And I don't even believe in the existence—let alone the divinity—of Mr. C. (So why would I tell him what I hate? Because he listens, that's why!)
Anyone who posts a comment on a blog or other web-based doohickey—I'm lookin' at you, Farkers and Metafilterers ... and it ain't pretty ... good thing I'm horribly nearsighted—asking some shit like "Can someone explain to me why [X movie, comedian, comic strip] is funny?" or yapping some irreleventsia like "I fail to see the humor in [X]" should get a fluorescent tube shoved up his or her urethra and struck with a rubber mallet.
Humor is personal, assholes!
There, I said it. Seriously, there is probably nothing more personal, not even sex, not even noisy, stinky bowel movements. Nonexistent god, I wish people would shut up with that shit.
Tomorrow, Slut Kings, Abortions, and Horseshoe Sandwich, definitely. I came across a cache of Iggy & the Stooges alternate takes on a website which shall remain nameless, and I'm too busy to post crap to my own crap blog now.
Oh yeah, get drunk tomorrow, ya sick fucks. It's your Lenten duty.
4 comments:
I don't know what you people see in 1980's Midwestern punk rock. Why don't you post some Mr. Myers?
In re: Farkers, can anyone explain to me what the appeal is in having shards of broken glass sticking out through the bleeding, lacerated skin of your stubby little tiny microscopic penis?
Alternate answer: I don't have any Mr. Myers. I might be able to drum up some Howard and the White Boys, though, but it could take a few days.
In re:glass penis, people with regular penises shouldn't throw stones. You might break something. Of mine.
So? What harm would that do you?
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