I created an exciting new holiday tradition the other day. It was a stroke of genius on my part and if it has already been done before by someone else I really couldn't give a fuckin' shit because I had never heard of it before I thought of it so that means I invented it, so get offa my case toilet face.
That is how it works in my world. I don't care if someone said something I said before or came up with an idea that I claim to have invented ten years after they actually did it. If it's new to me and came out of my brain, that means I invented this shit and any tiny little a-holes who claim otherwise can have a giant lick of Rosie O'Donnell's knobby dildo.
I bet that thing is worn down to the nub and it probably looks like a ten day old half eaten mini pizza roll. Big ol' Rosie is scrubbin' that nub with her brillo pad. Oh yeah, that's it baby, you big ol' fuckin' tub havin' a rub on that worn out nub. At this point it looks like her hairy big toe knuckle. She's a straight up big nubby toe knuckle fucker.
Awesome. She would wear your toenails right the fuck off. If she gave your foot the dry hump it would feel like an orbital sander pulsating in a bucket of applesauce, she could probably take it down to your arch as she screamed "Wiggle your toes Potsie", or something along those lines. You would be haunted by odd sounds. You hear a fat dude in wet socks and flip flops walking on a sandy sidewalk at the beach and you throw up. It's sloppy and crispy all at once. God, it kind of makes her snatch sound like a bowl of Shredded Wheat.
Anywho....back to my awesome holiday extravaganza idea and shit. This Easter I am going to dye my man balls to look like Easter Eggs. That may even be my Halloween costume this year.
Let that masterpiece sink in, absorb the veritable magic mind fire that I just unleashed. There is nothing wrong with that at all. Nothing. Totally safe and harmless. If the materials involved are safe for kids, they have got to be safe for all our man balls. It's safe for titties too ladies. Why not give them some color? Vinegar and dye and come look at these guys. I am thinking of some light pastels for my boys, pink and yellow with daisy decals, perhaps a frolicking bunny. I know, I bet you were thinking blue balls weren't you.
For you single guys out there, what better way to pick up a lady than to say....
"Hey baby, I dyed my balls to look like Easter Eggs."
"You have a booger flapping out of your nose."
"Ahhhh yeah, that's right. (you fumble around your nose trying to look cool while ridding yourself of the rogue bogey) You got me so excited my nose came. Boogies and snots is just nose cum baby. Means you got me like extra hot, like I snorted up some hot sauce or I just bit into a hot pie just by looking at you. Now, how would you like to go on an Easter Egg hunt in my man panties."
"You have dandruff in your eyebrows."
"And you can bet your ass it's snowing down at the South Pole too baby. My right ball is a big ass fluffy snow globe and Mr. Lefty is a glazed pink Easter Egg with a creamy center. It's the holiday season, the perfect reason to give my dick some squeezin'."
"Did you just fart? That was really fucking loud, it made ripples in that pond over there and knocked over some kids sailboat. He's crying."
"I'm lactose intolerant baby. Just thinking about milk makes me shit all on myself. Must be them big ol' womanly style titties giving me the thunder down under."
"I think your Mom is here to pick you up. Is that a tandem bicycle with a basket on the front?"
And scene.
I really got nothing else after that. I am not much of a holiday person, maybe because at the holidays you don't do cool shit like dye your balls and put stickers on them. You eat and shit and watch shit and do all kinds of wholesome shitty stuff like 'being together'. Just thinking about the upcoming holiday season is making me want to unzip my fly, open the hatch and retch on my eggs..
Personally, I think Santa Claus is a total dick. Yeah, that's right. What's he going to do about it? Nothing. That frosty inbred tub of shit can go get his balls stuck to the north pole. Those elves should weld his asshole shut. Lazy one day a year working motherfucker takes all the credit for my whole year of fucking work. Yeah, I have kids, I get the whole magic of Christmas crock of shit, so I haven't ruined it for them, but that doesn't mean I think it's fine that some mystical fat shithead is taking all the credit for my toil.
Halloween isn't fun anymore either, and it's not because I'm an adult. It's because everyone on earth is a goddamn pedophile. I shouldn't have to consult a Megan's law website before I take my kids out for candy. I don't want to sound like some old timey back in my day kind of dick, but back in my dicky old timey day the only problems were assholes who gave you shitty candy and toothpaste.
And straight up fuck your mystery bag. God I hated that little white bag filled with horrible shit, stapled shut so I can't see what's in it until I get home. You can be damn sure it's Sixlets or Smarties or a fucking Circus Peanut. I would have loved to shove a Circus Peanut as big as a football up an old lady's ass. It would have tasted better that putting it in your mouth.
One time a lady gave me a ziploc bag with five pennies in it. Over thirty years later and I still have the burden of remembering that random crap. Jesus Christ, how do we not have any control over what ends up in the ongoing mental montage of our life. I remember she dropped it in my bag and I immediately pulled it back out in front of her to see what it was and she took it out of my hand and dropped it back in the bag and stared at me. Like I was the one being a dick.
Look lady, you knew how fucked up that was. You were the total dick that night, not me. You asshole. If you're that fucking broke, turn off your goddamn lights instead of having to embarrass the both of us over five cents.
Not a nickel. Five cents. Five sad little fucking pennies in a bag. I should have burned her goddman house down.
That made me laugh like hell. Just picturing nine year old me heaving a Molotov cocktail through the night sky as I scream "PENNIES!!!! WHO GIVES AWAY PENNIES YOU STUPID DICK???!!!!"
I wish that was in my montage. It's never too late though. Maybe someday some stupid stranger will be a total dick and give one of my kids some pennies in a ziploc sandwich bag. They will look at me, confused over the transaction that has just taken place. Where is the candy, Father? We were promised candy, not spare change. We are not beggars and bums, are we Father?
No we're certainly fucking not.
Now come here and help Daddy light this candle.
Make a wish.
Hellwagon.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Saturday, September 15, 2012
BIRDS KNOW IT'S RAINING BEFORE YOU DO ASSHOLE
When I am not thinking about monsters who fornicate with corn fields or the sexual escapades of cookie devouring puppets my mind drifts to pointless shit that probably any normal person thinks about. I hate temporarily succumbing to reality. I fucking hate it.
We meekly project ourselves into the world.
We surround the outside of us with what the inside thinks it feels, what the interior of our mind would look like if we could decorate it. We represent our thoughts the only way we know how, by owning shit.
We become possessed of our possessions. I become everything I can afford.
We are all guilty of caring about the wrong things, motivated by the wrong desires.
We want what we are trained to want.
We do not end up wanting what we are born wanting.
We are born wanting nothing more than love. We crave smiles and laughter. We develop a sense of hope. We want the safety and comfort of the familiar. Everything should be held close.
As children we want more of love than anything.
As children we want everything to be silly and surprising.
Everything touched with wonder.
The more we think we learn about life, the more that we steal our own hope and happiness from ourselves. Every day feels like another beating. We do not need to learn the same lessons over and over again, but we receive them regardless.
We learn to expect pain.
We learn that life hurts.
Life will continue to hurt.
We get the fucking point.
Now, I want to go back to not knowing, to be gratefully subjected to wonder and discover the world all over again.
I always knew what was coming and I have figured nothing out.
We just stop trying to find the joy in all of this.
We find escape, we pursue forgetting. We use phones, computers, television, alcohol, drugs and people.
Other people try to make us ashamed of who we are.
Your preferences are the subject of ridicule for others.
To others, and eventually to ourselves, our preferences are our identities.
Who we are becomes what we read, watch and listen to.
We do not read, watch and listen to ourselves. We never become ourselves.
Children love to pretend, to imagine.
As adults we spend our lives watching other adults pretend and make believe.
We pay them for it.
Did we forget how to pretend or are we just too afraid as adults of how we will look to other people if we play cops and robbers, or astronaut, or fighter pilot if a camera isn't rolling.
We are afraid of looking foolish, being embarrassed. We think we are so clever.
How smart can you feel when the birds always know it's raining before you do? They don't have any fucking weatherman, no one is telling it to them beforehand, it's just a matter of proximity.
That is the distance between you knowing something and being completely fucking oblivious. A raindrop on a birds pecker.
I am not afraid. My mind is a universe. It invents fucking galaxies. I spend a lot of my time appearing to be a complete idiot to people who I think are complete fucking morons. Honestly, who believes I should give a solitary fuck what anyone in the universe would think about me.
Even now, I should be wearing a towel or a sheet as a cape, because it looks super fucking rad.
Even now, I should be wearing a holster with cap guns and turning my desk at work into a bad ass fort that I must defend at all costs.
In a bad ass fort there are no bullshit rules or bills or responsibility.
The sign on the fort will read "No Assholes Allowed!" Any person, big or small, will not come into your fort to be an asshole about being in a fort. You enter a fort ready and willing to have fun. Assholes walk on by forts because they're assholes.
As a child, I never dreamt that I would someday become a person who would yell "I hope someone buttfucks your corpse," to another motorist. Yet here I am.
It is the rest of the world that ruins everything. It is the world around me that has turned me into this person who hates being so perpetually annoyed to the point I would even think to yell that sentence.
Everyone thinks everyone else is an asshole.
We all think we are right about that.
Only one of us can be right.
One.
Hi.
How's it goin'? I don't like your chances.
This is my fort.
Keep walkin' asshole.
Hellwagon.
We meekly project ourselves into the world.
We surround the outside of us with what the inside thinks it feels, what the interior of our mind would look like if we could decorate it. We represent our thoughts the only way we know how, by owning shit.
We become possessed of our possessions. I become everything I can afford.
We are all guilty of caring about the wrong things, motivated by the wrong desires.
We want what we are trained to want.
We do not end up wanting what we are born wanting.
We are born wanting nothing more than love. We crave smiles and laughter. We develop a sense of hope. We want the safety and comfort of the familiar. Everything should be held close.
As children we want more of love than anything.
As children we want everything to be silly and surprising.
Everything touched with wonder.
The more we think we learn about life, the more that we steal our own hope and happiness from ourselves. Every day feels like another beating. We do not need to learn the same lessons over and over again, but we receive them regardless.
We learn to expect pain.
We learn that life hurts.
Life will continue to hurt.
We get the fucking point.
Now, I want to go back to not knowing, to be gratefully subjected to wonder and discover the world all over again.
I always knew what was coming and I have figured nothing out.
We just stop trying to find the joy in all of this.
We find escape, we pursue forgetting. We use phones, computers, television, alcohol, drugs and people.
Other people try to make us ashamed of who we are.
Your preferences are the subject of ridicule for others.
To others, and eventually to ourselves, our preferences are our identities.
Who we are becomes what we read, watch and listen to.
We do not read, watch and listen to ourselves. We never become ourselves.
Children love to pretend, to imagine.
As adults we spend our lives watching other adults pretend and make believe.
We pay them for it.
Did we forget how to pretend or are we just too afraid as adults of how we will look to other people if we play cops and robbers, or astronaut, or fighter pilot if a camera isn't rolling.
We are afraid of looking foolish, being embarrassed. We think we are so clever.
How smart can you feel when the birds always know it's raining before you do? They don't have any fucking weatherman, no one is telling it to them beforehand, it's just a matter of proximity.
That is the distance between you knowing something and being completely fucking oblivious. A raindrop on a birds pecker.
I am not afraid. My mind is a universe. It invents fucking galaxies. I spend a lot of my time appearing to be a complete idiot to people who I think are complete fucking morons. Honestly, who believes I should give a solitary fuck what anyone in the universe would think about me.
Even now, I should be wearing a towel or a sheet as a cape, because it looks super fucking rad.
Even now, I should be wearing a holster with cap guns and turning my desk at work into a bad ass fort that I must defend at all costs.
In a bad ass fort there are no bullshit rules or bills or responsibility.
The sign on the fort will read "No Assholes Allowed!" Any person, big or small, will not come into your fort to be an asshole about being in a fort. You enter a fort ready and willing to have fun. Assholes walk on by forts because they're assholes.
As a child, I never dreamt that I would someday become a person who would yell "I hope someone buttfucks your corpse," to another motorist. Yet here I am.
It is the rest of the world that ruins everything. It is the world around me that has turned me into this person who hates being so perpetually annoyed to the point I would even think to yell that sentence.
Everyone thinks everyone else is an asshole.
We all think we are right about that.
Only one of us can be right.
One.
Hi.
How's it goin'? I don't like your chances.
This is my fort.
Keep walkin' asshole.
Hellwagon.
Friday, August 31, 2012
BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE LETTER POONTANG
I bet your dirty ass that Cookie Monster can eat the hell out of some snatch. Not that he would gobble box mind you, at least not on his usual television program. I doubt it has ever been a consideration for him, never even crossed his mind. He is a stone cold cookie eating monster machine after all and there is a huge fucking difference between devouring a plate of delicious cookies and feasting on some random furburger bonanza.
I am just saying that if he wanted to, it would be super on, it would be so fucking super ON dude. He would be all over that shit. If he was a gentleman and he cared if his lady climaxed then his lack of a tongue could be an issue for his woman. He would not have the necessary pinpoint precision available to him. It would be like an old man with no teeth trying to eat an apple real fast. That old man isn't getting anywhere.
As my completely awesome and totally pretend kick your goddamn ass karate teacher once told me in my imagination dojo, "Eating lady snatch is totally like punching a dude with totally fucking awesome karate. You punch through the target, your fist makes the hole."
Then I heard a thunderous gong and my imaginary karate master slowly took a bow inside my head and he said to me "Hellwagonson, you must eat all up on the snatchola like you want your head to come out the other side. You must eat your way through like digging a dirt hole to China. You must be like the nature of a crack addled Pac Man monster with lockjaw and a mouthful of honey and chunky peanut butter. You must eat the ghost."
It is like eating a ghost, thank you mystical subconcious kung fu master, that or trying to blow up a giant balloon. It's a hole, it is the absence of space. How do you eat nothing? That is some zen ass shit for you holmes. Open your fucking mouth, how the fuck you think you eat anything including some nothing you dumbass. Konichiwa and sayanora, yo soy Senor Fuckface.
I bet you use a vacuum to suck your weiner. If you don't, you should. I am not responsible for anything that happens if you do that. It might be awesome, you might lose your dick. I don't know what kind of vacuum you have, it could be called the Dickeater 3000. I have never done it, but your Grandmaw says it's awesome, how do you think she lost her dick?
I sincerely hope someone takes my advice and goes down on their lady like Cookie Monster, because that is going to be the worst night of two peoples lives. Someone will end the night with a hand up their ass or missing a tooth. This is becoming the second worst description of monster love and all time worst how to manual for painting the fence that I have ever heard. Who in the fuck is wrong with me. Me, that's who.
My imaginary awesome karate teacher who teaches awesome karate to my imagination also says that farts are the ghosts of turds that die inside your body. My asshole has been described as a graveyard many a time, and it has almost killed many a time, so this has to be true.
The more tragic the turd death, the louder the fart will be. If your turd dies in a fiery Tabasco and hot pepper fueled matchbox car crash in your large intestine, you will bust a super hot fart resoundingly two hours later in honor of its turdy demise. 21 guns out yo' buns salute motherfucker.
Yeah, that's right, farting just got all kinds of serious. Your ass should be playing taps. If your turd dies of old age, it comes out in a soft painfully pitiful whisper and climbs slowly up the crack of your ass whispering its way to heaven. Old dead turd farts have no glory, they sneak out in silent shame.
So, do what I do. The ghost of my imaginary ass beatin' karate teacher instructs you to bow down when you fart. Pay your respects to your own dead shit, plus bending over makes it louder and gets skidmarks all on your gi.
Now, back to the monster box lunch. I imagine that it would be distracting for the woman bearing the brunt of Cookie Monster's beaver eating fury to hear all of that "Nom, nom, nom, yum, me eat pussy, aaarrrgh yum num num." What woman is going to be able to get her rocks off hearing all of that nonsense. Plus them googly eyes have got to throw you off, even if he isn't looking at you, he's looking at you.
Just like Jesus or Santa Claus, Cookie Monster is always watching, even when he's cold eatin' your box.
Realistically speaking, Cookie Monster's mouth does kind of resemble some old and sick and worked over blue haired gash. An ol' blue hair's gaper. That being said, I bet that fuckin' monster could pull some high end tail if he tried. He is The Fucking Cookie Monster after all.
Out of all of the gang on the Street, he is the only one who has a rough side. He might have a real life outside of that show, how in the hell would you know. It's not like you run in famous circles and go to high end restaurants where the stars dine and recline. Anybody can put on that act like they are a total saintly goofball and be nice and teach kids to spell C words and shit, but his monster ass wants to get paid and laid just like the rest of us. Cookies ain't free motherfucker, especially ones as big as the goddamn moon. He's earning that shit and we are all buying his act.
There is a dark side to him. He has a total lack of self control, he's a bit dangerous and hella famous, and shallow chicks dig the bad boy with money. You know he is getting all kinds of ass. He just rolls up on a girl at the bar....
"Me want PUSSY!!!!"
"Sir, you've got a fist up your ass."
"You ass next. P is for Pussy, that good enough for me. Oh, pussy, pussy, pussy start with P. Now sprinkle some chocolate chips on that shit and I'll get to work."
You are probably thinking that I am straight fucked up, and I'm really not. I just get caught up in my imagination, which is fun as shit. I know none of it is going to happen, which really is a shame. You know what does happen though, people dress up in giant animal costumes so much they have a convention for it. Wearing a dog costume and having someone tug you off while you bark at the mailman is totally normal for thousands of people. That is their reality, not my imagination.
Be my guest though, if you want to, please go ahead and think that I am the crazy one. Someday you are going to go out on a wonderful date with someone you think is stable and amazing. Then they are going to leave the room to put on something more comfortable and sexy. You get excited, they might just be the one.
Then they come back dressed as a chihuahua with lady tits and man balls. Why are they holding a pooper scooper and a muzzle? Cookie Monster sounds great about now.
Hellwagon.
I am just saying that if he wanted to, it would be super on, it would be so fucking super ON dude. He would be all over that shit. If he was a gentleman and he cared if his lady climaxed then his lack of a tongue could be an issue for his woman. He would not have the necessary pinpoint precision available to him. It would be like an old man with no teeth trying to eat an apple real fast. That old man isn't getting anywhere.
As my completely awesome and totally pretend kick your goddamn ass karate teacher once told me in my imagination dojo, "Eating lady snatch is totally like punching a dude with totally fucking awesome karate. You punch through the target, your fist makes the hole."
Then I heard a thunderous gong and my imaginary karate master slowly took a bow inside my head and he said to me "Hellwagonson, you must eat all up on the snatchola like you want your head to come out the other side. You must eat your way through like digging a dirt hole to China. You must be like the nature of a crack addled Pac Man monster with lockjaw and a mouthful of honey and chunky peanut butter. You must eat the ghost."
It is like eating a ghost, thank you mystical subconcious kung fu master, that or trying to blow up a giant balloon. It's a hole, it is the absence of space. How do you eat nothing? That is some zen ass shit for you holmes. Open your fucking mouth, how the fuck you think you eat anything including some nothing you dumbass. Konichiwa and sayanora, yo soy Senor Fuckface.
I bet you use a vacuum to suck your weiner. If you don't, you should. I am not responsible for anything that happens if you do that. It might be awesome, you might lose your dick. I don't know what kind of vacuum you have, it could be called the Dickeater 3000. I have never done it, but your Grandmaw says it's awesome, how do you think she lost her dick?
I sincerely hope someone takes my advice and goes down on their lady like Cookie Monster, because that is going to be the worst night of two peoples lives. Someone will end the night with a hand up their ass or missing a tooth. This is becoming the second worst description of monster love and all time worst how to manual for painting the fence that I have ever heard. Who in the fuck is wrong with me. Me, that's who.
My imaginary awesome karate teacher who teaches awesome karate to my imagination also says that farts are the ghosts of turds that die inside your body. My asshole has been described as a graveyard many a time, and it has almost killed many a time, so this has to be true.
The more tragic the turd death, the louder the fart will be. If your turd dies in a fiery Tabasco and hot pepper fueled matchbox car crash in your large intestine, you will bust a super hot fart resoundingly two hours later in honor of its turdy demise. 21 guns out yo' buns salute motherfucker.
Yeah, that's right, farting just got all kinds of serious. Your ass should be playing taps. If your turd dies of old age, it comes out in a soft painfully pitiful whisper and climbs slowly up the crack of your ass whispering its way to heaven. Old dead turd farts have no glory, they sneak out in silent shame.
So, do what I do. The ghost of my imaginary ass beatin' karate teacher instructs you to bow down when you fart. Pay your respects to your own dead shit, plus bending over makes it louder and gets skidmarks all on your gi.
Now, back to the monster box lunch. I imagine that it would be distracting for the woman bearing the brunt of Cookie Monster's beaver eating fury to hear all of that "Nom, nom, nom, yum, me eat pussy, aaarrrgh yum num num." What woman is going to be able to get her rocks off hearing all of that nonsense. Plus them googly eyes have got to throw you off, even if he isn't looking at you, he's looking at you.
Just like Jesus or Santa Claus, Cookie Monster is always watching, even when he's cold eatin' your box.
Realistically speaking, Cookie Monster's mouth does kind of resemble some old and sick and worked over blue haired gash. An ol' blue hair's gaper. That being said, I bet that fuckin' monster could pull some high end tail if he tried. He is The Fucking Cookie Monster after all.
Out of all of the gang on the Street, he is the only one who has a rough side. He might have a real life outside of that show, how in the hell would you know. It's not like you run in famous circles and go to high end restaurants where the stars dine and recline. Anybody can put on that act like they are a total saintly goofball and be nice and teach kids to spell C words and shit, but his monster ass wants to get paid and laid just like the rest of us. Cookies ain't free motherfucker, especially ones as big as the goddamn moon. He's earning that shit and we are all buying his act.
There is a dark side to him. He has a total lack of self control, he's a bit dangerous and hella famous, and shallow chicks dig the bad boy with money. You know he is getting all kinds of ass. He just rolls up on a girl at the bar....
"Me want PUSSY!!!!"
"Sir, you've got a fist up your ass."
"You ass next. P is for Pussy, that good enough for me. Oh, pussy, pussy, pussy start with P. Now sprinkle some chocolate chips on that shit and I'll get to work."
You are probably thinking that I am straight fucked up, and I'm really not. I just get caught up in my imagination, which is fun as shit. I know none of it is going to happen, which really is a shame. You know what does happen though, people dress up in giant animal costumes so much they have a convention for it. Wearing a dog costume and having someone tug you off while you bark at the mailman is totally normal for thousands of people. That is their reality, not my imagination.
Be my guest though, if you want to, please go ahead and think that I am the crazy one. Someday you are going to go out on a wonderful date with someone you think is stable and amazing. Then they are going to leave the room to put on something more comfortable and sexy. You get excited, they might just be the one.
Then they come back dressed as a chihuahua with lady tits and man balls. Why are they holding a pooper scooper and a muzzle? Cookie Monster sounds great about now.
Hellwagon.
Friday, August 17, 2012
THEN THE MONSTER FUCKED THE CORN ALL COBBY
I will go to any length to avoid another human being.
If I am walking toward a door, to a store, to a bank, whatever the fuck ever, I will adjust the speed with which I walk so I do not arrive at the same time as someone else. I will fake a phone call into a phone I am not even holding, it’s just my goddamn hand. I will stop and check my empty pockets for imagination. I have stopped and stared at the fucking sun to avoid making small talk with someone.
If you are a stranger and you are talking to me about the weather, I am thinking about merrily thrashing you to death with a rusty bicycle chain. I am considering what nearby objects I could stab you or myself with, anything to end the conversation.
Weather is the usual icebreaker people use. When you talk to me about the weather, what you are really saying to me is that you cannot think of anything more original to talk about that a dead end subject that I can discover everything about by simply looking out the fucking window.
I don't even have to look. I could just guess, or not give a fuck at all.
I would readily accept you saying "My bowel movement this morning was frightfully loose and ill-tempered." At least you would be talking about something more interesting than rain. Water from ass beats water from sky, conversationally speaking.
This same asshole talks to me over and over again about how much his garden is going to love all this rain we're having. I have seen this imbecile of a fucking moron of a man almost every other day for six months. Every day since day one, I have wished for his death.
Yes. That is fucked up. That I would rather another human being die than have to endure their pointless banalities and observations. Small talk is murderous. I never initiate a conversation. I never ask him shit, but every other day this happens.
Him : How's it going today? (He doesn't even give me time to respond, just leans back in his chair and keeps talking, like we are just two dudes tickling our balls on a porch, not a care in the world) It looks like rain out there today. (Yes, it does you stupid fuckface, because it's already fucking raining.
Me: My cat died. Well, not my cat, just some pussy I know is dead. It's your wife's pussy. It died. It is totally dry and dusty and dead. And it has bugs. You should make it rain pesticide on her crusty muff.
Him: My garden sure is going to love all this rain, and my grass sure is thirsty. It could use a drink...and so could I. (He laughs hysterically at that shit, something he has likely said countless times. No one ever laughs at it. Ever. If no one laughs and you laugh, you fuck dirty donut holes into piles of old cow shit.)
Me: This one time, this guy had a wet garden and a monster fucked him to death. That's how Cabbage Patch kids are made. When monsters attack....and fuck boring gardeners.
Him: I am growing some cabbage myself. Weatherman said it's going to rain all day, maybe even rain some tomorrow. Yep. I don't think we need that much rain. (Sometimes I think he is going to sing Itsy Bitsy Spider to me, possibly as he fists his own anus to wash the spider out.)
Me: I have to go now. I prayed for diarrhea and it's here. In my sock.
And the curtain closes.
It is always pure agonizing hell and the conversation lasts less than a minute. I feel like screaming two inches from his face that I hope everything in his garden dies of aids and syphilis and that I hope he gets fucked by the monster and gets aids from a cucumber and is buried beneath his stupid fucking boring garden and no one ever talks about the garden ever again because it is too sad and painful to think about how he got cucumber aids and how he got horribly fucked by the monster.
Nine months after he was buried in the garden, dozens of dead eyed boring Cabbage Patch dolls sprouted from the ground and they learned to talk. Everything they said was boring. They looked at the sky all day and talked about the rain, even when it didn't rain, so the monster came and fucked them all to death. Then the next gardener down the street got cucumber aids and died with a giant crispy pickle sprouting from his dirty ass because the monster got him as well.
These are the gardens I want to hear stories about. The gardens that a giant fuck monster attacked. There are probably hundreds of gardeners that the monster plowed. He spends his glorious monstery life roaming the furrowed earth, spreading his seed and violently fucking boring gardeners to death. The monster knows that you are talking to people about dirt and water and plants, and he fucking hates that boring shit.
Maybe that is why all the crops are dying. People always blame this shit on the weather. It's too hot, too wet, for too long. That is how it starts, the longer the boring chatter goes on makes the monster grow angrier. The dust bowl and resulting westward migration could have been the direct result of the fuck monster's fury. The monster who so hates being bored by stories of weather and gardens.
Once upon a time, it didn't rain for a while. People kept talking about how it didn't rain. The monster became enraged and fucked the corn to death. It doesn't always fuck people.
He stalked the corn and then he fucked it cobby.
That makes perfect sense. Picture The Jolly Green Giant, only nothing like that at all. Half that size, flesh colored and mean as shit. A real hard pissin' grit eatin' cob fucker.
I know that the guy talking about his garden is the normal one. Normal people talk about shit like gardens and thirsty grass and weather and what they had for dinner. Normal people are friendly.
Normal people don't want other people to die from cucumber aids. Normal people pop corn, they don't fuck it all cobby.
But normal people don't know shit about monsters.
Hellwagon.
If I am walking toward a door, to a store, to a bank, whatever the fuck ever, I will adjust the speed with which I walk so I do not arrive at the same time as someone else. I will fake a phone call into a phone I am not even holding, it’s just my goddamn hand. I will stop and check my empty pockets for imagination. I have stopped and stared at the fucking sun to avoid making small talk with someone.
If you are a stranger and you are talking to me about the weather, I am thinking about merrily thrashing you to death with a rusty bicycle chain. I am considering what nearby objects I could stab you or myself with, anything to end the conversation.
Weather is the usual icebreaker people use. When you talk to me about the weather, what you are really saying to me is that you cannot think of anything more original to talk about that a dead end subject that I can discover everything about by simply looking out the fucking window.
I don't even have to look. I could just guess, or not give a fuck at all.
I would readily accept you saying "My bowel movement this morning was frightfully loose and ill-tempered." At least you would be talking about something more interesting than rain. Water from ass beats water from sky, conversationally speaking.
This same asshole talks to me over and over again about how much his garden is going to love all this rain we're having. I have seen this imbecile of a fucking moron of a man almost every other day for six months. Every day since day one, I have wished for his death.
Yes. That is fucked up. That I would rather another human being die than have to endure their pointless banalities and observations. Small talk is murderous. I never initiate a conversation. I never ask him shit, but every other day this happens.
Him : How's it going today? (He doesn't even give me time to respond, just leans back in his chair and keeps talking, like we are just two dudes tickling our balls on a porch, not a care in the world) It looks like rain out there today. (Yes, it does you stupid fuckface, because it's already fucking raining.
Me: My cat died. Well, not my cat, just some pussy I know is dead. It's your wife's pussy. It died. It is totally dry and dusty and dead. And it has bugs. You should make it rain pesticide on her crusty muff.
Him: My garden sure is going to love all this rain, and my grass sure is thirsty. It could use a drink...and so could I. (He laughs hysterically at that shit, something he has likely said countless times. No one ever laughs at it. Ever. If no one laughs and you laugh, you fuck dirty donut holes into piles of old cow shit.)
Me: This one time, this guy had a wet garden and a monster fucked him to death. That's how Cabbage Patch kids are made. When monsters attack....and fuck boring gardeners.
Him: I am growing some cabbage myself. Weatherman said it's going to rain all day, maybe even rain some tomorrow. Yep. I don't think we need that much rain. (Sometimes I think he is going to sing Itsy Bitsy Spider to me, possibly as he fists his own anus to wash the spider out.)
Me: I have to go now. I prayed for diarrhea and it's here. In my sock.
And the curtain closes.
It is always pure agonizing hell and the conversation lasts less than a minute. I feel like screaming two inches from his face that I hope everything in his garden dies of aids and syphilis and that I hope he gets fucked by the monster and gets aids from a cucumber and is buried beneath his stupid fucking boring garden and no one ever talks about the garden ever again because it is too sad and painful to think about how he got cucumber aids and how he got horribly fucked by the monster.
Nine months after he was buried in the garden, dozens of dead eyed boring Cabbage Patch dolls sprouted from the ground and they learned to talk. Everything they said was boring. They looked at the sky all day and talked about the rain, even when it didn't rain, so the monster came and fucked them all to death. Then the next gardener down the street got cucumber aids and died with a giant crispy pickle sprouting from his dirty ass because the monster got him as well.
These are the gardens I want to hear stories about. The gardens that a giant fuck monster attacked. There are probably hundreds of gardeners that the monster plowed. He spends his glorious monstery life roaming the furrowed earth, spreading his seed and violently fucking boring gardeners to death. The monster knows that you are talking to people about dirt and water and plants, and he fucking hates that boring shit.
Maybe that is why all the crops are dying. People always blame this shit on the weather. It's too hot, too wet, for too long. That is how it starts, the longer the boring chatter goes on makes the monster grow angrier. The dust bowl and resulting westward migration could have been the direct result of the fuck monster's fury. The monster who so hates being bored by stories of weather and gardens.
Once upon a time, it didn't rain for a while. People kept talking about how it didn't rain. The monster became enraged and fucked the corn to death. It doesn't always fuck people.
He stalked the corn and then he fucked it cobby.
That makes perfect sense. Picture The Jolly Green Giant, only nothing like that at all. Half that size, flesh colored and mean as shit. A real hard pissin' grit eatin' cob fucker.
I know that the guy talking about his garden is the normal one. Normal people talk about shit like gardens and thirsty grass and weather and what they had for dinner. Normal people are friendly.
Normal people don't want other people to die from cucumber aids. Normal people pop corn, they don't fuck it all cobby.
But normal people don't know shit about monsters.
Hellwagon.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
IT GETS GREAT MILEAGE FOR A GODDAMN HAND JOB
People are straight fucked up.
I am fine with that, for I find your mental illness and overall sickness and depravity intriguing and hilarious. Whoever you fucking are out there guy, I am ever so pleased that you discovered Hellwagon by typing "big women fire pussy farts" into Google. I love that this construct allows me to see how you got here, so I can tell you to go fuck right off to anywhere else. I know some fucked up people and they even said that made them sick.
Congratulations, fat pussy fart dude, you are the bottom.
Granted, I do say a lot of messed up shit. I am foul mouthed and disgusting and a bit twisted. Fair enough. One thing I am not is a sad ass dick slapping weirdo pervert. Now, if you typed "big women fire pussy farts" because you were looking for a fat woman setting a queef blast on fire? Totally acceptable due to its inherent hilarity. I hope you find a video of a woman sitting in front of a roaring campfire and the ensuing explosion scared off a grizzly bear.
Now, if you are getting off by watching a fat woman fire off a shitload of pussy farts? Totally unacceptable and what the fuck is wrong with you. How is that even a fetish? Women are hot enough just being women. They shouldn't have to do anything weird or special and they really shouldn't have to, or be able to, fire off a barrage of fucked up twat farts for you. Women get the rawest of fucking deals because men have led themselves to believe that a woman just being a woman isn't enough for them anymore. Now they have to do tricks like dogs.
I have never seen a dog pull off that trick. She can catch a Frisbee, yes indeed, but she cannot do that.
Now, I thought "big women fire pussy farts" was bad enough. I had no idea that including the words "pussy farts" in a previous post would lead to such catastrophic discoveries. Apparently these fusty bursts of air are an terrifying epidemic. The plague of our modern age. Another person was brought to Hellwagon by typing "my wife's pussy blowing pussy farts after hard fucking". I guess I am going to be perceived as some kind of queef expert at some point due to all of these freaks finding me from pussy farts.
This dude must have been to a point a frenzied terror. His lady was just blasting one after the other after all that hard fucking and he was getting frantic. The sheets were scorched and his beanbag hair was singed off. Her muff hair was flapping so hard in the breeze it looked like an Irish setter with its head out the window. What do I do now, he thought. Can this be stopped? I know, I will do an internet search about "my wife's pussy blowing pussy farts after hard fucking", then I will finally get some relief from all this queef.
Goddamn right you will sir. Does your wife queef beyond belief after some good hard fucking? Does the force of it blast you right out of the bed? Are your bed sheets and draperies always stained and wrinkled and flying about from being subjected to thunderous pussy farts? WELL NO MORE!!! No need to call the fire chief, say so long to the grief of all that queef thanks to The Queef Thief!
Yes, for the low price of $3.47 you too can own The Queef Thief, it steals the stink as quick as a blink. I know it may just look like a dirty old funnel taped to a stolen garden hose with the other end of the hose stuck out the goddamn window because that is exactly what the fuck this thing is. Just duct tape this stupid shit all over your wife's lady business and get the hell on with your evening. Sure, the neighbors will think its Oktoberfest because it sounds like a German oom-pah band, but fuck your neighbors. This is about your burning retinas, the safety of your children and the paint peeling off your walls.
So say auf-wiedersehen to pussy fart stains, and wrap the funnel on her tunnel. Ich Bin Ein Queef Theif!!! Patent pending.
I thought that guy was having a bad night. Then the third searcher found me, it was like A Christmas Carol, only instead of being visited by ghosts who wanted me to change my ways, I was being discovered by random pervy jackasses with gross ass pussy fart problems and this poor son of a bitch...
"Has anyone tore their anus from farting?"
Awesome. I say that out loud slowly without a hint of sarcasm.
How powerful does a fart have to be for this to become a genuine concern for you? Was it one incredibly long and forceful fart, or multiple power blasts? I can't imagine what brought someone to that point, but this is the person I want to come back and talk to me. If you do come back, oh ye of the hard nasty rectum ripping fart that nearly tore your anus asunder, please describe the scenario that led you this dark place.
I think I am assuming too much, to think that this poor ass ripping maniac is a man. It could be an old lady who is having an adverse reaction to her new medication and is concerned for the waning tenacity of her O ring. I just picture her hunched feebly over her computer, farting and shaking and sobbing at the same time. A single tear lands on the keyboard as a fart blows her billowy nightgown about. She has no one else to turn to, she cries out from both ends, but no one hears her. Her dog just sniffs the air as it cowers in the corner wondering how a thunderstorm got inside the house.
She trembles with fear over what the next fart might do. Searching everywhere for an answer because the doctor can't take her call right now and then she goes to the internet and she finds me. The best worst fucking luck ever.
As if having your asshole raped from the inside out isn't bad enough, in your darkest hour you encounter nothing but sarcasm.
I hope your old lady asshole is doing swell.
I don't know. I don't have any solutions to these problems. Though I would like more of these people to stop by so that I may laugh and rejoice at their depraved plight. So, this is going to be science. I want to get normal people to find this place by typing in simultaneously normal and fucked up things.
Make your wife happy in bed by learning how to be a gentle passionate lover by remembering to flush to fucking toilet, that mountain of inhuman shit was like a war crime. If the Korean War was a pile of shit, it was that pile of shit and I love you.
The best diet in the world let's you eat all the sweets you want and helps you lose weight by fingering a bear or getting fingered by a bear. I do not claim to have originated bear fingering, that honor belongs to my esteemed friend Mark. A man so fundamentally awesome that he has fingered a bear, your sister.
Seriously though, Mark is super rad and way better than you, and way better than bears. Mark invented fingering. I bet he even invented bears, just so he could finger them. And he did all of that without being a braggart about it. You losers could learn something from him, least of which is how to invent and consequently finger a goddamn bear.
I think guys tend to forget about fingering after high school. I think it is good that they move on. It's not that I think that fingering is a young man's game, but I imagine that fingering is pretty much the equivalent of a hand job. Hand jobs are not at all awesome. If I can do it myself then I am already bored with it. And the best goddamn hand job ever is still just a goddamn hand job. You ever pull a carrot out of the ground? It's not really that big of a deal.
No one is ever going to be impressed that you got a hand job. It's like you got a new car, but it's a Ford Focus. I'm happy for you, but not at all impressed.
Hellwagon.
I am fine with that, for I find your mental illness and overall sickness and depravity intriguing and hilarious. Whoever you fucking are out there guy, I am ever so pleased that you discovered Hellwagon by typing "big women fire pussy farts" into Google. I love that this construct allows me to see how you got here, so I can tell you to go fuck right off to anywhere else. I know some fucked up people and they even said that made them sick.
Congratulations, fat pussy fart dude, you are the bottom.
Granted, I do say a lot of messed up shit. I am foul mouthed and disgusting and a bit twisted. Fair enough. One thing I am not is a sad ass dick slapping weirdo pervert. Now, if you typed "big women fire pussy farts" because you were looking for a fat woman setting a queef blast on fire? Totally acceptable due to its inherent hilarity. I hope you find a video of a woman sitting in front of a roaring campfire and the ensuing explosion scared off a grizzly bear.
Now, if you are getting off by watching a fat woman fire off a shitload of pussy farts? Totally unacceptable and what the fuck is wrong with you. How is that even a fetish? Women are hot enough just being women. They shouldn't have to do anything weird or special and they really shouldn't have to, or be able to, fire off a barrage of fucked up twat farts for you. Women get the rawest of fucking deals because men have led themselves to believe that a woman just being a woman isn't enough for them anymore. Now they have to do tricks like dogs.
I have never seen a dog pull off that trick. She can catch a Frisbee, yes indeed, but she cannot do that.
Now, I thought "big women fire pussy farts" was bad enough. I had no idea that including the words "pussy farts" in a previous post would lead to such catastrophic discoveries. Apparently these fusty bursts of air are an terrifying epidemic. The plague of our modern age. Another person was brought to Hellwagon by typing "my wife's pussy blowing pussy farts after hard fucking". I guess I am going to be perceived as some kind of queef expert at some point due to all of these freaks finding me from pussy farts.
This dude must have been to a point a frenzied terror. His lady was just blasting one after the other after all that hard fucking and he was getting frantic. The sheets were scorched and his beanbag hair was singed off. Her muff hair was flapping so hard in the breeze it looked like an Irish setter with its head out the window. What do I do now, he thought. Can this be stopped? I know, I will do an internet search about "my wife's pussy blowing pussy farts after hard fucking", then I will finally get some relief from all this queef.
Goddamn right you will sir. Does your wife queef beyond belief after some good hard fucking? Does the force of it blast you right out of the bed? Are your bed sheets and draperies always stained and wrinkled and flying about from being subjected to thunderous pussy farts? WELL NO MORE!!! No need to call the fire chief, say so long to the grief of all that queef thanks to The Queef Thief!
Yes, for the low price of $3.47 you too can own The Queef Thief, it steals the stink as quick as a blink. I know it may just look like a dirty old funnel taped to a stolen garden hose with the other end of the hose stuck out the goddamn window because that is exactly what the fuck this thing is. Just duct tape this stupid shit all over your wife's lady business and get the hell on with your evening. Sure, the neighbors will think its Oktoberfest because it sounds like a German oom-pah band, but fuck your neighbors. This is about your burning retinas, the safety of your children and the paint peeling off your walls.
So say auf-wiedersehen to pussy fart stains, and wrap the funnel on her tunnel. Ich Bin Ein Queef Theif!!! Patent pending.
I thought that guy was having a bad night. Then the third searcher found me, it was like A Christmas Carol, only instead of being visited by ghosts who wanted me to change my ways, I was being discovered by random pervy jackasses with gross ass pussy fart problems and this poor son of a bitch...
"Has anyone tore their anus from farting?"
Awesome. I say that out loud slowly without a hint of sarcasm.
How powerful does a fart have to be for this to become a genuine concern for you? Was it one incredibly long and forceful fart, or multiple power blasts? I can't imagine what brought someone to that point, but this is the person I want to come back and talk to me. If you do come back, oh ye of the hard nasty rectum ripping fart that nearly tore your anus asunder, please describe the scenario that led you this dark place.
I think I am assuming too much, to think that this poor ass ripping maniac is a man. It could be an old lady who is having an adverse reaction to her new medication and is concerned for the waning tenacity of her O ring. I just picture her hunched feebly over her computer, farting and shaking and sobbing at the same time. A single tear lands on the keyboard as a fart blows her billowy nightgown about. She has no one else to turn to, she cries out from both ends, but no one hears her. Her dog just sniffs the air as it cowers in the corner wondering how a thunderstorm got inside the house.
She trembles with fear over what the next fart might do. Searching everywhere for an answer because the doctor can't take her call right now and then she goes to the internet and she finds me. The best worst fucking luck ever.
As if having your asshole raped from the inside out isn't bad enough, in your darkest hour you encounter nothing but sarcasm.
I hope your old lady asshole is doing swell.
I don't know. I don't have any solutions to these problems. Though I would like more of these people to stop by so that I may laugh and rejoice at their depraved plight. So, this is going to be science. I want to get normal people to find this place by typing in simultaneously normal and fucked up things.
Make your wife happy in bed by learning how to be a gentle passionate lover by remembering to flush to fucking toilet, that mountain of inhuman shit was like a war crime. If the Korean War was a pile of shit, it was that pile of shit and I love you.
The best diet in the world let's you eat all the sweets you want and helps you lose weight by fingering a bear or getting fingered by a bear. I do not claim to have originated bear fingering, that honor belongs to my esteemed friend Mark. A man so fundamentally awesome that he has fingered a bear, your sister.
Seriously though, Mark is super rad and way better than you, and way better than bears. Mark invented fingering. I bet he even invented bears, just so he could finger them. And he did all of that without being a braggart about it. You losers could learn something from him, least of which is how to invent and consequently finger a goddamn bear.
I think guys tend to forget about fingering after high school. I think it is good that they move on. It's not that I think that fingering is a young man's game, but I imagine that fingering is pretty much the equivalent of a hand job. Hand jobs are not at all awesome. If I can do it myself then I am already bored with it. And the best goddamn hand job ever is still just a goddamn hand job. You ever pull a carrot out of the ground? It's not really that big of a deal.
No one is ever going to be impressed that you got a hand job. It's like you got a new car, but it's a Ford Focus. I'm happy for you, but not at all impressed.
Hellwagon.
Friday, July 20, 2012
THE UNDERNUTS VS THUNDERNUTS
Once upon a time in a dirty shithole not far away, I was in WalMart doing my shopping. I had to buy various household items, one of them being milk. However, much to my dismay standing in front of the cooler was a haggard group of amorphous pock marked hillbillies having a witty and raucous conversation. I did not inquire as to what they were discussing, cold fusion perhaps, maybe even the long term effects of third world industrialization upon the global climate and economy. At the very least I was able to discern their favorite wrestlers and race car drivers from their stunning attire.
For me, nothing exudes dignity and class like armpit hair and being too fat to walk. I was particularly moved by the sobering gravitas of a chunk of underarm deodorant clinging to a mank patch of matted fur extended down one man's triceps. It demonstrated that he took the time. He cared about those around him. Deodorant is really just a bath you can hold in your hand. I am relatively certain that it is widely applied to the undernuts by certain sections of the populace. It has all the characteristics of a third armpit without all the attention and glory.
There are two superhero possibilities with the word undernuts. A super hero team called The Undernuts. They are constantly underestimated and it drives them crazy. They always come together and win in the end. See what I did there, I managed to not spell come together "cum" together. Way to go me. I'm slowly making progress, like gradually overcoming constipation.
One hard and round and musclebound turd at a time.
The other possible hero is the amazing and all powerful superhuman they call Thundernuts. His balls rumble with raging thunder so low and heavy it makes the ground shake. He shoots bolts of white lightning from his rod. The Undernuts is starting to sound more like a band of dastardly villains to me. They lie hidden in a dark sweaty place where no one but the bravest dares to go. When they meet, it will be an epic battle for the ages.
The Undernuts vs. Thundernuts for galactic supremacy.
Anyway, one of the people in front of my goddamn milk was slopped all over a motorized scooter. The scooter used to be for the aged and disabled, now it is the official vehicle of the fucking enormous. Coincidentally, it is also the official ride of Thundernuts, because the nuts of thunder are big and difficult to manage.
The scooter manufacturer obviously has not widened the seat to accommodate the wide humans who ride upon them because this lady's girthy swamp ass was all over the place. I am surprised it didn't get caught in the tires. There was a faintly visible skidmark, but that was from something else. All in all she rode upon a fine and sturdy piece of machinery and the men and women who make them should be commended.
I stood and watched the braying herd with mounting anger. I noticed several other patrons calmly suffering through their own impatience. We all waited for the dazzling repartee to cease of its own accord. I hadn't seen such a gathering of pure analytical thought outside of a truck stop chemical toilet. They did not move. It became insufferable. So, I calmly said, "Would you mind moving the Survivors of Incest support group so I can get some fucking milk?"
They looked annoyed and puzzled, it could have been my use of multiple polysyllabic words, it could have been that they heard 'fucking milk' and it triggered a memory of when they all gang banged a mentally challenged cow and took turns giving a reach around to its udders. Oh yeah, milk it baby. I had no idea how they took it. They moved, I got my milk and moved on.
How do I get away with such shenanigans you may ask. I just fucking do. Also, I have been told that I look like a white trash mental patient and an escaped convict. I just happen to be one with a shower and a vocabulary.
I need to clarify something. I don't think I am better than everyone. Fuck everyone and fuck me too, who the hell even cares. I do think that I am better at insulting everyone, and making fun of people is funny. Fuckin' A-holes, it's called making fun. Let me make my own fucking fun you sensitive dicks. I am a trying to be a goddamn inventor of awesomeness and fun for myself. You don't like it, then go somewhere else and look at dicks or something like you usually do. Yeah, if you like porn, you like looking at dicks. You aren't watching all lesbo porn ya dicklover.
Everyone follows their own paths. People will like what they like and act how they act regardless of how stupid and lame I may perceive their actions and thoughts and preferences to be. That does not mean that I have to keep my mouth shut if I find your choices stupid and absurd, or if you just piss me off on the wrong day. Which is usually most days.
I can be, and am, civil when it is necessary. I cannot function in society without holding back my true thoughts most of the time. But I have been known on occasion to call men sloptwats and snaggletooth cunts and dicklovers. I once called a woman "eyebrow". It was the first thing I noticed. It was thick and fat all over her stupid face, it may well have been a headband. She probably had mad bush.
I should have called her Mad Bush, I bet she really was a member of The Undernuts. Dammit, I hope I see her again, if only to foil her plans for world domination. She wants to turn the whole world into a dirty hairy jungle where the rivers run red with clots of blood. Period jokes are easy. Not like a period piece, fancy costumes are hard.
Anyway, I hate society anymore. We have to be so nice to everybody and for what? To be sensitive and spare their feelings.
Well, you want to know how I feel about that? Here goes...fuck your fucking feelings. Just fuck 'em right in the ol' undernuts. Go fuckin' feel yourself if you like fucking stupid feelings so much. Go feel some hogballs you pantywaist. That's something my fifth grade flag football coach used to call us kids. Pantywaists. He also called us fruits. He was super right, because flag football is super fruity. You are trying to grab and pull at dangly things hanging around a dudes waistline.
He was an odd coach. Whenever one of us was going low to grab at a flag he would scream "OPEN YOUR MOUTH!!!" I doubt the open mouth tackle has made its way into pro football. If you think that really happened then open your mouth.
Anyway, if you go through your life with everyone being super nice and accommodating to you and always making you feel better about yourself and telling you to OPEN YOUR MOUTH!!! even when its insanely obvious to you and everyone else that you need to make changes and keep your mouth shut, then you will never have any reason to shut up and change anything. Everyone can be better at being themselves and judging from what I see all of this positive reinforcement is having a negative effect.
Do you think Thundernuts got to where he is because everyone said it was alright to have rumbly balls and a shocky cock? Of course not. People were mean and horrible to him because he was different and strange, but he took that pain and criticism and persevered and eventually he took on Lady Eyebrow McMadbush and The Undernuts and he fucking won. Unlike our fifth grade flag football team, which didn't win a damn shittin' thing.
I am not saying that those stupid people I insulted can be heroes, but they can take the first step towards greatness with a shower. If you look and smell like ballskin, if you look like you just woke up and peeled yourself from under the weight a giant scrotum, if you are just plain fucking balls you should by buying soap.
You shouldn't be hanging around in front of the fucking milk boring me to death as you OPEN YOUR MOUTH!!! and make me wait. You are some ballskin livin' motherfuckers.
For me, nothing exudes dignity and class like armpit hair and being too fat to walk. I was particularly moved by the sobering gravitas of a chunk of underarm deodorant clinging to a mank patch of matted fur extended down one man's triceps. It demonstrated that he took the time. He cared about those around him. Deodorant is really just a bath you can hold in your hand. I am relatively certain that it is widely applied to the undernuts by certain sections of the populace. It has all the characteristics of a third armpit without all the attention and glory.
There are two superhero possibilities with the word undernuts. A super hero team called The Undernuts. They are constantly underestimated and it drives them crazy. They always come together and win in the end. See what I did there, I managed to not spell come together "cum" together. Way to go me. I'm slowly making progress, like gradually overcoming constipation.
One hard and round and musclebound turd at a time.
The other possible hero is the amazing and all powerful superhuman they call Thundernuts. His balls rumble with raging thunder so low and heavy it makes the ground shake. He shoots bolts of white lightning from his rod. The Undernuts is starting to sound more like a band of dastardly villains to me. They lie hidden in a dark sweaty place where no one but the bravest dares to go. When they meet, it will be an epic battle for the ages.
The Undernuts vs. Thundernuts for galactic supremacy.
Anyway, one of the people in front of my goddamn milk was slopped all over a motorized scooter. The scooter used to be for the aged and disabled, now it is the official vehicle of the fucking enormous. Coincidentally, it is also the official ride of Thundernuts, because the nuts of thunder are big and difficult to manage.
The scooter manufacturer obviously has not widened the seat to accommodate the wide humans who ride upon them because this lady's girthy swamp ass was all over the place. I am surprised it didn't get caught in the tires. There was a faintly visible skidmark, but that was from something else. All in all she rode upon a fine and sturdy piece of machinery and the men and women who make them should be commended.
I stood and watched the braying herd with mounting anger. I noticed several other patrons calmly suffering through their own impatience. We all waited for the dazzling repartee to cease of its own accord. I hadn't seen such a gathering of pure analytical thought outside of a truck stop chemical toilet. They did not move. It became insufferable. So, I calmly said, "Would you mind moving the Survivors of Incest support group so I can get some fucking milk?"
They looked annoyed and puzzled, it could have been my use of multiple polysyllabic words, it could have been that they heard 'fucking milk' and it triggered a memory of when they all gang banged a mentally challenged cow and took turns giving a reach around to its udders. Oh yeah, milk it baby. I had no idea how they took it. They moved, I got my milk and moved on.
How do I get away with such shenanigans you may ask. I just fucking do. Also, I have been told that I look like a white trash mental patient and an escaped convict. I just happen to be one with a shower and a vocabulary.
I need to clarify something. I don't think I am better than everyone. Fuck everyone and fuck me too, who the hell even cares. I do think that I am better at insulting everyone, and making fun of people is funny. Fuckin' A-holes, it's called making fun. Let me make my own fucking fun you sensitive dicks. I am a trying to be a goddamn inventor of awesomeness and fun for myself. You don't like it, then go somewhere else and look at dicks or something like you usually do. Yeah, if you like porn, you like looking at dicks. You aren't watching all lesbo porn ya dicklover.
Everyone follows their own paths. People will like what they like and act how they act regardless of how stupid and lame I may perceive their actions and thoughts and preferences to be. That does not mean that I have to keep my mouth shut if I find your choices stupid and absurd, or if you just piss me off on the wrong day. Which is usually most days.
I can be, and am, civil when it is necessary. I cannot function in society without holding back my true thoughts most of the time. But I have been known on occasion to call men sloptwats and snaggletooth cunts and dicklovers. I once called a woman "eyebrow". It was the first thing I noticed. It was thick and fat all over her stupid face, it may well have been a headband. She probably had mad bush.
I should have called her Mad Bush, I bet she really was a member of The Undernuts. Dammit, I hope I see her again, if only to foil her plans for world domination. She wants to turn the whole world into a dirty hairy jungle where the rivers run red with clots of blood. Period jokes are easy. Not like a period piece, fancy costumes are hard.
Anyway, I hate society anymore. We have to be so nice to everybody and for what? To be sensitive and spare their feelings.
Well, you want to know how I feel about that? Here goes...fuck your fucking feelings. Just fuck 'em right in the ol' undernuts. Go fuckin' feel yourself if you like fucking stupid feelings so much. Go feel some hogballs you pantywaist. That's something my fifth grade flag football coach used to call us kids. Pantywaists. He also called us fruits. He was super right, because flag football is super fruity. You are trying to grab and pull at dangly things hanging around a dudes waistline.
He was an odd coach. Whenever one of us was going low to grab at a flag he would scream "OPEN YOUR MOUTH!!!" I doubt the open mouth tackle has made its way into pro football. If you think that really happened then open your mouth.
Anyway, if you go through your life with everyone being super nice and accommodating to you and always making you feel better about yourself and telling you to OPEN YOUR MOUTH!!! even when its insanely obvious to you and everyone else that you need to make changes and keep your mouth shut, then you will never have any reason to shut up and change anything. Everyone can be better at being themselves and judging from what I see all of this positive reinforcement is having a negative effect.
Do you think Thundernuts got to where he is because everyone said it was alright to have rumbly balls and a shocky cock? Of course not. People were mean and horrible to him because he was different and strange, but he took that pain and criticism and persevered and eventually he took on Lady Eyebrow McMadbush and The Undernuts and he fucking won. Unlike our fifth grade flag football team, which didn't win a damn shittin' thing.
I am not saying that those stupid people I insulted can be heroes, but they can take the first step towards greatness with a shower. If you look and smell like ballskin, if you look like you just woke up and peeled yourself from under the weight a giant scrotum, if you are just plain fucking balls you should by buying soap.
You shouldn't be hanging around in front of the fucking milk boring me to death as you OPEN YOUR MOUTH!!! and make me wait. You are some ballskin livin' motherfuckers.
Hellwagon.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
REINCARNATION = SOMEDAY I MIGHT FUCK ON A TURD
I am forty and I am tired of shitting. I've had it. Yeah motherfucker I said it. I know that men are supposed to totally love taking a shit, like making a huge pile of waste is fucking awesome, and that sentiment is ingrained into every sitcom husband and stand up comic in history. The show usually goes 'I'm an old sloppy fat faggy fuckload and I love to take a long giant shit and brag about it,' and everyone howls with disbelief and laughter because its mostly stupid and true.
Well, taking a shit just isn't fun or funny anymore. It always stinks, it's hot and sweaty and boring and a waste of my goddamn time. It's not always hot and sweaty, just lately, because its been really hot. I am sure people with phones you can finger get a lot of important stuff done on the toilet as they finger shit, but later that day you are basically just putting your mouth on your own ass when you talk on the phone. Now that's sexy, no wonder your breath smells like shit.
My shit has been going on long enough. I mean, a shit never really ends. You know there is more shit in there waiting its turn, it's just not ready to emerge from the cave. Hell, when I die there will still be shit left to do. I guess I will have a shit bucket list. Technically I have been taking a forty year shit and living my life in between the turds.
My Life In Between the Turds. Sounds like a Lifetime movie biography of a fly. The only time he is really left alone is on a turd, who is going to step on or smash his guts out then. It's his peaceful moment amidst a world trying to murder him. I really hope that reincarnation is an impossibility. If so, I will likely end up being a fly. Reincarnation certainly sounds stupid enough to be true. If something is stupid, it's usually true.
For example, math. Adding shit, subtracting it, who cares, it's boring and stupid, but true. Honesty. Honesty is usually true and always stupid. For example, your great aunt has rampaging hemorrhoids and oozy anal warts and you smell like one too. Super true, and slightly stupid. In my opinion, math is far more idiotic than your aunt's anal warts, unless you feel like counting them, then I guess you will need fucking math for that. In any case, if you count anal warts you are gross and stupid and need a better hobby.
Except for math. Math is not a hobby option. I don't like math.
Me plus math equals fuck math.
Back to some dumb ass reincarnation shit. I hate almost all insects and would hate to be reborn as one, given my horrible attitude and general assholiness my life as a bug would be inevitable. (I would love to be The Pope of Assholes just so people could call me His Assholiness, The Asshole Pope). Anyway, I have no doubt that I would be reborn as the lowest form of life. A fly. A fly is the lowest for one reason, who in the hell fucks ON a turd.
Plenty of people in the world love to plow ass, more ass pounding power to them. It must be super great if so many people love it, men love it, some women love it. It's not for me but hey for you, way to go, good luck with all of your dick and ball stink. Anything that touches ass smells like ass, that's fucking science. Dick and balls, and let's be real, all crotches in general stink. It is a musty sweatshop down there. Plus, it's adjacent to ass. Adjacent to ass equals a hint of ass.
There is some fucking math for you math, you fuck. Crotch plus ass equals Crotchass. I wipe my ass with you math. Crotch is tainted with an aroma of ass. A spritz of ass. Has to be. If you fart a lot, you are just spending your day perfuming your crotch with Chanel Number Two.
It's stupid and true, like fucking math and reincarnation and your dead relatives drippy hemorrhoids. You probably fart directly onto your own balls and it sounds like a horse pulling it's hoof out of the mud. You and your Mom.
Anyway, I know that insects aren't really trying to set the mood with some Barry White and candlelight, but man, you gotta get off the turd to do your business. I know that the ladies like to make the distinction between making love and fucking, so let me be clear to all the fly ladies out there, if you are getting nailed on a turd, you are fucking. No one makes love on a turd.
Let us reconsider that though, because for a fly a fresh dog turd is the place to be. They love that shit. So, maybe taking your fly lady to the local turd for some hot lovin' is like taking her to a five star hotel. It's a meal and a soft place to get it on all in one. I have seen a lot of dog turds in my life and now I am wondering if they all turn white because it's a fly fuck spot. An aged dog turd just may be coated with a silky sheen of fly cream. I am not sure if that is true, but it's stupid enough to be true.
I guess the real reason I hate to shit now is because of my kids. I promised myself I wouldn't talk about my kids, but fuck you so there. My bathroom is not a sanctuary anymore, it's a prison. I sat down the other night to shit and in walks my three year old daughter saying she has to poop. No knock, no warning, for a kid every bathroom visit is a fucking emergency and the entire universe has to heed the unstoppable tsunami. "I am in here and I am taking a crap now, fuck what you're doing old man, my shit supersedes yours." Kids have manifest destiny over shit.
I was going to do the gentlemanly thing, the fatherly thing, clean up and give up the toilet. I wasn't even given the chance. She sat on the plastic potty and it immediately sounded like hailstones hitting a car roof. She finished in thirty seconds and left. She left the potty lid up leaving me sitting there on the toilet faced with a pile of unwanted shit. It tore apart the room like Satan's napalm.
The best part of taking a shit is that you are not watching it happen, you are getting rid of it as you stare in the opposite direction. That is the whole point. That is why toilet bowls are not transparent. If you watch yourself shit you should be quarantined and sterilized and have your shit taken away from you. So, there I was, left half naked in a small room confronted with a pile of someones shit, and I found that to be a harsh and bleak reality.
Looking at shit as you shit, well, it just makes you hate your life. It makes you feel less than human, like a worthless insect. It's a grim and humbling spectacle to be left alone with. It makes you want to give up. Even my asshole said, yeah pal, we're done here, let's get the fuck out. This shit is over. To be stupid and honest about it, what my asshole said was popsnappurplemachinegundynamitepoweroutage. Snap, Crackle, Pope.
X plus X equals fucking X. Solve for X. X is shit.
Fuck you math.
Hellwagon.
Well, taking a shit just isn't fun or funny anymore. It always stinks, it's hot and sweaty and boring and a waste of my goddamn time. It's not always hot and sweaty, just lately, because its been really hot. I am sure people with phones you can finger get a lot of important stuff done on the toilet as they finger shit, but later that day you are basically just putting your mouth on your own ass when you talk on the phone. Now that's sexy, no wonder your breath smells like shit.
My shit has been going on long enough. I mean, a shit never really ends. You know there is more shit in there waiting its turn, it's just not ready to emerge from the cave. Hell, when I die there will still be shit left to do. I guess I will have a shit bucket list. Technically I have been taking a forty year shit and living my life in between the turds.
My Life In Between the Turds. Sounds like a Lifetime movie biography of a fly. The only time he is really left alone is on a turd, who is going to step on or smash his guts out then. It's his peaceful moment amidst a world trying to murder him. I really hope that reincarnation is an impossibility. If so, I will likely end up being a fly. Reincarnation certainly sounds stupid enough to be true. If something is stupid, it's usually true.
For example, math. Adding shit, subtracting it, who cares, it's boring and stupid, but true. Honesty. Honesty is usually true and always stupid. For example, your great aunt has rampaging hemorrhoids and oozy anal warts and you smell like one too. Super true, and slightly stupid. In my opinion, math is far more idiotic than your aunt's anal warts, unless you feel like counting them, then I guess you will need fucking math for that. In any case, if you count anal warts you are gross and stupid and need a better hobby.
Except for math. Math is not a hobby option. I don't like math.
Me plus math equals fuck math.
Back to some dumb ass reincarnation shit. I hate almost all insects and would hate to be reborn as one, given my horrible attitude and general assholiness my life as a bug would be inevitable. (I would love to be The Pope of Assholes just so people could call me His Assholiness, The Asshole Pope). Anyway, I have no doubt that I would be reborn as the lowest form of life. A fly. A fly is the lowest for one reason, who in the hell fucks ON a turd.
Plenty of people in the world love to plow ass, more ass pounding power to them. It must be super great if so many people love it, men love it, some women love it. It's not for me but hey for you, way to go, good luck with all of your dick and ball stink. Anything that touches ass smells like ass, that's fucking science. Dick and balls, and let's be real, all crotches in general stink. It is a musty sweatshop down there. Plus, it's adjacent to ass. Adjacent to ass equals a hint of ass.
There is some fucking math for you math, you fuck. Crotch plus ass equals Crotchass. I wipe my ass with you math. Crotch is tainted with an aroma of ass. A spritz of ass. Has to be. If you fart a lot, you are just spending your day perfuming your crotch with Chanel Number Two.
It's stupid and true, like fucking math and reincarnation and your dead relatives drippy hemorrhoids. You probably fart directly onto your own balls and it sounds like a horse pulling it's hoof out of the mud. You and your Mom.
Anyway, I know that insects aren't really trying to set the mood with some Barry White and candlelight, but man, you gotta get off the turd to do your business. I know that the ladies like to make the distinction between making love and fucking, so let me be clear to all the fly ladies out there, if you are getting nailed on a turd, you are fucking. No one makes love on a turd.
Let us reconsider that though, because for a fly a fresh dog turd is the place to be. They love that shit. So, maybe taking your fly lady to the local turd for some hot lovin' is like taking her to a five star hotel. It's a meal and a soft place to get it on all in one. I have seen a lot of dog turds in my life and now I am wondering if they all turn white because it's a fly fuck spot. An aged dog turd just may be coated with a silky sheen of fly cream. I am not sure if that is true, but it's stupid enough to be true.
I guess the real reason I hate to shit now is because of my kids. I promised myself I wouldn't talk about my kids, but fuck you so there. My bathroom is not a sanctuary anymore, it's a prison. I sat down the other night to shit and in walks my three year old daughter saying she has to poop. No knock, no warning, for a kid every bathroom visit is a fucking emergency and the entire universe has to heed the unstoppable tsunami. "I am in here and I am taking a crap now, fuck what you're doing old man, my shit supersedes yours." Kids have manifest destiny over shit.
I was going to do the gentlemanly thing, the fatherly thing, clean up and give up the toilet. I wasn't even given the chance. She sat on the plastic potty and it immediately sounded like hailstones hitting a car roof. She finished in thirty seconds and left. She left the potty lid up leaving me sitting there on the toilet faced with a pile of unwanted shit. It tore apart the room like Satan's napalm.
The best part of taking a shit is that you are not watching it happen, you are getting rid of it as you stare in the opposite direction. That is the whole point. That is why toilet bowls are not transparent. If you watch yourself shit you should be quarantined and sterilized and have your shit taken away from you. So, there I was, left half naked in a small room confronted with a pile of someones shit, and I found that to be a harsh and bleak reality.
Looking at shit as you shit, well, it just makes you hate your life. It makes you feel less than human, like a worthless insect. It's a grim and humbling spectacle to be left alone with. It makes you want to give up. Even my asshole said, yeah pal, we're done here, let's get the fuck out. This shit is over. To be stupid and honest about it, what my asshole said was popsnappurplemachinegundynamitepoweroutage. Snap, Crackle, Pope.
X plus X equals fucking X. Solve for X. X is shit.
Fuck you math.
Hellwagon.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
MY BRAIN IS EXACTLY LIKE YOUR MOM'S DIARRHEA
I found myself wondering the other day if you could make a person float like a balloon by plugging up all their holes but one and jamming that last hole up with the nozzle from a helium tank. Then I wondered which hole would get the nozzle, a thought which lasted about two seconds before deciding emphatically that for a man the last hole would be the asshole. Intestines are miles long and have plenty of experience with gas already. A plan comes together, thank you Hannibal.
Plus, if you are a human balloon, you definitely want the string tied to your back end and not up by your head. If the string is around your neck you would hang upside down all day and look a right stupid cunt as you pissed in your own face.
For a woman, well, it's gotta be the ol' gopher den. Yes, that is quite a pretty terrible euphemism, even for me. I don't mean that it's all big and cavernous and the gopher from Caddyshack lives in it. Although if it can house a baby, then a gopher's abode is not completely out of the question. I will concede that even though I believe a gopher may be able to live there, no gophers come from there originally and none are living there currently that I know of. Gophers only come from gopher holes.
Man. I just thought of a way to make Groundhog Day super awesome. Punxsutawney Phil could emerge from the crotch of a wax figure of Kim Kardashian. Then he could throw up and shit on her, that means an early spring.
And the term foxhole just took on a whole new meaning for me. A gross one. Although you could put a spin on it, foxy lady walks by, she must have quite the foxhole.
Scratch that, it's completely fucking horrible.
Let me just say that I have never nor will I ever expect a gopher to come out of a lady's special lady area, certainly not one coughing through clouds of smoke after it escaped from an exploding squirrel. The Kenny Loggins music is a possibility. Somewhere in the world a woman is stripping to Danger Zone.
I don't believe that, but I will hope for it because I love Kenny Loggins and I once knew a guy who changed his bedpan.
If I had just escaped an explosion by emerging from a giant smoky vagina, I might dance a little myself. A Safety Dance, because I was safe. Perhaps gophers dig and live in holes because it reminds them of other holes they like. I have a lot of stupid theories about why animals do the things they do, but answer me this, who doesn't like a good hole?
There has to be a human vagina somewhere on this earth that looks exactly like or even worse than a hole a gopher dug. Just savage looking. Ransacked. Shattered, like a jittery meth addict robbed the place and set it on fire on the way out. Shit, just watch an episode of Cops, you will see some world class rotten slopbox on there. If you can't be bothered to run a comb through your hair or brush your teeth then it's pretty safe to assume that you are sporting a straight up fucking junkyard.
Have you ever wanted to see a tampon ignite on impact? Neither have I.
There should be a Worst Hole trophy. We as a society love to make losers feel like winners. God forbid someone should have hurt feelings and as a result develop resilience and character and drive. Applaud the mediocre so no one tries harder and everyone feels good about themselves. Have you seen people lately? No one should be feeling all that good about themselves.
If you get a trophy for trying your best, why not get one for not trying at all. It's more of an accomplishment to be the absolute worst than the middle of the pack. It's a distinction. Worst Hole ever trophy could be given the singer of the band Hole. You could probably surmise the entire history of Courtney Love's liver lipped flytrap by reading the bumps. That shit is probably like some knobby ass braille heaven, or you might just think you stuck your hand in a dented can of olives.
Man, do I ever get sidetracked. Started off simple. Human Balloon. Somehow ended up ponderin' about the most horrible snatch on the planet. Brains are great and horrible at the same time, like accidentally hearing your Mom have diarrhea. It's the best kind of trauma. Trust me, your Mom has all kinds of fucking loud hot ass burnin' diarrhea and accidentally hearing it happen is both hilarious and terrifying, like my brain.
Your Mom has a hot ass. From all the diarrhea.
Anyway, the only way I could get human ballooning to work would be to hollow myself out and then I would be dead so what's the point. I guess my friends and relatives could do that after I die. Hollow me out, seal me up and fill me with helium. It would make the whole funeral business a lot more festive, everyone could take a turn holding my string. I am certain at some point someone would untie the balloon knot and let the air out so I would fly around the room all farty noisy and such.
Once is never enough for that either, it never is, who doesn't like watching some fast movin' fart action. But if you are going to be a dick and keep doing it over and over I will make sure that the only way you can blow air into my body is through my asshole. I would have said cockhole, but then I thought about it and I didn't want my funeral to degenerate to me farting out of my dead cockhole as my balls flapped about while people ran around in fear and panic and fainted on the floor.
I would love to see someone explaining that awesome spectacle of degeneration on Cops.
Maybe I do need psychotherapy. Maybe I have already had some. Maybe fuck yourself.
Hellwagon.
Plus, if you are a human balloon, you definitely want the string tied to your back end and not up by your head. If the string is around your neck you would hang upside down all day and look a right stupid cunt as you pissed in your own face.
For a woman, well, it's gotta be the ol' gopher den. Yes, that is quite a pretty terrible euphemism, even for me. I don't mean that it's all big and cavernous and the gopher from Caddyshack lives in it. Although if it can house a baby, then a gopher's abode is not completely out of the question. I will concede that even though I believe a gopher may be able to live there, no gophers come from there originally and none are living there currently that I know of. Gophers only come from gopher holes.
Man. I just thought of a way to make Groundhog Day super awesome. Punxsutawney Phil could emerge from the crotch of a wax figure of Kim Kardashian. Then he could throw up and shit on her, that means an early spring.
And the term foxhole just took on a whole new meaning for me. A gross one. Although you could put a spin on it, foxy lady walks by, she must have quite the foxhole.
Scratch that, it's completely fucking horrible.
Let me just say that I have never nor will I ever expect a gopher to come out of a lady's special lady area, certainly not one coughing through clouds of smoke after it escaped from an exploding squirrel. The Kenny Loggins music is a possibility. Somewhere in the world a woman is stripping to Danger Zone.
I don't believe that, but I will hope for it because I love Kenny Loggins and I once knew a guy who changed his bedpan.
If I had just escaped an explosion by emerging from a giant smoky vagina, I might dance a little myself. A Safety Dance, because I was safe. Perhaps gophers dig and live in holes because it reminds them of other holes they like. I have a lot of stupid theories about why animals do the things they do, but answer me this, who doesn't like a good hole?
There has to be a human vagina somewhere on this earth that looks exactly like or even worse than a hole a gopher dug. Just savage looking. Ransacked. Shattered, like a jittery meth addict robbed the place and set it on fire on the way out. Shit, just watch an episode of Cops, you will see some world class rotten slopbox on there. If you can't be bothered to run a comb through your hair or brush your teeth then it's pretty safe to assume that you are sporting a straight up fucking junkyard.
Have you ever wanted to see a tampon ignite on impact? Neither have I.
There should be a Worst Hole trophy. We as a society love to make losers feel like winners. God forbid someone should have hurt feelings and as a result develop resilience and character and drive. Applaud the mediocre so no one tries harder and everyone feels good about themselves. Have you seen people lately? No one should be feeling all that good about themselves.
If you get a trophy for trying your best, why not get one for not trying at all. It's more of an accomplishment to be the absolute worst than the middle of the pack. It's a distinction. Worst Hole ever trophy could be given the singer of the band Hole. You could probably surmise the entire history of Courtney Love's liver lipped flytrap by reading the bumps. That shit is probably like some knobby ass braille heaven, or you might just think you stuck your hand in a dented can of olives.
Man, do I ever get sidetracked. Started off simple. Human Balloon. Somehow ended up ponderin' about the most horrible snatch on the planet. Brains are great and horrible at the same time, like accidentally hearing your Mom have diarrhea. It's the best kind of trauma. Trust me, your Mom has all kinds of fucking loud hot ass burnin' diarrhea and accidentally hearing it happen is both hilarious and terrifying, like my brain.
Your Mom has a hot ass. From all the diarrhea.
Anyway, the only way I could get human ballooning to work would be to hollow myself out and then I would be dead so what's the point. I guess my friends and relatives could do that after I die. Hollow me out, seal me up and fill me with helium. It would make the whole funeral business a lot more festive, everyone could take a turn holding my string. I am certain at some point someone would untie the balloon knot and let the air out so I would fly around the room all farty noisy and such.
Once is never enough for that either, it never is, who doesn't like watching some fast movin' fart action. But if you are going to be a dick and keep doing it over and over I will make sure that the only way you can blow air into my body is through my asshole. I would have said cockhole, but then I thought about it and I didn't want my funeral to degenerate to me farting out of my dead cockhole as my balls flapped about while people ran around in fear and panic and fainted on the floor.
I would love to see someone explaining that awesome spectacle of degeneration on Cops.
Maybe I do need psychotherapy. Maybe I have already had some. Maybe fuck yourself.
Hellwagon.
Monday, June 11, 2012
THE OSTRICH - NATURE'S DUMBEST TESTICLE
Before I move on to the newest insane pile of shit my brain has pushed out its brain ass, I would just like to say that someone found the Hellwagon by Googling "pussy fart poems". Life is indeed, awesome.
And they say that romance is dead.
So, for that one romantic soul in the universe who wants to give his loved one a poem about her pussy farts, I bequeef this poem...
Nothing mends my broken heart,
Like the smell of your pussy fart.
Is that Chanel or old corned beef?
No, Tis the must of your lovely queef.
Fuck you Shakespeare. You think you're so great, try that pussy fart on for size you stupid dick. Anyway, I think it's pretty goddamn cool that someone is out there looking for poems about queefs. It restores my faith in humanity.
On with it then....
The evidence that God somewhat gives a shit can be found in shit. Specifically in the liquidity of birdshit. I mean, he doesn't really care quite enough that we don't get shit on at all, and let's face it, watching people get shit on is probably really fucking funny to God. It's probably why there are birds in the first goddamn place, and it should be fucking funny to everyone who isn't getting shit on, especially seeing someone take a shit shot to the face.
That is some lovely magic isn't it, it's times like that when I wish I could slow motion my life. Just out of nowhere, someone you love is talking and bird shit splatters all over their shocked face. You never see it coming, like a fart that lets some poop out. It's brilliant. It's a wonderful moment in time.
It's natures money shot.
If I was Oprah, this would be an episode for one of my favorite things. Yes, I have watched Oprah. Everyone has. Go ahead and lie about, it just makes you even more faggy and stupid. I'm a big tough sumbitch and I ain't never watched no goddamn Oprah. Of course you haven't Jethro, you are far too busy fisting goats and jacking off their antlers that you painted to look like cocks, you probably spend your free time trying to blow a load in your own mouth rather than watching the miracle of Oprah ya cuntdick.
I can see the audience waiting in excitement for my big reveal, what will his favorite thing be this time. I am not giving away expensive cars or trips and they all look up to the ceiling when the balloons fall . Little do they know that I have thousands of blow darts rigged to shoot from the walls all Indiana Jones style and the balloons are filled with birdshit. Balloons drop, darts fly, we all get shitfaced. How do I get birdshit in balloons? Put unhatched eggs in balloons and fucking wait genius. How would you do it? Scoop the shit up and put it in? Stupid.
Birdshit happens to everyone at some point, and if I knew fuckall about mathematics and statistical probability I could probably prove this poo theorem to be factual, but let us just take it as an absolute truth that everyone gets shit on and not give a fuck about the math you shitfaced nerd. Lots of birds, lots of birdie shit falling from the sky translates to a birdie shittin' on your nerdy dickhead face.
God did not make birdshit solid, I mean there is that hard black bit in the middle, like an Almond Joy. I think we got a pretty good deal from God as far as the birdshit goes though. Yeah, sure, the truth and reality of it is probably different. I guess it might have something to do with the lack of fiber in their diet and all the berries and bugs they eat, but whatever the fuck ever. Yeah, I know that birdholes are everything holes. It's a shit, piss and fuckhole. So, sorry to tell you all but I think that lady bird shit very probably has some leftover bird jizz in it from fucking dude birds. Not a lot of jizz, a bird sized portion.
I don't imagine a bird blows a huge fuckall load and goes all 'yeah, take it Tweety'. If birds blew big loads they would probably be shooting each other out of the sky and crashing planes and what have you. What if a really sexy bird flew by a murder of horny crows or something, it would turn into a shooting gallery and then the next day I walk through my yard and find a dead spermy bird.
Gives a whole new meaning to birdbath now doesn't it.
Having an everything hole sounds very efficient and all, but I honestly don't know how birds get any fucking done. It's gross. It's not very sexy to have to plow bird dick into the everything hole. All birds take it up the butt, they have no choice, they are taking it up the everything.
Thank God men don't have an everything hole. I can only imagine how horrible it would be to try to force a turd out of my dick. So, a big no thank you to pushing out dickturds. A big hell yes to calling people dickturds henceforth.
Hey, you, yeah you, you fucking dickturd. When it works it works.
So let us all give thanks for no dickturds and liquid birdshit. The potential for disasters stemming from solid birdshit is almost too much to fathom, but the worst of them all would be all of the disabled children. A grown man could take a birdshit bomb no problem, but a baby with a soft spot is just asking for it. I bet it's like a goddamn bullseye to a bird.
Thank God that the organizational powers of birds are pretty limited to flying in V's and finding food and pooping on cars and such. If they had a sense of humor and an A-Team attitude, why wouldn't they pick out one person on the block to coat with shit for a week and then move on. If I see a bird out the window smoking a cigar like Hannibal Smith, you can bet your funky ass I am not going outside that day.
Wouldn't you do that though? If you could fly and were a complete asshole, you and all of your asshole friends could go out for a fly and just for a laugh the hundred or so of you could carpet bomb some bastard who was yawning in his yard as he went out to get the paper. You do it seven days straight and you have just changed that dudes life. I think Hitchcock truly missed out on the real terror that a bird can inflict. Big deal, peck at me, peck my stupid eyes out, who gives a fuck, when I'm dead the terror is over.
Shit on me every day, my terror lasts forever.
Honestly though, if you cannot find a way to fight off a flock of birds there is something wrong with you. Hairspray and a lighter comes to mind. A hose. Badminton racket. How tough is an animal that you can beat with water? Oh no, here comes the fucking birds, quick get me a squirt gun. You could even fill a Supersoaker with bleach and aim for the eyes.
Blind birds are the stupidest looking dicks in the universe.
Birds are just fucking dumb. Even the ones that aren't blinded by my bleach cannon fly right into the side of giant goddamn buildings like incredible morons. At least if they were blind they would have an excuse as to why they failed so miserably to miss the gigantic fucking window. I don't want to hear any explanation as to why they do it, so you can keep your fucking science to yourself. You can't use science to give me a reason why an animal looks fucking stupid. It can see a worm from the sky but can't see a building. Yeah, science that up for me nerds and tell me birds aren't fucking imbeciles.
I don't care if birds cannot understand what a reflection is, they are fucking dumb. I guess I cannot hope to expect to orchestrate a flying division of shitting birds to attack your house when the gang of them can't tell what a fucking window is.
The ostrich is the worst bird ever, at least other birds fly and are lovely to look at. Ostriches don't fly because their shit could kill babies and their diarrhea could drown a toddler. Most birds are beautiful and I love the flying idiots. I really do. But ostriches, fuck 'em. Fuck a goddamn ostrich in its everything hole. An ostrich looks like a giant walking scrotum. If your balls swelled up and came to life and walked around and ate bugs, well then your balls would be an ostrich.
I think that may be the most disturbing image I have ever conjured. My balls turn into a flightless bird and eat bugs. Nice work brain, what the fuck is wrong with you.
Who knows, maybe that is what ostriches really are and we have named them all wrong. I am sure science has studied their bones and habits and all that, so they probably really aren't giant scrotums. I think I would have heard about that by now, that ostriches were actually giant scrotums, unless the government is keeping it a secret. Nice job, government, my tax dollars go to keeping the true identity of ostriches under wraps. I know balls when I see them.
They should make a snack called Scroyums, and of course there are creamy centers you dick.
Ostriches very probably don't act very scrotumy at all. Ostriches don't hang out in pairs all cool like, talking about the noisy asshole who lives around the corner and all that. Balls give each other the low two all the time, they never fist bump, because that shit is lame.
Ah, your poor balls, there's always a dick in front of them at the movies.
Hellwagon
And they say that romance is dead.
So, for that one romantic soul in the universe who wants to give his loved one a poem about her pussy farts, I bequeef this poem...
Nothing mends my broken heart,
Like the smell of your pussy fart.
Is that Chanel or old corned beef?
No, Tis the must of your lovely queef.
Fuck you Shakespeare. You think you're so great, try that pussy fart on for size you stupid dick. Anyway, I think it's pretty goddamn cool that someone is out there looking for poems about queefs. It restores my faith in humanity.
On with it then....
The evidence that God somewhat gives a shit can be found in shit. Specifically in the liquidity of birdshit. I mean, he doesn't really care quite enough that we don't get shit on at all, and let's face it, watching people get shit on is probably really fucking funny to God. It's probably why there are birds in the first goddamn place, and it should be fucking funny to everyone who isn't getting shit on, especially seeing someone take a shit shot to the face.
That is some lovely magic isn't it, it's times like that when I wish I could slow motion my life. Just out of nowhere, someone you love is talking and bird shit splatters all over their shocked face. You never see it coming, like a fart that lets some poop out. It's brilliant. It's a wonderful moment in time.
It's natures money shot.
If I was Oprah, this would be an episode for one of my favorite things. Yes, I have watched Oprah. Everyone has. Go ahead and lie about, it just makes you even more faggy and stupid. I'm a big tough sumbitch and I ain't never watched no goddamn Oprah. Of course you haven't Jethro, you are far too busy fisting goats and jacking off their antlers that you painted to look like cocks, you probably spend your free time trying to blow a load in your own mouth rather than watching the miracle of Oprah ya cuntdick.
I can see the audience waiting in excitement for my big reveal, what will his favorite thing be this time. I am not giving away expensive cars or trips and they all look up to the ceiling when the balloons fall . Little do they know that I have thousands of blow darts rigged to shoot from the walls all Indiana Jones style and the balloons are filled with birdshit. Balloons drop, darts fly, we all get shitfaced. How do I get birdshit in balloons? Put unhatched eggs in balloons and fucking wait genius. How would you do it? Scoop the shit up and put it in? Stupid.
Birdshit happens to everyone at some point, and if I knew fuckall about mathematics and statistical probability I could probably prove this poo theorem to be factual, but let us just take it as an absolute truth that everyone gets shit on and not give a fuck about the math you shitfaced nerd. Lots of birds, lots of birdie shit falling from the sky translates to a birdie shittin' on your nerdy dickhead face.
God did not make birdshit solid, I mean there is that hard black bit in the middle, like an Almond Joy. I think we got a pretty good deal from God as far as the birdshit goes though. Yeah, sure, the truth and reality of it is probably different. I guess it might have something to do with the lack of fiber in their diet and all the berries and bugs they eat, but whatever the fuck ever. Yeah, I know that birdholes are everything holes. It's a shit, piss and fuckhole. So, sorry to tell you all but I think that lady bird shit very probably has some leftover bird jizz in it from fucking dude birds. Not a lot of jizz, a bird sized portion.
I don't imagine a bird blows a huge fuckall load and goes all 'yeah, take it Tweety'. If birds blew big loads they would probably be shooting each other out of the sky and crashing planes and what have you. What if a really sexy bird flew by a murder of horny crows or something, it would turn into a shooting gallery and then the next day I walk through my yard and find a dead spermy bird.
Gives a whole new meaning to birdbath now doesn't it.
Having an everything hole sounds very efficient and all, but I honestly don't know how birds get any fucking done. It's gross. It's not very sexy to have to plow bird dick into the everything hole. All birds take it up the butt, they have no choice, they are taking it up the everything.
Thank God men don't have an everything hole. I can only imagine how horrible it would be to try to force a turd out of my dick. So, a big no thank you to pushing out dickturds. A big hell yes to calling people dickturds henceforth.
Hey, you, yeah you, you fucking dickturd. When it works it works.
So let us all give thanks for no dickturds and liquid birdshit. The potential for disasters stemming from solid birdshit is almost too much to fathom, but the worst of them all would be all of the disabled children. A grown man could take a birdshit bomb no problem, but a baby with a soft spot is just asking for it. I bet it's like a goddamn bullseye to a bird.
Thank God that the organizational powers of birds are pretty limited to flying in V's and finding food and pooping on cars and such. If they had a sense of humor and an A-Team attitude, why wouldn't they pick out one person on the block to coat with shit for a week and then move on. If I see a bird out the window smoking a cigar like Hannibal Smith, you can bet your funky ass I am not going outside that day.
Wouldn't you do that though? If you could fly and were a complete asshole, you and all of your asshole friends could go out for a fly and just for a laugh the hundred or so of you could carpet bomb some bastard who was yawning in his yard as he went out to get the paper. You do it seven days straight and you have just changed that dudes life. I think Hitchcock truly missed out on the real terror that a bird can inflict. Big deal, peck at me, peck my stupid eyes out, who gives a fuck, when I'm dead the terror is over.
Shit on me every day, my terror lasts forever.
Honestly though, if you cannot find a way to fight off a flock of birds there is something wrong with you. Hairspray and a lighter comes to mind. A hose. Badminton racket. How tough is an animal that you can beat with water? Oh no, here comes the fucking birds, quick get me a squirt gun. You could even fill a Supersoaker with bleach and aim for the eyes.
Blind birds are the stupidest looking dicks in the universe.
Birds are just fucking dumb. Even the ones that aren't blinded by my bleach cannon fly right into the side of giant goddamn buildings like incredible morons. At least if they were blind they would have an excuse as to why they failed so miserably to miss the gigantic fucking window. I don't want to hear any explanation as to why they do it, so you can keep your fucking science to yourself. You can't use science to give me a reason why an animal looks fucking stupid. It can see a worm from the sky but can't see a building. Yeah, science that up for me nerds and tell me birds aren't fucking imbeciles.
I don't care if birds cannot understand what a reflection is, they are fucking dumb. I guess I cannot hope to expect to orchestrate a flying division of shitting birds to attack your house when the gang of them can't tell what a fucking window is.
The ostrich is the worst bird ever, at least other birds fly and are lovely to look at. Ostriches don't fly because their shit could kill babies and their diarrhea could drown a toddler. Most birds are beautiful and I love the flying idiots. I really do. But ostriches, fuck 'em. Fuck a goddamn ostrich in its everything hole. An ostrich looks like a giant walking scrotum. If your balls swelled up and came to life and walked around and ate bugs, well then your balls would be an ostrich.
I think that may be the most disturbing image I have ever conjured. My balls turn into a flightless bird and eat bugs. Nice work brain, what the fuck is wrong with you.
Who knows, maybe that is what ostriches really are and we have named them all wrong. I am sure science has studied their bones and habits and all that, so they probably really aren't giant scrotums. I think I would have heard about that by now, that ostriches were actually giant scrotums, unless the government is keeping it a secret. Nice job, government, my tax dollars go to keeping the true identity of ostriches under wraps. I know balls when I see them.
They should make a snack called Scroyums, and of course there are creamy centers you dick.
Ostriches very probably don't act very scrotumy at all. Ostriches don't hang out in pairs all cool like, talking about the noisy asshole who lives around the corner and all that. Balls give each other the low two all the time, they never fist bump, because that shit is lame.
Ah, your poor balls, there's always a dick in front of them at the movies.
Hellwagon
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
IT'S A CROWD OF 26 YOU FUCKFACE FROM FUCKTOWN
Around three years ago I bore witness to a cut rate circus operated by a clan of Eastern European gypsies. How do I know they were gypsies? Well, when I went to the concession stand, also known as the rickety ass table they set up next to the men's toilet, and bought some popcorn, which was all the 'concession' they had, I asked for some napkins. She shook her head and seemed irritated and confused, as if cleaning your face was a foreign and idiotic concept. Face for looking at, not for cleaning. You stupid. Bah. Her skin was being held together by ancient curses and grease.
The owner of the arena in which this eye rape took place had their own concession stand operating. I asked them for some napkins. The napkins were handed to me by a gruff old woman and she said 'you ain't going to get no napkins from some goddamn gypsy.' Mystery solved, thanks for the Scooby-Doo moment. I had no idea this was a well known fact, gypsies don't have napkins. I have no idea if the napkin hag was right and they were gypsies, I never met a fucking gypsy and wouldn't know if I had. I'll just have to take the old slags word for it. Like she knew shit.
As for them being Eastern European, who the fuck knows. Who the fuck even cares, it sounds good.
To put it short this circus was one of the greatest disasters I have ever witnessed. It was a tragic failure in every respect and I was absolutely delighted with every moment. Anyone can see a great performance and appreciate it. That shit is easy. Cirque du Soleil, big fucking ball draining super spectacular wow. Anyone can love that good shit, but to appreciate something completely awful and perplexing takes a special kind of person. Me. I'm special.
I'm totally fucking special.
There were two ringmasters. One was a burly older woman with bleach blond hair who looked like she could hammer throw a bowling ball through the moon. She was the only member of the crew who had only one job. If you were in that circus, and you weren't performing at that moment, then you were assembling stage pieces or selling cheaply made souvenirs to the tens of people in the stands. You heard me motherfucker, fuckin' tens. There weren't even all kinds of tens. It was barely two tens, at the beginning. In an arena built for about four thousand people there were all of twenty six of us. I fucking counted.
She kept telling us that she couldn't hear us and urged us to cheer louder. I wanted to scream 'we are only twenty six people fuckface, we couldn't drown out the sound of an old lady's television,' but that is too long to scream. So I clapped louder and that just sounded sarcastic. Other people in the stands looked at me as if to say 'hey dick cream, don't encourage them'.
The whole show had a weird vibe, like it could go from circus to robbery to hostage situation any second.
I was the only one there enjoying myself. My son got bored after thirty seconds, my wife had enough even sooner. I was mesmerized. I was also afraid to fart, it would have echoed in that empty arena like I had thrown dynamite into the Grand Canyon.
The other ringmaster was a slick young gentleman in a poorly tailored suit and poorly cut hair. Ringmaster was not his only job there. Apart from introducing the acts, he was also a performer known as Ninja Lee. The Ninja Lee costume consisted of him in the same exact clothes, except now as Ninja Lee, he wore a Mexican wrestlers mask. Ninja Lee was no luchadore. Ninja Lee didn't even do any ninja shit. Ninja Lee was part of the snake act. You heard me motherfucker, the fuckin' snake act. He carried snakes around in a circle as the other Ringmaster with questionable ladyparts said...
"Behold, the Burmese Python, from BURMAAAAA!!!!"
"Behold, the Colombian Boa Constrictor from COLOMBIAAAAAA!!!" She really drew out the name of the country like we would be impressed that something came from somewhere else. Holy fucking candy coated shit, them there snakes is from another place!!!! I thought everything I ever seen originated here. I thought I lived in the birth canal of the universe.
There was a third snake from another country but I was laughing too hard and in shock from all of it to remember. She could have said the French Poodle from FRANCE or the German Shepherd from GERMANY for all I know. I was too entranced by watching a Mexican wrestler in a shitty suit carry a snake in a circle and that was fucking it.
She named three snakes, he carried them around, end o'story. Three minutes tops. I had to keep telling my brain 'yes, this is happening man, it is really happening.' There wasn't even anybody on the other side of the circle, but he was fucking walking his fake ninja ass over there to show a snake to some ghosts.
Scooby-Doo motherfucker.
There was a dog act which consisted of two dogs jumping over a bar at the urging of a swarthy sequined fellow who looked like he escaped from a disco prison of some kind. The dog training asshole also had another act where he collapsed on his fat back and spun a large cylinder around on his hairy feet. He also balanced a child on his feet. He had mad feet tricks son. He also balanced a chair on his foot and then cup of water on the chair, and you know what happens next. Fuck yeah man. He fucking drank that shit. I have clapped at a grown man for drinking a glass of water.
It was like your uncle decided fuck it all to hell he was going to have a circus goddammit, but he didn't have the money or the talent or the effort, so he just made up one in his backyard with his family, his neighbors pets and some random shit he had lying around.
One of my favorite things was you could get your picture taken with Spongebob. The Spongebob costume they had was a magnificent tragedy. It was a worked over cardboard box covered with carpet samples stripped from the floor of an abandoned building. A lot of the details were off. I don't think they had ever watched the show before.
I imagine the construction sequence went like this, 'Spongebob yellow on top, brown on bottom, done.' It was dirty looking even from a distance, but we didn't get too close for a better inspection because to take a picture with Spongebob you had to pay five dollars.
I should clarify, you had to pay five dollars to take a picture with your own camera. I couldn't even imagine how they could enforce such a rule. What if I had taken a picture accidentally from my seat?
We only stayed for the first half of the circus because that is all my wife and son were willing to endure. The highlight of the first half was....oh for fucks sake I couldn't believe this was real....it was The Amazing Dennis. Dennis. That is your stage name. The Amazing Dennis. What, The Magnificent Steve was taken or some shit. The back of his jumpsuit had DENNIS written in silver glitter, you know like you put glue on something and dump glitter on it and holy shit that's it. The costume department for this debacle was totally on the ball.
Anyway, The Amazing Dennis was going to ride his motorcycle in the giant metal ball, typical circus fare. I thought my son would think that was at least better than watching nothing. So Dennis rides his beat up ass bike gingerly down the path to the ball. He goes in the ball. He rides around the bottom once and comes out. He calls his crew/family members over to discuss the construction of the ball. They point up a lot and argue then shrug their shoulders as if to say fuck it. From the looks of things, the top half of the metal sphere is not of sound construction. A complete fucking shock. He goes back into the ball and rides around in a sad little circle at the bottom about ten times and that is it.
Done.
Now at this point I should mention that my laugh is fucking loud. Loud and fucking annoying. When you hear me laugh you instantly think, wow, what a loud mouthed fucking prick. As I watched The Amazing Dennis ride amazingly around in an amazingly tiny circle like a complete dizzy dickpole I lost it. Great peals of prick laughter resounded off the walls. Then he rode out and took off his helmet, because you totally need a helmet when you are doing dangerous small circle shit, and I discovered that The Amazing Dennis was none other than Ninja Lee the Ringmaster.
I laughed like I was going to die. It was so fucking awesome, and it's not like they didn't know who was laughing, you could have heard a gnat's queef in there, which made me want to give up and laugh even harder. We could have fit this circus in your goddamn living room. I had to hand it to The Amazing Ninja Dennis Lee though, the dude was a true renaissance man. He did a lot of things like complete shit.
I was impressed by the fact that they were unapologetic about the whole fiasco. They knew they were shit, they didn't harbor any misconceptions about the nature of their show. It was a fucking abortion and they knew it and didn't give a fuck what you thought. That alone deserves a massive measure of respect and applause.
After The Amazing Dennis my wife had enough. My son was miserable. Half of the crowd left at intermission. The crowd, nice, the fucking massive mob of thirteen of us left. No one made eye contact, everyone was ashamed and embarrassed by the whole ordeal.
Every year at this time I look in the paper and for flyers on telephone poles to see if they are coming back. I have to know what other acts they had. It eats at my soul.
Even the coloring book we picked up on the way out for my son was bad. It was photocopies of poorly drawn pictures of various circus acts, lion tamers and trapeze artists and elephants, none of which had appeared at the circus we just watched. It was like they were rubbing it in your face. 'I bet your stupid ass thought you were going to see actual circus act at fucking circus instead of feet tricks and snakes and grown man doing donuts in metal ball. Now your child can color pictures of real circus and fucking cry.'
Hellwagon.
The owner of the arena in which this eye rape took place had their own concession stand operating. I asked them for some napkins. The napkins were handed to me by a gruff old woman and she said 'you ain't going to get no napkins from some goddamn gypsy.' Mystery solved, thanks for the Scooby-Doo moment. I had no idea this was a well known fact, gypsies don't have napkins. I have no idea if the napkin hag was right and they were gypsies, I never met a fucking gypsy and wouldn't know if I had. I'll just have to take the old slags word for it. Like she knew shit.
As for them being Eastern European, who the fuck knows. Who the fuck even cares, it sounds good.
To put it short this circus was one of the greatest disasters I have ever witnessed. It was a tragic failure in every respect and I was absolutely delighted with every moment. Anyone can see a great performance and appreciate it. That shit is easy. Cirque du Soleil, big fucking ball draining super spectacular wow. Anyone can love that good shit, but to appreciate something completely awful and perplexing takes a special kind of person. Me. I'm special.
I'm totally fucking special.
There were two ringmasters. One was a burly older woman with bleach blond hair who looked like she could hammer throw a bowling ball through the moon. She was the only member of the crew who had only one job. If you were in that circus, and you weren't performing at that moment, then you were assembling stage pieces or selling cheaply made souvenirs to the tens of people in the stands. You heard me motherfucker, fuckin' tens. There weren't even all kinds of tens. It was barely two tens, at the beginning. In an arena built for about four thousand people there were all of twenty six of us. I fucking counted.
She kept telling us that she couldn't hear us and urged us to cheer louder. I wanted to scream 'we are only twenty six people fuckface, we couldn't drown out the sound of an old lady's television,' but that is too long to scream. So I clapped louder and that just sounded sarcastic. Other people in the stands looked at me as if to say 'hey dick cream, don't encourage them'.
The whole show had a weird vibe, like it could go from circus to robbery to hostage situation any second.
I was the only one there enjoying myself. My son got bored after thirty seconds, my wife had enough even sooner. I was mesmerized. I was also afraid to fart, it would have echoed in that empty arena like I had thrown dynamite into the Grand Canyon.
The other ringmaster was a slick young gentleman in a poorly tailored suit and poorly cut hair. Ringmaster was not his only job there. Apart from introducing the acts, he was also a performer known as Ninja Lee. The Ninja Lee costume consisted of him in the same exact clothes, except now as Ninja Lee, he wore a Mexican wrestlers mask. Ninja Lee was no luchadore. Ninja Lee didn't even do any ninja shit. Ninja Lee was part of the snake act. You heard me motherfucker, the fuckin' snake act. He carried snakes around in a circle as the other Ringmaster with questionable ladyparts said...
"Behold, the Burmese Python, from BURMAAAAA!!!!"
"Behold, the Colombian Boa Constrictor from COLOMBIAAAAAA!!!" She really drew out the name of the country like we would be impressed that something came from somewhere else. Holy fucking candy coated shit, them there snakes is from another place!!!! I thought everything I ever seen originated here. I thought I lived in the birth canal of the universe.
There was a third snake from another country but I was laughing too hard and in shock from all of it to remember. She could have said the French Poodle from FRANCE or the German Shepherd from GERMANY for all I know. I was too entranced by watching a Mexican wrestler in a shitty suit carry a snake in a circle and that was fucking it.
She named three snakes, he carried them around, end o'story. Three minutes tops. I had to keep telling my brain 'yes, this is happening man, it is really happening.' There wasn't even anybody on the other side of the circle, but he was fucking walking his fake ninja ass over there to show a snake to some ghosts.
Scooby-Doo motherfucker.
There was a dog act which consisted of two dogs jumping over a bar at the urging of a swarthy sequined fellow who looked like he escaped from a disco prison of some kind. The dog training asshole also had another act where he collapsed on his fat back and spun a large cylinder around on his hairy feet. He also balanced a child on his feet. He had mad feet tricks son. He also balanced a chair on his foot and then cup of water on the chair, and you know what happens next. Fuck yeah man. He fucking drank that shit. I have clapped at a grown man for drinking a glass of water.
It was like your uncle decided fuck it all to hell he was going to have a circus goddammit, but he didn't have the money or the talent or the effort, so he just made up one in his backyard with his family, his neighbors pets and some random shit he had lying around.
One of my favorite things was you could get your picture taken with Spongebob. The Spongebob costume they had was a magnificent tragedy. It was a worked over cardboard box covered with carpet samples stripped from the floor of an abandoned building. A lot of the details were off. I don't think they had ever watched the show before.
I imagine the construction sequence went like this, 'Spongebob yellow on top, brown on bottom, done.' It was dirty looking even from a distance, but we didn't get too close for a better inspection because to take a picture with Spongebob you had to pay five dollars.
I should clarify, you had to pay five dollars to take a picture with your own camera. I couldn't even imagine how they could enforce such a rule. What if I had taken a picture accidentally from my seat?
We only stayed for the first half of the circus because that is all my wife and son were willing to endure. The highlight of the first half was....oh for fucks sake I couldn't believe this was real....it was The Amazing Dennis. Dennis. That is your stage name. The Amazing Dennis. What, The Magnificent Steve was taken or some shit. The back of his jumpsuit had DENNIS written in silver glitter, you know like you put glue on something and dump glitter on it and holy shit that's it. The costume department for this debacle was totally on the ball.
Anyway, The Amazing Dennis was going to ride his motorcycle in the giant metal ball, typical circus fare. I thought my son would think that was at least better than watching nothing. So Dennis rides his beat up ass bike gingerly down the path to the ball. He goes in the ball. He rides around the bottom once and comes out. He calls his crew/family members over to discuss the construction of the ball. They point up a lot and argue then shrug their shoulders as if to say fuck it. From the looks of things, the top half of the metal sphere is not of sound construction. A complete fucking shock. He goes back into the ball and rides around in a sad little circle at the bottom about ten times and that is it.
Done.
Now at this point I should mention that my laugh is fucking loud. Loud and fucking annoying. When you hear me laugh you instantly think, wow, what a loud mouthed fucking prick. As I watched The Amazing Dennis ride amazingly around in an amazingly tiny circle like a complete dizzy dickpole I lost it. Great peals of prick laughter resounded off the walls. Then he rode out and took off his helmet, because you totally need a helmet when you are doing dangerous small circle shit, and I discovered that The Amazing Dennis was none other than Ninja Lee the Ringmaster.
I laughed like I was going to die. It was so fucking awesome, and it's not like they didn't know who was laughing, you could have heard a gnat's queef in there, which made me want to give up and laugh even harder. We could have fit this circus in your goddamn living room. I had to hand it to The Amazing Ninja Dennis Lee though, the dude was a true renaissance man. He did a lot of things like complete shit.
I was impressed by the fact that they were unapologetic about the whole fiasco. They knew they were shit, they didn't harbor any misconceptions about the nature of their show. It was a fucking abortion and they knew it and didn't give a fuck what you thought. That alone deserves a massive measure of respect and applause.
After The Amazing Dennis my wife had enough. My son was miserable. Half of the crowd left at intermission. The crowd, nice, the fucking massive mob of thirteen of us left. No one made eye contact, everyone was ashamed and embarrassed by the whole ordeal.
Every year at this time I look in the paper and for flyers on telephone poles to see if they are coming back. I have to know what other acts they had. It eats at my soul.
Even the coloring book we picked up on the way out for my son was bad. It was photocopies of poorly drawn pictures of various circus acts, lion tamers and trapeze artists and elephants, none of which had appeared at the circus we just watched. It was like they were rubbing it in your face. 'I bet your stupid ass thought you were going to see actual circus act at fucking circus instead of feet tricks and snakes and grown man doing donuts in metal ball. Now your child can color pictures of real circus and fucking cry.'
Hellwagon.
Friday, May 25, 2012
THE POETRY OF PUSSY FARTS AND PINWHEELS
I asked my wife last night 'if a blind person says that all black people look alike, would that be considered racist.' She mumbled 'yes, you stupid asshole' or something along those lines. Although technically, to a blind person, everyone looks alike, looks a-like nothing. Hot damn, the extremely rare and insanely rude blind dude burn. So, anyway, maybe since everyone looks alike to blind people then by the transitive property all blind people are totally racist against everyone.
Yes. Indeed. I too think that might be the stupidest thing I have ever written.
I can't help it, I think of these things and just cannot let them go. I don't mean anything by them. I'm not sure about everyone else, but I have absolutely no control over what I think about. These things just happen to me. I would never intentionally insult someone based on a disability, so if you are blind, you are fucking blind then, so fucking what ya pile of dick cream.
If you are hypersensitive about it and can't take a joke then you are just a overly self-conscious dick pimple like almost everyone else in the world and you just happen to be blind as well and need something to whine about to get attention because you are completely unoriginal.
I imagine being blind has its benefits. In my opinion, the main one would be not having to look at people. Granted, there are beautiful people in this world who everyone wants to look at, but that is just a small percentage. The larger group of people is the larger group of people. Most people are big and plain or just plain ugly looking, and some are so big and so frightful to look upon that you wonder how you and that lumbering behemoth can be categorized as the same species.
Blind people get to decide whose face they want to touch to find out what they look like instead of having to be subjected to the eye rape of looking at some ghastly train wreck of a face without even asking for it. It fucking blows that you have no choice in the matter.
You just turn your head to look into the car next to you and holy fucking ugly shitfire, who let that ungodly monstrosity out of the zoo filled with animals that were raped by unwashed people with genetic defects. For the love of Christ, how in the hell do you get acne on your teeth? If you are reading this and you are ugly, who fucking cares.
Seriously, if you let the opinion of other people define who you are and what you think about yourself then whether you are ugly or beautiful or blind to all of it you most certainly are a half eaten piece of worm shit and a total fucking failure. You are not what I think of you, but I am free to have my opinions.
That being said, I would rather be a totally sexy blind man than be able to see how fucking ugly I was.
I do wonder how blind people know when they are done wiping their ass. It can't be by sniff test. No matter how clean said asshole is, if something touches asshole it's going to smell like asshole. I guess after a lifetime of doing it without seeing you just somehow know. Like a medium whose crystal ball has a giant crack in it. A medium asshole.
I assume it is well documented somewhere that I could give a lazy fuck to look up that if you lose one sense all your other senses supposedly heighten their capabilities. The ability to correctly diagnose a clean asshole with no looksies may be one of those powers.
I have been using the word asshole a lot lately. I should look into that. Ha ha ha ha go fuck yourself me.
I don't know though. Many times you think you are done and you take another wipe and lo and behold, more smears of poo, you keep going and then jackpot, smears of blood, you keep going and hot damn you tore out some hair and found a nickel and some legos. Double super secret bonus jackpot points because now you can finish your turd fort. If you find nickels in your poop I would hope the slot on your piggy bank is in the rear.
I imagine I would have heard by now if all blind people smelled like poop because they can't wipe properly. That kind of sweeping generalization would not have gone unnoticed by a fuckhead like myself. So, odds are whatever system is in place is working perfectly.
On another subject, has anyone ever velcroed their ass cheeks or twat lips together? I think that would be most awesome. Oh, the hijinks that would ensue when you sat down for crap time or blasted a moist and mighty queef. 'Who tore a phone book in half then unleashed that queef in here? I'm looking at you Phyllis.' Unleash the Queef. Sounds like a line from a monster movie. I would seek immediate medical attention if you can muster enough force with a queef to decimate the snug bonds of a velcro vagina. Either see a doctor or buy a pinwheel and make that fucker spin.
Well, I can safely say that is the first time I ever suggested that another human being blow a queef at a pinwheel. You can even scream 'FIRE IN THE HOLE' if you like.
I can also safely say it won't be the last. If I was blind but by some miracle of science they could restore my sight and they asked me what is the first thing I would want to see. I would say a thousand women lying spread eagle on a flowery hillside littered with pinwheels and willow trees. As my eyes slowly opened like a newborn babe, they would unleash the queef. The funky breeze would blow gently through the spinning pinwheels as I would softly weep. It would sound majestic, like an angel with diarrhea.
Or my kids, would totally love to look at my kids.
I was going to look up on the interwebs about how can blind people tell when they are done cleaning their shitholes, but I am currently at work. Not a googly search I want to have to explain later. I have enough of a reputation for being fucked in the head for telling people at work that I think faucets looks like dicks. Which they do.
Touch the balls and it pours out, oh yeah, wash your hands in my glorious torrent. Splash my discharge all over your dirty face you slut. Oh gross, you are going to brush your teeth with that. Yikes. You have been looking at them your whole life and never noticed, now you are going to think about touching a dick and balls every time you wash your hands. Gay.
Even though deaf people can see, I bet it is a whole lot easier to sneak up on a deaf dude than a blind dude. It's a lot harder to be completely silent than to hide behind a mailbox with a bat. People who can see get robbed and beat up and fucked in back alleys all the time. Nice double entendre if I do say so, fucked in the back alley. Sweet wordsmithery. Anywho, you don't see many news stories about blind people getting worked over and robbed and cornholed.
It is probably because they are a small percentage of the population, therefore there just aren't as many of them to steal from. I doubt it is because they are really super good at detecting danger. I really don't have a clue, about most things really. I suppose there is very little merit in spending ones time thinking about being blind, faucet dicks and queefy breezes.
What's the point? There is none you shit, there is no point to anything really, we are all just finding different ways to pass the time until we fucking die. I prefer to spend mine contemplating inane bullshit that makes me laugh. If you want to try to uncover the mysteries of the universe, go right ahead you pompous dickpipe, see how far you get. I was already bored with the subject matter after writing that sentence.
Hellwagon.
Yes. Indeed. I too think that might be the stupidest thing I have ever written.
I can't help it, I think of these things and just cannot let them go. I don't mean anything by them. I'm not sure about everyone else, but I have absolutely no control over what I think about. These things just happen to me. I would never intentionally insult someone based on a disability, so if you are blind, you are fucking blind then, so fucking what ya pile of dick cream.
If you are hypersensitive about it and can't take a joke then you are just a overly self-conscious dick pimple like almost everyone else in the world and you just happen to be blind as well and need something to whine about to get attention because you are completely unoriginal.
I imagine being blind has its benefits. In my opinion, the main one would be not having to look at people. Granted, there are beautiful people in this world who everyone wants to look at, but that is just a small percentage. The larger group of people is the larger group of people. Most people are big and plain or just plain ugly looking, and some are so big and so frightful to look upon that you wonder how you and that lumbering behemoth can be categorized as the same species.
Blind people get to decide whose face they want to touch to find out what they look like instead of having to be subjected to the eye rape of looking at some ghastly train wreck of a face without even asking for it. It fucking blows that you have no choice in the matter.
You just turn your head to look into the car next to you and holy fucking ugly shitfire, who let that ungodly monstrosity out of the zoo filled with animals that were raped by unwashed people with genetic defects. For the love of Christ, how in the hell do you get acne on your teeth? If you are reading this and you are ugly, who fucking cares.
Seriously, if you let the opinion of other people define who you are and what you think about yourself then whether you are ugly or beautiful or blind to all of it you most certainly are a half eaten piece of worm shit and a total fucking failure. You are not what I think of you, but I am free to have my opinions.
That being said, I would rather be a totally sexy blind man than be able to see how fucking ugly I was.
I do wonder how blind people know when they are done wiping their ass. It can't be by sniff test. No matter how clean said asshole is, if something touches asshole it's going to smell like asshole. I guess after a lifetime of doing it without seeing you just somehow know. Like a medium whose crystal ball has a giant crack in it. A medium asshole.
I assume it is well documented somewhere that I could give a lazy fuck to look up that if you lose one sense all your other senses supposedly heighten their capabilities. The ability to correctly diagnose a clean asshole with no looksies may be one of those powers.
I have been using the word asshole a lot lately. I should look into that. Ha ha ha ha go fuck yourself me.
I don't know though. Many times you think you are done and you take another wipe and lo and behold, more smears of poo, you keep going and then jackpot, smears of blood, you keep going and hot damn you tore out some hair and found a nickel and some legos. Double super secret bonus jackpot points because now you can finish your turd fort. If you find nickels in your poop I would hope the slot on your piggy bank is in the rear.
I imagine I would have heard by now if all blind people smelled like poop because they can't wipe properly. That kind of sweeping generalization would not have gone unnoticed by a fuckhead like myself. So, odds are whatever system is in place is working perfectly.
On another subject, has anyone ever velcroed their ass cheeks or twat lips together? I think that would be most awesome. Oh, the hijinks that would ensue when you sat down for crap time or blasted a moist and mighty queef. 'Who tore a phone book in half then unleashed that queef in here? I'm looking at you Phyllis.' Unleash the Queef. Sounds like a line from a monster movie. I would seek immediate medical attention if you can muster enough force with a queef to decimate the snug bonds of a velcro vagina. Either see a doctor or buy a pinwheel and make that fucker spin.
Well, I can safely say that is the first time I ever suggested that another human being blow a queef at a pinwheel. You can even scream 'FIRE IN THE HOLE' if you like.
I can also safely say it won't be the last. If I was blind but by some miracle of science they could restore my sight and they asked me what is the first thing I would want to see. I would say a thousand women lying spread eagle on a flowery hillside littered with pinwheels and willow trees. As my eyes slowly opened like a newborn babe, they would unleash the queef. The funky breeze would blow gently through the spinning pinwheels as I would softly weep. It would sound majestic, like an angel with diarrhea.
Or my kids, would totally love to look at my kids.
I was going to look up on the interwebs about how can blind people tell when they are done cleaning their shitholes, but I am currently at work. Not a googly search I want to have to explain later. I have enough of a reputation for being fucked in the head for telling people at work that I think faucets looks like dicks. Which they do.
Touch the balls and it pours out, oh yeah, wash your hands in my glorious torrent. Splash my discharge all over your dirty face you slut. Oh gross, you are going to brush your teeth with that. Yikes. You have been looking at them your whole life and never noticed, now you are going to think about touching a dick and balls every time you wash your hands. Gay.
Even though deaf people can see, I bet it is a whole lot easier to sneak up on a deaf dude than a blind dude. It's a lot harder to be completely silent than to hide behind a mailbox with a bat. People who can see get robbed and beat up and fucked in back alleys all the time. Nice double entendre if I do say so, fucked in the back alley. Sweet wordsmithery. Anywho, you don't see many news stories about blind people getting worked over and robbed and cornholed.
It is probably because they are a small percentage of the population, therefore there just aren't as many of them to steal from. I doubt it is because they are really super good at detecting danger. I really don't have a clue, about most things really. I suppose there is very little merit in spending ones time thinking about being blind, faucet dicks and queefy breezes.
What's the point? There is none you shit, there is no point to anything really, we are all just finding different ways to pass the time until we fucking die. I prefer to spend mine contemplating inane bullshit that makes me laugh. If you want to try to uncover the mysteries of the universe, go right ahead you pompous dickpipe, see how far you get. I was already bored with the subject matter after writing that sentence.
Hellwagon.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
I MAY FART ON THE DOG, BUT YOUR KID IS AN ASSHOLE
Blog is such a stupid fucking word it makes me want you to die. Anyway, I have been looking around at other blogs, see how fucked up and stupid that word sounds, to see what other people write about and what makes one of these stupid asshole things successful. Well, it seems that unless I'm planning on palavering on about kids or making relationships work or wondering what life is all about like some philosophical fucking turdboat, then I haven't got a chance in hell of making anything significant out of this. Oh fucking well.
And pictures. People like taking fucking pictures. Everything takes pictures now. I bet there is a condom out there with a camera on it. Now that's taking a fucking picture. Hiyoooooo (or whatever that fat noise Ed McMahon makes would be written as).
I read a few blog descriptions that used the expression 'old soul'. If you ever use the saying 'old soul' you should have your actual soul torn from your rectum by voracious bloodthirsty hellhounds. You should choke on a camel's salty hemorrhoids.
I just want to ask these people, what stranger really gives a fuck about your kids, your relationship or your life, and unless someone I know is in the pictures I could give a shit, and even then big deal. I have plenty of shit to look at, what makes people think I want to look at some lame shit they already looked at. I'm just not that big into second hand looking at shit. That sounds double retarded. Or pretarded. A word I made up that means something was retarded even before it was retarded. Look it up.
I just don't find that stuff interesting. You know what I find interesting? Stupid shit like the fact that I occasionally fart on my dog's head. Why? Perhaps to assert my dominance, maybe as revenge for when it shat on the floor many years ago, but mostly because I am immensely childish and I find that shit funny. Everyone should. If you are at a party at a friend or co-workers house and you drill a titanic fart into the family dog's eyes and don't get one laugh, depart with haste because your friends are all stuck up and lame.
If anyone thinks that is cruel and inhumane to animals than that person hasn't spent an afternoon cleaning up massive inhumane piles of runny dogshit in their yard. If I have to clean up mounds of your shit I should be able to nail farts into your face. In case you were wondering, I did not apply this rule when my children were infants. That would just be mean, but if when they are teenagers they start shitting all over the house then I might let the dog shit on them as they sleep, or dump the cat shit box on them.
Also, its not like dogs hate the smell of shit, come to think of it the dog probably loves it. It probably looks forward to it. 'Oh my god, he's eating onion covered chili cheese dogs, today is going to be a glorious fucking day. Yes! You Sir, you are the fart whisperer. A whimsical wizard of flatulence, please wait until I open my mouth.' Glad I talked this out. No more farting on my dog, that shit just got too familiar and intimate. I will just fart on strange dogs. I know you aren't supposed to pet them, but no one ever said anything about farting on them. I think having the surprise factor and no shared history will make the whole experience much less awkward.
I do not currently fart on my kids, much. A good crop dusting every once in a while never hurt anybody.
While we are on the farty subject, once, when I was picking up some medication from the pharmacy, the nice lady behind the counter asked me if I had any questions for the pharmacist. I said 'Yes, if I hold in my farts will it make my breath stink?' She looked confused. You know why, because she didn't fucking know the answer and she was probably holding a fart in at the time. It would have been awesome if she said yes, it makes your breath smell terrible and then I farted really loud and screamed 'goodbye breath mints, hello fart town', but that didn't happen. I haven't lost hope though, I will have to go the pharmacy again at some point. Game on.
People take their lives far too seriously and will always want to talk about what they deem to be the important things in their lives. Which pretty much leaves out farting on animals and farting at the pharmacy. If you fart at the pharmacy does it then become the fartacy? For most people, it all boils down to kids and relationships and the meaning of life.
Hell, anyone can talk about kids and most people will be interested because it's a point of commonality. I have kids, you have kids, how fucking amazing is that? Don't your kids do hilarious and cutesy and sometimes wildly inappropriate things, just like my kids? Great. Let us now laugh riotously at how our kids do similar things that sometimes embarrass us but don't we just end up loving them all the more for it. Indeed. Har-de-fucking-har-har-balls. We should hold hands and skip through a dewy meadow in the springtime and tie our dicks into fancy veiny bow ties and fart splendiferous clouds of butterflies.
Kids are the best thing in the world, but I hardly think the goddamn internet is the place to discuss my goddamn children. If you spend your whole day with your kids and then spend your free time reading about someone elses kids then I have to wonder what in the fuck is wrong with your silly ass. If you need something to relate to, something that makes you feel like you aren't dealing with this raising kids shit alone because your kids make you crazy then here you go.
A lot of people have kids, kids are tough to deal with. No shit. What a revelation. Kids act crazy. No shit. You don't say, that is quite insightful. Well, anyone would act crazy and annoying if they are trying to figure out the entire fucking universe all the time. Kids are like time travelers, waking up every day to a new world they don't understand and that makes them ask a million questions. Answer as many as you can before you lose your shitting mind and yell at them and then shut up about them. It's not that bad, at least your kids aren't shitting in a dirt hole, drinking out of puddles next to said dirt hole, eating random insects for nourishment and dodging gunfire.
Raising children is not hard to figure out. Treat them with respect, don't be a dick or a cunt to them, feed them and keep them safe. If your kid gives you tons of problems and acts like an asshole, guess what, your kid just might be an asshole. Where do you think adult assholes come from, asshole?
How do you know if your kid is an asshole? It's really easy, just answer this one question.
Is your kid an asshole?
If you answered yes, then congratulations, your kid is a total asshole.
Take it from a real asshole, it's so much better than being a dick or a cunt. Or both. A cuntdick. A dickcunt. I don't know. I think I am going with cuntdick. It rolls off the tongue better, has more flow, those hard K sounds on both ends gives it a beautiful symmetry. See ya later ya fuckin' cuntdick. See, some things, they just plain work cuntdick.
Hellwagon.
And pictures. People like taking fucking pictures. Everything takes pictures now. I bet there is a condom out there with a camera on it. Now that's taking a fucking picture. Hiyoooooo (or whatever that fat noise Ed McMahon makes would be written as).
I read a few blog descriptions that used the expression 'old soul'. If you ever use the saying 'old soul' you should have your actual soul torn from your rectum by voracious bloodthirsty hellhounds. You should choke on a camel's salty hemorrhoids.
I just want to ask these people, what stranger really gives a fuck about your kids, your relationship or your life, and unless someone I know is in the pictures I could give a shit, and even then big deal. I have plenty of shit to look at, what makes people think I want to look at some lame shit they already looked at. I'm just not that big into second hand looking at shit. That sounds double retarded. Or pretarded. A word I made up that means something was retarded even before it was retarded. Look it up.
I just don't find that stuff interesting. You know what I find interesting? Stupid shit like the fact that I occasionally fart on my dog's head. Why? Perhaps to assert my dominance, maybe as revenge for when it shat on the floor many years ago, but mostly because I am immensely childish and I find that shit funny. Everyone should. If you are at a party at a friend or co-workers house and you drill a titanic fart into the family dog's eyes and don't get one laugh, depart with haste because your friends are all stuck up and lame.
If anyone thinks that is cruel and inhumane to animals than that person hasn't spent an afternoon cleaning up massive inhumane piles of runny dogshit in their yard. If I have to clean up mounds of your shit I should be able to nail farts into your face. In case you were wondering, I did not apply this rule when my children were infants. That would just be mean, but if when they are teenagers they start shitting all over the house then I might let the dog shit on them as they sleep, or dump the cat shit box on them.
Also, its not like dogs hate the smell of shit, come to think of it the dog probably loves it. It probably looks forward to it. 'Oh my god, he's eating onion covered chili cheese dogs, today is going to be a glorious fucking day. Yes! You Sir, you are the fart whisperer. A whimsical wizard of flatulence, please wait until I open my mouth.' Glad I talked this out. No more farting on my dog, that shit just got too familiar and intimate. I will just fart on strange dogs. I know you aren't supposed to pet them, but no one ever said anything about farting on them. I think having the surprise factor and no shared history will make the whole experience much less awkward.
I do not currently fart on my kids, much. A good crop dusting every once in a while never hurt anybody.
While we are on the farty subject, once, when I was picking up some medication from the pharmacy, the nice lady behind the counter asked me if I had any questions for the pharmacist. I said 'Yes, if I hold in my farts will it make my breath stink?' She looked confused. You know why, because she didn't fucking know the answer and she was probably holding a fart in at the time. It would have been awesome if she said yes, it makes your breath smell terrible and then I farted really loud and screamed 'goodbye breath mints, hello fart town', but that didn't happen. I haven't lost hope though, I will have to go the pharmacy again at some point. Game on.
People take their lives far too seriously and will always want to talk about what they deem to be the important things in their lives. Which pretty much leaves out farting on animals and farting at the pharmacy. If you fart at the pharmacy does it then become the fartacy? For most people, it all boils down to kids and relationships and the meaning of life.
Hell, anyone can talk about kids and most people will be interested because it's a point of commonality. I have kids, you have kids, how fucking amazing is that? Don't your kids do hilarious and cutesy and sometimes wildly inappropriate things, just like my kids? Great. Let us now laugh riotously at how our kids do similar things that sometimes embarrass us but don't we just end up loving them all the more for it. Indeed. Har-de-fucking-har-har-balls. We should hold hands and skip through a dewy meadow in the springtime and tie our dicks into fancy veiny bow ties and fart splendiferous clouds of butterflies.
Kids are the best thing in the world, but I hardly think the goddamn internet is the place to discuss my goddamn children. If you spend your whole day with your kids and then spend your free time reading about someone elses kids then I have to wonder what in the fuck is wrong with your silly ass. If you need something to relate to, something that makes you feel like you aren't dealing with this raising kids shit alone because your kids make you crazy then here you go.
A lot of people have kids, kids are tough to deal with. No shit. What a revelation. Kids act crazy. No shit. You don't say, that is quite insightful. Well, anyone would act crazy and annoying if they are trying to figure out the entire fucking universe all the time. Kids are like time travelers, waking up every day to a new world they don't understand and that makes them ask a million questions. Answer as many as you can before you lose your shitting mind and yell at them and then shut up about them. It's not that bad, at least your kids aren't shitting in a dirt hole, drinking out of puddles next to said dirt hole, eating random insects for nourishment and dodging gunfire.
Raising children is not hard to figure out. Treat them with respect, don't be a dick or a cunt to them, feed them and keep them safe. If your kid gives you tons of problems and acts like an asshole, guess what, your kid just might be an asshole. Where do you think adult assholes come from, asshole?
How do you know if your kid is an asshole? It's really easy, just answer this one question.
Is your kid an asshole?
If you answered yes, then congratulations, your kid is a total asshole.
Take it from a real asshole, it's so much better than being a dick or a cunt. Or both. A cuntdick. A dickcunt. I don't know. I think I am going with cuntdick. It rolls off the tongue better, has more flow, those hard K sounds on both ends gives it a beautiful symmetry. See ya later ya fuckin' cuntdick. See, some things, they just plain work cuntdick.
Hellwagon.
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