Glaring Madness

Want Some?

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 02:01:00 +0000

The Borgata Winter Poker Open starts Tuesday, January 17th with the $500 + $60 Deepstack event (half million guarantee). This is your last chance to lock up a piece of my action! $8 per 1%, people. If you're interested, email me at kimshannonpoker@gmail.com to discuss the details. GO ME!!! (Go us!!)

The Most Entertaining Poker Players To Follow On Twitter

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Wed, 13 Apr 2011 23:33:00 +0000

I'll Have What The Naked Guy On The Roof's Having...

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Sun, 06 Mar 2011 05:37:00 +0000

In the midst of Charlie Sheen's recent meltdown, I've decided to weigh in with my own opinion on drug use. It occurs to me that many folks out there are perfectly capable of controlling themselves during an extended period of drug-induced debauchery. Take Keith Richards, for instance. He's been in a chemical fueled haze since about 1965, but you never hear about him running into the street naked, brandishing a firearm, and threatening to eat Portugal unless somebody removes the spiders from inside his kidneys. Courtney Love is a different story altogether. She pops a Xanax at 5:00 and by 5:30, she's being led away in cuffs.

I get the feeling that most of you are probably too baked right now to have comprehended that example, not that I blame you. So as a public service to stoners, trippers and tweakers everywhere, I'll give some additional scenarios. If any of the following reminds you of your OWN behavior, please cease and desist any and all drug use (no... you don't have to want to do it for YOU, like the rehabbers say because the ENTIRE REST OF THE PLANET wants you to do it for THEM, and that's close enough) and add your name & photo to the comment section of this post so I can easily spot and shun you when you crash my next party.

Marijuana

Hey hey, this party is off the chain! Unfortunately, you'll never know because you've decided to hit the three foot bong and go sit under the trampoline in the backyard and "groove." This would normally be fine, but you've also decided to bring a guitar with you and clumsily strum through Wish You Were Here, making sure you really emphasize the "two lost souls swimmin' in a fish bowl..." part. Again, this is borderline excusable, but you've played it five times now and nobody is interested in "singing along," and they still won't be interested, even though you keep singing it louder and louder. Why can't you be like the rest of the stoners here? They seem to be perfectly happy just sticking their heads in a bucket of ice cream and BBQ sauce and listening to "Car Talk" on NPR. Are you still trying to get laid? Is that what the problem is? Oh, Christ. Are you actually playing More Than Words? You just hang tight, toots... I'm gonna go throw up.

Cocaine

Whoa! There you are...yeah. I see you. Okay, get out of my face. You keep sniffing, and rubbing your nose. No, I think it's very cool that you managed to get a hold of some "yayo," and I get that that is what's happening and you can now stop manufacturing this persona in which you behave as if you're on coke even though you are on coke but just to make sure I know you're on coke you keep doing that thing like Leonardo DiCaprio's retarded character in What's Eating Gilbert Grape? Yes, I do think your breath smells like cocaine. Is that because you're on cocaine? What a surprise! Well, yes, I'd love some. Does that mean I have to pretend to like you for the rest of this party, though? It does, doesn't it? You're going to follow me around all night bitching about "the drip," regardless, aren't you? Shit. Oh, we're having a serious talk now? You'll never live up to your father? Go buy another 8-ball at the strip club and get in line, Tony Montana.

Ecstasy

And there you are miss thang--no I haven't missed being out of touch for the past three years, but you seem pretty fucked up. I like it how you keep touching me and my hair, though. No, wait. Now you're touching another person. Now you're touching a wall. Now you're licking the side of my beer bottle. Oh, toots. You've done some E, haven't you? Yes, I see, you've got the whistle and the glo-sticks and everything... I should have known. Yes, I do love kittens. Yes, they are magical. Okay, I'm going to be honest, you're weirding me out there when you wave those glo-sticks in my face. And there goes the whistle - that's soothing, toots. Look... that's really loud. Yes, even louder when you blow it right in my fucking ear. Yeah, fine - let's make out in front of this crowd of horny men.

LSD

Helllloooo, "that guy". We were having such a nice time just now, until you decided that it would be a good idea to "snap" and crawl into the dumpster and cry about how you are a "fraud" and "living a lie." This just dawned on you? We're all a bunch of goddamn frauds and now we're supposed to get you out of that thing? No, I don't think chopping your penis off is the answer here. I feel sorry for you, but now is not the time to work out your "issues." I've got an idea: How about you hang out in that dumpster and cry while the rest of us slink off and pretend this weird episode of yours didn't happen. Oh, now you're happy and want to "hug" and frolic amongst the trees and "nature?" Shit, I liked you better when you were stuck in the dumpster crying, deliberating over whether or not to swallow your tongue. And for your files, that thing you're caressing isn't, as you claim, the Virgin Mary...it's an old toilet.

Methamphetamine

Nice meth-mouth, toots. Nah, I don't think teeth are that important, either. I know I know, you feel totally sexy don't you? Well, unfortunately, your face looks like an anus with two eyes glued to it... not so sexy, pal. What's that you say? No, I disagree. I think it WILL hurt if you punch a hole in your driver's side window. See...told you so.

Do you recognize any of the behavior I've just mentioned in yourself? If so, perhaps you could look into a new kind of "high." Exercise is an option, but there's always the looming danger of a pants-pooping heart attack just around the corner . Hey...is any of this even registering? Look at you. I have to say, you're giving drugs a bad name. What are you on right now? Glue? No, seriously - you've been huffing glue? SPRAY PAINT???!!! You've gotta be kidding me. Here's $5.00... have some self-respect and get some VCR head cleaner like the classy junkies do.

If You've Seen Her In Her Period Panties, She Can't Stand You...

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Sun, 20 Feb 2011 04:42:00 +0000

After realizing that what's-his-face made a HUGE fortune after writing the book “He’s Just Not That Into You” (where the author crushes womens’ dreams by telling them their fuck buddies will never marry them), I have decided to capitalize and write a little notice for all you confused and hurt men. The following are the signs that you should look for in your relationships to find out if she really can't fucking stand you. So don’t spend another night crying yourself to sleep, fellas. Stop whining your buddy’s ear off over dollar drafts at the local watering hole about what she’s thinking and whether or not she truly loves you. Just fucking stop. You look like a pussy.

Pay attention - I'm not gonna tell you any of this again... She’s doesn't like your stupid ass if:

1.) Another guy’s dick is in her mouth.

It may seem cruel and blunt, but the truth is, if we women are just not that into you, chances are we will feel it’s perfectly okay to give another man, or multiple men (including your best friend) a blowie. Don’t be offended; your dick is fine. It’s just... we think it would be better if we saw other genitals.

2.) She’s kicking you in the nuts.

This is more of a sign she’s not that into you when you’re in that initial pursuit phase. If you try to come near her in a bar and she kicks you in the nuts, she’s just not that into you. Other signs include drinks thrown in your face, beer bottles smashed on your forehead, and any sort of contact made with a tazer.

3.) You have a handsome, talented, rich and hung roommate.

Sorry man, you’ll never be him. If she always wants to have “movie night” at your place and makes you watch your DVDs in the living room while constantly watching the front door and adjusting her shirt to show more cleavage, you might want to rethink her feelings for you. What can you do? Your roommate is the hottest guy in the neighborhood, that’s not your fault... you should just probably move out. When she sleeps over at night, be sure to lock her in your room. That may buy you some time.

4.) She’s put a restraining order out on you.

I know, this one is tough. She may be doing it just to get attention. If she’s actually taking the time to put a restraining order out on you, there might still be a chance. She could be playing hard to get. With this one, it may be a good idea to swing by her house a couple times a night, just to see for yourself if she’s with someone else. Maybe even go to the door and ring the bell then run away. Perhaps leave a small trinket, like her dead dog, on the front porch. But don’t give up hope. Ever.

5.) She starts letting you see her in her “period panties”.
If you’ve seen them, and you know which ones I’m talking about, then consider it an omen of death. Because if she’s gone so low as to let you see her in those off-white but used to be white, stained, up to the belly button Hanes, then she either doesn’t think much of you, or she’s saving Victoria’s Secret for someone else. Like your roommate.

6.) If she makes the "Peeee-Yewww" face when she's blowing you.

The P.U. face, which can consist of anything from waving her hand in front of her nose or scrunching up her face like she just sucked on your dick but it was coated in lemon juice, is a clear sign that she’s just not that into blowing you. She may love you dearly, but do you really want to be with a chick who won’t blow you? Ask your well-hung and successful roommate if she makes the same peeee-yewww face while blowing him before you completely dismiss her.

7.) If you paid money for her.

Guys, hookers will never love you like you want them to. Let them go. I know, she said you were her first, you were the best, you’re a stallion; but was that before or after the money changed hands? The same rule applies if your true love is made of plastic and filled with air (insert Pam Anderson joke here).

8.) If she’s giving the other guy in your threesome head.

It’s a well known fact that in your average threesome, the man that the girl blows first, or most often, is the man she’s truly interested in having a loving relationship with. So you may be doing her doggie-style, but you can’t see the sexy blow-job eyes she’s giving your friend. So smack that ass and enjoy the fleeting time you have together because she’s just not that into you.

9.) You’re clothes shopping, doing makeovers, gabbing in bed all night and spooning and/or watching “The Princess Bride”.

She’s just not that into you because you’re gay. Congratulations gentlemen, you still have a chance. Use that to your advantage. Women feel safe with gay men, and are flattered when found attractive by them. Confess your love as if it pains you to admit it. She'll have a sense of satisfaction from converting you with her irresistable beauty and you'll be satisfied by all the butt sex you'll be having.

10.) She’s Kim Shannon.

I’ll just tell you right now... I don’t like you. Sorry. Ummm... your talented, rich and well-hung roommate’s bedroom is the one at the far end of the hall, right?

Resolutions Are Fucking Stupid

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 01:41:00 +0000

The New Year's resolution is an annual rite of passage whereby boisterous hopes for personal growth spout eternal. Tis' the season - for delusions of grandeur & shattered dreams... these promises to ourselves are also the ones we quietly fail miserably to keep. Why? Because once the buzz from the bubbly wears off, we quickly come to the conclusion that resolutions are fucking stupid.

If you want to avoid crippling disappointment by January 7th when your resolutions are destined to fall by the wayside, my advice to you is that you steer clear of these mighty popular yet particularly hard to keep resolutions:

1. I Resolve To Stop Cheating On My Significant Other

But ya gots ta fuck, right? I hate to break it to you (p.s. no I don't), but it'll never happen. If you're a cheater, you're a cheater. And if you're one of those people who rationalizes your disgusting behavior by saying that when you get married, the cheating stops, please proceed to that jumbled junk drawer I know you have in your kitchen, find the tack hammer and rap the shit out of your knuckles immediately. Three times. Like Sister Mary Catherine used to do to my paws in grammar school. That evil, sex-starved bitch.

2. I Resolve To Stop Beating My Wife

The question here is whether or not she deserves the beatings. Nothing gets a household in efficient working order faster than a couple crisp backhands. Personally, I've never been a fan of it, but if the bitch insists on continually falling out of line, then by all means, give that cunt something to think about. Brass knuckle her ass back to submissiveness.

3. I Resolve To Take Down the Christmas Tree

I know, I know, I think this one's ridiculous too. I can't believe how frequently people mentioned this as one of their resolutions. Astonishment aside, if you need a resolution to take down the Christmas tree, you are one gi-normous lazy retaahd. Get up from that shitty Rent-a-Center couch, do your best fruit roll-up impersonation and peel off those crusty old sweatpants you first wet-dreamed into, spit out the wad of holiday caramels causing drool to trickle down your stubbly Travolta ass-chin and coax your wife from her perilous perch atop the teetering stepladder. Before she fucking falls and kills herself taking that stupid star off the dying evergreen's tippy top. Jeeeee-sus.

4. I Resolve To Start Doing Charity Work

This resolution is the classic guilt panic play. Guilty for what, you ask? Ya got me, but I'm sure you know why. Wink wink. The bottom line is this: charity isn't the answer you're looking for. Sure, you may save some inner city kid from turning to drugs or gang warfare. And sure, you may help build a home that houses a family who was about to get thrown out onto the streets. But does it really make you feel that good? You'll be bored with it after a week. Trust me. Just donate a couple bucks online, it's the same difference.

5. I Resolve To Lose Weight

Ah yes, the mother of all New Year's resolutions. For this one, I've got a little story for ya:

I went to the gym once. And what to my wondering eyes did appear, but three gigantor ex-NFL players patrolling the velvet rope barricade controlling the flood of new members into the club. "Fucking New Year's resolutions," I muttered to myself in disgust and reluctantly fell in line, much like the lemmings we all are. I finally managed to bribe my way inside and found yet another line awaiting me. This one nine chubbos deep, all waiting for the elliptical machine. I repeat: the ELLIPTICAL machine.

(Twenty-Second Timeout: I never use this silly concoction. Ever. For a couple reasons actually, the most important one being the crippling phobia of appearing remotely similar to Tony Little at any point in my life. I'm quite certain you know Monsieur Little from those 3am infomercials spastically pimping his infamously terrible Gazelle machine.)

I bravely placed my fears aside and got in that line too. Why? Because I figured there must be a catch if people were actually lining up to ride the elliptical. And I was secretly hoping said catch was that this version 2.0 of the original elliptical massages your genitals while working out. Or something like that. Turns out it didn't. So after waiting two hours in line watching ass cheeks frantically trying to escape from the lycra they were crammed into, I ended up looking like Tony Little after all. Ahh fuck.

Point being, you chocolate sauce guzzlers show up on January 3rd, sweat to the oldies until February 3rd - MAX - and then mail it in for the remaining eleven months, retreating back to the comfort of your internet chat rooms and econo-sized buckets of Bon Bons. Your half-hearted attempts at "fitness" make the gym experience, which is despicable on so many levels to begin with, beyond palpable.

6. I Resolve To Stop Being Gay

Come on toots, you can't stop being gay. It's not a lifestyle choice, you were born that way. Quit the pitiful self-loathing bit, ya big homo, and get on with your flaming self. Besides, gay is so hot right now. Just go suck a dick and get it over with already.

7. I Resolve To Stop Smoking

You're kidding, right? You don't seriously think you can quit smoking, do you? You're addicted. Suckaah. Say you're the first person in history who miraculously manages to stop smoking, completely and forever. You have no clue what's next in store, do you? If the idea of stuffing your face with "Chicorettes" every nineteen minutes and feverishly slapping Nicotrol patches all over your ass upon getting out of the splash closet in the morning sounds appealing, then hey, I wish you nothing but the best.

8. I Resolve To Stop Being So Fucking Cheap

Cheapness is a disease. I firmly believe this and will fight to the death with anyone who disagrees. For the record, there's NO correlation whatsoever to cheapness and the amount of money one person has, or makes. Fact. However, the resolution is a good start, because it means you've identified that you are indeed suffering from this horrible disease. Unfortunately, this won't do you any good in curing it. Sorry. To clarify, if you've done any of the following things, you're a cheap motherfucker:

1. Calculated the tip on a pre-tax, or even worse, pre-tax AND pre-drink basis.
2. Openly denied being cheap and instead suggested that you're "frugal." That's akin to claiming you're not racist because you have a black friend.
3. Blurted out the term "Splitsville!" to your girlfriend when the check for dinner lands on the table.
4. Disappeared into the men's room as your turn to buy a round for the boys neared.
5. Got up at 4am and headed to the malls on Black Friday for some holiday shopping. Then defended this horrifying decision by stating that "the deals are really amazing!" You fucking cheap idiot.

Wow, this topic is a piece in itself, but alas, I must move on.

9. I Resolve To Start Trimming My Reproductive Region

The act of "trimming the fairway" or "manicuring Motown," as it's affectionately been called, isn't all the shits and giggles it's rumored to be. There are serious occupational hazards involved with this endeavor. Before we move on from this particular resolution, I want to point out that I'm not completely ignorant to the fact that trimming one's place where the perverted uncle wants to touch brings with it serious improvement in appearance. Fellas, admit it, most of you could use a little assistance in the "depth perception" department. So if you're going to go there, do the deed with a pair of foolproof, Crayola kiddy scissors. And for you, ladies, leave the vaginal housekeeping to those Korean grandmothers and their hot buckets of wax. They're fucking scientists when it comes to that shit.

10. I Resolve To Stop Buying Everything on Credit

But you don't have any money, how are you going to do that? You need your toys and are you really going to stop going out? Like the instructions on a bottle of Pantene: Pay the minimum. Max it out. Repeat. Then, when that primo balance transfer offer arrives in your mailbox, transfer the fucker. I've heard this course of action hurts your credit rating, but I'm not sure why, that's just being fiscally responsible. Granted, as interest rates slowly rise and the average consumer's fixed cost burden rises along with it, we're going to have a swell of bankruptcies in this country. No worries though, Chapter 11s are destined to become chic. You can bank on this. (Pun absolutely intended.)

11. I Resolve To Cut Back on Texting/iPhoning/BlackBerrying in Bars

I knew this thumb-clicking phenomenon had reached a crescendo when I read about the injuries that have been occurring from excessive messaging volume. "Textitis," a (now) commonly diagnosed overuse injury, is sweeping the nation, leaving a trail of thumb slings and empty ibuprofen bottles in its wake.

To all those in bars and/or restaurants who have their heads buried in whatever techno device they prefer to wield: STOP. You look like a huge, fucking douchebag. It's rude and embarrassing to those whose company you share. While admittedly the greatest flirting technology since IM'ing, there is a point where it crosses the line of acceptability. If you made a resolution to cut back, then congrats, that's checkpoint 1 down the long road to recovery.

12. I Resolve To Start a Blog

"Link to me! Comment on my latest entry! How did you find my site?" Great work! You're almost there.

Congrats, your blog will officially be number 11,365,786 in existence. There are now more blogs than McDonald's cheeseburgers served. Just wait until Michael Dell figures out how to sell computers efficiently to China's agricultural population. Then you'll be able to add three zeros to the aforementioned number. And they hang fuckers for blogging over there. A bit of wisdom: no one wants to hear your rants and/or opinions, nor do we care about the excruciating daily minutiae that comprises your sad existence.

By the way, have you been to MY blog? Oh fuck off, my blog is different.

Say Hello To My Leetle Subordinate...

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Thu, 30 Sep 2010 07:06:00 +0000

Unless you’ve been locked in an INS holding cell for the past several months, you know that illegal immigration is a hot topic. Whenever the issue comes up, it’s only a matter of time before some douchecanoe regurgitates the following snippet of horseshit: "Illegal Immigrants only want the jobs Americans won’t do."

No matter where you stand on illegal immigration, you should find this insulting. It suggests that the transients who have traveled thousands of miles have no greater ambition than to mimic the monkey-servants from Conquest of the Planet of the Apes. Listen... these are real people with skills. Sure, pulling out isn't usually one of them, but I digress....

Given that we live in a country where people are employed to keep guys hard between takes on porno sets, I think it’s safe to say that there aren’t many jobs that Americans won’t do. It’s just that they aren’t desperate enough to do them for three bucks an hour and a can of Goya Guava Nectar.

That being said, I did some homework and found out that there are actually a few jobs that Americans refuse to do and so they are now usually manned by Chico, Pedro, Juanita & Rosa. If you are here illegally, feel free to take these jobs without fear of recourse from "Whitey"; no questions asked.

As a public service for our friends without papers, following are the jobs shunned by Americans that are up for grabs, along with my personal commentary about said career option. You're welcome, my lovely vatos.

May Day Protester

Outside of a few college freshmen and most college professors, Americans don’t give a flying fuck about May 1st. After all, nobody likes a communist. Besides, it’s a lot more fun to get drunk and barbeque on Labor Day than it is to march around like an asshole on May Day.

Because of this lack of interest, evil and vile leftist groups are trying to import their May Day protesters from south of the border, and it seems to be working. Somehow they were able to convince illegals that attending a giant May Day rally was the best way to gain amnesty. After all, nothing says “I’m a patriotic American” like attending a giant commie rally and demanding “justice”. Most illegals seem to enjoy this job, and truth be told, it irks me more than just a smidge. Listen here, amigos... Castrating a rapist is justice. Gassing a murderer is justice. Clubbing a baby seal is justice. Hiroshima was justice. Coming into a country illegally and enjoying the jobs that honest hardworking Americans hate? Well that’s NOT justice. It's just fucking rude.

Clearly, I’m kidding (except for the ‘Hiroshima’ part, and the ‘rude’ part, and the ‘everything I‘ve said so far’ part). Seriously, though... if you really want the May Day protestor job, it’s all yours, homes.

Flavored Ice Vendor

Flavored ice? What the fuck? I scream, you scream, we all scream for ICE CREAM, motherfuckers. If Rocky Road and Pistachio were being served out of that rolling aluminum box o' bacteria, you'd be buying it from Mike, not Miguelito. But this is only water. Frozen. Then splashed with dye (no flavor necessary) and served in a paper oil funnel. Miguelito it is, cabrones!

And seriously... that cart? I know gas prices are high, but it’s 2010, vato! Get a truck. I’d imagine a full-fledged flavored ice truck is expensive, but I see illegals riding around in the back of pickups all the time. At the very least, you should put the cart on the truckbed, don a Sombrero and crank up the mariachi music. It probably doesn’t meet OSHA standards, but you’re already illegal, so who gives a shit?

Roman Catholic Priest

It’s no secret that the Roman Catholic Church is having a hard time finding Americans who are interested in joining the priesthood. I think the whole ass-raping of stellar amounts of altar boys may have a little to do with it. Well, that and the fact that God is imaginary. But I'm not proof positive, so don't quote me on that. Eh, fuck it... quote me - it's the ass raping/God's imaginary thing.

Enter the immigrants. The third world is ripe with superstition AND pedophilia, which makes it the perfect place to recruit for the priesthood.

Imagine yourself as some poor unfortunate soul sitting in a third world shanty town fighting with stray dogs for a half-eaten McGriddle®. Life is bad. Then one day some dude in a big hat shows up offering you food, magical powers, and a trip to America in exchange for leaving your shithole of a country. Did I mention you’d also get all the wine-flavored blood you can drink? Who in their right mind wouldn’t take that offer?

So welcome to America, Father Villareal, or what ever your name is. Eat all you want, just don’t touch the kids.

Fucking The Ugly People (aka the immigrant fuck ethic)

Truth be told, there is one simple reason that immigrants have always and will always be needed in this country: they are willing to do the butterfaces that Americans won’t do.

My great-grandfather left the old country one-hundred years ago on a raft made entirely of shamrock stems and his own B.O. When he arrived in America he had no formal education, no trade, and he’d eaten nothing but raw potatos since his twelfth birthday. But what he lacked in intelligence, skills, and hygiene, he more than made up for with his willingness to sex up ugly girls. Not long after he was processed at Ellis Island he married an American girl named ‘Pig Faced’ Mary Stanley (he didn’t speak English so the name didn’t bother him).

As it turned out, his new father-in-law Nathaniel Stanley, a wealthy industrialist, was so happy that his hideous daughter had found a husband that he gladly welcomed my great-grandfather into the family, going as far as to have a local boy buried alive for making fun of his new Irish son-in-law’s ginger kid appearance. From that day forward my great-grandfather was considered as American as -apple pie, and everyone lived happily ever after (except for my great-grandmother, who was beaten nightly by her drunken immigrant husband).

This same fuck ethic can be found in our latest batch of immigrants. Just last week I saw a Latino busboy leaving his restaurant for the day. Waiting outside was a girl who looked like a cross between Philip Seymour Hoffman and Courtney Love. Unlike native-born Americans who take their normal looking women for granted, this immigrant boy saw through her disgusting appearance and was grateful for what he had: an easy lay and a possible Green Card.

While the willingness of the illegal immigrants to do our most unwanted jobs is important, their willingness to do our most unwanted people is their greatest contribution to our society. So the next time you and your xenophobic friends decide to start rounding up illegals, ask yourselves this question: Who is going to do all the fatties?

Well, that’s it, kiddos. As always, when you are done trashing the article & proving that the concept of sarcasm is lost on you, why not sweetly tell me if there are any jobs I left off the list.

Savage Beasts...

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 20:26:00 +0000

Baby seals are heartless killers... You can see it in their stone-cold black eyes. If they could scoot their little plump bodies close enough to you, there is no doubt in my mind that they would rip your lungs out and eat them in a split second. I admit... I don’t quite remember all of the exact circumstances around previous baby seal attacks on humans, but I’m sure there are many. If we didn’t protect ourselves from these admitted predators, there is no doubt in my mind that today’s taste for fish will surely turn into tomorrow’s desire for human flesh. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let one of those demented and vile creatures use my ear for a chew toy.

Thankfully, we have brave warriors out there on the ice fighting the battle to keep us protected. I am proud of the hard-working men who ensure our safety. They risk their own lives to maintain a civilized society void of savage attacks by cretins and creatures that have simply evolved as cold, calculating killing machines.

But, like the US military soldiers battling in Iraq, there are other hot spots full of tyranny that we need to eradicate as well. After these brave paladins control the dangerous, savage seal population, they should turn their attention and sharp axes towards other potential dangers...

Like butterflies. These devilish insects transfer pollen like a whore transfers disease. Any creature evil enough to carry spores from one entity to another needs to be controlled. We must wipe out any of these multicolored carriers of carnage at once.

And panda bears. The mask is a sure sign of evil. Like a robber in the night, these fur balls of fear hide in the mountains of China sharpening long bamboo skewers and preparing for what will undoubtedly become a savage attack on man. No one is safe... Did we not learn anything from our little tête-à-tête with the Viet Kong?

And meerkats. These burrowing little underground death machines are organized and have a complex military that includes centuries standing guard, intricate warning signals, and a plan. Hakuna Matata, my ass! We'd better smash their demonic little skulls before they team up with our domestic squirrels and all hell breaks loose. Stop them before the nuts they gather for winter are your own!

And after our fearless, club weilding heroes wipe out the seal pups, pandas, and every last smirking dolphin, we should focus on those creatures that live among us and have already infiltrated our trust and our homes.

I for one, will be watching my dog verrrrry closely...

The Most Suave World Leader?...

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 19:23:00 +0000

I was watching our esteemed leader, President Obama doing some public speaking/press conferencing on YouTube the other night. After seeing the smooth way he handled the bottomfeeding media scum, I was left with just ONE question - Is Obama the Most Suave Prez of All Time? The answer is: not yet. But I'm thinking he might take that title by the end of his first term at the very latest.

So, kids, who IS the pimpingest prez of all time? It's a pretty tough one to call... so I've scoured the history books to bring you the most deviant bunch of Presidents to ever serve at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Some of the facts are based on facts. Some additional facts are based on hard evidence that I either misheard or whole heartedly fabricated. The names are real. The presidents and their mistress slutbags are real. Some of the other stuff is too... Doesn't matter... I'll see you in hell.

1. John "F Anything That Moves" Kennedy -AKA- Jack "Can't Get Enough of the Grassy Knoll" Kennedy

Arguably our nation's premiere Gigilo in Chief, Kennedy was notorious for his womanizing. He was even rumored to have banged Marilyn Monroe, which is more than you can say for Zachary Taylor.

2. William "Goin South" Clinton
Once describing himself as "The Only Black American president", given his poor upbringing in rural Arkansas. I whole heartedly agree that he is indeed a black man, but only because he seems hell bent on chasing fat white chicks. Clinton was the mack daddy of presidents. Not only tagging broads during both terms but also while he was governor of Arkansas. He even married a lesbian... His indiscretion with Monica Lewinsky will no doubt be his undying legacy. The name Monica Lewinsky is so hewn into the American lexicon that as I write this, Microsoft Word not only didn't offer to spell check her last name, it referred to it as a verb.

3. Lyndon "EL-BJ" Johnson

Following in the footsteps of John F Kenney this southern democrat and former "Dixiecrat" wasn't as brash with his dangerous liaisons with Alice Glass. Alice Glass was born in Lott, Texas, and attended Texas Christian University. (I think MOST adulterating Co-eds always come from Christian Universities). She met LBJ prior to his presidency and rumors abound that their affair lasted well into his term and a half in office. In fact during a botched attempt at phone sex, LBJ instead of dialing Ms. Glass instead dialed his secretary of state Robert McNamara who, without question, mistakenly deployed 20,000 more troops to Vietnam and 1 in the stink.

4. Thomas "Ride Sally Ride" Jefferson

There's no nice way to put this... Jefferson banged slaves. He banged'em by the hundreds. He banged'em like the boat to Liberia was leaving tomorrow.
Though he spoke openly against miscegenation (the amalgamation of whites with blacks) during the day, at night, when the lights were out, he was all about the booty. And it didn't matter what color booty. He held these truths to be self evident. That pussy is pussy and he got his share of trim.

One woman in particular, Sally Hemming, is said to have bore six children from Jefferson while serving with him at Monticello after his wife passed away. This left many historians to theorize that the real reason Abraham Lincoln later penned the Emancipation in Proclamation in 1863 was because half of those enslaved were somehow related to Jefferson.

5. Dwight "D-Money's on The Dresser, Bitch" Eisenhower

Ike, Ike Ike. Didn't you learn anything from Jefferson? Don't fuck the help! Kay Summersby served as Eisenhower's personal chauffeur during WWII, during which time, Ike made several attempts to park it in her ass. Unfortunately, according to Summersby's 1976 autobiography, they were never able to fully commit to the act because Eisenhower could not get it all the way up. Ouch! If you're going to be a dog, Ike, at least make sure to bring the bone!

6. Franklin "Sell-A-Ho" Roosevelt

Not even getting struck down with paralysis could stop FDR from getting his. He kept banging his mistress, Lucy Page Mercer Rutherfurd, even after he was wheelchair-bound! Now that's determination to the art of being a scumbag! His wife Eleanor became so upset over the affair that she became anorexic. This gained her some points in Franklin's eyes because she was now skinnier; however she was still unattractive and old. No sale. It is a well known fact that Lucy Page Mercer was at FDR's deathbed with him when he died, possibly fellating him.

7. George H.W. "Gonna Tax That Ass" Bush

In fairness, Bush Senior should probably be exempt from criticism for practicing adultery, based solely on the appearance of Barbara. If your wife looks like the ghost of George Washington, you should be able to do whatever you want to avoid getting into bed with her.

His side piece of choice was Jennifer Fitzgerald, who worked for Bush "in a variety of positions". They got their swerve on pretty consistently over the years while Fitzgerald served as his "close personal advisor". Eventually, Big Barb got wise to the shenanigans and insisted that he assign her to an overseas position that would put her well out of fucking range. Bush made her the U.S. diplomat to the United Kingdom, which forced him to travel across the Atlantic to get some non-withered strange.

8. Millard "Fills More Women" Fillmore

Never elected to office he was named president following the death of Zachary Taylor. He was the last president to serve as a member of the Whig party--a party based on supporting the supremacy of Congress over the Executive Branch and favoring a program of modernization and economic development. In addition, they liked to wear white powdered wigs and white line cravats when they "got it on". Millard was no exception. He is said to have not only had the largest genitalia of any US president, which he referred to as the Secretary of Fuck, but he also had the larges number of elicit affairs. Somewhere near 150 total. In fact, when Franklin Pierce ran against him, his slogan was "Pierce for President. Fillmore fucks everybody" Though it was no "Tip-a-Canoe and Tyler too," Pierce was ultimately successful.

9. Warren "G-I Meant To Pull Out" Harding

Historians have long debated over whether Harding was a shittier President or Husband, but no one has ever argued that he didn't suck at both. Harding first put his mac on a shorty named Carrie Fulton Phillips. When he ditched her, The Republican National Committee kept her quiet about the affair by sending her and her family to Europe and giving them 50,000 bones, which, by today's standards is something like 11 billion dollars.

But Warren G was not done regulating that ass yet. At the age of 55 he started banging his neighbor's 21-year-old daughter, Nan Britton. Britton later gave birth to their illegitimate love child, Elizabeth. Harding promised to support the child but then punked out on the responsibility by dying a couple of years later. The ultimate pimp move!

10. James "A Good Time" Garfield

Only in office a total of 4 months when he was wounded by an assassin's bullet, Garfield wasted no time in getting his. On a trip to New York City, "James to the G" (as he was known to the ladies) met up with Lucia Calhoun. The two of them began an affair that continued after their tryst in New York via letters for many years. Written correspondence in 1880 was the modern day equivalent of a hand job.

AND MY PERSONAL PICK FOR NUMBER ONE PIMPIN' PREZ OF ALL TIME IS:

James "President Boy Toy" Buchanan

Buchanan earns my coveted top spot based solely on the fact that he was by far our cock-hungriest President. The only unmarried Pres in our nation's history, it is generally accepted that Buchanan was a homosexual. What would lead historians to believe this? Just subtle indications, like the fact that he shared an apartment and bed with another dude for 16 years! William R. King (who went on to become America's 16th Vice President, as soon as he got done blowing ten dudes) was Buchanan's roommate and life partner. Andrew Jackson referred to the couple as "Aunt Fancy and Miss Nancy" (no lie).

So, just based on the sheer audacity it took to simultaneously be a a Flamer and The President of The United States of America in the mid 1800's Buchanan gets my "Pimpingest Prez of All Time" rating.

Don't Be Irridiculous...

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 05:49:00 +0000

There are several words and phrases that have been chewing at my sanity for as long as I can remember. Rather than suffer in silence alone, I have decided to share them with you, dear reader... not because I'm trying to change the world, but because misery loves company.

While reading the following examples of said words and phrases, ask yourself if they truly make sense. If you answer "no", you're one smart cookie - and you are invited to boycott each and every one of them with me.

*Spoiler Alert: If you answer "yes", you're an idiot. Okay - let's begin, shall we?

"Fuck the shit out of her"
Here is a common bar phrase uttered by Mr. Alpha Male to his pack while out on the town... He sees a hot girl and tells his boys he'd like to "fuck the shit out of her". Really? You want to perform coitus at such a vigorous rate as to cause the female to defecate? If I were you, Mr. Alpha Male, I think I'd rather "fuck the shit up inside her so that she never craps again." After all, a girl that puts out and never craps is totally the marrying type. Yeah. THINK about it...

"Literally"
If you don't know what it means, don't use this word in a sentence... PLEASE?? I heard a woman say, "That driver was going so fast! He was literally flying down the road." No he wasn't. He doesn't have wings and he was not soaring above the road, gliding through the air.

How many times does a person need to say "I was literally scared to death" before someone replies with "Impossible, asshole, unless you were dead when you just said that..." ????

Here's the proper use of "literally": You literally don't have a clue about how to use the word "literally". I'd like to beat the shit out of every person who uses the word "literally" when they are speaking figuratively... literally beat the shit right out of them, I tell ya. And hey - if I BEAT the shit out of 'em, some cretin can't FUCK the shit out of 'em.

"Who gives a crap?"
Has anyone ever given you a crap? I've received a crappy gift, a crappy haircut and crappy advice, but no one has ever given an actual crap to ME. Clearly, people don't give handfuls of crap out as freely as some people say they do.

Regardless. No "irr".

"Irregardless"
C'mon, really? This one's just irridiculous.

"Balls out/Balls To The Wall"
This phrase seemingly indicates a point in time when someone is making an extra special effort to get a task completed. Personally, if I had balls, I'd prefer to go "balls covered." In fact, if you are performing something so risky that it calls for a "balls out" type of effort, it would be best if you protected the nuts by keeping them safely tucked in your jeans instead of smashing them into random walls... No?

"At the end of the day"
It seems that things only get settled "at the end of the day", especially for those involved somehow in sales or marketing. Why has "first thing in the morning" been cut out of our lives? Are things automatically summed up at midnight? The next time someone says, "Well, at the end of the day, it's all about client relations", I encourage you to respond with, "What's it all about at the beginning and in the middle of the day, douchebag? Client relations can eatabagadix for breakfast & lunch, I guess."

(Note: also see such worthless sales/marketing rhetoric as "it is what it is" and "when all is said and done".)

"Taking candy from a baby"
Even if you have the parenting skills of John Phillips, you know babies don't eat candy. Wouldn't it be more accurate to say "as easy as taking dignity from a crack whore" or "as easy as taking the ass-virginity of an altar boy"?

Propel forward, height impaired woman; it is the anniversary of your birth!

"Berfday"
TH! TH! TH!!! Put your tongue against your top teeth & blow out. Hear that sound?? Now say "BURR" before you do that & "DAY" afterwards. Voila!! You just said birTHday. Same sort of reasoning applies to "muhvvuh". Your moTHer will be so proud of you when you get this one down pat.

Remember, kids... practice makes perfect. Begin your training today!

I'm Onto You, M. Noir Douchebag...

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Tue, 22 Jun 2010 20:02:00 +0000

While cleaning out my basement and going through some old magazines, I came across what may very well be the most reprehensible piece of douchebaggery ever produced – M. Night Shyamalan’s American Express “My Life, My Card” ad.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with the “My Life, My Card” ads, they feature a black and white picture of some celebrity (Tiger Woods, Ellen DeGeneres, Martin Scorsese) and show the celebrities’ handwritten answers to a bunch of questions like, “Fondest Memory,” “Wildest Dream,” and “Perfect Day.” I guess it’s supposed to give the reader a “window” into the lives of these people and let us know that those fabulous lives include heavy usage of the American Express card.

Putting aside the idiotic and insulting nature of these ads (like I’m gonna want to buy shit with the American Express card just because that’s the card Ellen uses to buy her strap-ons), the pretentious douchery of M. Night Shyamalan’s answers simply demand recognition.

Here's a recap:

Name: M. Night Shyamalan

Okay, first things first. That’s not your fucking name. Your real name is Manoj Nelliattu Shyamalan.

While I understand your wanting to change your name for use in Hollywood, choosing “M. Night Shyamalan” (just typing it makes me feel like less of a human) violates the two time-honored goals of Hollywood name changes – (1) making it easier for the semi-literate American public to be able to identify you and (2) concealing the shame of your non-WASP ethnicity.

I could understand if you’d gone with, say, Monty Shepard or Michael N. Shanley, but M. Night Shyamalan? That’s a bitch to pronounce and it it does nothing to cover up the fact that your ancestors didn’t come over on the Mayflower, so what the fuck?

And don’t get me started on that pretentioius first initial-middle name-last name thing. Why don’t you, C. Everett Koop, and C. Thomas Howell go jerk each other off in front of J. Edgar Hoover’s grave?

Fondest Memory: Kissing my wife in the rain

This answer is offensive on multiple levels:

First of all, the only thing worse than married people publicly and un-ironically expressing their love for each other is artsy married people artsily expressing their love for each other (in ways that force me to envision M. Night Shyamalan making out with someone).

Secondly, this answer sets the hypocritical, pseudo-artistic douchebag tone that pervades the entire ad. You’re trying to let everyone know that despite your fabulous cinematic success, you stay grounded, you keep it REAL, and you focus on the things that really matter in life, like loving your wife. And you don’t just say, “I love you, Sugar Boobs,” like most guys. You do it with the delicate artistry of a true auteur who remembers sensual moments like a rain-soaked kiss.

Well I got news for you, cock breath – true auteurs don’t do credit card ads. And exploiting your wife’s personal romantic memories to make yourself seem more authentic in an AmEx ad won’t make you the poster child for authentic family values. (As a result, that job will continue to be held by Shawn Kemp).

Soundtrack: My daughter playing Chopin

Your douche-osity goes to new heights with this one, M. Noir.

First off, people who make their kids play classical music are child abusers. No kid likes classical music. Even the daughters of pretentious douchebags like you prefer Hilary Duff to Chopin. That poor girl probably has to hide in her closet to listen to Britney’s Greatest Hits while her father tells his chardonnay-sipping guests about the sonata in D-minor that his little girl just mastered.

And once again you’re trying to look like a guy who wants to deflect attention away from himself, but in reality you just want to let everyone know that your little prodigy can play Chopin. You’re just so punchable.

Retreat: Our farm

Listen up, Nighty – the 380 million people in your native India who earn less than $2 a day trying to coax rice out of the desiccated soil of the Punjab – those people are farmers. You’re a guy who gets paid millions of dollars to keep making the same movie over and over again. You don’t have a farm. You have an estate on what used to be a farm. Instead of grazing livestock, you have little girls running around playing Chopin. And when it starts raining, you don’t celebrate the fact that your subsistence crops are receiving badly needed nourishment, you run outside and kiss your fucking wife. Again.

Wildest Dream: Living in the South of France and writing a novel

The South of France? Really? You might as well have just said, “Living in Generic Artsy-ville, a place that everyone who reads this credit card ad will instantly recognize as a place where fabulously talented artists go when they get tired of working in integtrity-compromising media like film and want to explore the bounds of their boundless artistic talent.”

I’m so on to you.

Proudest Moment: When I see my children overcome fear

Wow. I would’ve thought that a guy who writes and directs big successful movies would have said something like, “Being nominated for an Oscar,” but damnit, Manoj, you are just so genuine and down-to-earth! Makes me want to drive down to Pennsylvania and treat you to a proud afternoon of watching your kids overcoming their fear of being forced to play Russian roulette - how’s that sound?

Perfect day: Walking with my family in the woods

Okay, okay, you love your fucking family. We fucking get it, you queef.

First job: Promotional video for a law firm.

Did they sue you when the video you gave them turned out to be a photo collage of your wife and kids?

Indulgence: Basketball

Seriously, there are about seven non-wheelchair bound people in the United States who I can beat at basketball and I’m pretty sure that you’re one of them. So just stop with the, “Hey, I’m a regular guy who shoots hoops” shtick. You’re not fooling anyone.

Favorite movie: The Godfather

Now you’re really starting to piss me off. “Godfather” used to be one of my all-time favorite movies. But now my enjoyment Duvall collapsing as he says “They shot Sonny on the causeway” will be forever tainted by the knowledge that somewhere, on a “farm” in Pennsylvania, M. Night Shama-lama-ding-dong might be enjoying that same scene (on a screen that makes my TV look like an iPod).

Inspiration: The three black-haired angels that live in my house

Your obsession with your own family is now officially scarier than any of your movies. I’ll lay even money that one of those black-haired angels has a restraining order against you within the next ten years.

My Life: Is about finding time to dream.

Finding time? Dude, people who work real jobs have to find time to dream. You’ve got all fucking day. Or is all that hay baling and crop harvesting on the farm taking up all your precious dream time? Do ol’ Kimmie a favor and kill yourself.

My Card: Is American Express.

And that’s why I’m taking a scissors to mine right now. Die, douchebag.

Thank you, Rob Sanford

Live By The Sword, Die By The Axe Body Spray...

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Sun, 09 May 2010 00:18:00 +0000

When you kick the bucket, it will be the very last thing you ever do on this planet, and your cause of death will be what people remember for a long time after you're gone. That is why your final exit can be such an embarrassment if you do it the wrong way.

In an effort to help you avoid "going out like bitch", here's a list of the most humiliating ways to croak; steer clear of these when you're ready to depart:

Getting crushed by poorly-mounted plasma TV over your bed

Ceilings above beds are for mirrors, not TVs. Duh.

Drowning in a teaspoon of water

"A baby can drown in a teaspoon of water." I am certain you have heard this little bit of home-spun wisdom countless times. But can you imagine being that baby? A teaspoon of water!? How embarrassing. That's such a small of amount of water. Just roll over, stupid baby.

Getting your picture taken with a tiger

Unless you killed it with your bare hands, why? You want a photo of you with a tiger so bad, I have Photoshop- call me. I'll put you in a picture with two tigers and Gary Busey riding a fucking unicorn—whatever you want. I can even airbrush out your deep-set eyes and drool, retard.

Old Age

Get out there and do something. How humiliating is it to have spent 70+ years on this planet and not have done anything exciting enough to kill you.

Cutting yourself while shaving...your balls

There are two things that should never come near your naked balls, guys... a baby and a twin blade disposable.

Re-enacting a stunt from "Jackass"

I don't care what anyone says, and I am probably going to hell for it, but the video of the kid trying to jump the car like he saw on "Jackass" is fucking hysterical. Now, before you judge me, the truth is I don't particularly enjoy watching people get injured. I don't own any Faces of Death videos, and I get a little queasy when I see people getting hurt on shows like "Scarred". But seeing that idiot kid cartwheel through the air after getting hit by the car, followed immediately by the people behind the camera gasping as if this was some totally unforeseeable turn of events, gives me fits of laughter.

Like Vincent Vega from Pulp Fiction

Bottom line - it's embarrassing to die on the toilet, but getting shot with your own gun is just added shame.

As a Suicide Bomber

Thinking you'll get props from Allah after driving your exploding car into a mall, only to learn the horrible truth that you'll be forced to choose between being boiled in molten lead for all of eternity or watching Short Circuit 2 five times.

Like Goose in Top Gun

There are only 40 worse ways to go out than snapping your neck while ejecting during a training exercise so Tom Cruise can overact his way through the last forty minutes of a movie.

Bleeding out following an adult circumcision

Just let that foreskin flap, homie. You can always tell chicks to look at what you've got under the hood.

Drowning during your Born-Again Baptism

Boy, going to all the trouble of alienating all your old friends for Jesus is hard enough, but not even having the opportunity to enjoy years of self-righteous condescension is just a kick in the box.

Severing a major artery while trying to open a can of tuna fish

After stinking up the entire break room with the reek of that nasty-ass cat food, maybe you deserve this fate.

Like Vic Morrow

Getting your head cut off by a helicopter while acting in a shitty movie. Actually, three people died—two of them were six-year old siblings. But we all learned a lesson about racism, didn't we?

Getting eaten by a shark

If you've been eaten by a shark and you're anyone other than a survivor of a shipwreck a la the USS Indianapolis—where was your fucking head? As far as preventable deaths go, this is right at the top. It's not like sharks go wading ashore to attack sun-burned white people at the beach. Human beings were not put on this Earth for the purpose of swimming around in the Pacific within range of primordial beasts with giant teeth. They're there. We're here. Why not

keep it like that?

Chaffing yourself to death with one-ply toilet paper

There certain products in which price should not be an object. Shit tickets are not one of them. The USSR crumbled for a lack of two-ply, you know.

Slipping on a banana peel

Who are you? Magilla Gorilla?Who dies because of slipping on a banana peel? You dumbass. Was it an Acme Banana Peel? Did Wile E. Coyote put it there? Elmer Fudd? Did a piano fall on you afterwards?

Fishing

I'm not talking about those guys who fish for sword fish in the middle of the ice-cold ocean or the guys from "Deadliest Catch". Those guys are MACHINES. I

am talking about recreational fishing. I read a story about a guy in Europe a few years ago who had hooked some big ole fish while sitting on the beach somewhere. He refused to let the beast go and it dragged him out into knee deep water. His last words before being pulled under and drowned by an animal without arms, legs, any discernible weapons, and a big hook in it's mouth: "I got 'em now!" The fish was never found. How humiliating.

From Athlete's Foot

I've seen the commercials, and if those flames caught your pants on fire, you could die. That would be terrible. I'm surprised it hasn't happened before.

Failing to seek medical attention after four-hour erection

And why are you taking Viagra anyway? The day a man stops getting constant erections ought to be a day for celebration.

Like William Rehnquist

Telling your friend that she should go ahead and retire because you can make it through the next year, then dying anyway. Whoops.

Getting bludgeoned by your children

It says something about your parenting skills when one, or both, of your kids takes a ball peen hammer to your skull. And yes, it's your fault if it happens.

Being crushed in your multi-million dollar house in a mudslide

You're not the impoverished victims of the Haiti disaster. You're just some rich ass-wipe who built a house in a stupid place. I don't want to see your fucking sad face on TV asking for help if you happen to survive either. Buy a house on

solid ground, you fucking megalomaniac.

Like Cheng...or was it Eng??

Dying of fear because your Siamese twin brother just died and you're attached

to his corpse . Jee-zus. This would really, really, really, really, really suck. Oh,

and it's okay to call them Siamese, because Cheng and Eng were Siamese, you

over-sensitive bitches.

Strangling on the finish line tape at the end of a marathon

Does anyone feel dirty after chuckling at the Gatorade commercial where the dude is wobbling and falling at the end of a triathlon like those sows with Mad Cow Disease? Me either. That shit is hilarious.

Like Roy Horn

What exactly do you expect when you try to make an enormous wild animal wear a Luftwaffe helmet and ride a bicycle? Just because you have absolutely no shame or pride doesn't mean that cat doesn't have any self-respect.

A tragic Bowflex accident

The most embarrassing thing about it is that you actually own a Bowflex. Seriously, who shells out two thousand dollars for fake exercise equipment? Lift a fucking weight.

While climbing Mt. Everest

This is all risk and no reward. It was cool the first time someone did it, and ever since it has been a total waste of time. I mean you can take fucking helicopter to the top if you want to see it so bad... and if you don't make it, you died doing something that Sherpas do as their job. Really impressive, you rock climbing asswipe.

Looking down the barrel of a gun to see if it's loaded

Which is pretty equivalent to getting hit by a car because you weren't looking as you crossed the street.

Getting your head cut off by a Hall of Fame running back

Becomes even more embarrassing when everybody and their mom knows he's

guilty and he walks anyway. And when Howard Stern makes jokes about it for

the next decade.

Axe Body Spray Poisoning

You can spray all the glorified deodorant on yourself as you want, but it isn't going to get you laid. You are an idiot, and you are broke. You know how I know? Because men with jobs wear cologne.

Whichever way Jay Leno dies

If any single event can stop or at least slow down the degeneration of American society, it would be Jay Leno's removal from the mortal coil. His jokes would be funnier attached to his tombstone, too.

And I have a surprise, kids... Because I know most of you are already totally off balance, I wanted to even things out by mentioning what, in my opinion, are the most uber awesome ways to bite the dust:

~ Of wounds sustained in a triumphant battle with a dragon.

~ Leaping into an exploding volcano.

~ Purposely crashing your spaceship into the sun.

~ Riding a nuclear bomb out the belly of a B-52.

~ Getting sucked into a super black hole.

~ Catching a lightening bolt in your hands to save a baby.

~ Choking on Gus Hansen's pe.... um... never mind that one.

We've Come A Long Way, Baby...

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Sat, 08 May 2010 11:35:00 +0000

Ladies, we should be so proud of ourselves... We are strong, independent and successful. We hold positions of power, run Fortune 500 companies and best of all, we have one night a week at local dive bars dedicated specifically to us. We get free well liquor and cheap beer, which we drink from little plastic cups for several glorious hours. Looks like we've finally made it!

I thought we would forever go unappreciated in the eyes of men – centuries of being oppressed, holed up in the house only permitted to cook, clean and churn out babies. But all is not lost. Ladies Night is the thanks and gratitude we’ve been searching for all these years. Forget equal pay and opportunities, the comfort of not being sexually harassed at work, or being praised for our minds, not out bodies. Cheap liquor and watered-down beer is enough to set our minds at ease and make up for all the demeaning behavior we’ve had to endure.

I have never felt more appreciated and honored than stepping foot into a dingy bar, slipping on a paper wristband and waiting 45 minutes for my first complimentary beverage. I am so grateful for the free booze, you can be sure I’ll sleep with any guy that comes my way. And when I have enough liquid thanks coursing through my blood, I’ve even been known to celebrate this feminine victory with another fellow honoree by taking off my shirt, making out with her and dancing on the bar. There’s no better way to display my new-found female dominance than by towering over my male subordinates while performing a spontaneous and seductive dance. I am woman, watch me chug.

With swelling pride, I gladly attend these celebratory nights. For the first time, I know there are no ulterior motives to these events. We women are in the spotlight. And to all those men who come to our night (and there are so many of you, sometimes even out numbering us), I want to thank you for recognizing our worth. I can see the sparkle in your eyes and read the zeal in your faces – reflections of your appreciation. Even offering to chauffeur me home after the open bar; it shows that you aren’t afraid to take up the less appealing position of caregiver, a position that in the past has only been ours. That alone is enough to make me forgive and forget the centuries of being made to feel inferior. Now we’re finally equals.

Sugar and Spice and Everything Your Mother Has Nightmares About...

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Sat, 03 Apr 2010 13:59:00 +0000

.
.
.
Last time, we took a look at the scary dating prospects facing single women. Lest we forget, dating is a two-way street. Guys are faced with a similiarly dysfunctional crop of potential partners, some of whom are no more than tit-laden cock holsters and others that could induce impotence with a mere glance. Let's meet the ladies...

Heather
Age 36, Elementary School Teacher

You are bound to meet at least one teacher in the dating arena; they are beginning to outnumber illegal immigrants. It may be tempting to play out your dirty fantasy involving a hot teacher you had in high school, but resist the urge. This girl is probably willing to take it up the tailpipe and she’ll pretend to like everything you enjoy, like football or imported beer. But she’s just trying to lull you into submission. She’ll wear down your guard with crotchless panties and chocolate-flavored Anal-Ease, but once you’ve seen her naked, the casual dating phase is over. Her biological clock is pounding, she’s going Corky-Thatcher about turning 40 soon, and she’ll try to condense a three-year relationship into six months. After your third date, you’ve got tampons in your bathroom and holes in your condoms. Everything revolves around kids and her fairytale wedding. There’s no changing her mind, so don’t even bother. She won’t rest until there are five little snot-factories crying non-stop and shitting themselves like they breathe Ex-Lax. And you’ll be paying for them. You think she can afford to support her litter of brats on a teacher’s salary? Unless you’ve had a vasectomy or are an illegal immigrant in need of a green card, don’t risk a date with this one.

Jenn (yes, with two n’s)
Age 28, Hairdresser/Esthetician/Part-Time Student
One look at this girl and you’d be embarrassed to stand up in front of your grandmother. She’s drop-dead gorgeous, on the cutting edge of semi-slutty fashion, and—since it’s her job—is probably as well-groomed pubicly speaking, as the green at Pebble Beach. Nevermind the fact that she’s on her fourth community college in three years (pursuing her teaching degree, ironically) or that she can quote lines from Legally Blonde. Nope, you overlook all the obvious warning signs as Sergeant Schlong orders his 3rd Sperm Battalion to march north and occupy your brain, forcing Commander Commonsense to surrender.

It’s not until you’re spending your weekends watching marathons of "Gossip Girls" in her studio apartment with her Golden Retriever, Puddles, that you realize you’re dating a completely vapid and totally useless collection of molecules, held together by low-rise jeans, hair dye, and 7 coats of mascara. By then, it’s too late. You’re doomed to spend your days discussing how she had to de-fur a fat Greek woman at work, or which sunless tanning product gives her the “most natural” orange hue. Enjoy that, Chief. Your best bet is to learn how to ejaculate from forehead stimulation, become one of her clients, and wear two pairs of boxers when you go for a haircut. You may think this is tantamount to prostitution, but you’re wrong. Hookers charge extra for a shampooing.

Kelly
Age 23, Administrative Assistant

This recent graduate sports an impressive resume and a spectacular rack. Her librarian-like glasses are the stuff of fantasy and your dirty mind runs wild at the thought of banging her in her office’s conference room. You love the fact that she enjoys drinking as much as you do and still has that college frat-party mentality. She has a hot roommate and you’re pretty sure that they’ve shared intimate moments of sweet love during their frequent blackout-level binge drinking. You have wild sex at least twice a day and she usually passes out without any post-sex small talk. Everything seems fantastic. You’re happier than a pedophile at Chucky Cheese. However, when you discover her MySpace profile and see that she has 1893 friends (and by “friends”, I mean shirtless guys flexing) who leave comments like, “Hey hun, luv the new pix. When u gonna come up again? That night wuz awesome” you realize the ugly truth. Your girlfriend is a complete whore. She’s had more semen on her than a fleet of aircraft carriers. In college, she was voted “Most Likely to be Gang-Banged Publicly”—an award that she still has in sorority scrapbook. Continue to date her and you’ll inevitably find out that the star of your little brother's favorite amateur porn video, "XXX_Sexy_hot_webcam_amateur_college_drunk_teen_sorority_slut_bangs_guy_in_bathroom.mpeg” is actually her. And she's the one who gave your brother his copy.

Meghan
Age 27, Marketing Associate

At first, she’s the Mercedes-Benz of single women. Sophisticated and sexy, she has class dripping out her ass. You’re actually a little intimidated by how focused and organized she seems to be. It’s probably that intimidation that makes her so attractive that you become immediately infatuated, even overlooking her full cheeks and thighs—a definite sign that she may pork up once she becomes “comfortable” in a relationship. Against your better judgment—and aside from your friends’ photoshopped images of her head on Ricki Lake’s body—you actively pursue a full-blown relationship. You poor, stupid fuck. Unlike Jay-Z, you now have 99 problems and the bitch IS one.

I feel bad for you, Son. You forgot to ask the one question every girl asks a potential mate, but every guy seems to overlook: you never asked about her last relationship. If you had, you would have discovered that her fiancé just broke off the engagement and moved to Hotlanta to pursue his dream of starting a record label. Under her cool and composed exterior, this caterpillar will emerge from her cocoon as a shark with a gun for a mouth. She’s so mad at men that she can’t even look at her father, but she has to prove to herself that she’s still the stuff of wet dreams. She won’t be ready for a relationship for at least a year, and you’re way too early on the rebound to reap any of the “re-discovering promiscuous sex phase” benefits. Too bad her little excursion into ego restoration comes at the expense of your pride.

I hope you can write off all those expensive dinners as “business expenses.”

A Few Bad Men...

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 10:25:00 +0000

Watch any of MTV’s craptacular shitcoms and you’ll see that it’s no wonder so many single women constantly complain there are no good men left. One gander at the boner-toting, Crisco-haired losers on "The Jersey Shore" is enough to send any sane woman screaming towards the waiting arms of Ellen and her army of G.I. Joe lesbians. Considering the alternatives, you can hardly blame them. But for those who decide take a dip in the urine-filled dating pool, meet a few of America’s most eligible (and typical) bachelors, all of whom are more than willing to pay for dinner if it comes with a ticket to third base...

Bachelor #1
Brent, 28 years old
Strategic Investment Management Assistance Associate

Ladies, don’t be fooled by the long, seemingly important job title or the fact that he works at one of those big-name investment companies. He’s really just a sniveling turd, who sucks off his six managers and does all of the bullshit busy-work for the real breadwinners at the firm. Because of this, he’ll take any opportunity in his personal life to exert authority and push around people he feels are less important. He’s the type of guy that will call you a filthy whore in bed, slap you in the face with his cock and finish in your eye. He’d probably secretly film it too, jerking off to it a few times before putting it on the internet for all his buddies to see (Thanks, dude. But more flattering lighting next time, mkay?). And that business degree from Yale that he’ll mention seven times isn’t working out as planned. As soon as his parents kick him out of the guesthouse, he won’t be able to afford the Nacho Station at 7-11, let alone a romantic dinner. Steer clear of this guy. If he shows up on your blind date, fake menstrual cramps and tell him you have four kids. Then go home, change the batteries in your vibrator and thank Christ that you didn’t let him dry-hump you in his Acura.

Bachelor #2
Slade, 27 years old
Retail Manager/Bartender/Model/Actor

No matter what advice you’re given, you’re going to continue dating this guy as long as he’s interested. Because you’re stupid and horny. Just like him. His Abercrombie appearance renders everything else temporarily unimportant. You view his four jobs as a sign of motivation, even though his “acting” experience consists of pretending to be straight for the past 27 years. He’ll take more time to get ready than you and his lack of female friends will always have you wondering if he ever rode the Meatpole Express to Starfishville. You’ll probably have sex with him a few times before realizing that you’re tired of talking about moisturizer, tanning, and hair removal with someone that doesn’t have a vagina. And his lack of any body hair makes you feel like you’re fucking an infant dolphin. Three months later, you’re still single, more disenchanted and slightly less of a virgin. Do yourself a favor and pass on this guy, despite the temptation. Instead, strap a dildo onto a mannequin and go nuts. You’ll get the same effect without the headaches or obsessive requests to shave his back.

Bachelor #3
J.T., 35 years old
Construction/Snow Removal

It’s easy to fall prey to this hard-working, blue-collar, red-blooded regular Joe. With all the metrosexuals prancing around, his permanent five o’clock shadow, calloused hands and wardrobe devoid of pink shirts are all welcome changes. He’s totally different from your ex-boyfriend, and his huge arms and shoulders remind you of a quarterback from the rival high school’s football team. And they should. Because he was. And he hasn’t changed at all. Run hard and run fast. There’s a reason you stopped giving him handjobs in his parent’s station wagon. You weren’t amused when he farted the chorus of “Paradise City” back then, and it hasn’t gotten any funnier or better-smelling now. He still thinks a fun Friday night consists of picking up a case of Bud (or MGD if it’s payday), playing video games, getting in fights at the pool hall and then banging you for a few minutes before passing out mid-thrust. Date this guy and you risk ending up on an episode of "Cops". The only way out is to act like a bitch at dinner. Talk about money constantly, text message your girlfriends, order the most expensive item on the menu, and when the check comes, slide it to him right away. When you go home, turn on "Cheaters", pour Wild Turkey on yourself, and pass out with a hot dog inside you. What? Doesn’t sound like fun? Then you made the right decision passing on Captain Flannel.

Bachelor #4
Chris (a.k.a. C-Smooth), 24 years old
Student

When a guy refers to himself by his nickname (which sounds like it’s better suited for a rapper), carries his own pool cue, and has sneakers that are whiter than a Klan rally, there’s a good chance he’ll spend much of the night trying to get you into his souped-up, import car with more Chinese lettering than a carton of Wonton soup. He may try to con you with promises of a “dope system, B” or some “bomb-ass trees,” but don’t fall for it. The reason he’s not trying to take you home is because “home” is an apartment he shares with a cousin or homeboy in a seedy section of town, close to the local community college where he’s only a sophomore. If you can tolerate the conversation about his ill-fated rap career or his plans to start his own production company when he graduates, you deserve everything that’s coming to you. In fact, you should probably just take C-Smooth’s bong and smash yourself in the head with it until you’ve forgotten everything you’ve learned in every English class you’ve ever attended. Then you can head straight for the mall and pick up a second job, because you’ll need more money to afford all the silver chains and throw-back jerseys that are required to keep MC GrammarCheck from sticking his “mic” in everything with teased bangs and dark lip liner.

So there you have it: a condensed look at every single guy in America. You know what? You’re probably right. There AREN’T any good guys out there. You should probably go get drunk off Apple-tinis and make out with your best friend while her husband films it. And then plays it every Sunday at halftime. There may not be a lot of good guys left, but there are a lot of jerkoffs that are taken. Take comfort in that.

You're welcome.

Lick THIS, United States Post Office!

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 16:53:00 +0000

Can you think of anything that requires the use of bodily fluids to function? Sure, there's Blondgirl McGlittertits, a hybrid human who runs on cocaine and semen, but I'm talking about something we use every day that needs liquid produced by our bodies to work.

Why, in a time when we can see the textured glisten of a fresh turd in digital clarity while a tranny greedily gulps it down; and watch an entire season of "Perfect Strangers" in a single sitting, are we still using saliva to adhere a stamp to an envelope?

You don't have to pick your nose and rub it all over your tax returns (and believe me, it doesn't make the IRS want to audit you any less). You don't take a dump on your license renewal form. The United States Post Office is the only government agency that relies on spit to function.

Sure, you can get those fancy new sticker stamps, but only if you buy stamps by the gross. And I don't know anyone so in love with their prison pen pal to go through that many stamps. For most of us, it's buy a stamp at the post office for the one thing we're there to mail. Then you put your coins in the machine and pull out a lickable document that will get your minimum credit card payment to Omaha by Thursday.

Envelopes aren't getting off the hook either. They've got to have a lick to work, and that's just medieval. Some envelope companies have come out with the peel-off adhesive areas. Genius. Why is this still the exception and not the rule?????

Pick out a greeting card, any of them: "Sorry I Touched You There, Nephew,"
"Congratulations On Your Retirement - Religious," "Happy Birthday, Butcher," it doesn't matter, chances are, your good intentions will be accompanied by an envelope you slobbered all over......

Moisture-activated adhesive was invented in 367 B.C. by the Chinese. Granted, the adhesive was saliva itself. Still, it should have been replaced by a superior invention centuries ago. Or, if it's so perfect, why not use it everywhere. Instead of Post-it notes, walls should be finished with lickable adhesive. Then we could lick the wall and slap a normal piece of paper up there to remind ourselves to throw out our Post-it notes.

Decades ago, when people took the time and effort to dream up a slick future scenario for a novel or film, information delivery was window dressing. "Of course licking stamps and envelopes will be obsolete by 1984", writers assumed. Even in crappy 60s sci-fi, in which robots looked like water heaters, mail was delivered via a system of "futuristic" vacuum tubes. The banks caught on, while the USPS is still relying on us for a tonguing. It's just stupid.

Sure, bodily fluids comes in handy for many personal uses that may never have been intended – spit works for spot grooming, shoe shining, light torture (a la the saliva yo-yo) and urine is good for extinguishing small fires, arctic calligraphy and hot sex - but the parcel industry needs our secretions??? I submit no - it does not.

When are we going to wake up and scream, "I'm done frenching my mail!"

Only then will we, as a society, be able to go about our bill paying, credit card applying, thank you note sending lives with a shred of dignity. Take a stand.

Eatabagadix, Match.com...

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 10:52:00 +0000

Screw Match.com... I'll say it again - if I wanted to dig through 96 emails from douchebags to find 1 or 2 messages from a halfway decent guy, I'd check my own inbox and save myself 24 bucks a month.

I have a new method of finding my knight in shining disco pants. PERSONALS ADS! Yup... back to basics, kids. I was thinking of posting something along the lines of...

SBLOTCHYF seeking whatever, really. Must meet or exceed the following minimum expectations:

Looking for jerks in that kind of deliberately-cool sense. Bonus if you have a pompadour or skater cut you can flip while being one. Cripples are encouraged (emotional okay, physical preferred) and interesting scarring patterns are a definite bonus. Librarians are also encouraged to reply, but just if the only time I hear about said librarianship is when the words are coming out of my mouth as I am introducing you to my super-cool friends at a party. Then you will be subjected to me going “HOT, right? RAWWRR,” and winking. A combination of crippled jerk librarian is ideal, but not totally necessary.

No tramp stamps... I've got that covered.

Pole or hole or both at once, and that’s me being neither politically correct OR perverted. I am serious AND I have a signed piece of paper from three (3) sexually-ambiguous people backing this up.

You must be excited by the idea of owning a gold Jetski without immediately needing to say something stupid like, “But you realize a gold Jetski would immediately sink, right?”

Other preferences include: minimal eye contact, a hatred of furries, appreciation of and frequent use of Rule 34, telling me I don’t look a day over 48, the ability to lick the back of your knee, a GED and a McMansion (these last two items must be both or nothing).

MUST have the musical taste of a fifty-year-old gay man without actually being one, because I don’t think that will work out very well, do you? Must know what ODB stands for and the ability to dance unironically to DJ Assault.

Ownership of a Mini Cooper without a twee vanity plate (I see what you did there, BlkNTan).

Must be able to lift 82 pounds.
Must be able to stealth vomit.
Must know how to braid.

Must not mind when I enter a fugue state and shout “NO FACE!” while we are fucking.

Accents and all your own teeth a plus. If you do not have all your own teeth, then let me see your grill. Nerds, accents (convincingly fake OK) from UK are a plus.

NO CANADIANS.

I totally know this is going to work. Have a nice day.

P.S. If you think you are a qualified candidate, clarifying questions will be tolerated via comments.

Daily Douchebag Double Feature

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 19:50:00 +0000

Hi Kids! I've got a mixed bag today, and lots of shit to cover, so let's skip the gristle and get straight to the bone, shall we??

I'd like to announce the Douchebag Of The Day. Actually, make that a plural... "douchebagS". I've got one for Halloween AND today. So without futher adieu, here they are folks - all the way from a vaginal cleansing product factory somewhere in New Jersey or Michigan, your Daily Bags Of Douche:

Massengill Man # 1 - The creep who reached under my costume and grabbed my cat Halloween night.

Your name is unimportant, as is your entire existence, actually. Since I don't remember it, I have dubbed you "Mr. Rapey McViolater", but ohhhhhhh; you can bet your genetically inferior ass that I will never forget your fleshy, pink, and swollen face. I won't forget the sneer it wore when you attempted your charming little barside pelvic exam, but more than that, I'll always remember the way it scrunched up, all mongoose-like and pouty when you realized you were barking up the wrong tree. I think that moment must have come right after I said, "Listen, bitch. If you ever make the foolish decision to try and touch me again, EVER, I will shatter your fucking jaw. Are we clear, motherfucker? I'm not the one. Now GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME." And you did, without a fight, which surprised me. Because I was preoccupied*, I put you in the back of my head, and even though I saw you at a couple of different places that night, I wasn't bothered by you in the least. The night went on without incident, and I managed to salvage my mood and enjoy Halloween.

At least for a couple of hours. BUT once a low-rent swine, always a low-rent swine, and true to your porcine nature, you went and shoved a forearm up my friend's skirt too.... I caught it out of the corner of my eye, and for a split second, I thought you were about to pull some kind of figure skating lift and twirl move out of your bag o' tricks, but sadly, you were simply fisting my friends box. You ARE quite the charmer, you. Because my friend didn't blow her rape whistle or donkey punch you, I snapped a pic for posterity and kept my mouth shut.

(yes, I DID say "snapped a pic"... saving that tasty treat for later in the post)

Alas, the mouth can never stay shut for long, thanks to bottom-feeding cretins like you... When I realized it was YOUR headlights in my rearview mirror on the drive home from the last party, I knew it was time to sound off. And when I pulled into the parking lot where my friend's car was parked & you pulled in behind me, I knew it was time to mentally rehearse all those self-defense for women moves I've learned over the years. You fucking scared me, and I don't scare easily. Hey - you gotta give me credit, I was straightforward & honest with you, remember? I told you "Listen, parasite... If my friend wants to talk to you tomorrow when she's sober, that's HER stupid decision - but right now, she's smashed, which means she's MY responsibility. I'm telling you LOUD AND CLEAR there's NO FUCKING WAY you're getting near her, so please exit... stage left even." But you stood your ground and refused. I asked you again, this time getting out of my car to confront you. Any self-respecting douchebag would have been ultimately embarrassed by now & would have left. Not YOU, Mr. Duct Tape In The Trunk... Nooooooooo. I had to have one of my male friends physically threaten you to get rid of your lecherous ass. (BTW - you're "Pussy of the day" too.... ran like a little girl THEN, didn't ya?) I was so relieved to see you pull out of the lot that I almost peed.

And then I almost shit. You know when? OF COURSE YOU DO, you creepy fucking insect... I almost shit when we pulled around the back of the building to drop my friend off at his car. You know why? Again, OF COURSE YOU DO, you slimy predator... I almost shit because there you were, in the back lot, car running & headlights off, just WAITING for the 2 women to drop off their male friend. We KNOW what happened at THAT point... no need to rehash the ugly details. Bet you never plan another rape again, though, will ya? Freak.

For your ruthless stalking, undeterred violations of personal space and total lack of morals or social skills, you are THIS YEARS NUMBER ONE DOUCHEBAG. Your parents must be awfully proud. Oh - I almost forgot... I promised to show you what you look like when you're in "hunt" mode. So here's the lovely visual:

If this were me, I'd have kicked your teeth in... consider yourself lucky that my friend (the molestation victim above) didn't take your eyes out...

Oh - and as an added bonus, I have taken the liberty of tacking this to every telephone pole within a 5 mile radius AND in every ladies room I happen to visit. You're welcome.

Nobody, not even someone as altruistic and charitable as I am, relishes unsolicited drunken groping, especially yours. And you actually thought I'd be okay with this, or even ENJOY it? Ugh! What a self-righteous dickshaft.

Douchebag #2 -

You are a human stain... and since I don't remember your name either, I will refer to you you as THE STAIN.

You are the pathetic cunt who said this to me on Full Tilt Poker Monday night:
"I hope you get AIDS and cancer bitch."

Let me try and remember why you said that..... oh yeah - I REMEMBER NOW: I beat you out of a petty 450 dollar pot. Maybe you have some sand in your vagina, but buddy, it was A FIVE DOLLAR FUCKING BUY IN. What went wrong in your life that night?? Did you lose your favorite pink dress???

Cancer is not something to be thrown around so lightly - ask anyone who's had a mastectomy recently.

You need to take a long hard look in the mirror... a mirror doesn't lie. And lucky for you, it can't laugh either.

Yeah, I'm included...

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 23:46:00 +0000

Happy Halloween 2009!!!

Finally... Halloween is here!!!! Today is the holiday all of us down-home American whore wannabes look forward to! For one night, all common social sense is thrown to the wayside and we women become empowered in our own sexuality because we are allowed, for one night, to dress like huge sluts. Just like Britney, Beyonce, Madonna & Hannah Montana, but just for one night and without all the self-serving ballads and hip-hop beats!

The thing most people don't know is that there’s so much more going on behind the fuzzy bunny tails and pleather jumpsuits than meets the eye. I am revealing to you the true behind-the-scenes reasoning for each of these festive costumes. So tonight, when you’re holding that Sexy Schoolgirl’s hair as she pukes Jaeger into the toilet at the Bottom’s Up, know that deep down inside, she’s a real person, with real feelings. And a secret desire to be a prostitute.

Let's get to know the ladies in question, shall we?

Sexy Nurse

You’ve been a bad boy! You need some sexy medicine! And this was the only Halloween costume they had left! Rest assured that Sexy Nurse didn’t really want to be a sexy nurse, but she waited until the last second to shop and couldn’t fit into the one XXS Sexy Kitty outfit they had left. Regardless, this girl will make the most of it by overdoing the Nurse bit and checking to hear your heartbeat with her plastic stethoscope over and over again. Since there will be 14 other Sexy Nurses in the bar at any given time on Halloween, you’ll be pleased to know that this one is usually the first to jump up on the bar and strip in order to win back the attention her costume has lost her.

The Sexy Referee

Sports! This one is one of the guys! She totally digs whatever you dig -whatEVER you dig!! She's as cool as hell, and probably can suck an elephant through a pixie straw. Careful though.... she has LOTS of male friends. You don't need that kind of competition, so this girl is better served drunk and with a side of buffalo wings.

The Sexy Disney Character

A true princess, and be prepared to treat her like one. The Sexy Disney Girl didn’t get enough attention as a young girl and Sexy Snow White, Sexy Cinderella or Sexy Pocahontas is the showcase for her inner battle between the child within and the raging slut she is today. Easily confused by shiny objects, this girl will come home with you if candy and dolls are promised. Swallow your pride and wear a Prince Charming outfit and she’ll bob for your poisoned apples in the bathroom. But be cautioned, she’ll be planning your Disney-themed magical wedding and subsequent honeymoon to Disneyland by the next morning.

The Sexy Cop

Spread ‘em! I know what you’re thinking - this girl is a dominatrix at heart and wants to spank you until you like it. No, if she was a dominatrix she would probably have dressed up as a dominatrix. The Sexy Cop is actually a tranny trolling the Halloween streets for unsuspecting men to handcuff to a bed and pee on. Why else would she be so into that nightstick? I mean, come on.

The Sexy Daisy Duke, Jessica Simpson or Britney Spears

She wants SO BADLY to be her! Hidden in this gal’s closet is one of those microphones that makes it sound like you’re singing on the radio and about 17 tube-top-leather-pant and chunky Spice Girl’s shoe outfit combinations. At night, after she’s sure everyone’s out for the evening, Britney-Wanna-Be puts on her 1998 “Baby One More Time” CD and a tube top and gives the most stunning pop concert you will never see. Buy her a subscription to US Weekly and she’s all yours.

The Sexy 70's Girl

The key word here is "lazy". This chick spent $10 and 20 minutes in a Goodwill and found a trippy paisley dress and some white boots, which equals all kinds of cheap. Everyone knows that Halloween costumes must cost upwards of $60 and only be made from the thinnest and most easily torn fabric made in Korea. Any girl not willing to spend $60 on an outfit she’ll wear once is a whore and cannot be trusted.

The Sexy Fairy

Caution: To approach this girl is to step into a world of Marilyn Manson, Hot Topic and constant Harry Potter references. Fairies equal Goth, and the dark, “historically-accurate” fairy you see in the bar may actually just be wearing her “going-out” clothes. She is angry at you and she doesn’t even know you. Fairies don’t need men to survive. They need nothing but nature and the Internet. She might be a little chubby now, but she was even fatter in high school. That’s why she moved to Chicago - to start anew and become a manager of a Spencer’s Gifts. She’s the one for you if you really want that 30% discount.

The Sexy Sexy Girl

An honest and true woman. No pretense, no hiding, no outer clothing. This lovely lady wears your average everyday full-out lingerie. No animal tail; nothing to distract from the fact that she is wearing underwear. It may be cold out, but no coat for Sexy Sexy Girl, not even a sexy coat, because that would take away from the impact of her wearing only underwear. Just underwear. Unfortunately, what you see is the best you’re ever going to get. Sexy Sexy has revealed to you and all of your friends the best boudoir outfit she has to offer. So when she takes you home and slyly says, “Let me slip into something more comfortable...” she means stale cotton panties, a sports bra and some socks. Oh, and did you get the part where I said she just showed off her best sexy time skivvies to all of your friends?

The Sexy Kitty, Mousie or Bunny

Almost always complimented with a tight leotard or corset and panties combo, the focus here is not on the animal this woman pretends to portray. It is merely a way to top off what she had planned as a Sexy Sexy Girl outfit, but chickened out on at the last second. This girl is a tease, a doesn’t-follow-through-er, and will most likely be the girl who discusses anal with you, but pulls out of the plan at the last second.

The Sexy Dead Girl

She’s two days away from committing suicide because she’ll never use her journalism degree or move out of her parents’ house in Parma, Ohio. Move along.

Eatabagadix Twitter!! No God = KNOW Censorship

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 15:56:00 +0000

**NOTE: To hear more about the terrible atrocities of yesterdays trending topic war on Twitter, please go pay a visit to my atheist blog: Goddities

(and be sure to add yourself as a follower & leave comments while you're there!)

Hi kids! Without any mincing of words, the Douchebag Of The Day (by a landslide) is Twitter. For their undeniable censorship & bias, they are awarded my raised middle finger, a bushel basket full of disappointment, and a one year supply of bad-mouthing and mistrust.

SHAME ON YOU TWITTER! Even Jesus thinks you're a douchebag.

*Honorable mention for Douchebag Of The Day goes to the Christian who tweeted the following, in response to the #NoGod thread: "if there's no god how did balloon boy come safely to earth?"

Yeah. He really said that.

.

Hot Enough For Ya?...

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 19:54:00 +0000

Ok - so let's talk about cliches.

I like them... And the cheesier the better as far as I'm concerned. I've been hearing them a lot lately, thanks to a friend of mine who has a love thing for one of the all time greats, which we will touch upon later. She largely inispired this list, so thank you Samantha (MiniMom) - I owe ya one.

The thing is: I think there are some cliches that should be used WAAAYYY more often, but not in the boring and tiresome way they're usually used in. (C'mon - you know me better than that...)

So... I have created a list of classic cliches (along with their accompanying hand gestures) that have been translated into Kim-glish. Please memorize them and use them as often as possible. And if you have any to add - feel free to do it. Because "That's How I Roll"...

Okay - let's get this party started.

1.“Those Are Odds I Can Live With”
This cliche means everything and nothing at all, and is usually used like this:

Fred: “Hey Bob - if you drink even one more beer, you’re going to go blind. Like legally blind. For real.”
Bob: "Those are odds I can live with." (shrugs and drinks beer anyway)

Here's the new way:

“Hey ____,(your name) wanna grab a few beers?”
With palms facing each other in a V formation, you shrug and reply, “Those are odds I can live with.”
**Feel free to laugh to yourself after saying this. I mean, shit, you're a funny oddsmaker and you know you just confused SOMEBODY.

2. “Up One Side And Down The Other”

Like most cliches, this one can be used as sexual innuendo... but it usually refers to something being uniformly and completely what it is... For example: "My new Apple computer is one hell of a piece of technology. It is built with sheer precision, up one side and down the other.

The new way:

Waiter: “Are you enjoying your meal?”
You: “Up one side and down the other, thank you very much”

**Feel free to do a diving roller coaster motion with your hand to drive the point home. And don't forget to cap it off with a casual wink.

3.“I Wouldn’t Kick Her Out Of Bed”

This one is especially nauseating. Sometimes people will add something to the end of it, usually some kind of infraction they would overlook - like "for eating crackers" or something equally as asinine.

The only way to use the NEW version of this one effectively is when referencing something non-female and preferably inanimate:

You're asked, “So what do you think about lasagna for dinner tonight?”

You reply, “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed”
**Make sure to make some humping gestures after you say this. If you’re on you’re cell phone make “aree aree aree” sounds or however a squeaking bed sounds to you.

4. "To Be Honest With You”

“To be honest with you” has always been a great way to begin a statement that's pure and utter bullshit, and because it's so overused, everyone KNOWS. So since it's so obvious anyway, let's make it even more obvious for the new version...

A stranger at the mall asks you “'Excuse me... Do you have the time?"

Keeping your best poker face on, you say, “Well to be honest with you,” and roll up your sleeve a bit, look at your watch, give the face a little buff and polish, roll your sleeve back down and say “I left my watch at home, sorry Chief."
**Before you walk away make sure you do this: Moving in a grandiose way, take your cell phone out and bring it up to eye level. Make it obvious that you are again looking at the time by squinting in a really exaggerated way while you look at the screen. Proceed to put the phone away then say this: "So long Buddy. Sorry I couldn't help you. To be honest with you, I don't even carry a cell phone anymore because it's always flashing the time." Wink and walk away.

5.“I'd Tell You, But Then I'd Have To Kill You."

You really can’t overuse this classic gem. So use it as you normally would, but the new version has a surprise ending...

Your friend asks "what are you doing this weekend?" and you say "I'd tell you but then I'd have to kill you." Chuckle, tell them your plans and go about business as usual.

**Here's the twist:
Every day for the next week, remind your friend that you're gonna have to kill them. Send them a series of emails containing links to websites that focus on random ways people are murdered (by being poisoned slowly, by having their brake lines cut, by being caught off guard from behind and strangled with piano wire...etc.) When this has gone on for about a week, call your friend and say "Hey - let's go camping in the mountains this weekend, just me & you... Nobody else around for miles and miles... let your voice fade off in a day-dreamy way.

6. "I Really Shouldn’t”

People generally use this one when offered a slice of pie even though they would never pass up a yummy treat.

The new version of this cliche will be used when someone offers you something that is either a custom or simply necessary, like a Kleenex box when you’re sneezing or a menu when you sit down at a restaurant. Say it with the same level of precociousness that you would if you were a rubinesque housewife being offered a heaping brownie sunday.
** No matter what you're refusing, be sure to lick your lips in a way that represents desire and lust.

7. “Whatever Happens, Happens”

Previously used as a hollow bit of advice from a shallow friend, you will now use this cliche threateningly.

You: “Want to get together for a drink sometime?”
Them: “Oh - thanks... but I just started seeing somebody..."
You, squinting angrily and with a sneer: "Well... whatever happens, happens”

Use this whenever you are denied a request.
**Pick up a piece of fruit, get real close to the other person's face and take a fierce bite out of it for added effect.

8. “That’s What SHE Said”

Almost too lame and cliched for this list, we’re gonna remodel this one. From now on you will use this cliche at complete random, and not in a Three’s Company type innuendo response to something that a girl might say during sex. The following examples will assist you:

This way is no longer acceptable:

Them: “The storm coming in is a big one”
You: “That’s what SHE said… swish!”

This is how the new version works:

Secretary at your pdoc's office: “So I've got you scheduled for a 3:30 pm appointment on the 12th”

You: “That’s what SHE said”

Secretary: “I don't understand...”

You: "Thats what SHE said"

Secretary: "Look - do you want this appointment or not?"

You: "Thats what SHE said"

Secretary: "That's it. I'm cancelling this appointment."

You: "That's what SHE said, BADA BING"

After delivering that missile, hang up really fast and reflect on your life. and dont worry too much about fucking up your appointment. After all, you win some, you lose some, whats done is done and let's face it - there's no sense crying over spilled milk.

Don't Point That Thing At Me...

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 21:53:00 +0000

Let's face it kids; there are some things in this world that we just don't always have the time and patience to deal with.

As a kinda young, sorta hip, reasonably sexy woman, I am often faced with things that I don’t want. Emails about hair loss or Viagra, for example. Brazilian waxes. Math. And more often than not, boners.

They seem to come out of nowhere, with the least provocation. I mean, the simple act of waking up in the morning will excite a man to the consistency of a rock. He doesn’t look expectantly at his sheets and say, “Well, are you going to finish this, or what?” Yet my opposable thumbs mean I’m eternally responsible for getting rid of Mr. Wiggly.

"Uh... you gonna take care of this??"

Now normally, I heart penises. Really, they’re great. A little funny-looking, not exactly a box of kittens, but no big whoop... but sometimes, you’re just not in the mood to deal with them. Sometimes you just want to go home, watch the last 6 episodes of "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia" and Google random stuff.

So what’s a girl to do? A hand job may sound like a good idea but it can quickly become a trap; I learned when I was 17 that the old I’m-sure-you-can-do-it-better-yourself excuse will only mean you have a different job. A job called blow. In order to escape both of these, you’ll need to be crafty. Tricky. Horrifically unattractive. Here’s a list of my favorite lines for penis-proofing your evening:

-"Your wiener is so cute!" Men HATE it when you call their junk "cute". If he’s Jewish, be sure to note that he has a kosher wiener. Or, if hooking up with a Chinaman, call it a “Wang” and tug on the corner of your eyes while hissing “You like flied lice?” And I’ve found that black men don’t particularly like it when you refer to their penis as a “G-g-g-G UNIT!”

-"Don’t you love my new veneers? They look great, but my teeth are so sharp!" Elaborate using words like “shred” and “puncture”, and make many analogies to the recent Florida shark attacks.

-"I never knew you could get herpes of the hands, but there you go!" Drive the point home with a needlessly complex story about your “Summer of the Goats” on your Uncle Tucker's farm in rural Kentucky.

-"Can you help me put in my diaphragm?" Look, I don’t even know what the hell a diaphragm is. But I think they’re roughly the size and shape of a Frisbee and have something to do with electromagnetism. Chances are, he doesn’t know either. Just pull a random object out of your purse, like an eggbeater or bottle of Nyquil, and lay it expectantly in his hand. When he hesitates, burst into a smile and say, "Oh, Nick! I knew you wanted to have a baby!" This works especially well if his name isn’t Nick.

-"Guess what I have back at my place…?" His eyes will light up eagerly, visions of whipped cream and lesbian twins dancing in his wee head. Wait a few beats to up the anticipation, and then slap your limp wrist against your chest and slur, “Durrrrrrrr”!!! Do this again and again, upping the ante each time, adding drool, a mild seizure, and maybe even a pants crapping or two for good measure.

-"Damn, I'm ITCHY AS A MOTHERFUCKER!!" That's it. Works like a charm.

As you can see, it’s no easy task successfully diffusing a boner. But with good communication and a little thing I like to call “fake cramps”, you’ll be in a cab and on your way home in no time! Done and done!

Harry Potter Should Be Put To Death...

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 00:17:00 +0000

Since the moment I was unfortunate enough to stumble across this video on YouTube, I've had a knot in my stomach that I cannot rid myself of. I'd love to hear YOUR thoughts about this....

Pack up your eyeliner & get the hell outta my poker room...

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 10:15:00 +0000

The honor of Douchebag of the Day is awarded to the emo brat who has taken up residence in my favorite poker room. This mouthy little asshole just turned 21 two weeks ago, and has been standing on my last nerve ever since. I hate his attitude, I hate his style of play, I hate his voice and I hate his face. If there wasn't a rule against verbally attacking another player in the poker room, this is what I'd say to his smarmy little moon face:

Listen up you little punk... you don’t like me, and I’d rather date an amputee with chronic halitosis than deal with you. But seeing as how we share the same oxygen in the same poker room, and even though you are the CEO of FuckingAnnoying, Inc., I feel compelled to tell you a few things. I know you just turned 21, so you're still technically a "kid". I'm well aware that conventional standards dictate that you should be playing stickball and catching frogs, or something... what do normal kids your age DO, anyway??? But I’ve had it with you and your pissy attitude & horrific poker table etiquette. There are kids one quarter of your age making t-shirts in Malaysia. Why don’t YOU go out and get a job; make yourself useful. Cut my lawn. Wash cars. Pirate DVDs. Make me some fucking pants.

I win!! Just in time too... gotta hurry home to check my MySpace messages

While we're on the matter of clothing... what the fuck is your problem? How many shades of black can you possibly have? Did I miss the part of "Being Hardcore 101" that states, "The amount of black t-shirts with shitty band logos owned is directly proportional to the wearer’s intimidation factor"? I must have. Because even with your Cannibal Corpse tee and Valium-level Relaxed-fit jeans, you're still about as scary as a cartoon bunny riding a My Little Pony through a rainbow.

You know what IS scary, though? How much your parents are going to have to pay the shrink when you start screwing cats and taking apart the stereo to "stop the government from monitoring the tracking device in your penis." Or the lawyer's retainer when you start acting out because Daddy didn't nurture your sports skills and you didn't get to hang out with the jocks. Honestly asshole, even with a Hall of Fame coaching staff and his own stadium, Stephen Hawking (like you—minus the intelligence and good looks) would never make it to the big leagues. Some people were meant to play ball and others were meant to play WITH balls. You’re the latter. Deal with it, Queerbait. So you didn’t get to hang out with Joe Quarterback and bang the head cheerleader in your Mustang. WAAAAAAAAHHH. Cry me a fucking river. Does this mean you have to play poker? And more importantly, does this mean you have to play poker WITH ME?

Don’t give me the whole, “I'm not really the complete asshole I make myself out to be... there’s just so much pressure on young adults these days, man. You don’t get it.” Sorry that the huge burden of turning your parent's basement into your own little slice of heaven and living there for free IS SOOOOO unjust. You should probably freak out and burn the casino down, you little sociopath. I know it must be hard to learn any adult social skills... I mean, you don't have that kind of time, what with all your extra-curricular activities like MySpacing the shit out of Katie DiPastillo because Kurt Bradford said he touched her boobs UNDER the bra and playing micro stakes on Full Tilt Poker. Maybe you should spend a little less time being depressed and wearing mascara because its cool and jerking off to Hannah Montana.

Perhaps I’m being a bit optimistic, but I think you'd probably pass for a half decent poker player if you and the rest of the Shitstain Crew took a break from spray-painting your lame gang signs on the parking garage. Trust me, no one is concerned about your claimed turf, including the 1400 people that park there. If you want to boost your street cred, I'll be more than happy to drop you off in South Providence so you can get some pointers from the experts. If they don't make you an ashtray or a pin cushion for used needles, maybe you can get some wardrobe advice and career counseling. Sound good, Sport?

Although you’re going to continue to annoy the living piss out of me until you turn 25 or decide to permanently shut the fuck up, you do have some redeeming qualities... If I knocked you unconscious, I’m certain you’d do a bang-up job as a doorstop.

Please go make like a mime and bleed to death in my trunk.

My Name Is Kielbasa And My Parents Are Insane

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 21:57:00 +0000

So, kiddies, have you heard yet that Nicole Richie named her baby boy "Sparrow"? Yup. Famous people are nuts.

Any marquee player has a resume chock full of bizarre-o arrests, hideous significant others, unlikely career moves, questionable religious/political affiliations, numerous rehab stints and, if you’re lucky, a double homicide.

These events have become all-too-familiar to us commoners. We have become an un-shockable society with but one exception. The famous breed still holds one torch above all that makes us scratch our collective head in wonderment and makes our jaw hit the pavement. This is, of course, the naming practices applied to their offspring.

We gasped at “Apple”, guffawed at “Banjo” and as I already said, Nicole Richie named her baby boy "Sparrow" just today. But these are the mild names of the bunch. Bono named his son (and I am not even close to kidding) “Elijah Bob Patricus Guggi Q”. I should take a picture of my facial expression, because a written word can’t come close to my confusion on this one.

KIELBASA'?!!? You named me after a fucking sausage??!!?

Because we are also a society of celebrity whores, this trend is starting to creep into our every day lives. I just met a baby named “Pearl”. Here, I thought I was meeting an infant, not a 90-year-old grandma. Because of the prevalence of this trend, I feel it is important to make sure that us plebes give our kids a lifetime of harassment the right way, with the same tools the celebs use. The secret to the madness lies in the “Celebrity Baby Name Generator".

Actors, musicians, athletes, models, socialites and government officials alike have followed these formulas to gain tabloid notoriety on their innocent spawn’s behalf. The Generator doesn’t only take care of the first name, it provides a middle name, and in some cases, extra names for good measure, à la Bono. Please feel free to mix and match, or choose your favorite formula and let the naming of unborn fetuses begin!

Formula #1 (Actor)
First name: Jam or Jelly Preserve
Middle name: Flower
i.e.: “Marmalade Rose”

Formula #2 (Musician)
First name: Cold cut
Middle name: Last name of a Dead Movie Star
i.e.: “Salami Gable”

Formula #3 (Athlete)
First name: Infectious Disease
Middle name: English Slang
i.e.: “T.B. Crikey”

Formula #4 (Model)
First name: One of the Seven Deadly Sins
Middle name: Color (vowel must be dropped)
i.e.: “Envy Blu”

Formula #5 (Boys)
First name: Famous Conqueror
Middle name: African American Name
i.e.: “Caesar Jamal”

Formula #6 (Girls)
First name: Boy's Name Spelled Wrong
Middle name: French Curse Word
i.e.: “Dillan Merde”

Formula #7 (Socialite, Government Official)
First name: Pretentious New England town
Middle name: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle
i.e.: “Hampton Raphael”

Extra Names (add one or more of the following):
- Any Letter of the Alphabet
i.e.: “Branden Rippley G.”

- Name of Dead Pet
i.e.: “Jemima Cola Fluffy”

- Anything that sounds sacreligious
i.e.: “Alfie Dingo Saint Peter”

If all else fails, just don your child with a bunch of regular names, in the style of one of Mick Jagger’s 37 kids, “James Leroy Augustine Jagger”. Notice the mixing and matching of the formulas, with a relatively normal outcome. Doing a lot of hallucinogenics may also get the creative juices flowing.

My prediction is that while other celebrity copycat trends may fade, obscene baby names are here to stay. So, use the Celebrity Baby Name Generator frequently, and use it wisely. Just remember, Jonathan Daniel and Thomas Matthew are not going to grow up in the norm. Basil Toupee and Abacus Brick are going to be the kids kicking ass and taking names on the playground.

Turning Japanese, I Think I'm Turning Japanese, I Really Think So

noreply@blogger.com (Kim Shannon) — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 03:49:00 +0000

DISCLAIMER: This blog reflects the thoughts, opinions, ideas, near moral bankruptcy and emotional shortcomings of myself; it does not reflect the thoughts, opinions, ideas, and/or body odor of my shadow, my friends, my neighbors, my dog or my raised middle finger. All rights reserved, all lefts reserved. This blog is subject to change without notice. Any resemblance to actual talent, living or lucky, is unintentional and purely coincidental. Sane and balanced people and their families are not eligible. Beware of dog. Forget the dog, beware of owner, bah dum bah. As seen on TV. One size fits all. Hand wash only, tumble dry on low heat. Do not fold, spindle, or mutilate. No substitutions allowed. For a limited time only. Press hard, you are making five copies. This blog is void to null where prohibited, protected, declared private, taxed, or otherwise restricted. Blog is provided "as is" without any warranties expressed or implied. User assumes all liabilities. Not liable for damages due to use or misuse or inability to understand. Glaring Madness is An Equal Opportunity Offender. No shirt, no shoes, no heat stroke. Quantities are limited while supplies last. Do not write below this line. Falling rock. Falling bridge. Bridge over troubled water. Bridge under troubled waiter. Waiter! There's a fly in my soup. Quantity is never a problem but quality may vary. Since blog is hand-crafted, there will be slight differences in each interpretation. If defects are discovered, do not attempt to fix them yourself, but return your head to its ass of origin.

No Parking. No Standing. No Solicitors. No Spitting. No Kidding. Noooobody knoowwwss the trouble I've seeeeen. No glove, no love. No alcohol, dogs, or dead people. No anchovies please. Ok, anchovies on the side. No free will allowed. Parental Advisory Warning - No one under 17 admitted. Keep away from sunlight, pets, and small children. Limit one per family. No purchase necessary. No speakie Engrish. Open to the public for cash and carry. Odds of winning depends on how much you spend. Some assembly and shitloads of batteries required. **Batteries not included. Action figures sold separately. No money down. No rest for the wicked. No hard feelings pal. Apply only to affected area. Safety First. Hard hats are to be worn at all times while in the warehouse. Straightjackets are to be worn at all times while in the asylum. Get that thing away from me, Romeo... I said this is a hard HAT area. This blog may be too intense for some viewers so please consult with a physician, an attorney and your baby mama before participation begins.

For recreational use only. Do not disturb. Ring bell for service. All models are over 18 years of age, or at least that's what "Spider", the guy who sold them to me said. Available in fine department stores everywhere. This end up. Small parts can present a choking hazard to children of parents who pay way too little attention. Take a number please. Then shove it up your ass and wait. Product has not been tested by the FDA (but my cousin's neighbor tried it and said it was the BOMMMMBBB, yo!). Preservatives added to improve freshness. Safety goggles must be worn at all times. Safety sealed with a kiss for your protection. The buck stops here. Sanitized for your protection. Please include a self addressed, stamped envelope. How about a nice game of chess? This blog is for internal and infernal use only. If redness, irritation, swelling or rash develops, discontinue use and consult your magic eight ball. It puts the lotion in the basket. Use only with proper ventilation. Speaking of venting, I DO NOT LOVE RAYMOND so stop making blanket statements, Mr. TV Producer. Avoid extreme temperatures. Store in a cool dry place. Refrigerate after opening. Open the refrigerator. Keep away from open flames and avoid exhaling the fumes - inhaling them is fine. Avoid contact with eyes. Do not puncture, incinerate, or store above 120 degrees Fahrenheit. For your own safety, DO NOT MIX with emotional sensitivity.

Violaters will be prostituted. Prosecutors will be violated. No tickie, no washie. No animals were used to test the runtime performance of this blog. No extra salt, MSG, artificial color or flavoring added. If ingested, do not induce vomiting. If symptoms persist, delete yourself immediately. If you suspect an overloaded operator, destroy immediately. douchebags. The white zone is for passenger loading and unloading only. Contents are under pressure. Restaurant package, not for resale. First pull up, then pull down. Advanced users may also pull out. Call before coming. Driver does not carry cash. Autopilot is engaged during flight. Possible penalties for early withdrawal. Free offer valid only at participating crazy people blogs. Slightly higher outside of the continental US. Allow four to six seconds for delivery. What is best in life? To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women. Motor vehicles only.

If this blog begins to smoke, run - do not walk - towards the nearest exit. Do not place near any magnetic source. Smoking this blog may be hazardous to your health. Stop playing with that thing. I don't think we're in Kansas any more. Hi-ho, hi-ho its off to shirk I go. It's off to shrink I go. Slippery when wet. Do not exceed recommended daily allowance. For office use only. Not affiliated with the CIA, FBI or WNBA. Drop in any mailbox.

This disclaimer does not cover hurricane, lightning, tornado, volcanic eruption, premature ejaculation, earthquake, Quaker Oats, Acts of Bob, misuse, neglect, repair, attempted modification, bugs in the code, brain damage from faulty comprehension skills, high voltage, cosmic rays, missing or altered serial numbers, attempting to actually read this, sonic boom vibrations, electromagnetic radiation from nuclear blasts, and incidents related to airplane crash, ship sinking, motor vehicle accidents, leaky roof, alien attack, broken glass, falling rocks, blue balls, mud slides, winter storm warnings, menstrual cramps, forest fire, flying squirrels, verbal assaults, hostile military takeovers, or house arrest. Other restrictions may apply. Your mileage may vary. My patience may vary. Glaring Madness is a proud sponsor of Pham Le Nguyen from third world Sri Lanka - fourteen cents a month really adds up in some corners of the world. Code used in this blog was made from 100% recycled wing-its and i guess so's. No outlet. No inlet. No deposit, no return. No left turn. No right turn. No u-turn. Turning Japanese, I think I'm turning Japanese, I really think so.