Monday, August 29, 2011

The Test

Springtime's commencement marks the dawn of warm weather, blooming flowers and packing chaws without spitting in a cup. For most, this is a relaxed and pleasant time of year, save for a select group of people. High school juniors nationwide continually dread this season because of a test that will forever live in infamy: The SAT's. Most kids piss their pants thinking about how much weight this five hour endeavor holds on the next few years of their lives. But worry not little fucktards, because shit hit the fan for me and I'm currently living the dream.

Since I probably have the highest IQ on the planet, I didn't really see any point in studying like those pussy poindexters scrambling to memorize the dictionary. I knew I would've aced it given the chance. I was so sure, in fact, that I spent the whole night partying up with my new-found Halo buddies. Packing chaws, drinkin' and gamin' was my recipe for success.

I rolled in pale faced and droopy-eyed, making sure everyone knew how little sleep was necessary. So I moseyed to a seat in the back, chuckling at the worrisome aura surrounding the room. Once seated, however, a rotund butch waddled in bellowing out needless instructions. But alas, I was unable to listen due to her "distractions" (i.e.she wiped snot off her burnt orange mustache every 5 seconds).

Though I was slightly amused and thoroughly disgusted by these shenanigans, the repercussions proved to be drastic. Since I heard exactly zero words that came out of her mouth, I missed some fairly important instructions. Namely that there was an essay portion, and that it was the first part.

When the test began, I sat for a few minutes mulling over the essay question: Why? Why?...I thought it was a fuckin' joke. How is someone supposed to respond to that bullshit? So I raised my hand to ask her for help. She approached me slowly and hovered over close enough for me to smell the shit-flavored burrito she had for dinner last night.

After momentarily gagging, I politely asked her, "How would you respond to this piece of shit essay question? Also, before you start talking, would you mind taking a few steps back? Your breath smells like Ted Bundy's basement." With that, she took my test and pointed at the door without uttering a word.

Puzzled, I stood up for a moment and did all that I could to conceal my desire to slug the butch. So I smiled, thanked her for not opening her mouth and walked to the fan blowing at full blast in the back of the room. I then swiftly dropped my pants, pooed in one, and happily watched faces turn horrified as tiny pieces gave the room a much needed change of color.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

The Battle

One morning, I was engaged in a pleasant breakfast at a fancy, schmancy restaurant accompanied by my three favorite people: me, myself and I. In the midst of enjoying one of the most glutonous of meals (i.e. maple syrup on errything), I felt a familiar rumbling in my stomach. And so I paused, got up, and strolled to the bathroom where I planned to poo for the sake of pooing itself. A rarity for the world's foremost poo deployer.

And so I settled into one of three stalls enclosed in the marble-everything washroom, where I was serenaded by the sweet, hushed sounds of Kenny G's iconic soprano saxophone and the intermittent toots that accompanied my steamy shits.

At the moment, nothing could disturb this most tranquil experience bringing me immeasurable joy. Embellished by the fact I was able to enjoy all the pleasures myself. And so you could understand why my blood boiled when I heard footsteps approach, the adjascent stall door open, and another being settling down on the porcelain throne. This travesty would not stand.

So I did what I've done in similar situations of the past: prompt a game of Battle Shits. For those who've not viewed Harold and Kumar Go To Whitecastle- hailed as the greatest movie of all time by the most reputable of critics, me- one of the most memorable scenes in the movie features two blonde, British bombshells, competing for the most explosive noise/production combo in adjascent stalls. They dubbed this game Battle Shits.

Historically, when I've attempted to initiate this game, I recieve a polite refusal. And after incessantly badgering the victim thereafter, they usually can't take it and leave before they have a chance to deploy. But this bastard threw me for a loop. When I prompted the game, he responded, "Fuck yeah I'll play! I loved that scene in Harold and Kumar. It was the first time I laughed and splooged at the same time." Stunned, I pondered my next move while he struggled to rip ass. Fuggin' Nube.

I had to take things to the next level. So I grabbed an ample supply of toilet paper, took a shit in it, wrapped it and gracefully lobbed it over. Instant gratification overwhelmed me when I heard it land on the flesh of his balding head.

"We play hardcore 'round here mu'fuckah!" I yelled, relishing in my almost certain victory. Once I said this, there was a long pause. Then, a moan that grew louder and louder, followed by sobs and excruciatingly loud wails. He slowly got up and hobbled out of there muttering between heaves of sadness. Before he reached the door, however, I wanted to make sure he knew how little sympathy I had for him.

"Hey bitch!" I exclaimed. With the door half-opened, he paused and stood in momentary silence, bracing for my quib. "Don't hate the player, hate the game!" With that, he slammed the bathroom door and ran out of there crying like a little schoolgirl. Fuggin' Nube.

Monday, August 1, 2011

The Class

Columbia blows. The girls look like chewed up lunch meat, the guys aren't sophisticated enough for my advanced sense of humor and these professors expect me to sit through hour and a half long lectures without packing a lip. Are you fucking kidding me? I'd rather be in Auschwitz doing whatever it is they had to do there. With a full supply of lippers of course... Otherwise it would probably be a toss-up.

One day, while sitting in my History of Contemporary Art course (might as well be called Intro to Blowing Your Mind...With a Gun), my anxiety overwhelmed me. I felt trapped in my fully cushioned chair that might as well have been made out of a bed of rusty nails. I couldn't endure another minute, after only a minute in.

So I farted. And though the grimacing faces of the people sitting around me kept me mildly amused for a few moments, it was not enough. First of all, the gas that passed out my ass was a weakling (a low blow for my self-esteem) and second, there was still a dreadful amount of time left in class. Needless to say, I had to tap into my reserves.

I reached into my poop colored backpack for the bag of peppers, pulling out a jalapeno and three habaneros. Putting on my most brave face, I downed that shit in one gulp like a Kenyan being introduced to water. The effects were immediate-sweats and a burning sensation were present both inside and out of my body. I could feel the heat coarse down my esophagus into the innards of my gut, rounding up every missed bit of poo-to-be and transporting it into my colon. Upon its arrival into the most prized of organs, I got up and swaggered to the front of the room, feigning a bathroom break. Well, not exactly... I just didn't use a toilet.

As Professor Cockmunch paused to chuckle at his shitty art joke, I stopped in front of him and pulled down my trousers to paint his face brown. He staggered backwards, then tripped over the front side of his desk, eventually falling to the other side, body sprawled on the floor and chair in disarray. But before he could comprehend the situation, I walked over to the blackboard and in white chalk boldly wrote "All Art is Shitty". With my work just about complete, I put down the chalk, and slowly turned around to gaze at all the jaws that had just dropped to the floor. And as Cockmunch slowly brought himself to his feet, I walked out of the room with my hands silently telling everyone to go fuck themselves.

Monday, July 25, 2011

The Bad News

You can imagine my surprise when, after commiting such a heinous deed, I  recieved a warm welcome home from my mother. She was frolicking around like a little fucking preschooler yelling, "I'm so pwoud of my wittle boy! He's going to COLLEGE!" Flabergasted, I was almost too speechless to tell her to shut the fuck up. But I did.

"What the fuck has made you so extra delusional today. The only way I could have gotten in was if his bombshell secretary offered him a blowjob on the condition that I be accepted." I said nervously, thinking that she may be uttering the truth. And, seemingly unable to hear or comprehend my worried state, she said, "I received the call just minutes before you walked through the door. I am in disbelief. You must have nailed it! He was so funny. He said that he could tell you 'don't take shit from anyone, only give it. A most admirable character trait.' How whimsical! And I thought, 'that's my boy!' Golly, I'm so proud of you!"

I examined her wide smile (something I hadn't seen in years) and ogling eyes in disgust. I stood there horrified, realizing that for the first time in my life my rearend had failed me. My confidence was shot and my incomrehensible anger was excacerbated by bitch ma's prancing around all happy and shit. So I slapped her and headed to my lair to down my sorrows in a tin of grizzly. Four years of livin' the dream down the toilet.

Friday, July 22, 2011

The Interview

Even though I'm the most intelligent human being on the planet, bitch ma is incessantly insisting I attend college. Though I'm able to cast off her first few requests with a despondent "fuck you" or a condescending "Ya I'll go to college! Right after I pork a pig on the moon", the mild annoyance turns into an itch between the shoulder blades; one that I am unable to scratch.

To exact revenge, I decide I have to get a bit more creative by entertaining her request to fill her heart with joy, then crushing it by tarnishing the family name. No means no, ho. Since my father is on the board at Columbia, the only requirement for me to get in would be to nail the interview with the dean. And believe me, this is one interview he would never forget.

On judgment day I am more excited than a little boy whose been offered candy by a stranger driving an off-white minivan complete with fully tinted windows. Scratch that, I'm more excited than the fucking driver. Anyway, I awoke to the sunlight beaming through my windows in a mood that was uncharacteristically chipper. Especially pre-dingleberry. And I headed to my wardrobe to pick out the most dashing ensemble I could assemble.

I arrived a bit early to my destination, heading to the nearest restroom to produce a creation that would make John Crapper turn in his porcelain coffin. I concealed it tightly in a brown paper bag to mask the aroma and proceed to the room.

I opened the door slowly, taking in my surroundings. Wood-paneled floors evoked the scent of rich mahogany and walls covered with degrees evoked the stench of smugness. Though, I pretended to marvel at these pieces of paper by contorting my face in a look of awe.

"Impressive, isn't it?" he mutters with the most smug of expressions. "It certainly is sir. I hope I can achieve merely a fraction of what you have by the time I'm your age." I respond most pussily. He chuckled, and I feigned a smile as he called me over. As he reached out his hand, I walked over and very casually brought the dump filled bag into plain sight. "A present? For me?" The sucker remarked while I quickly flashed a conniving grin. "Oh yes. I made something very special. Just for you." But before he had a chance to say anything more, I whipped the bag across his face causing him to  fall to the floor with a thud, unconscious. I moseyed over to examine his poo covered face and stood over him, feeling like Tyson after he had his way with Holyfield. And to make sure he knew how much of an asshole I really am, I leaned over and whispered, "hope your day doesn't get any shittier." Then showed myself the door.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

The War

I enlisted to fight Bin Laden and his Koreans in Iraq. Upon arrival, however, they tell me the war is over and they're just spreading democracy. Cocksuckers. The only reason I joined this shit was because I got sick of Call of Duty and wanted a fo'real war...not some pussy policy implementation. So I wandered.

After a couple of days baking in the sun, getting super tan for those Afghani chicks, I saw a billboard that said, "Welcome to Afghanistan! Home of the world's finest poppy." I was ecstatic! So ecstatic, infact, that I packed a celebratory chaw and skipped my way into God's kingdom.

I have to admit, I wasn't exactly sure of what poppy was but I always heard latinas bellowing it in pornos- so I knew it had to be awesome. As I made my way to the marketplace, however, it became clear that these Afghanis did not share my enthusiasm. I received glares of disgust from the local males and though I couldn't decipher the faces of the women due to their latest weirdo fashion, I could tell they wanted my cock.

Anyway, as I gaily moseyed through the town, the crowds slowly dissipated, telling me something was up. Not thinking much of it at the time, I kept on my way seeking that elusive poppy. My mood shifted as I sensed that my presence was not welcome and that I could be in grave danger. And so I tried seeking refuge in a hospitable-looking mansion. When I was greeted at the door, however, my smile vanished and was replaced by sheer terror (similar to bitch ma's expression when she found the going away present I left in her pillow). I became transfixed by the man staring me in the face: Osama fuggin' Bin Laden.

I was fucked. He was locked and loaded and I was, let's say, a little disadvantaged. My only weapon was my God-given talent of rippin' ass and shootin' shits at the drop of a hat. I had to buy some time.
"I understand that you are going to blow me into oblivion," I start, "but I wish to ask you if I could have one last meal." He nods in approval while lowering his gun slightly. I take out the celebratory tin and shove the remains into my mouth, noticing Bin Fuckhead grimacing in horror.

"Ughhh...that must taste worse than camelshit!" As he says this, I swung my body and pulled down my trousers in one swift motion. And before he could fire a shot, I fire some ammo of my own. I catch a glimpse of the flying nuggets soaring through the air at awe-inspiring speeds. And within moments, the sandqueen lay perished on the house's welcome mat. I ran over to check for signs of life. To my relief, there was nothing but smeared poo across his face and a throat filled with some raucous nugs. Asphyxiation by shit was the apparent cause of death.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

The Mother

Looking back on my time in the womb, I can remember being so super, duper excited to enter this world. But immediately after I was pushed through the cunt (literally), I became aware that the grass is never greener on the other side. Especially within an earshot of my fucking no-good, dirty, rotten bitch ma. It was apparent at the onset when the doc handed me over to be cradled by her disgusting, mutany arms. At first glance I could not believe my eyes, but after about ten seconds it sunk in. And so I turned to the doctors and simply said, "You have got to be shitting me."

And it probably comes as no surprise that things have gone more downhill than Ricky Williams' football career. During the toddler years, it was only her face that made me want to fill my diapers on the hour, every hour. But once I entered early childhood, and her intolerable voice became a fucking screeching nag, I knew I had to up the ante.

At the tender age of 7, after learning that nicotine and caffeine are essentially laxatives, I consumed coffee, cigs and dippers by the pound. At first I would clog her toilet, leaving post-it notes saying, "Oops I did it agian" and "Sucks to suck shit-for-vag, have fun scooping this out with a spoon." But she quickly acclimated and started using my toilet without flushing.

After her retaliation, I dedicated my life to erase any bit of happiness the good-for-nothing cuntmuffin claimed. And so for a few years, I trained myself to produce any variety of dump imaginable on a moment's notice. Giant floaters,  hershey squirts, green goblins and heaps-a-nuggets consumed my every thought and behavior. I didn't care- the bitch should've had throat and face surgery and maybe I would have pooed a little less. Maybe...

The years I have dedicated to mastering this art has reaped immense benefits. Besides making my bitch ma incapable of happiness-it has fulfilled my own happiness; something many people spend their whole lives struggling to find. So kids, I will leave you with some final thoughts: "Deuces are useless unless put to use. Try saying that five times fast...it's really hard."

Saturday, June 25, 2011

The Airport

I only love one thing more than the colors red,white and blue: the way they seamlessly mesh together on Uncle Sam's hat. And because I love my country so goddamn much, I couldn't stand idly by when the man on that iconic poster called for me. Personally, I don't think it was random. I think he knew I had something special; a talent that no one else has the balls to even consider employing. It is why on that fateful day in the airport, Sammy's seductive finger-pointing pushed me to "drop bombs" of my own on that Muhammad character.

In the midst of listening to some cunt-bag trying to tell me I've been bumped from first class due to a previous incident, I spotted a turban from afar. At first I thought nothing of it, thinking that maybe they let those camel-humpers fly now.  But while I was softly telling the bitch that if there was no way I could somehow wiggle my way into first class, then I would have to "wiggle" the 15 inch pole she'd soon find shoved up her asshole-I noticed the sandlover engaging in some dubious behavior. From my view, it appeared he was wrapping wire around two medal rods. So I told little Ms. All-That I'd be back in a jif, and let my instincts take over.

With zero time to act, I quickly grabbed the gallon of milk I keep handy for emergency situations, chugged it, and bolted to go confront the fucker. When I got closer, however, things became a bit more eerie. What I thought were metal rods and wire at first, was actually woolen yarn and two, sharp, pointy sticks- obviously a newly developed device used to choke and stab someone simultaneously. And, with adrenaline pumping and emotions running wild, I threw Aladdin out of his chair and pinned him to the ground.

"Did you honestly think you would get away with this you fucking scumbag?" I asked bombastically,"You think no one would see your nifty little gadget? Huh? And because of your shenanigans, this is what's going to happen: I'm going to terrorize your freedom-hating face before you terrorize my liberty-loving country. Yeah, how's that sound bitch!?"

And just as sand-for-cum started saying something about knitting grandma a sweater-probably some Al-Qaeda abort mission code-I swiftly spun around and spewed colon-prepared Ovaltine on every inch of his already-brown face. Passed out from my poison, I turned around, leaned over and cunningly whispered, "When my country calls upon me for 'doodie', I always respond."

Friday, June 24, 2011

The Funeral

I was raging one night, as usual, when I recieved a phonecall from bitch ma. Buzz fucking kill. She was in hysterics; sobbing and bawling her eyes out. So much so, that the whore couldn't string together a fucking sentence. And after about 10 seconds, the little patience I had vanished, and I kindly asked, "Bitch, I am hammered and a tad belligerent and am finding it hard enough to control my anger as is. Can you please either say what you need to say or shut the fuck up?", to which she responded, "It's your great aunt Mildred. She's dead."

Since I could not recall ever meeting an Aunt fucking Mildred, let alone knowing I had one, I went off. "You interrupted beer pong for this cockymamy bullshit. Do you know how hard it's been to get on the table tonight? And who the FUCK is this lady? Actually, nevermind. I don't want to know. Because even if I did know who she was, I wouldn't give a flying fuck knowing that she associates, let alone is related, to my shit-for-brains mother. So I would advise you to either give me a reason why I should continue to put up with your bullshit, or hang up the phone before I drive home and do it for you." To which she solemnly responded, "You're in her will."

At home the next day, I was eagerly awaiting a sit-down with my mother (there is a first time for everything). I was pacing, ancy to know what the bitch left me. The mood, however, shifted when bitch ma had the audicity to withhold what was rightfully mine unless I attended Morbid Milly's funeral. Fuck Funerals! They're depressing as shit; buncha weeping pussies decked out in black. Might as well be wrist-slit night at the goth kid's house. Naturally, I couldn't attend that bullshit without knowing whether my inheritance dough was worth it.

To my dismay...actually I wasn't dismayed, I was fucking livid. Scumbag Milly left me her baseball card collection. Who the fuck does that? I was about ready to bring her back, beat her savagely, and ironically, with a Louisville slugger until she was ready to be eaten by the flock of blue jays that I captured on my daytrip to Toronto.

I decided that the appropriate time to exact my revenge would be at the cunt's funeral. So on the prior night, I prepared an elaborate feast: 10 crunchwrap supremes, baked beans, a dollop of sour cream, a fresh tin, jalapenos and a fifth of jack all broiled into a magnificent stew. I downed the concoction minutes before the shindig began, trying to figure out what to do when  my bowels finally moved. But the moment arrived- and boy, did it ever arrive- and I had no plan. Forced to think on my feet, I shot up, and hurried to the aisle in the middle of the eulogy. As I ran to the pew, the grievers diabolical stares made me feel like the great Tupac Shakur (all eyez on me). But the glares quickly transformed into howls of exasperation and rage as I ripped off my pants and approached the open casket. Ass naked, I gave Milly a menacing scowl, turned around and shit all over her disgusting, whorebag face. When the rocketshits and low-toned toots finally ceased, I secured  my place in the badass hall of fame by uttering the now immortal phrase, "You mess with the bull, you get bullshit all over your dead face."

Thursday, June 23, 2011

The Video Game

It was the crack of dawn, and I stood, eagerly awaiting my chance to snag the newest edition of Cold Blooded Rapists; the most anticipated of all video games since Clack Clack Boom!. So anticipated, in fact, that it was necessary for me to pitch a tent and sleep out for a mere spot in line. But since God needs entertainment, aside from the 77 virgins, he occasionally calls upon me to provide it. He knows that in this day and age, amidst all the live-and-let-live, hippie bullshit, there is at least one person with the ca hones to take and protect what is rightfully his, at any cost. And that is why things unfolded the way they did.
You can imagine how upsetting it was to hear that the snot-nosed, wigger kid immediately in front of me was destined for the store's final copy. I wanted to rip the braces out of his mouth, smelt them into tin foil, and then force him to chew on it until the damage canceled out the progress made. So, as the disgruntled line behind me exited in a huff, I kept composed, knowing I could remedy the situation. Examining the K-Fed wannabe in front of me from head to toe, I attempted to devise a strategy for fucking up the shithead's day.
My cue was given when the dumbfuck dropped his slim shady flatbrim- the dude should have stayed at his suburban two-floor abode, jerkin' to that girl in his grade with boobs. So I picked the lid up and ran to the restroom to do what I do best: poop on things. And though I had not eaten in a considerable amount of time, I managed to produce a few small, brown nuggets. Nothing to write home to bitch ma about, but it got the job done. So, with a slightly heavier hat in hand, I walked back to the line 5 minutes before the stores opening, and dumped the dump-filled hat where I had found it.
The sudden eruption of cheers indicated that the doors had opened. It also meant that homeboy was in for a surprise. A flood of emotions ran through me when he swiftly placed the cap atop his head; emotions only experienced as a result of vindication or self-satisfaction. The immeasurable joy I felt when the idiot realized that it was not a melted Hershey bar sh-lopping around in his hair was only surmounted when the pussy started crying. Knowing full well he could no longer be seen in public due to the unfortunate mishap, the wittle piggy went "wah wah wah" all the way home. And as for me, I was pillaging, raping and killing innocents with my avatar in no time.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

The Waterpark

As a result of the church episode, bitch ma has decided to abandon her whole "improve-my-demon-son" undertaking. And since she might as well be mentally retarded, the bitch is giving me the silent treatment...as punishment! To all those feeling a little down in the dumps; this is proof that dreams do, in fact, come true.
But after a few weeks of living the dream, parasite-free, reality set in. At the ATM, on a picturesque summer day nonetheless, I was informed my accounts had been frozen. I knew things were just a little too perfect. Fully aware that I need a constant stream of dollah billz to maintain my lifestyle (xbox live, cheetos, and a healthy supply of the finest long-cut lippers), the scum-whore cut me off. If the cunt thought she'd gotten an earful in the past, she had another thing coming.
I stormed in, slamming the door so forcefully that the handle flies off. And, with a face redder than Satan's nutsack, I scream, "Bitch, if you are not standing in front of me, with an explanation for your childish shenanigans, I will burn this place to a crisp." Without hesitation, she obeys. But instead of an apology, she stands in front of me, arms out, holding a stack of papers. "What's this fucking garbage?" I retorted. And, remaining silent, held it higher, showing me an extensive list of job applications. I wanted to hit her. I wanted to punch that bitch so hard that her dentist appointment would have been pushed up six months. But I don't hit things with vaginas. It's immoral and they have enough blood to deal with as is. Realizing I'd have to submit to her absolutely and utterly, ridiculous request, I took the stack and rifled through my options. After hours of looking through positions way, way below my measure of intelligence, I found my golden ticket: Waterpark Lifegaurd.
I went into my first day chipper, knowing that in a matter of minutes, I'd be surrounded by gorgeous bitches yearning to get plowed by my three-foot penis. It would be an all-you-can eat buffet with meat I can sink more than my teeth into. By midday however, I was crestfallen. The women I had seen on that day fell into two categories. 1) obese and middle-aged, knowing that they'll get more cardio walking up to the waterslide than they've gotten in their entire, Boston creme-filled lives. 2) Pre-pubescent, and flatter than a deadman's BPM. Upset, I had to spoil their fun.
So I threw away the lunch bitch ma  packed for me, and created something truly special. I reached into my backpack and pulled out my freshest tin and a can of whipped cream. I tilted the can over the opened lid, and made a swirl as high as it could keep sturdy. And with one slurp, I devoured both the delicious cream and the fresh, juicy long-cut. Momentarily, I had to muster all of my body's strength to get the meal past my gag-reflex and into my stomach. It worked, and I whipped out my special lock-box to prepare for the shit that was about to ensue.
Fully filled, I carried the thing up to my post, patiently awaiting the most opportune time to use my weapon. And, soon enough, it came. The waterslide grew quiet and was replaced by an impromptu swim party in the wading pool. This pool was filled with the most disgustingly overweight heifers I have ever seen in my life. I mean, the shit looked like baby beluga's birthday party. I moseyed down, and poured the undigested, creamy, dipshit into the filter. I watched intensely as the crystal clear water gradually transformed into a murky cesspool. Chaos followed. All at once, the whales looked to exit, but to no avail. The hysteria resulted in oodles of scrambling and fumbling, with many falling into the watery manure (though the farm animals should be used to it at this point in their lives).
Thanks to my feat, and the lack of evidence for indictment, I once again escaped Scot-free. And though I am not the smug type, I believe I do deserve some recognition for the park's closing. One less place for those portly bitches to be seen in public.

Monday, June 20, 2011

The Service Pt. 2

Once I pulled my shit together, I decided I was ready to return to the hellhole. Upon exit, however, I grew very, very displeased. The sermon, which must have taken fucking hours, had only just ended. This meant I had to sit through more bullshit about how Jesus is better than everyone. No fucking shit! The dude walked on water. I tried once, and even I couldn't conquer the liquid beast. The preacher should just suck his dick and get it over with already. WE ARE TIRED OF HEARING YOUR SHIT!
Anyway, since I could see no way out of this mess, I devised a plan. I'm a fucking genius, so I put two and two together and realized that that now beershit filled goblet was for those suckers taking communion. Quietly, I placed the goblet back to its original place right after I jerked out some semen to cover the stench. Double the trouble.
I returned to my seat, smiling from ear-to-ear. Surprised to see me so giddy, bitch ma inquired. "I haven't seen you smile in years. What's happened?" Naturally, I humor her. "His words are so powerful, I guess I never really appreciated all that I have." On the verge of tears, she grinned and leaned over to hug me. "Bitch, get the fuck back and don't ever even think about touching me again! I'm not trying to be riddled with cunt germs." I muttered as I pushed her horrid figure away from me.
At that moment, preacher boy cracked the bread and got set to sip my concoction. He gulped, and down my bodily sewage went, ready to fuck up his day. Immediately, he projectile vomited all over the altar. Gasps rang out as he continuously spewed my juice, covering all corners of Jesus's furniture. As for me, I kept cool and played along- looking around at all the suckers with an exasperated demeanor cemented on my face. This went on for about a minute. And once his heaving ceased, he looked up, sorrowfully peering at the ceiling and yelled, "What the fuck did I ever do to you!?" just before he collapsed in his chunky gunk.
As people ran to his aid, I sat, pleased with my work. It's amazing how a delightful experience can relieve even the most excruciating of hangovers. My headache seemed to magically disappear. And as for my stomach, lets just say I was rightfully deserved of a feast full of taco bell's grade A beef crunch wrap supremes. Needless to say, I bounced the fuck out of there. Leaving my bitch ma to clean up the mess.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

The Service Pt. 1


I recently discovered that church is boring. So boring in fact, that I, being one of the most patient people I know, could not sit through it without providing entertainment for all the disgruntled churchgoers to enjoy. I mean really, are you that scared of hell? Even God knows that times have changed and that Sunday mornings are now reserved for nursing hangovers. Old people; get with the fucking program! You don’t have to put yourself through that bullshit any longer. You’ll get your place in heaven just as long as you’re not Mormon or some other wacky shit.
Anyway, the only reason I attended this pussyfest (not as appealing as I intended that to sound) was because of my manipulative, blackmailing whore of a mother. She barged into my lair, locking the door saying, “We need to talk.” Claiming that she’s “reached her wits end” and wondering “how she produced such a demon”, I responded “fuck your wit’s end and your wide-set vagina. I bet you didn’t even realize I fell out of your pussy when I was born.” And you know what the bitch does? She starts fucking crying. Irritated, I tell her to grow a pair and shut the fuck up, but to no avail. Realizing how irksome her bullshit is, she mercilessly continued. I attempted to be the bigger man and ignore her until she left, but the bitch would not cut her shit. After a few more minutes I finally reach my boiling point and scream, “What do I have to do to end this bullshit!?” Tears stop, the bitch candidly stares into my eyes, making me feel uncharacteristically nervous, and bluntly states, “If you do not go to church with me this Sunday, this will become your daily alarm, reminding you that dawn is about to break,” she pauses, and with a devilish chuckle says, “I wouldn’t want you to miss the sun rise.” Man I hate that bitch.
Even though I’m the most virtuous person I know, she claims this church crap will teach me values. And, still drunk from the night before, accompany her to the shitshow (or what will soon become one). At around the midpoint of the sermon, I had had enough. The constant singing and praying exacerbated my already excruciating headache and the intermittent sitting and standing made it hard to keep my chunky sewage from spewing all over the spokeswomen for AARP and Medicaid, respectively. Not that their decrepit, skeletal figures would feel it anyway. And so partly out of boredom and partly out of necessity, I decided to hit the lil’ boys room. But on my way over, I spied a large goblet with some sweet-smelling wine. In dire need of a screwdriver to turn my hangover back into a drunk, I chugged. Upon completion, however, I could feel the liquid shooting right back up into my esophagus. So I darted to the bathroom and hurled my face into the toilet to take care of business. Unfortunately, I was so fucked up that my failed bowel control made it so that I had to take care of business on both ends. So I quickly pulled down my under-roos and placed the goblet at an appropriate angle. Once the fiasco was over, and both containers were filled with my liquid sewage, I decided it was time to return. To be continued….

           

Saturday, June 18, 2011

The Elevator

My pops is a boss in every sense of the word. Even better than the king of all bosses: Gordon Gecko.Struggling as a less-than-successful public defender (aka pussy), he branched out and founded a firm dedicated to defending the rights of those millions of white, upper-middle class Americans afflicted by DUI’s. The dude made bank. And he keeps making bank thanks to his hundreds of alcoholic golfing buddies. Textbook American capitalism-exploiting suckers.

Since he assumes I’ll take over the badass family biz, he occasionally puts my xboxing on hold and has me visit his top-floor Manhattan office. I don’t usually mind because when I’m there, he gives me bills to quiet my bitching (words of wisdom: if you develop the sensibility to remain shameless after your toddler years, temper tantrums will bring far greater rewards).

This particular visit, however, was painful. I was extremely hungover and didn’t have a lip because my bitch ma got pissed I developed oral cancer and confiscated my tins. Fuggin’ cunt. So I strode through the ground floor of the office building, mean muggin’ every fuckface who passed by. And it was apparent I was definitely not in God’s good graces today when a fleet of MADD (aka BAF: Bitches Against Fun) feminist Nazis gave me no room to breathe in the elevator.

To make matters worse, the elevator broke down between the third and fourth floors, and we were stuck listening to Clay Aiken’s greatest hits on repeat. At the moment I could not fathom a more horrible scenario: stuck in an enclosed area with a hoard of bitches looking to demean my father's accomplishments. And more importantly, take money from me and my family. With no foreseeable way of cheering myself up, I decided to make these shitstains as miserable as I was.

At first I mulled over things to say like: “Did you ladies have to go through a training program to become Hitler's whores?” or “Do you guys always use sandpaper for tampons?”. But I decided to dish out a punishment far worse. The SBD.

For those of you who didn’t have fun as a child, SBD stands for Silent But Deadly. Typically the farts falling into the SBD category are accidentally produced. But in certain, driven individuals who have tirelessly worked to harness the power to summon SBDs at a moment’s notice, they are produced with purpose.

Being one of those individuals, and with the desire to wipe the smirks off of every single one of those smug faces, I inaudibly tooted. You can imagine my happiness as I watched these women suspiciously peering at one another, attempting to "sniff out" the culprit. As moments passed, and as it became clear the smell was there to stay, things started spiraling out of control. One bitch after another fell to the floor passed out, while the remaining few panicked trying to alleviate and comprehend the situation. I could not contain the overwhelming joy in my heart. Laughing hysterically and thoroughly impressed with my flatulence, I quickly muttered “fun haters!” before I succumbed to my own creation and collapsed.

Friday, June 17, 2011

The Pussy

Lemme tell you about a pussy I’ve been trying to nail for about as long as I can remember. Her name’s Hickory, and she primarily resides in my buddy’s basement. One day we were just packin’ formidable lips and slaying pre-pubescent fucktards in Halo 3, when old Hickory decides to mosey on down to hang with the boys. Since I was on the day’s first tin, I was a little on edge and a tad nauseous. Vesuvius would blow at any moment, spewing magma on anything in its expansive path.
Hickory, or who I like to call Satan, knows how to make my blood boil. She struts around with her muted color fur, long, dark whiskers and paws that produce an eerie crunch with every step on the carpet. On normal days, I can typically quell my anger by reminding her that the litter she cared for and nurtured in her womb was whisked away from her at birth because everyone knows she’s the fucking antichrist. But this was no ordinary day. I was on edge and nauseous; bad news for any unfortunate soul who crossed me.
            And this hickory, this fucking piece of shit cat, had the audacity to rub its cold, prickly fur against my exposed leg. Stunned and absolutely infuriated, I impulsively kicked the dick-for-brains across the room where it flew head-first into the wall. Still enraged and rearing to dish out further punishment, I ran over to the now unconscious pussy and had my way with it. While pulling down my pants, I mustered some deer-poop-esque fecal matter which I dispersed across its immobile figure. With the little shit possibly slain and completely nuggeted, I was pleased and rather impressed with my feat.
           Upon completion of my duties (hehe), I turned to my bro and examined his exasperated expression. I concluded that he was in awe and speechless as a result of my heroic deed. Knowing that he, and the rest of civilization, probably won’t ever have to take his cat’s shit ever again, I simply said, “Thank me later…I’m taking her milk.”

Thursday, June 16, 2011

The Line Pt. 2

I have never experienced a moodswing quite like the one on my return trip from the DMV, save for the time my bitch ma cooked me some sizzling, sweet-smelling bacon, then told me I couldn't have them until I said "thank you." I don't do manners, especially after getting teased out of a crispy treat. Needless to say, I slapped the bitch and ate what was rightfully mine. Anyway, I was super pissed off until I passed my favorite eatery: Chuckie Fuckin' Cheese. That moment brought me a fucking epiphany.
I stopped and parked in a handicap slot, kicked open the door to make sure those toddlers knew who was boss, and swaggered up to the hostess.

"Gimme five gallons of liquid cheese. And no pussyfooting, I'm in a hurry." Puzzled, and obviously in awe of my gorgeous aesthetics, she muttered, "Ummm...I'll see what I can do."

She returned with a plastic barrel the size of my boner that morning... 3ft. 5in. I relayed this to her, told a hot babe to call me in about fifteen years and walked out.

In the car I chugged. Chugged like that time in college when I downed four glasses of water-I did it really, really fast. When I felt a churning in my gut, I grabbed my extremely voluminous safebox and sharted until that thing was fully capacitated. Now, with ammo loaded, I threw on my Bin Laden disuise (sidenote: I fuggin' love Amurica and hate that sand-lovin' camel-humper so don't be alarmed) and drove back to the DMV. I snuck in and went to the vents with the safebox and just smeared 5 gallons of steamy, liquid shit around the fuckin place. Since I've became completely immune to my smell, I just watched as the line slowly dissapated. Chuckling at every horrified face staggering out.

Once everyone left, I patiently awaited for emergency services to investigate the stench. Sitting on the waiting bench, grinning ear-to-ear, I was unmoved at the arrival of two policemen and a firefighter. Startled, they jumped back and drew their guns.

"Get on the floor, NOW!" one of them yelled.

"Hello, Boys," I torted, "I've been expecting you." Their faces palled and their bodies began to shake. I moved towards them slowly.

"You can't kill me," I murmured, pointing at their weapons. "I'm a ghost. Leave right now or you'll all be toast." They disappeared faster than Lebron James' morals (But seriously, what is it with that guy? Don't athletes have any decency anymore? Makes me sick.) Anyway, with the authorities gone, I hopped over the desk, jumped on a computer and made myself a fuckng license.

This is how shit gets done. Kids, take notice.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

The Line Pt. 1

Ever since I totaled my Pops beamer last year, my bitch ma’s been kindly asking me to get my driver’s license. NOT. She’s been bitchin’ as usual, and the last few days it’s been worse ‘cause her vagina’s been really bloody. So while I was just my minding my own shit, (doing my daily routine of xbox, cheetos, ass rippin and jacking off) she barges the fuck in, trying to control things like my room’s Normandy and she’s Uncle fucking Sam. I pretend to listen for about thirty seconds, nodding my head agreeably and mumbling “uh-huh's", but the bitch catches on. That’s when her talking ceased and she marched over to the box. As she leaned over to turn off my most prized possession, instincts took over. In a quiet, yet pragmatic tone, I simply said, “Bitch, if you so much as put one finger on my muse, I will go more apeshit than King Kong after watching Fay Wray’s already-bloodied orifices stabbed repeatedly.” She turned and stood up with a face redder than her vagina and muttered, “Okay then…I won’t turn it off.” And walked out.
That moment brought on a flurry of emotions: I was ecstatic that I could keep living the dream, surprised that she let me get away with that shit and absolutely impressed with the power of my conviction. With the latter fueling my already very large ego, I stopped playing box and figured I could swagger into the DMV and just demand my license.
I grabbed the keys and was on my way. Though as I opened the door to the joint I grew very displeased. Some four-eyed D-bag whose wide gait clearly suggested he loved taking it in the rump, informed me the wait would be at least two hours. Typically I’m not a big yeller- I take pride, a great deal of pride in fact, in my unrivaled ability to get my way passive-aggressively- but this asshole, this fucking, cock-munching asshole, rained on my parade. So I stood up, stared into his eyes, bellowed an ear-shattering “dicklicker” from deep within my loins, and socked him right in the kisser. With both his nose and glasses broken, I turned and swaggered right back out of the god-awful place.
Extremely pissed off and heartbroken, I drove off. But on the ride back, I came up with an ingenious plan; a plan that would reward me with both vindication and a hard piece of plastic that would prove my already perfect driving skills…To be continued fuckers…

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

The Miracle


It was a hot summer afternoon and I was lethargic as fuck; the kind of day dominated by swamp ass and hot babes by the pool. Unfortunately, I couldn’t chill poolside due to an incident involving some milf claiming I flirted with her a little bit. Let me be clear though, I do NOT flirt. I cut out that foreplay bullshit and spanked that slut in the fanny, making my intentions known. She turned, eyed my cock, and called me an asshole. Puzzled, I turned around and was confronted by a spanking of my own. From her hubby, across my face, with his fist.
Anyways, since my options for the day were limited, I decided to pack a lip for the first time in a long time with one of my homies. Disclaimer: there are certain items I put into my body that make my flatulence unbearably putrid. Let me put it this way, poodles have dropped dead when giving me their customary greeting. Two of those items were ingested on that day, within a very, very short time frame. Lunch was filled with dairy- cheese pizza topped with feta, rocky road ice cream and a dollop of sour cream. Item number two was the fat dingleberry tucked below my lateral incisors. So, with my ammo loaded, and my tummy and tush telling me it’s time, I let one rip. A menacing smile and a small chuckle let my buddy know what’s up. But instead of the expected contorted, horrified facial expression I was hoping for, the dude starts fucking laughing. It was then that I realized, to my dismay, that I had once again produced stinky, liquid milk chocolate out my brown eye. Fucking sharts. I angrily scurried to the lil’ boys room leaving the residue on my chair that seeped through.
Upon arrival to the bathroom, I promptly spit out the dip with the intentions of shamefully cleaning up. But as I dropped my shorts and undies, I stared in awe at what I had produced. Lying amidst the hideous brown waste was the dollop of sour cream, undigested and perfectly intact. I was so moved that I carefully picked up my attire and walked exposed back to my car. I drove home and walked through the house where I was greeted by my bitch mom bitchin’ about how bad I reek, my naked appearance and the dishes that she put away for me. Fuckin’ hoe. But I couldn’t hear a word she was saying; I was mesmerized by my gift from God.
Shout out to the big man upstairs, my buddy who let me bum a lip, and last but not least, my lactose intolerance.

Monday, June 13, 2011

The Alarm

This morning I was awoken by an uncomfortable churning deep within my gut, kind of like how a woman would feel during a third trimester abortion. Thank Jesus Fuggin' Christ that the pain only lasted a few moments (and that that slut in Mexico wasn't overly religious and finally got around to getting our issue resolved.) Anyway, I decided that since I was up, I might as well take a whizz. My ten foot walk to the bathroom went swimmingly, nothing to suggest what was about to unfold.
Upon my arrival to the can, I whipped out my Johnson and proceeded to urinate in and around the  john (I'm clumsy when I know my bitch mom will clean it up). About midstream I began to feel the awful pain once again... I grew increasingly unhappy. I decided that in order to alleviate this bullshit I would have to fart. And so I mustered enough strength to rip one of what should have been the most gratifying toots of my life. But alas, I got more than I bargained for. I stopped pissing when steam crept up into my asscrack. Realizing I was in deep shit (pun mutherfuckah's) I took the appropriate action and took off my pants and under-roos, placing them near the peestained walls next to the toilet. I figured since my ma was going to have to clean the bathroom, the bitch might as well do laundry too.