April 30th, 2009 – Update.
Traffic has been down lately, so in an effort to bolster some numbers, I’d like to say this:
SWINE FLU PANDEMIC! OMG!
That is all.
Yea, I still have my subject block.
Sigh.
I wish mom didn’t do crack while she was pregnant with me.
Anyways, here’s some filler while I’m out getting my mojo back.
Enjoy!
I don’t know what’s going on. I have a major case of subject block. My brain has been dryer than Ellen Dengeneris’s vagina at a fireman auction.
So I’m just going to write any and all things that come from my head, first time, no planning, no editing. Not even for spelling.
Not that I edit for speeling anyways.
Moving on.
Fucking hippies. I hate them. Yea, that’s right. I hate hippies. They need to shower. Women hippies need to shave their legs and their vaginas. My god, can you imagine an unwashed hippie vagina? I mean, when you let after sex juice combinations stew just for a few hours it smells like hell. Can you imagine unwashed free sex afro like hippie vagina? I bet she can open her foul legs and drop a fly at fifty paces.
I mean, the hippies general bad hygiene isn’t the only reason I hate them. It’s also along the lines of demonstrating for things they don’t understand and are too dumb to look at the big picture. But hey, that’s what free society is all about, right?
I thought I hated children. But I really just hate what they have become due to helicopter parents. Hey parents! Stop hovering and maybe your children will grow up to be adults! Then again, if you’re not an adult how will they ever be?
Man, I’m such a bitter bastard. Lets’ liven this shit up, shall we?
Why exactly do people have so much problems shitting? Seriously. Every time I’m in the drug store buying bandages, rubbing alcohol and do it yourself burn kits, I see people buying stomach remedies off the shelves.
It’s either stuff to stop the shits or stuff to make the shits.
I eat food, I turn it to poo, I pass it through my ass. At least once a day, usually twice. It rarely comes out runny, but it ALWAYS comes out.
So what we need to do is selective breeding. I mean, I could jerk off into every single sperm jar on the planet, but then we’d all be TOO perfect. And if we were all too perfect, much of my blog fodder (when I’m not subject blocked) would disappear.
No, what we need to do is turn the drug store into a giant dating service.
We’ll force those who have to buy runny shit medication to mate with those who buy can’t shit medication, and the resulting children will be people who shit normally, like me.
Ok, I’m done.
Later everybody.
Did I tell you that I belong to the very best social network ON THIS PLANET?
Seriously.
Humorbloggers [dot] com is probably the best social networking group around. If you have a blog, and you think you’re funny, you should join up. Really.
So anyways, in order to commemorate and draw attention to this kick ass social networking group (owned and operated by the ever lovely Chelle “smokin’ hot” B), I’m hosting the HBDC story meme.
In essence, a group of talented HBDC writers have volunteered to write a story, one paragraph at a time. A communal effort. When it’s all said and done, I’ll be posting the story, in it’s entirety, up on the HBDC website.
Seriously, it’s going to be some crazy fucked up shit. You will NOT want to miss it. Oh, and if you want to read the rules of the meme, click here.
So I’ll be starting off the story, such as so:
Wanda was always confused. Not about work, because she loved what she was doing. Not about her friends or her hobbies,because her social life was great. It wasn’t her looks either, because she was tall, lean and had an absolutely perfect rack, the best money could buy. No, Wanda was confused because she has a penis.
The next person to pick up the story is The Shark Tank.
Followed by, in order:
So if you want to follow it along as it goes, there’s your list to go by. If you want to read it all completely, don’t worry, I’ll be posting the link when it’s done.
Happy funny writing everybody!
It seemed like just yesterday that I was a young twenty-one year old with my whole life ahead of me.
Now that I’m thirty-one I just want to retire already. My pension plan will let me do this sometime in the year 2042. I think I can retire in 2037 with good behavior, or some shit like that. Yay, I’m a bitter bastard with thirty years to stew!
Anyways, one night at around two a.m. my buddies wife sent him and I out for McDonalds ice cream.
Why at two a.m? I don’t know. When I was young I didn’t sleep, didn’t want to sleep, wouldn’t sleep if I didn’t have to. It’s a bit of a different story now.
Also, why McDonalds
Perhaps I’ve said too much.
Anyways, because myself and my buddy were night owls, she would send us out to fill her weird cravings at all hours. And by weird cravings, I mean weird cravings. She would want things like:
Um, perhaps I’ve said to much again.
That night we took my truck, as between our two crap boxes we had deemed mine most likely to start.
I had an air freshener
Well, it was an air freshener when I bought it. Now it just took the fragrance of my truck, which was a mixture of tobacco smoke and fart.
My friend was fascinated with these things. Well, maybe not so much fascinated with my fart balls. It was more like he was infatuated with pissing me off.
He took his finger and flicked one of the eight balls. It ricochet off my windshield and twisted up. As soon as it untwisted itself he did it again. And again. And again.
I asked him to stop it.
He did it again.
I asked him to stop it again.
He did it more.
By this time we were at the drive through window waiting for the ice cream. He wouldn’t stop what he was doing. By this time I was mad as hell and I screamed at the top of my lungs:
STOP FLICKING MY BALLS!
I didn’t see a very surprised McDonalds girl holding out an ice cream in my general direction.
My buddy leaned over to me and said in a not so quiet voice, “Hey Spaz! You should ask her out now!”.
Score one for you my friend, score one for you.
That’s right. I have nothing. My mind is a blank slate of absolute nothingness.
Shit, now I know how Jessica Simpson feels!
So far this week I’ve managed to:
I also managed to somehow drop said hammer on my head, which is probably why my brain is so damned empty this week.
The worst part was when I dropped the hammer on my head. That would explain the lack of thought this week.
But let’s talk about plumbing. Yes, plumbing. I usually enjoy plumbing. However, the hammer dropping on my head (did I tell you about that?) probably made me a little dumb.
But you’re probably thinking that I was dumb already. And you’d be right.
You see, I was working on a job where the pipe I was cutting into and soldering was about 7 feet in the air. Me being the brainiac that I am, I decided not to use a step ladder. So I was working with my hands above my head.
Well above my head.
See folks, ever since some idiot decided that lead was bad for you, there is no lead in solder, at all.
Frigging pansies, can’t live with a little bit of lead poisoning.
But I’m digressing.
What this means is that solder is made mostly of nickle. Nickle doesn’t melt as easy as lead does. That means there can be absolutely no water in your copper pipe in order for you to heat up the pipe to where the solder can melt and make a nice, water tight seal on your plumb job.
There was water in the pipe. That resulted in a nice big glob of solder falling off and resting on top of the pipe.
I find and eliminate all the water.
I turn my torch on and heat the pipe to somewhere at the equivalent to the surface of the sun temperature.
The big glob of solder melts, takes on sun temprature, falls off the pipe and globs nicely on my forarm.
Because I’m plumbing directly above me, like a retard.
So now it looks like I got shot in the forearm with a small game shotgun, because burning hot solder splatters.
Sigh.
If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to lock myself up in my bedroom and play with my shattered glass collection, so I can’t possibly injure myself further.
