Tag Archives: Santa

*Contains Recycled Content (Part 3)

4 Jul

The first trilogy of partially new content is complete! Does that cryptic comment mean a second trilogy is on the way? You’ll have to check in a couple of weeks…but [SPOILER ALERT] yes, that’s exactly what it means.

Check out part 1 and part 2 if for some reason you missed them or, more likely, just want to read them again. I understand. All right, here we go!


Do you think seals clap in the wild or is that something we teach them to do for our own amusement? Like if a seal did like a really sweet flip out of the water and shit, would his seal pals be awed enough to break into spontaneous applause? I imagine as I type this there’s a really cool seal in a leather jacket jumping over a shark as his seal and porpoise chums (Ha, chums. Chum, shark – get it?) slap their fins together so hard it sounds like a 21 gun salute. I know I could use the Google machine to verify this one way or the other, but I’d rather assume they clap whenever they see something awesome and leave it at that.

Did you see that shit???


I watched the “classic,” Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer the other night and came away disturbed by some of the implications of that universe. My main area of concern is with the Island of Misfit Toys. Glossing over the fact that hipsters would LOVE those things (well, as much as hipsters can truly love anything. Hollow bastards) the fact that sentient, flawed toys are banished to their own island is horrifying. Most of them are just your run of the mill toys with factory defects — train with square wheels, cowboy on chicken, spotted elephant, suicidal ragdoll — but then you have the Charlie in the Box. The children of this universe are such raging cockweasels that they will not play with a Charlie in the Box. No, for these hardcore asshats only a Jack in the Box will do. It’s the same toy with a different name – it matters not to these little shits. They’d rather Charlie go fuck himself straight to his own island to let him know how unwanted he is than play with his misnamed ass. But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is when you realize the kids in this story, though awful dickheads, are not the ones most worthy of your hate.

It’s Santa.

That’s right. The fat man himself named him Charlie in the Box knowing full well that kids wouldn’t want him. That’s some malicious sociopathy on his part. What a complete and utter bag of dicks. He derives pleasure from inflicting pain and humiliation on his sentient toys, then makes himself out to be the hero by delivering them to kids at the end. No, he’s no sociopath, he’s a full blown psycho. On that note, Merry Christmas, ya’ll!!

In hindsight, the black, soulless eyes should have been a dead giveaway.


I was watching a documentary (at least I’m assuming it was a documentary) called All Dogs Go to Heaven and it got me thinking – really? Because some dogs are assholes. What about Hitler’s dogs? Or that dog who barked at me that one time? They get a free pass into heaven too? I love dogs, but it seems like they should have to earn it like the rest of us, not get a free pass through the pearly gates simply by virtue of being a dog. Before you even ask, no, I’m not high. I could go for some Funyuns though…


How I see the days of the week:

-Sunday – I can never truly enjoy a Sunday because I spend the whole day in a state of existential dread because Monday is coming.

Monday – Monday sucks all the dicks because obviously.

Tuesday – Tuesday is nothing more than Monday in a cheap disguise (think shitty plastic mask & smock Halloween costume from Rite Aid). Fuck you, Tuesday; I know what you are.

Wednesday – Still too far from the weekend. The longest (in a bad way) day of the week.

Thursday – You aren’t Friday. Get the fuck out of here.

Friday – And now I’m too tired from all the other awful days to properly enjoy you.

Saturday – Finally! A day I can truly enjoy…but then again it will be Sunday soon. And then Monday. Fuck me.

To sum up: I am a miserable, curmudgeonly wretch. Come on, Saturday…


Domino’s lets you order what they call pizza with an emoji now. Yay. Is there an emoji with which I can order a kick in the nuts? Because that’s just about as good as a pizza from Domino’s. Let’s be honest: Domino’s pizza is more like “pizza,” right? I mean, it has the elements of pizza — cheese, sauce, crust — but there’s something missing. It’s like they have a demon onsite whose only job is to suck the soul out of, and then rub its ass on, every pizza they make. It’s flat and lifeless like a cartoon representation of a pizza…which actually means ordering with an emoji makes sense after all. And hey — it’s still better than Papa John’s.



William Hanna and Joseph Barbera sit at a large table in front of a mountain of cocaine. They each dip gold straws into it and snort deeply.

WILLIAM: “So Joe, we need 80 more cartoon ideas for the Saturday morning slate. Any thoughts?”

Joe considers, does another massive bump of Peruvian marching powder.

JOE: “Who’s that scary looking fucker with all the gold and the crazy-ass haircut?”

WILLIAM: “Liberace?”

JOE: “No, no. This is a black guy. He was in Rocky 3.”

William does another line.

WILLIAM: “Carl Weathers?”

JOE: “No, goddamn it! Rocky 3!”


JOE: “That’s it! Mr. T. Kids like him, right?”

The mountain of coke gains sentience and speaks to them.

SENTIENT MOUNTAIN OF COCAINE: “Guys, guys, you’re going about this all wrong. Kids are idiots. They’ll like what we tell them to like. So long as it’s colorful, hyperactive, and makes not a single iota of fucking sense, they’ll watch the shit out of it.”

WILLIAM: “He’s right, Joe. Look at all the screeching bullshit we’ve subjected kids to over the years. No matter how stupid or insane it is they watch it and ask for more.”

JOE: “Okay, fuck it. Let’s do a cartoon about Mr. T. So what is he doing?”

William, Joe, and the Sentient Mountain of Cocaine ponder this for several moments.

JOE: “I’ve got it! Gymnastics! Kids like gymnastics, right?”

Sentient Mountain of Cocaine glowers at Joe.

JOE: “I mean, it doesn’t fucking matter. Kids will like it because it makes no sense!”

SENTIENT MOUNTAIN OF COCAINE: “Yes! That’s it! You’re getting it!”

WILLIAM: “Okay, so Mr.T is a gymnastics coach because why the fuck not. And he leads a team of young gymnasts from town to town solving mysteries.”

The Sentient Mountain of Cocaine begins rubbing holes in itself at approximately nipple height.


JOE: “Oooh! And they travel in a van just like Scooby Doo because fuck it I guess.”

The Mountain rubs itself harder.


WILLIAM: “And apropos of nothing, Mr. T has a dog that dresses just like him and also has a Mohawk!”


They do.


Here are just a few things I find less terrifying than motherfucking “Clownfest“:

-Playing snake Russian Roulette. That’s where a buddy and I gather six snakes (one of which is venomous) and take turns letting them bite us until one of us dies.

-Slathering my arm in steak sauce and dipping it into a box of starving, rabid rats.

-Allowing a swarm of tarantulas to prance across my genitals as if said genitals are their own personal Autobahn.

-Taking the Ice Bucket Challenge only with dirty syringes standing in for ice cubes.

-Making out with that one Mob Wife with massive lips (R.I.P.) who looks like she would eat my face off.

-Putting on a seal costume & taking a swim with those uber-intelligent sharks from Deep Blue Sea (all sharks like to bite the shit out of seals).

I could go on, but you get the idea.


Gratitude Challenge: Day 1

[Context: This was one of those random Facebook things that a friend nominated me to do. For five consecutive days I was supposed to post things for which I was grateful. I lasted one day. For me, that’s impressive.]

As an ungrateful and all around curmudgeonly fuck, I was a bit surprised to be nominated for this challenge. Though I question my nomination, I assume this constitutes a legally binding contract and so I will participate. Here goes:

-I am thankful for the guy I saw at the gas station last week sporting a leather vest and a rat tail. Just knowing that guy is out there walking around makes me smile. I’d love to know where he lives so I could anonymously mail him some leather, fingerless gloves. You’re right: he definitely already owns at least a dozen pairs.

-I am thankful for the time I saw a guy at Cancun Cantina in a denim jacket with a cobra patch sewn onto the back. Why was I at Cancun Cantina? Your guess is as good as mine. The more important question is, where the hell does one procure such a fine garment? It was simultaneously the lamest and most awesome thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I plan to tell my grandchildren about it. Or someone’s grandchildren. It doesn’t really matter just so long as some damn kids hear of it.

-I am thankful that my mom was choosy enough to choose Jif for all my peanut butter needs growing up. Where would I be had she opted for that Skippy bullshit? I shudder to think about it.

By the powers vested in me by the Zuckerberg and my participation in this challenge, I nominate two more people. The rules: you MUST participate for 5 days saying what you are thankful for and also nominate two more people on each day. You must also burn a deck of tarot cards while dancing naked to Air Supply songs and– oh, wait. That’s something else. Just the things you’re grateful for and who you nominate, I guess. No need to thank me!

*Contains Recycled Content (Part 1)

5 Jun

“They’ll never stop The Simpsons!
Have no fears, we’ve got stories for years, like,
Marge becomes a robot!
Maybe Moe gets a cell phone,
Has Bart ever owned a bear, or,
How ’bout a crazy wedding?
Where something happens, and do do do do do do.
Sorry for the clip show!”

-The Simpsons, Gump Roast

Ah, the clip show: the most hated of all sitcom tropes. And why? Because they slap a couple of minutes of new footage together making you think you’re in for a fun new adventure, but no — OH no. Because then the, “Remember that one time?” bullshit starts and suddenly, you’re watching clips of episodes you already saw. It’s even worse than it sounds. Inevitably, the premise for reminiscing is wafer fucking thin and characters flashback to shit they weren’t even a part of. Hell, Saved By the Bell did a clip show where the characters flashed back to other characters’ DREAM SEQUENCES. The following clip isn’t related to that, but it never isn’t hilarious:

Fuck a clip show is I suppose the salient point to take away from the preceding paragraph….which brings me to this post, well, series of posts. This is the blog equivalent of a clip show as most of this material was previously presented on Facebook. That said, I have like eight Facebook friends and at least five of them are Russian spambots trying to get all my personal info by promising to enlarge my penis with cutting edge drugs, and then have sex with said penis after they’ve properly huge-ified it.

It’s just a matter of time is what I’m saying.

And for my Facebook friends that aren’t spam, I’m assuming they don’t read my posts anyway so this will be new to them if they break down and decide to read it. So basically, it’s going to be like a clip show filled with clips from shows no one has seen. Fuck it, I’m just going to call it new material. This will help you hate me less and enjoy it more. Sound good? Let’s get to it!


If you needed additional confirmation that I’m a complete idiot, here’s an unedited conversation I had earlier with a female coworker. Enjoy!

Me: I’m supposed to go play trivia tonight. What are you up to?

Her: Not much. I need to stop and pick up some titty glitter on the way home.

Me: That’s awesome. Where do you even get something like that, the stripper warehouse?

Her: What? No! The grocery store!

Me: The grocery store? What aisle?

Her: With the cat food!

Me: Well that doesn’t even make any sense.

Her: Of course it does! Wait, what do you think I said?

Me: Uh, you tell me.


Me: Oh! God I’m dumb. I thought you said, “titty glitter.”

Her: (stares at me blinking for a few seconds, then laughs uncontrollably for several minutes at my stupidity) If you find out where you can buy that, let me know.

Me: I swear I’ve seen it before…

Her: “Titty glitter (laughs again, pats me on the head).” Stay pretty.

Me: (turns redder than the devil’s dick) I need a drink.

On the plus side, I may have invented a new product.


Every time I asked Siri to call someone today, she dialed the wrong number. I got angry and told her to fuck off, to which she replied, “That’s not nice.” I apologized and she told me it was okay. It was then that I realized this is the healthiest and most honest relationship I have in my life. Don’t change, Siri.


Pet peeve of the day: the phrase, “peel and eat shrimp.” When I eat steamed shrimp, there’s an expectation that I will have to remove an annoying shell (and those weird little shrimp feet) as part of the process, unless I’m 6 and my mom is peeling them for me. Nothing is lost by dropping the “peel and eat” qualifier and simply calling them, “shrimp.” More vexing, there are no peel and eat bananas, peel and eat oranges, peel and eat crabs, or peel and eat 7-11 burritos. Generally, when something we wish to eat has a peel that is tough, bitter, hard, or plastic, we remove it prior to eating. Can we please stop the madness?


A coworker was explaining her morning routine to me yesterday and why she always comes in late. I was good until she said, “I brushed all of my teeth,” then she totally lost me. What an odd thing to say. If she had said, “I brushed my teeth,” I’m still on board; continue this fascinating tale. But she threw in that damn “all” and I got fixated on it. Are there people who only brush a few teeth at a time? If you’re really running late do you just hit the top row, maybe the canines? I mean, if she had a gold tooth or something that required some kind of extra attention, you know, a good buffing or something to make it sparkle, I’d get why you might skip brushing that one if in a rush. That’s a goddamn chore. But no gold, just regular-ass teeth in her face. I wanted to say, “Yeah, I brushed all of my teeth this morning too except for my back left molar. That asshole knows what he did.” Instead, I sat there thinking these idiotic thoughts that I’m sharing with you now and then laughed when she finished her story. Not for nothing – she laughed too; I’m not a psycho who just randomly laughs when people are talking. Anyway, I have no idea what she said and I really hope she doesn’t read this.


Don’t grieve for yesterday, it’s over. Don’t wait for tomorrow, it never comes. Do something amazing today. Like, I don’t know, go out and get turnt on cough syrup or something. Maybe wear goggles and a snorkel to work and sincerely ask people to start calling you Jacques Cousteau. Slather yourself in marshmallow fluff and reenact the final 2 minutes of Ghostbusters. Use your imagination.


This is easily the most terrifying thing I’ve ever read: 107 MILLION SPIDERS. 107 million. Motherfucking spiders. Just hanging out together. In Baltimore. Did you know spiders formed gangs? I didn’t. I thought they were loners, rebels who occasionally wore 8-armed leather jackets while raising hell in the insect kingdom. But I guess they can hunt in packs and form dens like tiny, but somehow far more frightening, goddamn wolves or whatever. This is something I didn’t need to know. The only thing that could make this worse is if an army of clowns plucked handfuls of spiders from the nest and hurled them at passersby.


Can we please stop throwing around the phrase, “to die for,” as a descriptor for foods that taste super good? Because unless you’re willing to actually lay down your life for that plate of chili fries you’re just a liar. A dirty fucking liar.


Due to more stringent truth in advertising laws, ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter’ is changing its name to ‘I Can Totally Believe It’s Not Butter Because Whereas Actual Butter Is Delicious, This Shit Tastes Like Melted Crayons, Plastic, And Ass.’


After we watched a news segment on Twitter, I had the following conversation with my mom:

Mom: So what is Twitter, is it email?

Me: What? No, it’s not email.

Mom: Well then what is it?

Me: I don’t know if I can explain Twitter to you. It’s a social network.

Mom: But what is it? I’ve never seen a Twitter. How do you do one?

Me: You…you don’t ‘do a Twitter.’ You go to the site, compose a tweet, and send it.

Mom: To who?

Me: I don’t know, everyone? I have followers.

Mom: People follow you? Do you know these people?

Me: A couple of them.

Mom: Only a couple? Is your name on it?

Me: Yes.

Mom: So just ANYBODY can see your Twitter? People you don’t even know? Is that safe?

Me: I…what?

Mom: How do you even know who to send it to?

Me: Because it’s like email, mom. It’s exactly like email.

Mom: Seems stupid to me.

Me: It kind of is.

This is the abridged version. The actual conversation went on for about 10 minutes and also touched on Facebook and Instagram. Nothing was resolved.


Maybe it’s just me, but I think the creepiest couplet from any children’s song has got to be, “He sees you when you’re sleeping; he knows when you’re awake.” That’s disturbing, right? As a kid, I used to imagine Santa standing over me, his face ruddy with the wintry chill or, more likely, cheap booze, mere inches from my own as he listens to me breathe and watches me sleep while cutting himself with a dull knife. He hopes I’ll wake up so he can absorb my life force and leave a soulless, desiccated husk where I used to be. I never got much sleep on Christmas Eve is what I’m saying, all thanks to that terrifying song.


Ferrari is now sending me targeted ads on Facebook. Fucking Ferrari. Would I like to own a Ferrari? Hell yeah, but I’m not Magnum P.I.; I’m just poor white trash from Gardenville. The only Ferrari I can afford is those foldable Ferrari sunglasses they used to sell on the Ocean City boardwalk for $5 with the massive lenses that made you look like some sort of futuristic insect with vision problems. And even that’s kind of a splurge. I guess what I’m saying is I don’t have $100k+ in disposable income to spend on a car I’d be terrified to drive because you just know some totes jell hater would key it the second I parked it somewhere. Now I’m both mad at imaginary people for keying my fictional Ferrari and sad that I’m not Magnum P.I. Thanks for making me feel bad about myself, Ferrari


Coffee is good, commercials are not. Sometimes these two concepts team up and really do some damage. Case in point: Folgers coffee commercials. You’ve seen them: someone wakes up early in the morning and brews a heaping pot of Folgers and someone sleeping smells it and wakes up with an orgasmic smile on his/her face as if beautiful angels had gently nudged them from slumber. They drink from their coffee mugs while gripping them with two hands – just like no one you’ve ever known or want to know – then you’re hit with the slogan: “The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup.” I hate waking up in the morning with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns, so it’s hard for me to find the silver lining that I might call “the best part.” Coffee is more of a necessity for me than it is a luxury. Drinking it in the morning greatly reduces the likelihood of me engaging in knife fights with coworkers. But if you fill my cup with Folgers, rest assured we’re going to have issues. Folgers tastes like hot sewage. It is the coffee of auto repair shops, of hospital waiting rooms, and of nursing and funeral homes. If you’re drinking Folgers you are in a miserable place and all but guaranteed to be dealing with annoyance at best and, quite possibly, death. Ultimately, calling Folgers “the best part of waking up” is like saying “the best part of torture is having your balls electrocuted.” So there you go, Folgers, I’ve devised a new, honest slogan for you – “Folgers: the coffee equivalent of genital electrocution.”






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