Posts Tagged ‘shit’

MORE Funny as Hell youtube comments

Thursday, 24 June 2010

Ah yes, more random funny as hell youtube comments. In Shakespeare’s day, the crowds of rabble didn’t hesitate to throw rotten tomatoes, cabbages and other things when the play sucked ass.  Our modern rabble, er, critics (barely) type instead of throw.

Youtubers are barely a level above real tubers, that is, potato heads.  I include myself in that anonymous crowd of rabble with 55-gallon drums of venom and nowhere to go but to the keyboard.

The human race is insane.  It’s why God didn’t bother to make the Bible make sense.

As usual, horrible spelling has been left intact.


 

I think we’ve all been the lord of darkness at some point in our lives, I’m about to reach that stage

This video has urged me to defecate in space.

sadly, this is not the only time dairy products have been rapped about.

I hope this guy gets paid good, cause i wouldn’t do this unless i was either drunk, or so high i losted half of my brain.

can you take of you bakini?

boomerangs are for people who don’t have friends.

i thought the story was so simple it was almost insulting to the audience. the special effects were like dangling keys in front of a dog.

Shut the fuck up you degenerate piece of shit. Your generalizations due little to compliment your intellect. I know quite a few roofers who could buy your house in full and use it as a toilet.

When I was little, I got raped by puppets too. (smile)

I would like to hire the Angel Force to clean my apartment. It looks like they do a good job.

When I was a kid I wanted a monkey and a semi-tractor.  Now as an adult I just want someone to play with my monkey as a semi passes.

They need to put warnings on the box about how good this new pizza is. I just spent 20 minutes cleaning jizz off my keyboard after I tried the new recipe!

I wish I could coment on this. but I do not want to make a mistake.

I now envy the blind and def.

he has a really nice tan. i’d wear his skin around my apartment for sure.

that almost better than tits

u sir, are and idiot.

White muggers? Is this science fiction??

AT LAST!  A MOVIE ABOUT TALKING DOGS!

I wonder if her dookey is different colorss? Hah, who am I kidding, girls don’t poop.

That poor, poor ottoman. I don’t even know gay men that do this…

i still find it hard to understand why people with an IQ of 5 manage to make millions of dollars by doing jack shit

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Funny as Hell youtube comments

Wednesday, 18 November 2009

I’ve been sitting on these for some time, letting the collection grow like magical crystals made of excrement. They’re funnier without context; I’ve mostly forgotten where I found them. Horrible spelling has been left intact.

I used to steam with envy at the two doofii who created youtube and got half-a-billion each from google. Now I think they were underpaid. As this blog makes some people feel better about their own lives, so the subnormals on youtube make my day every day. We begin…


I enjoy things that are not this.

take your filty black hands off me Nigger I love that line and im black

YOU SUCK GREAT BIG GREASY DONKEY NUTS

Hey..we all need a hobby…..and mine is to come in here and drag your sorry ass throught the pig shit.

You love it, and you know it.

You suck at grammar. You suck in real life too. Also, you’re not funny.

Kids talking about bloodshed. This is twisted, but for some reason hilarious…it’s like watching a bear maul someone. It’s horrible, yet somehow hilarious.

LOL ANGRY PEOPLE AND DEAD BABIES ? Im going to jerk off now =D

for the record it would have been funny if she had been skiny, but seeing those fat cankles go up in the air was just gravy.

It’s supposed to be a dream. A really freaky dream. Like she ate a couple of sausage pizzas by herself freaky.

people like this just have mental issues. it’s not natural to broadcast inner feelings to the known world.?

You’d be hot, but your nose is like..wow
Fix that

I’m surprised you can say anything at all, considering America’s cock is in your mouth.

—-

go rape a llama and take your ego with you

shut up, youre a pussy, you hide behind the safety of the internet to insult… well guess what its fucking cowardous. So shut your little mouth, grow some balls and get rid of your fucking vagina. woman.

That’s it…just go back into your balloon fortress…

When you are truly ready to communicate with somebody on an intellectual level, give me a call. Until then, enjoy living out your grandmothers basement spankin the ham to anime.

P.S. your mother sould’ve swallowed you.

it wasen’t ment to be coherent, it was just a bunch of statement thrown into a pile of retards, fuck yous and cunts

Yes!!! Oh my god could you imagine pig hunting with this?!?!?!

i wana stick my cock in the exhaust YA DIG

I just broke my keyboard in rage


some people should not have cameras if they don’t know how to contribute anything worthwhile. This is such an example.

Don’t bother replying, the internet exists for the sole purpose of conveying what I think.

On many days I simply don’t give a shit

Friday, 13 November 2009

Been wandering the web aimlessly lately. I don’t want to get into it now except to say for every murderous muslim cocksucker there appears to be a gang of apologists and appeasers to justify–there’s no more apt word–to JUSTIFY the evil of the death-cult killers. These fools could just have easily ended up in the crosshairs as the next infidel, and yet here they are, defending the shitbirds.

You can be the most vile piece of shit and commit heinous acts, but those deemed insensitive or politically incorrect are treated even more harshly.

It’s a terrible world.

For no particular reason I watched the 12-part youtube docu about mafia killer-for-hire Richard Kuklinski, “The Iceman”, an equal-opportunity murderer. It was not uplifting. Then I watched a docu about Richard Ramirez, The “Night Stalker”, a craven piece of shit the fucking cops whisked away from mob justice. I’ve been an atheist (and now a tepid monotheist) but with these horrible serial killer bastards running around I understand why anyone would doubt the existence of any god, at least a caring one.

My own life is in the shitter. Not really, but it is. Too much shit left untied, unsaid, while other shit is done sloppily. The past weighs like an anvil on my scrotum. I just hate people and can’t seem to shake the feeling that I’m right. I can’t even get the fucking lesbian at work to come eat tacos (ha ha) with me. And no, I don’t want to fuck her, that’s why I can talk to her.

I don’t know if there is such a thing, but there appears to be a dread balance to the world. Things steadily improve but the horrors that counterweigh the good grow heavier and heavier. Smallpox is eradicated, here comes the AIDS. A dictator dies and he’s got 8 bastard sons to take his place. On the rare occasions Good triumphs it’s quickly buried and forgotten so that the next round of fools must needlessly live the same nightmares. I’m so very fucking annoyed with this planet. And there’s work tomorrow, I won’t have another day off till Monday. Work is hell, all work is, but being out of a job is worse (except for the first 20 minutes of waking up).

On many days I simply don’t give a shit. And by “days” I mean “years”.

A plague of implausible shit

Thursday, 25 September 2008

I stood next to my car in a surreal neighboorhood. On one side of the street were small houses with well-manicured lawns. I was parked in a GUEST spot of the dodgy housing complex across the street while Julio, a friend from work who was 10 years younger than me, looked over my 12-year-old car. Both he and his still younger brother Sal seemed to love my model of car, they’d turned some of them into racers. They knew exactly what they were talking about while I, with minimal knowledge, was cartarded.

The Florida sun was its typical gluey asshole self, though there was some nice breeze as both young men admired the engine. They’d already figured out the source of a rattle a mechanic 30 years older than all of us I took it to never found. Sal was still tinkering when Julio left to pick up his kids from school.

An 80K Mercedes pulled into the spot on the other side of the empty space where I stood sipping ice water from a plastic pink tumbler the brothers had brought me earlier. Though the Black woman driving the ‘Cedes did not look like she could afford her ride and took no notice of us, I felt shame at my own car’s beat-up condition, even though, as Sal pointed out, I loved it and had it longer than a marriage.

As I took another swig of this and brought the cup down something crashed into my chest, striking my sternum with the force of a flicked pinkie finger. I looked down, saw the color brown and flinched. throwing the cup’s entire contents into the sky, a momentary crystal geyser.

The brown thing bounced away, hit the pavement and began scuttling–a flying roach!–its ugly carapace shining in the bright summer sun. I wanted to scream but I’d just met Sal and the fat Black woman still sat in her cream-white coupe, bumping low-volumed, noxious R&B.

“Kill it!” Sal hollered playfully. I was too frozen, too in shock to move. Horror and confusion were my world. It was 2 in the afternoon on a hot, sunny day; a roach was as out of place as a bundled Eskimo in Iraq. He skittered away on foot (or leg) while I stood frozen. I couldn’t step on a roach, not even with shoes on, and anyway, similar to George Costanza’s “deal” with the pigeons, I wouldn’t kill any insects out of doors (mosquitos excluded).

Julio returned. His cute kids, a boy and a girl, were munchkin-sized with huge heads and went upstairs before the Ice Cream man drove up the street, the (c)rap from his stereo even
drowning out the ice cream tunes. Julio told us the guy was always at the local park on the 1st and 15th, blasting Bone Thugs-N-Harmony.
“On his stereo?”
“No! On the loudspeakers!”
Surreal.

The fat Black woman egressed her German sled and entered one of the duplexes. Julio commented the car was probably a boyfriend’s. Though I didn’t say it aloud, it made cops’ jobs easier to find the drug dealers with cars like that in front of faded duplexes in the ‘hood.

Throughout the day’s ops I snapped digital pics of my beloved car with my Kodak v550, a gift from my editor/webmaster/gifted photographer/longstanding Texan friend. I lifted the cam to take another shot of the disassembled door panel when I noticed the LCD screen mired in shadow. When I held it up to the strong sunlight, the shadow stayed.

I felt my guts sag.

The screen was cracked as if some tiny punk kid inside the camera had hit a home run and a pea-sized baseball had struck the glass, starring it. This morning the cam started out working flawlessly as it had the last 3.5 years. I’d already taken 20 shots (the memory card held a thousand) and there’d been no trauma or anything unusual done to it, in fact, I was holding it most of the afternoon.

I didn’t bother showing Julio the damage. Time ran out. I’d lost a camera but gained a replacement knob for my window crank. More work is to be done tomorrow.

It’s events like those of today that cause one to seriously ponder the sucking undertow under the roiling ocean of life. After years of neglect, I finally take steps to help my poor old car’s infirmities with a too-good-to-be-true honorable guy who enjoys working on my type of car, only to suffer two inexplicable lightning bolts of horror and bizarre bad fortune. Between the roach from nowhere and the undeserving death of my beloved camera, I can’t help but feel screwed, though tomorrow my car may run somewhat better.

More than the big disasters like quakes and cyclones, it’s these little tragedies that enforce the theory of a sinister balance to the universe. Intellectually I understand why shit happens, but I refuse to accept that any shit has to happen to me. How human.

Sex and fucking and never again

Friday, 6 June 2008

It occurred to me as I left the gym at 10PM with Metallica’s Dyer’s Eve shredding the eye-Pod that I might never get laid again.

My only real deliverance this past decade has been annual sojourns to Tijuana brothels, and Califonia’s taint is far, far, away from Old Folks, Florida.

There was some minor excitement 2 years ago when I’d been given a call girl’s number and tax money would soon arrive to pay for her. To prepare I went out and bought “oils” and a massage table and was even doing shit around the house men never do, like cleaning the bathroom. For a week I had a spring in my step and a shine on my balls in delighted anticipation! I was a fine member in good standing of the human race, and then just like a rotten sitcom twist, as I was going on and on to the middleman friend about how excited I was, he explained our pal who gave me her number told me NOT to call her, she wasn’t accepting new clients. My heart broke like the damn in New Orleans, putting out all Cajun fires of catfish hope. I was so destroyed I’ve never cleaned the bathroom since. But for one blissful the week just the promise of pussy made me want to be a better john.

I have no plans to visit out West, and good thing. The gods of chastity ironically enjoy FUCKING with poor bastards like me. The first obstacle was created by a team-up of islamofascist turbaned dickheads and the US govt: a mandatory ‘passport card’ costing around $100 is now required for foot travel between Future Mexico and Regular Mexico. You’re also probably aware by now about the skyrocketing price of fuel which (again, ironically) has grounded a shitload of planes and made ticket prices sky-high. Rounding out the chaos and hopelessness, my last and only friend in Cali has no place for me to stay and—one more gag—narco-terrorist gun battles have made it unsafe for Americans to even visit TJ. If all of this vanished I’d still be out of luck: a quarter of each month’s pay goes to student loans paying down a worthless, rip-off education, so saving up would take well over a year anyway.

It’s a shame, really. The whores I’ve been with (always in countries where hooking is legal) have all been 9s and 10s, quality over quantity. Usually it’s a good time, if not mechanical and predictable, but sexual fucking is the only thing in life where just going through the motions still yields a quality outcome.

If you’re a woman (still) reading this, well, that’s not possible. If you’re a dude, let me say I appreciate in advance any “suggestions” you may have brainstormed about “what I should do,” but none of it’s going to work. I don’t dance, i don’t sing, I don’t buy drinks and I don’t make small talk. Fuck the cover charge and slit the throat of the bouncer that will be talking home the hot chick anyway. I’ve given up. Even though I hate clowns, the gods have made me one; I’ll never get on with this fucked-up, retarded society that will always be uglier and more rotten than me. I’m too clever, dumb, arrogant, shy, proud, angry, vicious, and goddamn it sensitive to properly cope with the many lightning bolts of pure shit striking at every corner and turn. All I have left is a sense of humor, and that’s about as much an aid to getting laid as shitting your pants.

The blonde at work has big tits but a weak chin. I hate women, I hate men, I hate myself 23-hours-a-night but I’m too lazy to die so I’ll further hate voices, pictures, faces, eyes, words, every last fart of the illusion.

Someone must die and it won’t always be me.

Love poetry, or Trying to Turn Shit into Chocolate Cake

Friday, 4 April 2008

You can write love poems—even good ones—for specific women as long as you don’t expect the words to work. Because they don’t.

I have a friend who already has self-published one small book of love poems. The cover looks cool, it looks like a real book, but the poems within are the opposite of good: riddled with clichés and trite expressions like dead bats hung on a clothesline of pretension.

Worst of all, they beg.

A wise woman already knows a man who confesses to love her is completely vulnerable, no matter how tough he acts. Supplicating makes a man seem weak. Really, if you want to do well with women, remember they are Klingons at heart. The few that have hearts, ha ha.

Sad to say the woman my poor friend Can’t Live Without™ whom he’s known for years, is an Asshole, a sanctimonious, “spiritual” cruella who hates him for some reason he’s never quite explained. Judging from the fury of her words, you’d think he raped her and left her for dead; I think he deceived her about something, but nothing close to cheating on her.

I’d offered to edit his first manu, but halfway through he up and self-published it, full of spelling errors and all.

I suicidally offered to edit the 2nd one and heard nothing more about it. Then out of nowhere, last week he asked if I’d looked at it. When I told him I never got the file he flipped, then sent it.

Now I’ve flipped.

Love Manuscript #2, aka More of the Same, almost 140 pages of short-yet-hard-to-stomach poems. I don’t even envy the prodigious output, it’s all terrible.  I’m trying like hell to make his stuff work, but secretly I hope he ignores my editing. I love my friend and hate his needless suffering, and not because I have to suffer his poopoetry. If I could magically erase the cruella’s horrible personality and reprogram her or create a magical fuckbot in her image, I would. I’ve already dared tell him in a 500-words-or-less essay why I think this woman is a disaster, that even if she saned-up he still has no future with her and should be glad for it. But he can’t listen to reason any more than his poems can un-suck: the poor SOB is in love.

Some people are just fucking machochists, I guess. Like me, trying to turn shit into chocolate cake.

(If you ever find this blog, my friend, you’ll have to forgive me. You’ve suffered enough).


Shroom Fail

Sunday, 3 February 2008

Did shrooms the other day. Rather it was just one shroom, a bulbous stem. I ate him with a bite of chocolate.

Rather than go outdoors to “commune with Nature” I stayed right here online, my natural habitat.

In case anyone wanted to talk to me, I put up a picture of Shiva…

Image and video hosting by TinyPic…but all Shiva did was waver slightly.

So I tried Summer Glau, the new Terminator…

Image and video hosting by TinyPic
Nothing.
Finally, Kali…

Image and video hosting by TinyPic

Again, nothing!  A trifecta of disappointment! When the Blue gods and a sexy Terminator don’t have time for you, fuck it, go do something else.

I think people who boast of seeing wild shit while shroomin’ are as full of shit as the shit that shrooms grow in. I’ve done it a few times, and while it does affect your mood, other than a slight wavering I never hallucinated or saw anything fantastical.

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