a woman who worked for a company which sold motorized carts described ‘sick’ people literally springing into the dealership to get a taxpayer-funded cart. Everyone I know has at least one story of some vermin in line at the grocery, buying hundreds of dollars of steak and salmon with an EBT card, then hopping into a brand-new Caddy. Don’t get me started on the fucktards at the IRS, who sent refund checks to inmates in prison, and in one case, 2,300 people living at one address.

I shouldn’t have to resort to watching Charles Bronson kill The Giggler to calm down.  But that’s where we are as a nation.

Criminal Donkeys

Didn’t think to be writing again about revolution again so soon, but here we are.

Now it’s voter fraud in Arkansas, committed by the you-know-whos and under-reported-to-ignored by lamestream libmedia doofii.

I’d be more willing to give these podunk idiots a pass (with long prisons sentences they’ll probably never receive) except the hysterocrats have been carrying on about non-existent “voter supression” for some time now.   One douchebag whose name I already forgot wrote a column listing voter suppression as one of but three ways Romney can win (the other two were getting-out-the-vote on Erection Day and good debates).

Voter suppression, according to the left, consists of having to show government-issued picture ID, e.g. a driver’s license, at a polling place.  Like when you have to show your driver’s license at the liquor store, that’s alcohol suppression.
…to fly on an airplane? Flight suppression.
…to rent a car? Driver suppression.
…to open a bank account? Wealth suppression.

Early voting and voting by mail should both be stopped yesterday. If you’re too lazy to drive to the polling place you should be killed.

Done.

Ripe for Revolution, one in a series

When it comes to predicting the arrival of revolution, try looking at the little things.

Here we have an article about the “Secret” Stupids that got caught cheating honest workers out of fair payment.  

These dopes embarrassed our nation and their Service, and though I despise the Hawaaiian-raised-by-marxists-in-muslim-Indonesia, this honest-to-Allah gaffe had nothing to do with him.

Apparently, getting fired was a good career move for these SS douchebags. Not only will they receive no prison time for alleged drug use, they’ve gone from being potential bullet sponges to enriching their worthless hides with outrageous federal pensions, all at taxpayer expense, of course!

Hey, if it were up to me, both hookers and blow (actually all drugs) would be decriminalized tomorrow. Let the States decide.

But that’s not the issue here.

There’s nothing I despise more (for the length of this rant) than a cop who will arrest a man for the same behavior he engages in. It’s why I’ll always have the titanium bones of a “spiritual” anarchist within this…dull conservatarian exterior.

You libs who hate those devilish CEOs’ fat paychecks and severance packages should take note of this one, it’s the same exact concept of rewarding failure, only instead of sharholders its you and me with our dicks in the blender.

Reflect on the 30 million Americans out of work, struggling to survive.  Now think of these fat-assed dirtbags reaping huge taxpayer-funded rewards for being disgraceful.

I read shit like this article and am ready to hoist the black flag and start slitting throats.

To help calm the fuck down, I’m adding this editorial cartoon from Nick Anderson of the Houston Chronicle, the funniest of all toons I’ve read this year:

A Trip to the Market

I wake up.   I wanted to be up two hours ago but there was no point, just like there’s no point now. I pop 1/4 of a caffeine pill and lie down, enjoying the feeling of the drug racing through my veins.

I get up, shit, shave, teeth and prepare to hit the gym. I pull on the black gym shorts and say, Fuck This, No Gym.  Wearing the gym getup, I go to the supermarket instead.

The lot is crowded, I brake often to not run people over, people who move too slowly, like they have all the time in the world. Fuck off.

I park and head for one of the two entrances, located at either end of the building like human ears on a head. I walk past the scale and think Fuck It. If I’m too heavy I’ll be depressed and if I weigh OK, I’ll likely spend too much on crap and undo all my good work.

The market is very busy. Normally I’m here when the aisles have one or two other people, now they’re crowded with 4 or more. I make my way to the greens and find a box of Muscadine grapes. They are big for grapes, purple-to-black, fat and round. The store wants 5 bucks for a tiny box. I decide I’ll try them, what does a 5 dollar grape taste like? It better fucking rock.

Circling the produce I see a mother/daughter combo. The mother is my age or worse, frail, smallish. The daughter, whose face I never see, has long brown hair, t-shirt with school slogan.  Capping the tops of her shapely thick strong legs is an amazing white ass, not too round, not too big, with just the right amount of baby fat. In years to come that ass will slouch into larger and larger shorts, but today it’s perfection. I stay far away. Society sez, if you make less than 50K you talk only to the mother.

I get to the soda aisle. A strange woman is there, I see her from behind. Six foot and rising, white tanktop pulled over either a swimsuit or gymwear, long tanned legs, not the best but shapely. As she stretches like a crane for the top shelf, her tanned asscheeks slide upward out of the cradle of black shorts. She comes back down to earth with a bottle, turns and sees me.

Her face is pinched and unpretty, and right now, mean. It’s not the ciurcumstances that bother her, I guess, it’s the way I look.

I don’t know what I look like walking around, but if I had to make an accurate guess, you would see a never-smiling older man with dark hair, tense and unhappy, glide/walking with the disappointment of someone who just lost their ice cream cone to a gust of wind and has also been told he is to fight a giant in 20 minutes.

I guess a ladies’ man, so inclined, would’ve SMILED at the woman, said something about the weather and went from there. I pass soda lady and thankfully do not see any more fuckworthy tail, just fat black women and fat white women and asians and other assorted random jerkoffs, extras in the story of my life as I am background noise in theirs.  It’s noon in America and I feel…not good.

As I load up the bags a sweet voice says, “Finished with the cart?”
It’s a young girl in the supermarket’s costume, come to take the empty cart away.
“Yes, thank you.”
She takes the cart away to join other carts for their field trip back to the cool of the store.
As I pull away, I watch her. She’s dumpy, blonde, sweet, just out of high school if that.  We have nukes all over the country ready to launch, to protect her.   I feel sorry for her in a way only the old can pity the young.

I drive home, load the food, fire up the fake chicken nuggets made of mushroom meat, change the cat box, take a bite of powerful cannabis-laced granola bar and settle in. Fuck the grapes, they can wait.

There’s work tomorrow, at a nowhere job that pays well only in how much the higher-ups leave you the hell alone. I think of our fat-faced CEO, who looks developmentally-disabled.

At least I know the name of the prick I’m making rich.

Today is an understuffed pillow while I try to dream of a better world, a world that isn’t this one.

 

 

Fuckfield #9