I’m in a mood today. A serious mood. A damned bad seriously intense mood.

I’m not holding back. No, no way. I don’t care if you lefty pinko faggots scream bloody murder again, like you’re so used to doing.  I don’t care if you think I’m a nazi overlord trying to take away your easy peasy do nothing socialist activist life.

There are two types of people in the world:

1. Contributors
2. Leaches

Contributors work full time and pay taxes.  Contributors benefit society by paying into it more than they suck out of it.

Leaches fall into two categories

1. Those who don’t contribute because they can’t
2. Those who don’t contribute because they won’t

So here’s the thing. There’s an age of majority where you get to vote. It doesn’t matter if you’re a contributor or a leach, you get to vote when you reach a certain age.

Why the hell do leaches get to vote? Voting should be a privaledge, not a right. Seriously!  There’s no WAY that someone who is a societal leach should have an equal say to someone who contributes to society.

Now, take those who can’t contribute. Like, children. Even if you’re 18, you’re still a child.  A serious child. Anyone who’s been in a room with a bunch of 18 year olds, even an immature adult like me, will agree that 18 year olds are no more than children.

You’re 18. Most likely, you’ve been living off mommy’s teat for your entire 18 years.  You might have a part time job, but whoop de fucking do, the taxes you’ve paid won’t even cover the hospital bills the time you busted your ankle hopping a fence while running from the cops.

So, not having to do things like work at a job, seeing most of your money being siphoned away in taxes, paying for food, utilities, car payments and repairs, mortgage/rent, and things of that nature, how do you know how it is?

YOU HAVE NO EXPERIENCE FROM WHICH TO JUDGE WORKING SOCIETY, SO WHY SHOULD YOUR SAY BE GIVEN EQUAL WEIGHTING FOR THOSE  THAT DO.

You shouldn’t.

So, when you get a job, pay your taxes, and live in the real world, I mean really live in the real world, then you should be afforded the privilege to vote, to have your opinion sway the contributing society as a whole.

Think you know what’s going on anyways?  Yea, you think that, but you’re 18. You think the world revolves around you.  You don’t know a fucking thing, and do you know how I know?

Because I was 18 once too. I remember what it was like, and I remember what a wake up call entering the real world was. Even if I did work two jobs to support myself through school, I was still a leach until I went out and got a real job.

And you’ll be a leach until you do the same.  Unless you decide to fuck off from mom and dads, skip school, and go it on your own.  Then you’re a contributor, and should be afforded the privilege of voting.

Moving on.

Those who are leaches because the WON’T contribute. I’m looking at you, able bodied welfare lifers.  You people fucking disgust me.  Not more than the liberal nambie pambies do. You make a living off of welfare and we LET you.

The very fact that we let able bodied people live off of the toils of the contributors, not only for life but for FOUR GENERATIONS now is something that boggles the mind.

You able bodied welfare lifers, you are the LAST people thats should have ANY say on the way society is run. Until you start contributing, you just sit there in the corner getting fatter and raising like minded children like we all know you do.

‘Nuff Said.

rant, social commentary priviledge to vote, students, voting, voting is not a right, welfare bums, welfare lifers

*Update March 17. My friend Pirate Meghan has a guest post of mine up. Check it out here.

Ok Kiddies.

I’ve got nothing much for you today. Except for a demotivational poster done with the help of our good friends at BIG HUGE LABS!

Just wait till you see this gem of a poster.

Feel free to use it if you wish, but since it came from my brain I’d appreciate you telling the folks where you got it from.

Unless they’re the suing kind, then it’s all yours.
Enjoy.

politically incorrect, social commentary big boobs, disgusting sloppy tits, fat chicks

I’m going to die.  I know I’m going to die, because a fortune cookie told me.

Ok, so the cookie told me that my presence makes people happy.  I don’t know about that one. Usually it’s my absence that makes people happy.

Moving on.

At thirty-one years old, my anus has been exit only for my entire life. And boy, has it EVER been exit only!

As much as I’d like to keep it exit only, there will come a time when something is going to be going in.  No, that won’t be the day I meet moooog. I’m talking about a prostate exam. Every man has to have one after a certain age, you know, if he bothers to go to a doctor.

Seriously, why the hell do they have to stick a finger in there?  Why can’t they just invent some sort of x-ray machine or something?

You’re supposed to get the ol’ finger poke when you’re forty.  That’s nine years from now for me.  And I know, I just KNOW that the day the world as we know it will come to an end, it’ll do so JUST as the doctor puts his finger up my brown cyclops.

But it won’t end there, because I’m not just accident prone; i’m embarrassment prone. Like the time my pants fell down when I was doing chin ups in the gym.  Or when I decided to eat Indian food before the first (and last) date, knowing full well that Indian food gives me some seriously rancid farts.  I don’t know which was worse: The faces I made trying to hold the farts in or the faces she made when the one slipped out.

So, at the moment the good doctor slips his size nine finger into my size zero virgin anus, the world is going to end by Alien attack.  The first building to be hit will be the building where I’m getting my own earthly anal probe.  And the method of alien destruction will be blinding white light that instantly freezes the human and pulls him up to the ship. The kind of bright light that draws attention from miles around.

In essence, there will be a giant stage for all to see from miles around, and the show will be me, bent over with a huge finger sticking out of my ass.

That’s how the world will see me.

But it won’t end there, no it won’t.

The humans will form a resistance, and after many long years of horrible bloody battle, we will drive the aliens from our planet.

A museum will be erected to honour the momentous day.

And in the middle of the foyer, will be a relic, a reminder of the first day the aliens attacked.

Me, with my bum in the air, getting probed by the good doctor.

For all to see for absolute eternity.

And the plaque, placed strategically under my butt, shall read:

The first victim of the alien bloodbath, caught with his pants down. Historians theorize that back in the early 21st century, finger sticking was some sort of foreplay. Certainly, it couldn’t have been used to check the prostate! In any event, let this remind us never to get caught with our pants down again.

At least my death will be giving the world some entertainment.  But hey, laughing at me instead of with me is nothing new to me anyways!

talking out of my ass alien probing, embarrasement, finger poke, prostate exam, virgin anus

I have no idea what goes on in woman’s washrooms. I really don’t, and I probably don’t want to know.

Or do I?  I mean, women go into washrooms in groups.  Why could they possibly need to go in groups unless…

This is what I believe women do in the washroom. Also, when women go into the washroom they all magically turn into thin, boobalicious lesbian vixens. That explains the abundance of fat ugly chicks; they’re in disguise! But whatever I THINK women do in a public bathroom, I know exactly what men do.

We men do our business, a #1 and/or a #2, wash our hands (hopefully) and leave.  What we don’t do?

Talk.

Talking is forbidden. Just like not  leaving an empty urinal spacer between two men draining the trouser snake. Of course, not every man understands that. There are a few men that break the man code, a few very sad little unpopular asshats that nobody likes.  These men are bathroom talkers.

One such bathroom talker is a particularly BAD bathroom talker.  He has an uncanny ability to be in the washroom when you walk in, and can sniff out exactly who it is from underneath the stall. He then proceeds to have a conversation with you from inside the stall, and the worst part?

You can’t leave. You can’t leave, because he’s the BIG BOSS.

But not having the normal man bathroom etiquette wasn’t the worst part. The abysmal rotting disgusting smells coming out of the stalls wasn’t the worst part either.  The worst part was his completely spastic anus.

I don’t know what this man eats, I really don’t. But judging on the noises coming out of the stall, his diet is a combination of dark matter and nitro glycerin.  He alternates between disgusting, porcelain splattering sharts and dropping HUGE water breaking plopping turds.

It’s really disgusting.

• Boss: Spaz, is that you?
• Me: Ugh…
• Boss: Good, you’re here. Can we talk about the most recent test results?
• Me: Ugghhh.. (do I have a choice?)
• Boss: Good. Huuunngghh.. PLOP.  What results. HUNNNGHHHH! PLOP plop plop plop.. did you get on the last tests?
• Me: We haven’t received the results yet.
• Boss: Huuuunnghh PLURRPPPPBTH! Oh boy, HERRRRRMMPHPH plurphbbhhhttth
• Boss: Did you order a rush analysis Huuuuuughh PLOP
• Me: It’s due this afternoon.
• Boss: PLOP PLOP splish PLOP PLOP splursh PLOP
• Boss: HUUURGHHHHH! PLOP! Come see me when HUURRGHHHH! PLURPHHHBTH PLOP splish PLOP PLOP Faaaaaarrrrrt PLOP splish
• Boss: When you get the URRHHHGGHHHHGHH PLOP plop SPLISH plop URRGHHHHHH plop HUUUUNNGHHH splish PLOP
• Boss: Results of the testing HUUUUNNNGH!
• Boss: HUUUHNG HUUUUUUUUH HUUUUUUUGH HUUUUUUUUUUGH HUUUUUURGHHHHGGH

PLOP!

• Boss: Please and thank you.

He then exits the stall, winks at you, and thanks you for the meeting.  Like it was some sort of special treat to sit there and listen to his rectal explosions hit the back of the porcelain like some sort of horrible chocolate coloured train wreck.  Like I was supposed to enjoy that crap. Like I’m some sort of sick disgusting plop talker like him. Like I’m his bitch.

Yea, Ok. Maybe I am his bitch. But I’m done. Next time that jackass want’s to plop talk, no only am I ignoring him, but I’m shutting the lights as I walk out.

See ya’ll in the unemployment line!

poo, social commentary asshole boss, plop talker, poo, shitting and talking, washroom talking

When I say Tim Hortons to a Canadian, they know what I mean. As a matter of fact, Tim Hortons is so Canadian that we don’t say Tim Hortons. We say Timmies.

For you Americans, you can liken Tim Hortons to your Starbucks.  Except that Tim Hortons is WAY more popular up here than even Starbucks is there.  We probably have a Tim Hortons for every 5,000 people up here. No shit.

And in my city of whitey Ontario, there’s so many Tim Hortons that there’s two places where there are Timmies right across the street from each other.

I don’t know what Timmies puts in their coffee.  I have no idea, but whatever it is, it has us retards paying $1.45 for what is essentially a dirty cup of water.

Now, there’s something about Timmies. Something very interesting.  It generally isn’t the doctors and lawyers and the rich mafia types that frequent there. No, it’s the lowest common denominator that we have here in Canada. This lowest common denominator both frequents and works there.

That lowest common denominator is white trash.

Yes, I have been sucked into this white trash infested coffee joint, almost daily. I have to get my fix. But that doesn’t have to mean I like it.

There is two problems with the Tim Hortons employees.  Well, it’s really one problem. You see, it is a minimum wage job and they pick among the lowest of the low, which means you get some seriously idiotic employees.

It’s not the students so much. They work there to make some extra cash before moving onto bigger and better things. No, it’s the lifers that are the serious idiots.

And it’s not like Tim Hortons doesn’t know they hire idiots. They know they do, and they don’t care. As a matter of fact, they understand the dynamic so well that the uniforms include stretch pants. They know that the employees don’t just throw out the day olds – no, they recycle them into poo.  And fat.

Now look. I have nothing (much) against the morbidly obese, I just don’t want them handling my food.  And when I pull up to the drive through window and she’s so fat that her rolls are pushing out through her skin tight size 3XL winter jacket, I have a problem. I don’t care if the coffee is too hot to handle, do NOT touch the lid. That’s where I drink the coffee from, and you look like you haven’t washed in years.

How exactly retarded to you have to be to ask me if I want a tray for my three coffees?  No you fucking tard, I’ll put two of them in my cup holders and hoop the third.  Idiot.

Now listen you retarded Tim Hortons Employee.  Look at the drive through before you take the order. Why? Because the car ahead of me hasn’t pulled up all the way and you’re asking for my order. Don’t ask for my order and then tell ME to wait until I’m in front of the speaker because you can’t hear me.  Well no DUH you can’t hear me you fat piece of shit!

Now, I know it’s tough making coffee. Real tough, like brain surgery tough.  When people order portions of milk and sugar, they do it in multiples of one.  Like a double double. Two milks, two sugars.  Or maybe I’ll order two milks, and one sugar. Then you put two portions of milk, one portion of sugar. So when I ask for a half milk, don’t fill the fucking cup halfway with milk you TARD!  A half milk is a half portion of milk. Who the HELL does a half and half on coffee and milk? I guess YOU, idiot!

The retardation doesn’t end there.  See what happens when you want a white bun with your chilli?

• Hortons Tard: What bread with your chili, sir?
• Me: A white bun.
• Me: No, not a brown bun. A white bun.
• Me: Put the bagel back, I wanted a white bun.
• Me: A scone isn’t a white bun.
• Me: DO YOU REALLY THINK I WANT TO DIP A HONEY CRULLER IN MY CHILI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! GIVE ME A WHITE BUN!

Of course, there’s the entitled drive through fuck tard. You know the one that orders the entire menu, getting the poor fattie on the other end of the speaker to describe each menu item – twice?  All I want is a fucking coffee but fattie white trash is too lazy to heave her bulk out of her ’87 Topaz and study the menu inside where she won’t be inconveniencing anybody. No, because the drive through stops for her.

But, aside from retards, fatties and the rest of the unwashed masses, Tim Hortons makes a great cup of coffee.  And I guess it must be worth it, because I won’t stop going there.

rant, social commentary, Uncategorized coffee, fat tards, Tim Hortons, Tim Hortons Coffee, Timmies