Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Five maybes

Maybe if gym teachers bit people and vampires taught dodgeball, that would shake things up.

Maybe more kids would stay in school if we called it Free Beer.

Maybe I do have a God complex. I’ll look into that after I blow up these planets.

Maybe people wouldn’t commit so many crimes in broad daylight if we called it “nice young lady daylight”.

Maybe it’s just me, but barfing makes me want to puke.

Friday, July 22, 2011

Five confessions

I like to pretend my food is bad people, and my bowels are the bowels of hell, and my poo is reincarnation. It smells like justice.

I don't regret the children I fathered. I regret the fathers I childrened, because that sounds embarrassing.

We didn't need The Weather Channel when I was a kid. Keeping a meteorologist chained to the radiator worked just fine.

I learned a lot from comic books, like how to order sea monkeys or eat a planet.

If the glove fits, I peed in it.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Five thoughts about children

To understand your parents better, sell your own children to pirates.

Instilling values in children must begin early. That’s why all pregnant women should eat a Bible a day.

Children are like wet cement. They’re just not very smart.

The most important thing parents can teach their children is how to make hobos dance.

The reason grandparents and grandchildren get along so well is they’re both in the pocket of the oil industry.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

President Obama’s Circles on Google+


Chicago Friends

DC Friends

Secret Muslim Friends

Batshit Republicans

Somewhat Sane Republicans

Somewhat Batshit Democrats

Democrats Who Make Me Want to Vomit When I See Them, Which is Far Too Often

World Leaders I’d Like to Take Out with a Drone

World Leaders I’d Like to Take Out for a Beer


Elvis, Tupac, Nixon, and Other "Dead" People

Journalists and Other Idiots

Awesome People I Met Because I’m the Freakin’ President


Friday, July 08, 2011

Bitching About Starbucks Spelling = Ultimate Douchery

You wouldn’t think that entitled, douchey, white people could get any more entitled, douchey, or white, but you would think wrong. The unfortunately popular blog Starbucks Spelling is a hideous new low in the craptastic, ever-flowing, sewer of white shittiness.

Making fun of how other people talk and spell is usually arrogant and assholish, but it’s seldom as awful as these “hilarious” pictures of coffee cups where, for example, “Julie” is spelled “Joolee”. Ha ha, what a good one that is! These stupid baristas can’t spell! I am a genius for going to Starbucks and having a name.

This goes beyond first world problems or white person problems to new depths: Starbucks misspelling your name is an Ultimate Douche problem. Congratulations to my fellow caucasian assholes for helping us maintain our firm, pasty claim on being the worst people in the world.

Here’s my message to anyone who has ever posted a picture of their misspelled coffee cup on Facebook or anywhere else:

You should be grateful this poor barista didn’t stab you. The only purpose of writing your name down is to get the goddamn whatever-ccino into your shitty little hands. It isn’t a spelling test. It isn’t a monument to you and your wonderful name that—heaven forbid!—a mere commoner might besmirch. Get over yourself, then please go fuck yourself, then pretty please stick an entire Starbucks up your ass. Thank you.

There is a bright side to this stupid phenomenon. Some plucky grad student could write a fine dissertation on how the spelling ability and will to live of baristas have deteriorated due to relentless daily exposure to toxic levels of douchiness. You’re welcome, academia.

Things to do to baby Hitler if you’re too squeamish to kill him but do have a time machine

Take away his binky.

Give him a second binky. See what happens. Try a third. Maybe he becomes so obsessed with binkies that mass murder isn’t even on his radar.

Shake him. I know you shouldn’t shake a baby, but we’re talking about Hitler here.

Steal him and drop him in the past. Maybe he’ll go after Neanderthals, who are dying off anyway.

Steal him and bring him to the future. Hope he tries to wipe out Martians, who have it coming.

Lie to him about his future. Tell him, “I am from the future, and you are going to blow up the moon!” Tell him it’s OK, who needs the moon anyway. This will keep him busy.

Show him the complete DVD collection of Lost. It might not change his life, but it will broaden his ideas about time travel. Instead of being the first Hitler, maybe he could be the second Smoke Monster.

Go back further in time and ask his great-grandparents, “Does worst-person-of-all-time-itis run in your family?” If they say yes, kill them.

Read him the story about the beautiful baby who didn’t grow up to slaughter millions or have a creepy mustache.

Show him Inglourious Basterds documentary repeatedly.

Buy him a puppy. Pour barbecue sauce on baby Hitler. See what happens.

Monday, July 04, 2011

Ten ins and outs

Out: pond scum
In: pond sleaze

Out: sugar daddies
In: Splenda fathers

Out: coffee table books
In: coffee table snuff films

Out: gospel choirs
In: gospel speed metal bands

Out: the cradle of civilization
In: the binky of civilization

Out: circle jerks
In: rhombus jerks

Out: phony baloney
In: sincere salami

Out: id, ego, superego
In: egg, chicken, chicken sandwich

Out: a hog on ice
In: a pig on quaaludes

Out: a beacon of hope
In: a bacon of hope

Friday, July 01, 2011

Five hates

I hate when I get all the way into the bathtub and *then* realize I forgot my Gilligan hat.

I hate when the butler forgets to water the shrunken heads.

I hate when the fabric of reality rips right in the crotch.

I hate wondering if I’m smart enough, strong enough, or slathered in chocolate sauce enough.

I hate when I mix up my recipes and prophecies. This seven-headed beast pudding just doesn’t taste right.