Sure, I’m kinda’ famous. I’m in the limelight. I have to sort
through thousands of emails daily from curious fans all over the
world - people asking me questions about myself. Everyone seems
to be interested in me. “DO YOU LIKE HOT TEEN SEX?” Yes, I’m an
every-day kinda’ guy. So, yeah, hot teen sex sounds good to guys
like me. “DO YOU WANT TO GET YOUR DEGREE?” Yeah. Sure. Know of a
good college? “WATCH AS BRITTANY SWALLOWS A HORSE!” That wasn’t
in the form of a question. “What are you WAITING FOR?” I have no
So anyway, sorting through all this mail can get tiresome. But
it got me thinking. I am so bored that I read my junk mail? Do I
have nothing better to do than sort through spam? Do I really
like hot teen sex?
The answer to my question was yes. I am that bored. I need
something better to do. And what dawned on me was that I’m
probably not alone. So, out of unadulterated boredom, and an
affinity to help my fellow human, I created a list of three
great pastimes’ to keep one busy.
As a kid, I watched my crazy neighbor pour lighter fluid on a
cat's back and then drop a lit match on his perched spine. The
cat jumped straight up into the air while emitting sounds I
never knew existed. It must be cat instinct to drop and roll,
because that's what it did. When the fire was done flaming on
the back of the feline, it slowly limped off to tend its wounds.
Its back was smoking and patches of fur were missing, and we
were laughing our asses off. I shouldn't say we, because I had
pissed my pants.
I now have some sort of weird thing for animals suffering; that
being the preemptive subject of this idea. That cat lived, but
not a full life.
Veterinarians are faced with the decision of letting these
animals live to suffer a meaningless life or putting them under
in attempt to cease the affliction.
Did you know that some animals get the animal version of AIDS -
Feral Immune Deficiency Syndrome (FIDS). As hard as we try, we
can't keep all animals from booting contaminated crack needles
and having gay swinish butt sex. Before you know it, FIDS will
run rampant through the briar patches and suburban backyards to
completely obliterate the Americana Animal as we know it. What’s
your only other option? Euthanasia!
That’s right folks. We have to kill the animals.
Old Yeller is a perfect example. Had they not shot that mangy
mutt right between the eyes with a Colt .45, painting the shed
with its tainted brain mass, the dog would have attacked its
owners or maybe worse – gnawed chunks out of the oak credenza.
Take a look outside. Suburbia is littered with stray cats and
nomadic roosters. What purpose do they serve? To harbor disease
and parasites, that’s what! We have to kill them.
I’m challenging you to kick the shit out of any animal that
looks like it might be suffering, diseased or doesn’t have an
identification tag. I understand that it can be a challenge to
differentiate the sleeping bunny from the ailing comatose bunny,
but a quick punt in the noggin’ should answer any doubt. If it
screams, “FUCK!” in a non-raspy voice when you strike it,
chances are it’s living a disease-free life. Unless you kick it
so hard you kill it, then all you’ll hear is a deflating sound.
“But what are the signs?” you ask. Well, if the turgid little
turd has cottage cheese coming out the ears, flies swarming its
ass, an inert or released tongue, stench emanating from its
feeble body or a dismembered head, chances are you’re seeing one
of the signs.
Do that dirty little bastard a favor and stomp it into animal
putty. Rid the world of filthy animals!
Animal lovers, direct your hatemail to
Drive an old person off the road.
There you are. At 10 and 2. I can spot you from a mile away. I
wish I had a Mack truck because I’d drive you off the road. I
wish those cloudy layers of puss covering your eyeball weren’t
there so you could see me giving you the single-finger
salutation. I wish that ankles weren’t spilling out over your
shoes so that you might actually be able to push down on the
accelerator vice having your foot-pudge frozen in a 90 degree
angle. I wish, just for a single test year, that the city would
designate a senior citizens lane for your collective decrepit
asses. You’d all leave a break of mothball aroma in the air and
could curdle the lane as much as your prosthetic frames desire.
“Drive slow? Why the heck not? We’re cruising in the Elderly
Lane!” I was bursting at the seams with road rage when some old
lady (it’s always someone old), who must’ve seen me going 80 in
the fast lane, decided to, at a full-throttle 60 mph, slide in
front of me without speeding up.
In order to know what I said to her, all you’d have to do is
string together a number of obscenities, shake around like a
spastic banshee and envision what a pair of testicles might look
like placed on the steering wheel for all to see.
Next to women and underachieving high-school males, I find the
elderly the most annoying drivers on the face of the planet.
I'm not trying to take away the wonderful ability of old people,
especially grandparents, to provide love and support.
Grandparents have the uncanny ability to give. They have the
remarkable resources to send cards crammed with money on special
occasions. They have the know-how to cook a three course meal
after a two course shuffleboard game, the gull to ask you about
your spiritual life and how sinners hold no place in their will
and the nerve to hold favors above your head as collateral for
visiting hours at the retirement home!
But enough is enough. These driving habits of yours grandma –
they gotta’ go. And since you’ll give up your license when Donny
Osmond gives up hope, the only other option for the regular
drivers of the world is to band together and force you off the
road. Vigilante style.
Take a nice, slow shit.
If it’s any indication of an affinity for feces, humans (myself
in particular) have a fondness for the relief process - not that
I like to taste or touch it. I’m just a colossal advocate of
enjoying the process of taking a shit. To me, it’s one of the
best feelings in the world. Just thinking about it makes me
happy. I can imagine myself sitting on the pot; all my muscles
relaxed. My eyes are starting to glaze over. Do you cry, too? I
cry. It’s the whole, “tears of joy” thing, though.
And sometimes I worry myself because I think I enjoy taking a
shit too much. I occasionally find myself looking down in the
toilet after a hefty dump and yelling out, “How the hell did
something that big come out of my ass?!” And I’ll be completely
astonished. It’s like a tyrannosaurus tail out of my cornhole.
How? The? Hell?
But nonetheless, it still felt great. I bet that we as a species
could completely wipe (no pun intended) out acts of rage if we
all just sat back and enjoyed the famous number two as it was
intended to be. Not popping capillaries in your face from
forcing, squatting behind a rock while wearing a toga, and
definitely not with the faucet running and the ingredients from
a bottle of Suave staring you in the face.
Let’s all advocate the purchase of smutty magazines for toilet
tops. Let’s not rush those with bowel movements that move like
molasses, rather condemn those who shit so fast they can’t
bother to enjoy learning the ingredients on a shampoo bottle.
This goes double for myself, because I often crap so fast that I
can only read, “Dodecyl” from the ingredient
“Dodecylbenzenesulfonate” before I’m flushing the toilet. How
fair is this? I need to take my time. Let the chips fall where
they may, so to speak. Let the kids take a high dive in the
pool, if you know what I’m sayin’. Lay the pipe like I’ve got
all the time in the world, if you catch my drift.