I’m tired of all the smug assholes who eat organic foods and drive hybrids.
What’s the opposite of green? Red?
Whatever it is, I want it. I want it bad.
I want a carbon footprint the size of Godzilla stomping Tokyo.
Every time I buy your product, I want to know that an endangered species has died.
And not one of those ugly benthic freaky fish or nasty killer wasps or Amazonian fruit snakes, either.
I want it to be some cute fluffy creature that you could hug all day that snuffs it for all eternity.
And then, grill it.
Tag: dirty
The Language of Ice Cream
My car got a flat tire right outside of an ice cream shop.
Is this the universe’s way of telling me that I should have ice cream?
You know, Galileo said that the language in which God made the universe is mathematics.
What if he was wrong? Maybe the universe was written in the language of ice cream?
If so, ISO-639 should include a language code for ice cream: ic.
And you could tack on dialect codes for different flavors, such as ic-rr for Rocky Road.
A rocky road that flattens your tire in front of an ice cream store.
Fail
Every time I watch baseball games, I like to see the look of joy on the faces of kids who catch foul balls.
Or some adult catches the ball, but they hand it to a kid.
A foul ball. A ball hit out of play.
A failure.
And yet, a kid out in the stand gets so such joy out of it.
That’s way, way different from you laughing at my latest fuckup at work, kid.
That’s a mistake.
Me, I don’t laugh at others mistakes.
I learn from them.
Like, who to fire next.
Pack up your shit and go.
In Heels
She hates driving in heels.
“Try my shoes,” I say.
So, we swapped feet.
“Much better,” she says.
She hates how the seatbelt feels on her lap in that skirt.
“You’re not on your period, are you?” I ask.
She says no.
So, we swap a bit more.
And even more when she complains about the shoulder strap across her tits.
We get to the restaurant, but never make it inside.
“Take off my panties,” she says, undoing my belt.
We fuck, and it really hurts.
Ten minutes without her pussy, and she forgets to let it get wet first.
The Unholy Grail
Okay, so you know about King Arthur and The Holy Grail, right?
It was the vessel from which Christ drank, and any who drink from it are healed of all disease and illness.
Well, I know about the Unholy Grail, from which those who drink are poisoned and suffer greatly.
Still, no matter how many times you warn the guys, the moment she spreads her legs, they all come with their tongues waggling and licking.
Then, they come crawling to me, begging for a sip from the Holy Grail.
“It’s in the dishwasher,” I say, and I slam the door.
Angels Union
The Angels Union Hall was filled to the rafters with angry Heavenly Hosts.
Despite famines, floods, and wars, the humans multiplied rapidly.
“And yet, God hasn’t created more of us to handle the workload,” growled Gabriel.
“Lucifer’s hiring devils and demons,” said Moroni. “Why can’t God hire more angels?”
“What about saints?” asked Michael. “They help, right?”
The boos shook the stained glass windows.
“Ass kisser!” shouted Gabriel.
Eventually, the angels voted to strike.
Some scabs continued to cross the lines. Moroni and Gabriel whispered into the ears of false prophets.
God didn’t give a shit. “Let ’em worship cats.”
The Rose
A rose by any other name is still a rose, but we knew her as Circe.
Whenever I was being an asshole, she’d call me an asshole.
And whenever I wasn’t, she’d still call me an asshole, because she knew it was only a matter of time.
She told me she was listening to all of my stories from the beginning. It gave her something to look forward to.
How do you respond to that? Their last months… weeks… days.
I know I wouldn’t waste my remaining time on that shit.
It must have been the morphine, clouding her judgement.
The Collection
I keep my knife collection in my back and my stamp collection on all these envelopes I keep filling with money to keep you from adding to my knife collection.
You bitch. You evil bitch.
How much is enough? How long do I have to suffer?
You never answer me. you just send another envelope to fill, so I know the answer: as long as I live.
Or, as long as you live.
Now, I keep my knife collection in your chest… your throat.
My last two stamps are over your eyes.
I am free.
… and another envelope arrives.
The Original Fake
Let me tell you about the greatest comedian in all of Second Life.
Her jokes aren’t original at all, if you can call them that.
It’s just funny shit she’s ripped off some site that’s ripped them off of Buzzfeed or Twitter or Reader’s Digest.
She reads them in her roadhouse comedy club, which is a copy of a place that this guitarist chick once ran, but with a bunch of posters and stuff plastered over it.
So, how is she the greatest?
Because she’s made a complete joke out of you who believe that, and I can’t stop laughing.
The Angry Rug
I hate it when I get pulled over for total bullshit.
Especially when I’m not driving.
“PULL OVER!” yells the cop. “PULL OVER!”
I stop walking and stare at the cop.
He swerves to box me in. And then he takes his time before he gets out.
“Do you know how fast you were driving?” he asks me.
I’m not driving. I’m walking. On the sidewalk.
The cop pulls out his taser.
So, I fall on the ground and shout “I am a Persian Rug!”
The cop holsters his taser.
Whew.
I hope that the rug union doesn’t get angry.