Up With These Things I Simply Cannot Fucking Put.
Alright, alright. I know when somebody climbs aboard th' fucking Judgement Train it's never pretty. I'm going to dis something that somebody loves, they're going to think I'm a dick, etc. etc. Here's th' thing, though: there's things we all hate. These just happen to be some of mine. It's not my fault that they suck as hard as they do. It's not my fucking fault. My days on Planet Earth are ever-so-slightly darkened by 'em, so if I want to go off a little bit then just, I don't know, go read some happy sunny shit about how fucking great everything is. : ) : ) LOL, tee hee hee. LO fucking L.
Look, here's some shit I love that you probably hate, so you won't feel all god damn put upon:
Bryan Ferry, scandinavian salt licorice, women that don't look like fucking scarecrows, sleeping until 3 pm, digital reverb, wretched, pushy, flea-bitten little dogs. Shitty cars. Fucking LOVE 'em. I had this girl once who would ride up th' 405 with me and recoil at shitty cars. Fucking little android consumer. I was like, I plan on driving my vehicles until they fucking fall apart, sugar cookie. Small, riceburning, horrid, boxy little cars that have really good mileage. Oh, that god damn extended ram van, though. That was a hideous thing indeed. I needed it for work, though.
Those MISERABLE, REPUGNANT, CANCEROUS, SHITTY ASS TATTOOS.
'Nuff motherfucking said. These things are simply the most wretched, tool-of-Satan fucking things around. If you have one of these I'm really sorry, but you're about as mis-fucking-guided as you can god damn be. I can not POSSIBLY IMAGINE how someone could think this would somehow be a cool thing. If you need to have an ass tattoo I would suggest that you HAUL ASS, don't walk, to the nearest MentalHealthMart and buy EVERY FUCKING SELF-HELP BOOK YOU CAN FIND AND READ 'EM QUICK, QUICK, QUICK. TOOT MOTHERFUCKING SUITE, my poor addled child. And maybe, just fucking maybe, something will stick and you'll take out your self-loathing on something healthy like self-medication or organizing your fucking closet for Jesus.
SPEAKING OF WHICH:
That big fucking cock God.
I've gotta man the fuck up right now and put this out there before I puss out. Look, God's a class-A asshole if there's any truth in what I've been "led" to "believe" about this little shitskin.
According to my extensive reading on the subject of this smegsucker, I am led to believe that there's this big thing called Th' World, and all these people live in it, and if they act a certain way they go to one place when they die and if they act another way they go to this other place.
Well, excuse the fuck out of me if I deign to bring up th' memory of that great American heroine Mssle. Parks and how she sat down on the fucking bus AGAINST this kind of shit. We're expected to take our place at th' Table Of Man and then if you take Santa Christ as your Personal Trainer and Financial Consultant you get to sit in front and if you don't it's some sort of Celestial Jim Crow shit? That's the best you could do?
You're like an absentee father, is about the best I can come up with for you, cocck. You are guilty of th' Silent Treatment thing on a cosmic scale, like a prissy little resentful schoolmarm. Blow me.
SPEAKING OF WHICH:
Weak, lousy plumber classic-rock amateur garage bands that bring a million friends to a club once every three months and play for nothing.
Let me tell you what it is I'm going to do, fellas. Here's the plan from me to you so you'll know what to expect: I'm going to start going around and repairing people's fucking plumbing for FREE so that YOU'RE out of fucking work, o.k., you fucking idiots?
Do you realized you're killing live music on a grand scale? You guys are as bad for this shit as those fucking idiots Great White. They had to write a whole new fucking regulation book after that fucking Bonfire Of The Inanities to make sure it was an endless fucking HASSLE to fucking play music for people.
There's this place up in Orange, th' fucking route 202 Roadhouse or some CRAP and I took 'em a kit to see about installing Lightfoot up there some balmy December evening. Fucking asshole comes back with $225. "Well, the Shit Heels play here and they bring like 300 people and the bar makes like 3 grand and I give 'em $225."
I honestly don't know who's the bigger idiot, the fucking guy or Th' Shit Heels. These idiots should be shot in the extremities and their instruments should be donated to real musicians. You can tell the REAL musicians 'cause their gear is all beat up and from like 1978 because they're suffering AT YOU FUCKING HANDS.
Look, we all have to play for 225 sometimes. Just don't fucking walk away from ANY gig with that kind of shit when the club has made three thousand dollars. You're hurting people when you do that. Don't do it. Don't. I'll kill you. I swear I will fucking work you like an old shirt. This is the Sweat Shoppe Principle that we're all suffering for all over the world. Don't be a part of it.
And speaking of which: don't be tempted to buy that Behringer crap. O.K.- you can have one piece of Behringer gear. One. That Behringer crap is the sweat-shop-iest shit this side of the goddamn Triangle Building, canus. Those little folk toil over that shit at the business end of a cat-o-nine-tails for about a nickel a fucking year. I fucking kid you not.
If you realized just how many lives are ruined, how many dreams shattered so you can have that fucking 60 dollar condenser mic, you'd eat your own forearm. You would wear a hairshirt from that day hence and you would drink your own urine like a dog forgotten in a basement.
Fucking plumber bands. And their goddamn wives with the ass tattoos.
AND SPEAKING OF WHICH:
God damn teenage girls.
What a fucking nightmare. And this isn't just because of the torture of once having to have been a god damn teenage boy. These little creatures have done more to ruin the planet than any boardroom full of wheezing, Satan-worshipping robber baron scumbags ever, ever, EVER possibly could. Oh, my sweet fucking Gautama. Oy fuckin' vey, old girl.
The insatiable, ravenous, selfish, mean, consumeristic hideousness of these little bitches cannot be measured. Impossible. It was attempted in 1997 and all instruments were smashed and mangled past recognition. Horrible, deceitful, bitchy, arrogant, mean, stupid, clueless. These are but a drop in the ocean of th' plethora of adjectives that apply to Teenage Girls. There should be some sort of huge celebration when teenage girls reach womanhood and start to behave just remotely like human beings. Before that, man, they're just not team players, man. They're just not. Down, down, down with teenage girls.
AND SPEAKING OF WHICH:
Those most cocksuckingest of cruddy things, CELL PHONES.
Yeah, I know, everybody fucking has one. I fucking have one, I'm profoundly, profoundly ashamed to say. I have dashed more of these evil, soul-sucking, useless, stupid pieces of shit against more brick walls than I feel comfortable saying.
They don't work, guys. Have you noticed the little thing about them not working? The way, when you're like using them, they suck? And they don't work? Would you drive a fucking car that only ran in certain counties? Would you watch a TV that fucking went out every ten stupid fucking seconds?
And how disgusting it is to watch some idiot weave around th' road and drive 20 and sit at stop signs because they're attempting to get one of these fucking things to do what they fucking paid good money for it to do?
And how putrid it is to watch someone talk on their idiotic cell phone when they're trying to order coffee or something? And the other person is just like their little product-dispenser but not really occupying the same world?
That fucking disgusts me. That's disgusting. It's about the rudest thing I've ever seen. I wish brain cancer on that fucking repugnant individyool.
Crappy cell phones. Shameful little ripoffs that we all fall for.
Having one in your car for safety if you blow a tire at 1 AM in Ashuelot New fucking Hampshire? Yeah- great. Like it's actually going to WORK. It doesn't fucking WORK in remote places where you'd want it to have your fucking back. Sorry. It only works in places where there are regular god damn phones every two feet.
In little pieces at the foot of a brick wall is the only place a fucking CELL PHONE belongs. Or up someone's ass in the fucking coffee or movie line. Sploop.
There's some other shit but I just had this awesome idea for another post.
Tasty coffff-fff-eee to-n-night..
Look, here's some shit I love that you probably hate, so you won't feel all god damn put upon:
Bryan Ferry, scandinavian salt licorice, women that don't look like fucking scarecrows, sleeping until 3 pm, digital reverb, wretched, pushy, flea-bitten little dogs. Shitty cars. Fucking LOVE 'em. I had this girl once who would ride up th' 405 with me and recoil at shitty cars. Fucking little android consumer. I was like, I plan on driving my vehicles until they fucking fall apart, sugar cookie. Small, riceburning, horrid, boxy little cars that have really good mileage. Oh, that god damn extended ram van, though. That was a hideous thing indeed. I needed it for work, though.
Those MISERABLE, REPUGNANT, CANCEROUS, SHITTY ASS TATTOOS.'Nuff motherfucking said. These things are simply the most wretched, tool-of-Satan fucking things around. If you have one of these I'm really sorry, but you're about as mis-fucking-guided as you can god damn be. I can not POSSIBLY IMAGINE how someone could think this would somehow be a cool thing. If you need to have an ass tattoo I would suggest that you HAUL ASS, don't walk, to the nearest MentalHealthMart and buy EVERY FUCKING SELF-HELP BOOK YOU CAN FIND AND READ 'EM QUICK, QUICK, QUICK. TOOT MOTHERFUCKING SUITE, my poor addled child. And maybe, just fucking maybe, something will stick and you'll take out your self-loathing on something healthy like self-medication or organizing your fucking closet for Jesus.
SPEAKING OF WHICH:
That big fucking cock God.
I've gotta man the fuck up right now and put this out there before I puss out. Look, God's a class-A asshole if there's any truth in what I've been "led" to "believe" about this little shitskin.
According to my extensive reading on the subject of this smegsucker, I am led to believe that there's this big thing called Th' World, and all these people live in it, and if they act a certain way they go to one place when they die and if they act another way they go to this other place.
Well, excuse the fuck out of me if I deign to bring up th' memory of that great American heroine Mssle. Parks and how she sat down on the fucking bus AGAINST this kind of shit. We're expected to take our place at th' Table Of Man and then if you take Santa Christ as your Personal Trainer and Financial Consultant you get to sit in front and if you don't it's some sort of Celestial Jim Crow shit? That's the best you could do?
You're like an absentee father, is about the best I can come up with for you, cocck. You are guilty of th' Silent Treatment thing on a cosmic scale, like a prissy little resentful schoolmarm. Blow me.
SPEAKING OF WHICH:
Weak, lousy plumber classic-rock amateur garage bands that bring a million friends to a club once every three months and play for nothing.Let me tell you what it is I'm going to do, fellas. Here's the plan from me to you so you'll know what to expect: I'm going to start going around and repairing people's fucking plumbing for FREE so that YOU'RE out of fucking work, o.k., you fucking idiots?
Do you realized you're killing live music on a grand scale? You guys are as bad for this shit as those fucking idiots Great White. They had to write a whole new fucking regulation book after that fucking Bonfire Of The Inanities to make sure it was an endless fucking HASSLE to fucking play music for people.
There's this place up in Orange, th' fucking route 202 Roadhouse or some CRAP and I took 'em a kit to see about installing Lightfoot up there some balmy December evening. Fucking asshole comes back with $225. "Well, the Shit Heels play here and they bring like 300 people and the bar makes like 3 grand and I give 'em $225."
I honestly don't know who's the bigger idiot, the fucking guy or Th' Shit Heels. These idiots should be shot in the extremities and their instruments should be donated to real musicians. You can tell the REAL musicians 'cause their gear is all beat up and from like 1978 because they're suffering AT YOU FUCKING HANDS.
Look, we all have to play for 225 sometimes. Just don't fucking walk away from ANY gig with that kind of shit when the club has made three thousand dollars. You're hurting people when you do that. Don't do it. Don't. I'll kill you. I swear I will fucking work you like an old shirt. This is the Sweat Shoppe Principle that we're all suffering for all over the world. Don't be a part of it.
And speaking of which: don't be tempted to buy that Behringer crap. O.K.- you can have one piece of Behringer gear. One. That Behringer crap is the sweat-shop-iest shit this side of the goddamn Triangle Building, canus. Those little folk toil over that shit at the business end of a cat-o-nine-tails for about a nickel a fucking year. I fucking kid you not.
If you realized just how many lives are ruined, how many dreams shattered so you can have that fucking 60 dollar condenser mic, you'd eat your own forearm. You would wear a hairshirt from that day hence and you would drink your own urine like a dog forgotten in a basement.
Fucking plumber bands. And their goddamn wives with the ass tattoos.
AND SPEAKING OF WHICH:
God damn teenage girls.
What a fucking nightmare. And this isn't just because of the torture of once having to have been a god damn teenage boy. These little creatures have done more to ruin the planet than any boardroom full of wheezing, Satan-worshipping robber baron scumbags ever, ever, EVER possibly could. Oh, my sweet fucking Gautama. Oy fuckin' vey, old girl.
The insatiable, ravenous, selfish, mean, consumeristic hideousness of these little bitches cannot be measured. Impossible. It was attempted in 1997 and all instruments were smashed and mangled past recognition. Horrible, deceitful, bitchy, arrogant, mean, stupid, clueless. These are but a drop in the ocean of th' plethora of adjectives that apply to Teenage Girls. There should be some sort of huge celebration when teenage girls reach womanhood and start to behave just remotely like human beings. Before that, man, they're just not team players, man. They're just not. Down, down, down with teenage girls.
AND SPEAKING OF WHICH:
Those most cocksuckingest of cruddy things, CELL PHONES.
Yeah, I know, everybody fucking has one. I fucking have one, I'm profoundly, profoundly ashamed to say. I have dashed more of these evil, soul-sucking, useless, stupid pieces of shit against more brick walls than I feel comfortable saying.
They don't work, guys. Have you noticed the little thing about them not working? The way, when you're like using them, they suck? And they don't work? Would you drive a fucking car that only ran in certain counties? Would you watch a TV that fucking went out every ten stupid fucking seconds?
And how disgusting it is to watch some idiot weave around th' road and drive 20 and sit at stop signs because they're attempting to get one of these fucking things to do what they fucking paid good money for it to do?
And how putrid it is to watch someone talk on their idiotic cell phone when they're trying to order coffee or something? And the other person is just like their little product-dispenser but not really occupying the same world?
That fucking disgusts me. That's disgusting. It's about the rudest thing I've ever seen. I wish brain cancer on that fucking repugnant individyool.
Crappy cell phones. Shameful little ripoffs that we all fall for.
Having one in your car for safety if you blow a tire at 1 AM in Ashuelot New fucking Hampshire? Yeah- great. Like it's actually going to WORK. It doesn't fucking WORK in remote places where you'd want it to have your fucking back. Sorry. It only works in places where there are regular god damn phones every two feet.
In little pieces at the foot of a brick wall is the only place a fucking CELL PHONE belongs. Or up someone's ass in the fucking coffee or movie line. Sploop.
There's some other shit but I just had this awesome idea for another post.
Tasty coffff-fff-eee to-n-night..
posted by Bobby Lightfoot at 20:41
3 Comments:
Pretty damn funny.
Bobby, I am all over that cell-phone hatred. I resisted it for years, and finally got one about six months ago, and once I got it I forgot to take it anywhere for a long time (subconsciously on purpose), but now my wife makes me because what if she needs me or the kids are in trouble or Something Bad happens? So I take it with me. But I make sure I still talk to the coffee person rather than into my phone, and when I use the damn thing I talk in my regular voice instead of yelling and I drive in the same aggressive, elegantly efficient manner that I always do.
As for the ass tatoos ... well, I dunno, that girl kinda got a rise outta me, except I'm all played out because of them old Rooskie women you had in the post above, so there's nothing I can do about it.
zjrcgbwk (don't forget Poland)
Y'know what unplugs my heating pad? This new craze for Global Positioning Systems in cars.
.
All the electronics stores are suddenly selling these shitty little doohickeys that stick on your dashboard and show you an electronic map of where you are. They're this year's hot Christmas gift for clueless fuckwits who want to impress their equally clueless fuckwit friends.
.
Let me do some maths for you:
"Tomtom" GPS system for car - £275
2006 Road Atlas of Great Britain from any petrol station - £6.99.
Fuckwits.
jgnzvzm
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