The goldfish on my desk

I’ve got a goldfish which lives in a bowl on my desk. It sits about two feet away from me. I feed it flakes everyday.

Just now, the damned thing took a shit, turned around, and ate it. I know I read somewhere that goldfish have a memory span of 3 seconds, but for real, you can’t remember taking a crap a millesecond before turning around and registering it as food?

Oh, god. He just did it again. He belongs in a toilet.

Fucking BUGS in my FUCKING apartment

Okay. WHERE. in the FUCK. are all these bugs coming from?!!!!

Jesus Christ! It’s like it got warm out and every bug in the city has taken refuge from the heat in my apartment!

The fucking flies in my shower: I demand an explanation. I fucking kill all four of you every morning, only to wake up and find that you have reanimated yourselves. What kind of fucked up voodoo shit are you four up to in there while I’m asleep?

And the gnats that keep landing on my computer screen? Who ARE you?!! Fuck OFF!!

To the spiders: spiders as big as you can only have one function, and it has to be something utterly terrible like eating children or paralyzing dogs or something. So what the fuck are you doing in my apartment all the time? And for the love of all that is good and holy, when I come at you with a wad of toilet paper, PLEASE stop that fucking JUMPING bullshit!!! My God! Do you not HEAR me shriek like a little girl every time? Are you TRYING to humiliate me? Do you get a KICK out of making a grown man screech like a schoolgirl?! Just fucking let me grab you in the toilet paper wad and fucking take it like a man!

And the silverfish? I’m sorry. You are by far the most disgusting creatures on earth and you are the most cogent evidence of the existence of Satan that I can think of. What in the hell do you need all those fucking legs for? You are utterly gross.

And finally, to the junebugs: HOW IN THE EVER-LOVING HELL ARE YOU GETTING IN HERE??!!! You’re all ENORMOUS!!!! Where the hell are you COMING from? You’re fucking disgusting!!! STAY THE HELL OUTSIDE!!!!

Rice Burners

The color. I’m sorry, but if I drove a honda civic, I wouldn’t be drawing attention to myself. Not that there’s anything wrong with a civic… it’s a very economical, fuel effecient car. It’s sure better than walking. It’s just not a car that I find particularily impressing. If you had a bright orange Maserati, I can understand. But a civic?

The stickers. I bet you got an extra 10 horsepower just by sticking on that “NOS” sticker. (And btw.. it was painfully obvious you don’t have a nitrous system, so stop fooling yourself). Oh, and an irish kid from southie shouldn’t have asian characters on his car.

The spoiler on the back. That huge spoiler must produce a ton of down-force. That would make for some awesome traction except for the fact that YOUR CAR IS FRONT WHEEL DRIVE. Why are you puttind down force YOUR REAR WHEELS if YOUR CAR IS FRONT WHEEL DRIVE?
Has anybody here ever stood on their rear bumper? What’s that do? It pushes the back of the car down, and the front of the car UP. So by putting all of that downforce behind your rear axle, you’re adding lift to the front, thereby reducing your traction. Moron.

The exhaust pipe. It’s great that you have a high-flow exhaust and all, but let’s remind ourselves what you’re driving: A 1999 honda civic. Cute little 4-banger. Everyone screams about power-to-weight ratio! power-to-weight ratio! Well, when your engine is so small it weighs almost nothing, you get almost no power. Your 1.6L engine is rated at 127 horse-power and just over 100 lb-ft of torque at redline. For those of you who don’t know cars, those aren’t very impressive numbers. My 99 cent bottle of Coke has better displacement than your engine.

Anyway, back to the exhaust. It’s great that you can get an extra 10 horsepower by bolting on a sewer pipe in leiu of a muffler. But guess what? 127 horsepower + 10 horsepower = still a shitty engine. And now your car sounds like a chainsaw on acid.

The bass. I refuse to say “your music was so loud…” because what you were listening to was not music. What you were listening to was percussion accompanying a man shouting obscenities in ebonics into a microphone. And why do you need to play it so loud that early in the morning? There’s children trying to sleep. Maybe you were trying to drown out that annoying lawnmower note coming from your exhaust?

How low can you go. Don’t even get me started on your body kit and your suspension drop. Although, it did make me smile when I saw that the front of your “bumper” was all cracked and scraped from every time you have to cross the T tracks on Comm. Ave.

In conclusion – It doesn’t matter what color paint, how big your exhaust pipe is, or how much plastic you bolt/glue to the sides of your car, you’re still driving a honda civic. You can’t hide from this fact. So peel the little plastic things off of your windshield wipers, and just drive your car for what it is…

Drunk as Balls Dojo

Are you a casual drunk to full blown alcoholic? Is your mouth often writing checks your fists can’t cash? Drunk as Balls Dojo is the answer to all of your problems. At Drunk as Balls Dojo you will learn the fine art of bar fighting from one of the nation’s premiere trouble drunks- Ryan O’Reilly. Master O’Reilly has been banned nationally from such established chains as Friday’s, Buffalo Wild Wings, and every Border’s Book Store containing a Starbucks. He is an expert in the “What are you looking at” and “You got a problem” fighting styles, but is very skilled in a variety of other styles such as “She was talking to me.”

Master O’reilly will take you from the pansy-ass lush you are now to becoming a true liability in only 5 weeks. Intensive training covering such varied areas of self-offense as:

• Using wing sauce as a weapon
• Breaking a beer bottle without slicing and dicing your hands
• Accurate projectile vomiting
• Flicking a lit cigarette into someones face
• “Getting the fuck outta there”

Classes will be held every Monday, Weds, and Friday- with Fridays being reserved for critiquing failed technique in the classic and award winning movie Roadhouse. You’ll come to class, get wasted drunk, and mix it up with other like-minded individuals. Master Ryan will show you the path to true ‘trouble maker.’ Only when you reach that point will you be able to tell that douche-bag how ridiculous his shirt/hat/girlfriend is with the confidence that only comes from being trained as a drunk fighter. If you aspire to bar-flydom, this class is a must have!

Classes start at $50 a week + a 12 pack per class.

Why Your Car Isn’t Selling

It’s pretty obvious which car owners wear rose-colored sunglasses and frolic with unicorns all day. The prices you’re asking for your cars are ridiculous.

Since you haven’t felt the invisible hand of the market, allow me to deliver the pimp slap of common sense.

Look at Kelley Blue Book. Start there and get an idea of what to expect for your car. If you’re asking over $10,000 for a car that tops out at $8,500 value, you are a retard. The only people who would pay that price are fellow retards, and guess what? Most of them can’t use the internet. You’re one of the lucky few. Quit while you’re ahead.

List some basic information about the car. How many miles does the car have? Manual or auto? What year is it? What options does it have? Clean title or salvage? Do you have all the records? This is important, relevant information. “Prelude for sale” is not self-explanatory, dumbfuck.

Put up pictures. A picture is worth a thousand words. Put up a photo and give a little taste of what the car looks like. There’s nothing I enjoy more than driving 40 miles to see the “immaculate” car with cigarette burns all over the interior. Be upfront. In fact, that’s a good one too.

Be upfront. I’m about to hand you several thousands of dollars. Do you really think I won’t be thorough and check out/test drive the car? Yes, I’m going to notice that the engine shudders, or it pulls to the left, or it has a peculiar smell. Be honest about it. Don’t be a jerk.

Learn to read the market. This is a recession. Your car has been up at the same price for 3 months. LOWER THE PRICE!

Don’t use so many keywords. I’ve searched for “BMW M3″ and gotten a Geo Storm result by some guy that doesn’t know how to use keywords properly. Those cars do not cater to the same type of person! Let it go.

Learn what “OBO” means. “OBO” literally means “or best offer.” If you aren’t taking the best offer, don’t use the phrase. Simple as that.

I don’t see what’s so hard about this. You have a car and you want cash. I have cash and I want a car. Let’s make this work.

Open Letter From Your Local Adult Store Clerk

Dear Adult Store Shoppers,

Maybe you want to buy some pornography or maybe you’d like to purchase some condoms, lube, lingerie, toys, games or whatever other merchandise we carry. That’s great, and I hope you find what you want in the store, but please, avoid these pitfalls and be a good customer.

If you are a needy as hell customer who asks me to check movies before you rent or buy them to make sure you will like them, I will secretly hate you. All of our movies have people fucking in them. Usually 2 or more people! This much you should know. Now do the following: Look at the box cover. Is it appealing to you? No? Stop, put the movie away and pick up another and try again. Yes? Good! Now, turn over the box. Do you see those other pictures? If none of those appeal to you, don’t rent the movie. If they appeal to you, rent it, take it home, wank to it, be happy. If it’s not to your liking, shut the fuck up and rent another movie. I really don’t care if it wasn’t appropriate wanking material up to your fine and high pornography standards. This isn’t a restaurant where you can send something back if you don’t like it – it’s a porn store.

If you return movies that you rented with unidentified substances on them, you are a nasty motherfucker who should get hit by a bus. I get paid $9.00/hour, which is not enough to clean up your spunk. Wash your hands before you take the DVD out of the player, you nasty ass son of a bitch. After you return that nasty jizz covered movie, I will curse you loudly, put on 2 pairs of latex gloves, use copious amounts of cleaning supplies and then put a nasty note in your account about how you are a nasty asshole who can’t return a movie the way we gave it to you – clean and DNA free. Then, everyone who works in the store knows what a nasty person you are. So for the love of Christ, wash your nasty hands and have some respect for the people who work here.

If you and your partner come into my store and you want to buy some lingerie, that is great. It’s even nice if your husband/boyfriend/John/whatever wants to help you into the lingerie as some of the stuff we sell is hard to get on by yourself. But seriously, don’t fuck in my dressing room. That is nasty and gross. Take your lingerie, try it on, buy it if you like it, take it home and fuck there. I wouldn’t come into your place of work and fuck on your desk, so don’t have sex here in my store. Don’t try to be sneaky about it either. If I notice you’ve been in the dressing room for more than a few minutes, I’m going to come by and knock on the door to see if everything is okay. And if I hear moaning and grunting, I’m going to call the police.

Please treat our merchandise with some respect. In any other store would you open up boxes, rip off labels, or throw things around? I doubt it. Also, my store is not a club or a party. I know we are open late, so maybe you really do think this is a club, but I swear it’s not. It’s a store. We’re here to sell things and make money. The things we sell are fun and great, sure, but this is not a place for you and all of your friends to come in and laugh and scream and point (and destroy merchandise, as mentioned above) for 2 hours and then leave without purchasing anything.

Don’t hit on me or any of my coworkers. That is desperate and gross. Also, you’re standing at my counter with 2 tranny movies, some desensitizing spray and a pair of panties. Do you really think this situation lends itself to me agreeing to go out with you? Nope, didn’t think so. Also, don’t stare at me or my coworkers like we’re pieces of meat. Don’t ask us inappropriate questions either. No, I won’t demonstrate how the toys are used. I also won’t tell you what it is I like in bed. And seriously, if you ask me to model lingerie one more time, I’m going to kick you out.

Additionally, just because I work at an adult store does not make me uneducated, a freak, a stripper, a prostitute or desperate. I am college educated (and currently in graduate school), well read and a pretty normal person with friends, family, a dog, hobbies, etc. I took this job for a variety of reasons, none of which I have to explain to you.

If I ask for your ID, don’t give me grief. Take it as a compliment – I’m saying that you look youthful and fresh. I can get in trouble and lose my job for letting someone under 18 into the store. Don’t bitch about how you don’t have your ID (I have to ask you to leave, sorry) or how you have to go out to your car and walk the terrible 30 feet to get it or ask me how old I think you are. You look like you could be under 18. Show me your ID and I’ll leave you alone. If all of your friends show me their ID but you “don’t have yours,” I’m going to have to ask you to go outside. Just because all of your friends are 18+ does not mean you are. I know it’s a bummer, but it’s the rule.

And finally, if you are someone who brings your child into the store, you fail at parenting and at life.

Thanks, and have a great day.

Your Friendly Adult Store Clerk

Fine, Don’t Fucking Hire Me

What the fuck people! I need a motherfuckin job, and I have a resume that says I am fucking fit to be your goddamn front desk/administrative assistant. I have applied to a ton of jobs and not one of them responded. WHAT THE FUCK?!

Cover Letter? Here’s my fucking cover letter!

Now, I’m really low on money, and I’ll suck a dick if I have to…that’s right!
Got a bear in your backyard that keeps eating your garbage? I’ll fight that motherfucker and I’ll win! Can any other prospective employee say that?! FUCK NO! What’d you say? You lost your keys? FUCK IT! I’ll shoot the goddamn lock off your door with my laser eyes! That’s how bad I need a motherfuckin job! Your brother is gay and you’re not cool with that? I’ll de-gay him with reverse buttsex. Don’t believe me?! Then hire me and I’ll fucking show you!

OBJECTIVE
I need a motherfuckin job.

SHIT I HAVE DONE

• I invented the moon.
• Atlantis was around til 1981, but sunk when I shot out of my mom’s vagina like a silver bullet into a wolverine.
• I am also a wolverine.
• Had sex with the Spice Girls.
• The blowjob machine was originally my idea until that bastard Clint Eastwood stole it.
• I have prophetic visions of the apocolypse.
• Watched the movie “Juwanna Mann” at least 18 times.
• Created a new genre of dance in which people get so into it that radiation waves pulsate off of them. I like to call this the microrave.
• I reverse engineered a door. I now know how it works.
• When I was 8, a frisbee flew into my backyard and I blew it up with my mind.
• My brother is the Eiffel Tower.
• I am a direct descendant of Beowulf.
• Can make weapons out of anything; very useful in a hostile work environment.
• Beat my pornography addiction when I was 19.
• Proficient in Microsoft Office and Photoshop.

RELEVANT WORK EXPERIENCE
GlomGlom Corporation of Evil Doing
POSITION: Front Desk/Administrative Assistant
DUTIES: Setting up sex scandals in which to blackmail wealthy politicians, forwarding email, burning down the houses of the poor, loan sharking, answering phones, greeting clients in a manner that would frighten most people.

GreenHate Enterprises
POSITION: Once Again, I was a fucking Front Desk/Administrative Assistant
DUTIES: Organizing the dumping of bio-waste into the ocean, peeing in lakes, digging holes to fill with garbage, making garbage out of perfectly good and useful items, filling said wholes with said garbage, creating fake facts about Greenpeace and publishing them on the internet(I am internet savvy), good at filing…documents of hate.

REFERENCES
Glomgor Evil
GlomGlom Corporation of Evil Doings
gorlock@peanutbutternipples.com

Sloblor the Muck Monster
GreenHate Enterprises
sloblor@greenhate.com

So, now that you know the real me, are you gonna hire me or not? I would like to remind you that I can make weapons out of anything.

Sincerely,

Steve Madonna
stevemadonnayeah@gmail.com

remember…..anything.

Ass cleaning tips

I have mastered the art of cleaning my stool hall and I want to share it with you losers who simply lather your wash cloth with some soap and do a quick reach around..THAT WILL NOT CLEAN YOUR ASS!!!! You need to spend at least 5 minutes in that area to have maximun cleanage. How would you feel if you were a girl/guy and while you were licking some guys sausage you get a nice whiff of some anal grease and dingleberries from a soft textured turd that required about 12 wipes in the public restroom? You think it’s clean but it is NOT!!! Here are some tips:

Tip 1: After dropping the fecal children off at the pool, you can either use some babywipes (my personal favorite) or you can use a technique I learned from an ex-girlfriend of mine, you wet the toilet paper and proceed to wipe front-to-back, NOT back-to-front. You risk sliding some of the grease beneath your ball sack which creates another problem. This only applies to those who do not get what is called a perfect excrement session aka..”A Clean Break” to where the ca-ca breaks off completely and all you have to do is wipe the water off your gluteus after the initial plop.

Tip 2: Shave the hair off around your rectal, nuts and butt crack. This is just common knowledge, if you dont you risk piling up a weeks worth of dingleberries and in rare occasions, creation of shit dreadlocks to where the ca-ca firmly laminates itself to the ass hair and it twists together as you walk. This is more likely to happen to those who wear boxers because of the free “airflow” and those who dont shower often because you give the poop time to dry up like cement.

Tip 3: Jump into a public pool or spa. This is just as effective as a shower or even better because you get maximum “soakage” and it requires less work such and combats lazy reach arounds in the shower. Believe it or not, that is the only useful purpose for public pools, I think of them as gigantic bathtubs that goggle up loose ass hairs, dingleberries and makes a great place to take a quick pee. If I find myself in that situation, I just jump in the pool on one end, pee then swim to the other end, do a couple quick 360′s under water then jump out the shallow side and dry off.

Tip 4: Go to the beach and be a good samaritan, jump into the ocean and “feed the fish”, fish LOVE dung, I have 2 goldfish and they are always sucking eachothers doo-doo holes. Get a nice, salty ass treatment. For those of you who gets bumps after shaving your pubes or ass, this is a great to dry those up. Just simply go out past the waves a bit, however, dont be too obvious if you are going to release some bait into the ocean. Flop around a bit, move around because if you sit still people will become suspicious and besides the poop might float up to the surface quickly. Fish will love you for it!

Tip 5: Woman love to get manicures and pedicures, I call this the “assicure” It has a meaningful name Ass I Cure, it’s self explanitory..yes, it is up to you to cure that hideous ass smell and here is how you do it in the shower. Pamper yourself, get the water luke warm and try to get the shower nozzle to propel the water quickly. Begin by turning in the opposite direction of the shower, about 180 degrees to where the nozzle in shooting directly down your ass crack. Position yourself at a 90 degree angle, butt up nice and high, reach around and spread your butt cheeks and let the water do its magic. The object is to really clean out the crevices of your brown eye, wedged up about a 1/4 inch of the butthole is some fecal matter that masks itself like a bat in a cave. This will allow the water to loosen it up for the wash cloth lathering. The next step is to lather your wash cloth with some bodywash or soap bar. Reach around and scrub it good, go ahead and wrap the towel around a finger of choice (i use my middle finger) and put that finger up your asshole and move it around in a circular motion. Go ahead and scrub nice and good up the butt crack to make sure you get all the grease. After you are done, rinse well then repeat step 1.

ADDITIONAL NOTE: Putting your finger in your ass doesnt make you gay, it might burn a bit. For those guys who insist on having anal sex with their girlfriends all the time, if you think one finger hurts, go ahead and use two fingers and see how it feels. It feels like a massive shit you take in the morning after a night of drinking and eating the 4 slices of jalepeno pepper pizza.

That is all for now party people, hope this hass been insightful

Why Spongebob Squarepants is the perfect girl for me.

1. He’s low maintenance. No matter what happens to him, he never needs validation from anyone, for anything. He never asks Patrick to tell him who he is, never uses his friction with Squidward to bolster his own ego. All his energy is focused outward, albeit usually with mixed (and hilarious) results. He never complains about those results either, just trudges ahead with blind, infectious optimism.

2. He’s a good cook. In fact, he makes unquestionably the best burger in Bikini Bottom. People come from everywhere to the Crab Shack for one of his Crabby Patties. How rare is a girl who can cook, and enjoys it?

3. He lives in a pineapple. Imagine having crazy sex in a giant pineapple. All that gooey, sweet, sugary awesomeness providing both full body lubrication and a certain fun kinkiness. Sex inside almost anything else wouldn’t be anywhere as much fun. An orange would sting. A tomato would stain. While we’re on the subject, do you want variety in your lovin? He’s got HUNDREDS of holes, and he’s not shy about himself or hung up in any way. He also plays dress up. Weekly. And usually twice on Saturday mornings.

4. He’s comfortable with his job. Mr. Crab pays him shit and he cares, never bitches. Never comes home and says to his pet snail “if that dude Squidward don’t get off my ass, I’m gonna kill him!” The pineapple is a harmonious place because Spongebob checks that shit at the door.

5. He manages his emotions. We’ve all seen Spongebob flip out. We’ve all seen chicks flip out. The difference is that Spongebob Squarepants STAYS FOCUSED. He may explode. His eyes may shrivel up like raisins. He might pull off his own legs and arms and beat himself with them in total panic and frustration. He never loses sight of what he’s flipping out ABOUT, though. Every girl I’ve ever met starts out being mad about the dish I just broke, or the amount of beer I may have drunk at her family reunion (we all need help through the hard times, my Lord, my Lord) but 15 minutes later it’s why haven’t we bought a house yet, why aren’t I home more, why aren’t I home less, why aren’t I more communicative, and what about those boobs I was staring at back in May of 2002. Do ya feel me, boys?

6. He’s devoted. Patrick is an idiot, but he finds a way to relate and have fun. Mr. Crabs is a jerk, but he gets past it and has a healthy work ethic. He’s maintained a healthy platonic relationship with a displaced female squirrel. Even Squidward, despite all his efforts to the contrary, has a neighbor he can count on any time day or night. (Aside: Squidward is a douche bag for not recognizing this)

7. He knows how to have a good time. Boy does he ever. He likes eating contests, farts, TV, singing, hiking, playing with his body, sports (did you see the snail race? better than Hoosiers), and just generally acting stupid and laughing about it. I’m telling you, he’s got to be totally awesome to hang out with.

8. He’s comfortable with his body. So he’s not the ideal shape. He’s a square. But he never complains. You’ll never hear the phrase “height-weight proportional” uttered from those yellow lips (anyway his height-weight proportion is geometrically perfect, a fact which I am sure can be proven mathematically). He don’t give a shit. He just buys the right clothes (square) and looks great and that’s the end of it. No endless questioning about why the universe shaped him the way he is. No internal battles. Just a simple square man with a healthy simple outlook.

9. He’s a virgin (I’d bet). You say experience means everything? I say bullshit. Comfort and communication trump experience every time. Working at your sex life is only possible in a situation dominated by these two traits and amplified by a sense of adventure. Spongebob has always demonstrated these characteristics. Now, what do you want? A willing accomplice or the trick somebody else taught?

10. He doesn’t drink, smoke or do drugs. Actually, I do enjoy the occasional cocktail or cigarette, and as you may have guessed, I have been known to puff it down a little and watch shows like, say, Spongebob Squarepants (WTF, what did you do this morning that was so important, Mr. Smartypants?), but the thing about our man Bob is that theses things don’t rule his life, and couldn’t you just imagine that first date at a bar? Somehow the idea of kicking two shots of Makers Mark back with Spongebob Squarepants is totally mesmerizing. You think he’d sit there and bitch about his exes? No way. He’s much more a load up the jukebox and kick up his heels on the bar kind of guy. He’ll take his lumps for it (case in point, the Motorhead bar in the movie, where the fascist biker dudes kick his ass but he comes out grinning) but I bet the night would be hilarious. Imagine him pulling in a big drag and blowing it out all his orifices. Imagine him talking to that drunken barfly you always see and making that old bitch laugh. You’d get to do all this shit with him for the first time.

11. He demonstrates good parenting skills. Did you see the episode where Spongebob and Patrick find a lost baby scallop and decide to raise it as their own? No?!? Well, allow me to elucidate. Patrick takes on the male role and he sucks at it. He sneaks off all day and night to watch TV at home while Spongebob, as the mother figure (complete with apron and heels), holds the family together. He does all the cooking, cleaning and baby-raising, all the while carrying an admittedly strained smile on his face. Not to say I’m looking for a wife to do it all and let me watch TV (um, hmm), it’s just that he demonstrates such strength and good humor. The episode ends with a happy, well-adjusted scallop flying off (?) into the sea-sky and a presumably happy well-adjusted scallop life. It’s not that Spongebob might make a good mom. Spongebob is a good mom.

I’m sure you all are going to think I am a pedophile (why? Because I happen to be a little bit in love with a 6 year old boy cartoon character?) I’m sure you’ll all write me and tell me what a misogynistic jerk I am (just substitute the words “girl” for “boy” and “boy” for “girl” throughout and I’m sure my argument applies cross-genderally. There. Feel better, huge bull dykes with nothing better to do?) I’m in love, and people in love do and say stupid shit.

I hate all of you

I don’t care what colour you are. I don’t care where you’re from. I don’t care what you do for a living. I don’t care what class you are, how you dress, what you smoke or drink or who you know or whom you’ve fucked.

I hate you all. I hate every last living, breathing, snot and feces producing, promiscuously copulating, celebrity obsessed, opinionated one of you. From right here in Toronto right around the planet and back, coast to coast, nationwide and internationally. Every. Single. Last. One. Of. You.

Fuck love. Fuck your insipid grasping at some abstract concept of chemical imbalances and reasonless actions, fumbling around in the crowd trying to find some cinematic supposition for real human interaction. Fuck lust, too. Fuck you all, from the lowlife dirtbags that think dropping trou and waving the little soldier in a sloppy arc is a pick-up line to the sniveling of the desperate ‘nice guys’ who never get the girl due to a total lack of testosterone grown stones. Fuck you all, from the crazy, under dressed sluts that judge a persons character by the price of their shirt, right down to the fat, flabby chicks that think personality is enough.

Fuck you drivers, for thinking that a yellow light is a sign that says ‘step on the gas’. Fuck you wheelmen and women that think it’s okay to sit in a left hand turn in the middle of morning traffic, even though there is a protected left in the intersections before and after where you need to make your turn. Fuck you too cyclists – you’re not exempt from the traffic laws just because your peddling, you miserable spandex covered neon reflective fucks. Fuck you too, pedestrians. Use the fucking crosswalk if you don’t want to get hit, and use it before the little countdown clock says ’3′. You don’t have enough goddamn time to lope across four lanes of traffic.

Fuck you chick on your cellphone. Fuck you attitude packed minimum-wager that makes my coffee. Fuck you cops that spend all their time handing out speeding tickets. Fuck you douche bag doing ten over the limit in the passing lane on the highway. Fuck you lady using exact change at the counter at the grocery store. Fuck you kids having a conversation in the doorway. And fuck you also for not getting the fuck out of your designated handicapped seat when a pregnant or elderly person gets on the fucking bus.

Fuck taxes. Fuck welfare. Fuck the whole selfish, over politicized and party driven government system. I’m sick and fucking tired of policies and new laws with seven hundred bylaws that nobody but you and your cabinet reads. Fuck you councilors and your stupid ‘district improvement’ plans. Fuck you unions, for asking for so much and giving nothing more that what you already give. Fuck the whole process that allows people who are supposed to be working for us work for interests that only benefit the next campaign. Fuck your short-sightedness, your rush to the bandwagons, and your incessant arguing over fuck all. Fuck the parties, fuck the conventions, and fuck your campaigns. Do some real fucking work for a change.

Fuck you bottles of water. You’re water. You’re not worth two fucking dollars.
Fuck you trendsetters, fuck you fashionistas. Fuck your little dogs and and your idiotic outfits. Fuck your high heels in the snow. Fuck your five dollar coffees and your fifteen dollar veggie burgers. Fuck your health kick, your diet or your fucking new interest in kickboxing or sushi.

Fuck your culture. Fuck your race. Fuck your sense of entitlement. Fuck your sense of uniqueness. Fuck you all for the belief that you have something unique and interesting to contribute. Fuck you for filling the internet with your useless garbage. Fuck your blogs, your wikis, your forums. Fuck your name calling. And most of all, fuck whatever you believe. It’s all wrong. Fuck it.

Fuck your complaints. Fuck your addictions. Fuck your dependencies. Fuck your pain. Fuck your tears. Fuck selling whatever it is you sell. Fuck your manipulation of others. Fuck movies. Fuck fucking. Fuck everything you own. Fuck your allergies. Fuck your stupid commons sense. Fuck your spelling and fuck your lack of education, or your ignorance, whatever is applicable.

I don’t give a fuck. Shut the fuck up and just get on with it.