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Rude Bastard

Sep. 22nd, 2007 | 12:31 am
mood: amusedamused

So I'm in the parking lot outside of Dairy Queen, sweeping up shit that people throw on the ground because they're too lazy to find a fucking trash can. I walk over to the drive-through window to sweep and pick up the skimpily-filled  Children's Miracle Network charity box, and there's some crack whore sitting in an old Buick smoking a cigarette. While I'm sweeping up the trash near the window, the woman takes a huge drag out of the cigarette, throws the fucking butt at my feet and proceeds to blow smoke in my face.

Instead of ripping the woman a new verbal asshole, I keep my cool and try to finish up so I can walk away. During this process, however, the woman keeps speaking inane, redneck drivel:


What kind of logic is that? "Oh, I'm sorry ma'ame. You see, I shoved that cigarette butt into your eye because I was pissed. I've had a bad day, and now that I've apologized it makes everything okay."

I remained silent and when I walked away I could hear her and her crack fiends cackling about something. I figured they were poking fun at the fact that we were all slaves to a society of grease, slavery and exploitation, but it turns out I was wrong.

Upon reentry, a fellow co-worker approached me and said, "Ronnie, that woman in drive-through said that you were a rude bastard!"

I was pissed for a moment, and then I burst into laughter. People are so fucking hilarious. I'M a rude bastard because SHE flipped a cigarette butt at me as if I were her personal ash tray, and then blew smoke in my face. Me staying cool and walking away REALLY was the most rude thing I could have done.

The whole situation kind of reminds me of the "The Aristocrats!" joke. I've devised a new joke scheme based on small scenarios such as this.

Here's the joke layout:

So, the other day I was <insert random task> when  <traumatic event here>.

I said, "Oh my god, I <insert phrase relative to topic here>"

The <perpetrator(s)> then <insert acts of taboo, violence and desecration, ending in you on the floor>.

<Perpetrator(s) then take a huge dump on your chest>

Looking up at <perpetrator(s)> from the floor, I screamed at them, "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?"

<Perpetrator(s) responded, "You're a rude bastard!"

I'll provide an example:

So, the other day I was driving to work when a guy hit me really hard in the ass end. I got out of the car and I was like, 'Oh my god, I hope you have insurance!" The guy walked over to me, and starting beating me with a tire iron he had pulled out of his back seat. He kept pummeling away at my head, and eventually I collapsed to the ground. After I was on the ground, he proceeded to drop trow and takea huge dump on my chest.

Looking up at the man from the ground, I screamed at him, "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?"

He responded, "You're a rude bastard!"

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My nose is dying.

Sep. 21st, 2007 | 12:23 pm
mood: hornyhorny

Stop bathing in perfume. Take a shower every once in a while and wear some god damned deodorant. You won't stink, and even if you do it's better than agitating allergies and making people sneeze for weeks because of your insecurities.


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Another note about my poop

Sep. 20th, 2007 | 12:32 am

I took another dump tonight. It was the most perfectly shaped turd ever.


It was orgasmic.

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They're coming...

Sep. 12th, 2007 | 01:47 pm

I walked into the room that all the noise came from and I found him sitting there in the corner. He glanced at me, almost menacingly, and opened his mouth to speak. He began speaking softly, but gradually his voice rose to heated excitement:

"Losin' my grip, man. They're coming. They're taking over everything. They're everywhere. Look out  that window. You see them? Those big fucking wooden things that look like The Cross? Yea, man, the telephone poles. They're fucking plotting, man. They're going to get us. I can't fucking take it anymore. Sitting here, waiting to die. Fuck that shit, man! Gimme a gun! I SAID GIVE ME THAT FUCKING GUN OVER THERE!"

He was pointing at a gun on a nearby table. Anxiously, I picked it up, clicked the safety and threw it across the room to him. He snatched the gun from the air, turned off the safety and charged out the back door.


He proceeded to fill a nearby telephone pole full of lead.

"Dude, you need to chill the fuck out," I said.  He sat down on the ground next to the defeated telephone pole,  turning to face me as he struggled to catch his breath.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked.

"I'm...," I tried to answer, but I was still shocked at his incredibly violent behavior.

"I really gave it to that pole, didn't I?" he boasted.




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Sep. 12th, 2007 | 12:18 am

The other day, I had the most amazing fart ever. It was orgasmic.

EDIT: It was later followed by one of the most painful, water-like dumps of my life. It was also orgasmic.

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Stolen from Colby's MySpace Blog

Mar. 30th, 2006 | 01:50 pm

No one really knows what to do sometimes. Maybe all the time; maybe we're drifting through life, looking for answers we'll never find. But i'm okay with that. Why be content? Why have all the answers? Why lose the drive to continue learning new things about the world and yourself all the while fighting the temptation to conform to the invisible dreams and aspirations of society when we all know that cookie-cutter house and white pickett fence in the suburbs with the two cars in the garage that never take us where we need or want to go is not what we really want? That may have been a run-on sentence, but hell, i'm feeling philosophical and thought-provoked right now.

Our generation was cut out to be pirates. Think about it. We spend our whole lives searching for some elusive treasure, some emotional clarity or philosophical answers that lie just out of reach. All the while, in our desperate quest to attain this fortune, we destroy everything in our paths. We secretly dream of anarchy, of chaos, in hopes of breaking free from the expectations put in place by those that came before us. But what is the covetted buried treasure really? Is it that standard of life, the cookie-cutter house and white pickett fence we're expected to chase? Or is it something more meaningful? Maybe it's our desire to figure out why we're here, what to do with our lives, who we are? Maybe it's a combination of both. The cutthroats before us that lay out the ground rules, the expectations, the goals they hoped to achieve because maybe they're the ones that actually worked to build something. What have we constructed? We're floating out at sea, unsure of what this treasure is we're looking for or where to find it, following a vague and time-damaged map, wondering what lies buried in the sand or under the sea. We follow this map, these expectations of our parents, because, as pirates, we're expected to. We go to school, go to college with every oppurtunity, hoping it opens some new prospect of adventure, a pirate's life!, but it's just mundane labor for a vague and unconsidered goal (for our generation, at least), an invisible proclamation of fortune in the form of material gain that will provide an "easier" or "comfortable" life. But that's the thing - we haven't thought through our expectations. We're pirates, expected to ruthlessly search out that lost treasure just because... we're fucking pirates. The raping, pillaging, destruction... maybe this is our frustration towards never having anything to construct of our own. So we tear down what others have worked for. Jealousy? Maybe. But mostly, it's our unspoken rage, our anger towards what we're expected to do. Have we ever had the chance to drop anchor and pause to think about what we want? Have we ever had the oppurtunity to map a new land, to discover something new and experience something for the first time? Maybe even before anyone else in the whole world? No. We're just stupid fuckign pirates, right? We look for booty because that's all we're known for craving. We rape and pillage and burn to satiate our bloodlust, because we're pirates. When in reality, we're just a bunch of kids with nothing to build, nothing to fight and limited in our experiences and values. What have we experienced? What is there to value? We didn't build this ship, but yet it's all we know. We've spent our whole lives on this ship, searching for something that may not even exist.

Fuck that. I'm not a seaman for the money. I crave adventure and uncharted territory. Fuck a bunch of gold, i'd assume always worry about money. My mind is too valuable to risk corruption at the hand of THINGS. Because that's all the gold is. All the suburbs and houses, and cars and fences and even the fucking 1.5 children are. They're seen as both commodities and expectations. And we can't expect this "treasure," if it can even be called that, to fall into our hands. Let's take a chance and change course! Let's see something new, Captain! Gold and jewels won't make you happy! Don't like what i'm saying? We'll mutiny! And if no one is with me, throw me overboard! Make me walk the plank! I'll swim until i die, i'll keep fighting until the world finally sucks me in, because i'd rather have nothing in my hands and a lot on my mind than all the riches in the world but no knowledge of myself or the world i never got to see. That, my friend, is the life of a pirate. A life of adventure over mundane and poorly considered expectations and goals. We're the out of touch pirates seeking a lost cause. I'm reconnecting with my human-pirate roots and choosing a life of passion, adventure and clarity over something temporary and expendable.

If that's mutiny... Throw me to the fucking sharks.

God, Colby is so fucking awesome.

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Define "Jugular."

Mar. 21st, 2006 | 05:57 pm

jug·u·lar (jug-you-lur)


Of, relating to, or located in the region of the neck or throat that should be slit with razors, knives, and/or other sharp or blunt instruments instead of the normal wrists and/or wrist areas.


The jugular vein; principal target for emotional cutting rituals.

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Girlscout Cookie Assault

Mar. 18th, 2006 | 12:57 am



"Great! How many?"

"I don't have any cash on me..."

"Three Thin Mints you said?"

"I kind of like the Tagalongs better..."

"Five Tagalongs?"

"...(fuck you)."

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Women are crazy.

Mar. 12th, 2006 | 11:33 am

There was a girl in class the other day that was wearing perfume that smelled just like orange Flintstone's Vitamins.

What the hell? Why do women wear perfumes that make you want to eat them? I love Flintstone Vitamins. I should have eaten her out of spite.

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Mar. 12th, 2006 | 01:23 am

Maybe it's just me, but Winchester fucks people up in the head. I've got to get out of this town someday...

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