Saturday, August 27, 2011

My Beautiful Dark Twisted Camping Trip


       So a lot of you may not know this about me, but I totally love camping. I can't even tell you all how sick I sometimes get of being cooped up in my apartment, with my so-called "air conditioning" and all my other modern "conveniences." I find that in my apartment there is a serious dearth of venomous spiders and other things that could kill me such as bears and what not, and there is way too much of an availability for me to properly wash my balls. And just how am I supposed to dig a hole for me to shit in and wipe my ass with some bark from the so-called "comfort" of my cold, repressive apartment? Suffice it to say I think camping is the tits. I'm always trying to bring along people I know who have never been camping before, and who doubt the inherent awesomeness of it, so they can realize how fucking stupid they are. So this time I decided to bring my good friend Muammar Gaddafi, because let's face it, the dude needs some cheering up right about now.

       When I first approached him with the idea for this thing, he was as resistant to it as he was to the idea of giving up Libya, and all his power and what have you, but then I reminded him that for the entirety of his childhood he lived in a tent in the fucking desert. Or at least that's what the official reports say. So I told him to man the fuck and stop throwing his little pity party, and he said but what if I don't wanna, and I said fine then I'll just call for a wambulance, and then he called me an American swine, and we had a good laugh, because he knows I know full well that the wily old son of a bitch grew up in the suburbs of Cleveland.

       A good rule of thumb when going camping with Gaddafi is make sure to bring a shitload of Jheri curl grease, because God forbid he runs out of it and is forced to walk around with a Jewfro for the rest of the time, because you are guaranteed to have one whiny little poopy pants of a fervently anti-Semitic manchild on your hands, and I think we all know how much that can suck.

       Now some of my more pathetically out of touch readers will remember that for much of the 1980's, Gaddafi did in fact rock something that looked an awful lot like a Jewfro. Well that was before someone told him what that hairstyle was called.

Ignorance is bliss.

       Not cool, Idi Amin. I'm sure you don't give a shit though. You're not the one who had to listen to him sobbing on the phone for hours, and you are also dead.

       And the other thing I would suggest is to be respectful of his abstinence from pork. We're living in the 21st century here people and it isn't that hard to purchase turkey bacon. But I wouldn't recommend letting Gaddafi come into Walmart with you. He fucking loves those musical greeting cards and Walmart has like a thousand of them. He is also the consummate impulse buyer and wouldn't you know that Walmart does not accept payment in Libyan dinars, even if you are the person whose face is on the front of them, so guess who will get stuck footing the bill for over sixty decorative magnets.

That's right, you will.

       On the way out to the campsite we started to get bored, so we decided to sing some road trip songs. I decided to start it off with "99 bottles of beer on the wall," but he just sat there glowering at me all sinister-like and I could tell he really wanted to suppress my shit, so we ended up singing "The song that never ends" instead. But anyone who has ever sung that song knows that after about 30 minutes it really starts to get old, so luckily I remembered a game I learned from those epic road trips with my family back in the day. It's a little game I like to call "passive aggression." I was able to defeat him handily in that since he is much more accustomed to plain old aggression. Then he wanted to play a game called "Nevs have I evs." It basically consists of telling things you have never done before and then giggling like school children. Kind of immature I know, but it was actually a lot of fun. I told him that nevs had I evs worn a muumuu, and it was funny because he couldn't say the same. Now I know some of you will probably want to point out that the game is actually called "Never have I ever" and is a little more complicated than what I described, and involves a lot of drinking, and I think it's really smart and not at all egocentric of you to think that your particular version should be the same as Muammar Gaddafi's, you insufferable infidel twuntfucks.

       Now you would think that someone with a reputation for being this Bedouin badass would have no problem setting up your basic tent, or at least helping me out with it, but apparently his job in the tribe or whatever was more along the lines of jerking off the camels because he just sat there on his indolent tuchus and ate one of the twenty bags of Cheetos he made me buy for him while I sweated my nuts off. By the way, he is probably the only person I know who prefers the big puffy kind. Then after he polished off that bag he went for the chili cheese flavored Cheetos Fantastix!, and I didn't bother telling him that that kind contains porcine enzymes and is therefore definitely haraam.

       Well having that secret revenge on my hapless despot amigo helped me to get over my resentment a little, and the rest of the day went better than expected. We went for a walk through this lovely vibrant meadow and I could see my friend's mood start to lighten a little. At one point a monarch butterfly landed right on his shoulder and for just a glimmering moment I could see all the hate fall away from him and it was replaced by love, a love so exciting and new, the kind that if you just let it flow, it will always float back to you. But then all of sudden, like a boat of love, or "love boat" if you will, it was gone.

       Later we sat around the fire and roasted marshmallows and told ghost stories, and then I was feeling sort of sentimental since it was already our last night and we had had such an amazing time, so I busted out the guitar and started singing some songs.

       But Gaddafi all of a sudden became massively butthurt during my heartfelt rendition of Joni Mitchell's classic "The Circle Game," because he thought it was talking about reincarnation, so rather than have him launch a full-scale jihad on my ass, I decided to stop playing that song.

       But all in all it was a pretty amazing trip, and most importantly I believe it worked. Gaddafi is happier than I have seen him years. He is taking up new hobbies such as urban dance and rock-skipping, and he just got a NOOK and is reading Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood and the complete works of the Dalai Lama. So who says people can't change. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my thirtieth consecutive vulgar display of comedic power, and I bid you adieu now.

Saturday, August 13, 2011

Musings on My Vast Superiority to Animals and Children


       Let's face it, being a person these days is not too shabby, and by "person" I mean a human aged 23 or older, which is not to say that a 23-year-old is not still a total fuckwit, because they definitely are. But they barely make the cut-off to be considered a real person. Why? Because I fucking said so.

       And if you happen to be even slightly younger than that, then I'm afraid you are no more than a primitive beast, on the order of a water buffalo or an amphibian of some sort, and I am vastly superior to you in every way imaginable, just like I am vastly superior to the insufferably self-aggrandizing cunts that comprise the so-called "Animal Kingdom." Like we really believe you have a royal court and shit.

       Like it isn't totally obvious that you are a bunch of stinking anarchists, no better than the chavs when you come right down to it. And even if they did have a legitimate form of government, it would be so fucking easy to overthrow that shit.

       And don't even get me started on children. Most of them are so stupid they couldn't even tell you what the word "supercilious" means. It's the word that best describes the smile on my face when I realize I'm here sitting pretty at the top of the food chain and pretty much nothing can fuck with me, while the average child has night terrors over shit that doesn't even exist, and could probably get their ass handed to them by five or six squirrels. I'm just postin' up here in my own apartment with my bachelor's degree and my driver's license and all my other adult shit, and most of you little shit-wits can barely say your A-B-C's.

       So like I said, being a person is pretty damn sweet. So I think this time I'll just spend a little while reflecting on that. I'm definitely not going to space again because that shit was exhausting.

       For thousands of years, people, such as myself, have made animals their bitch. We have shrunk them and made them bigger as we have seen fit, and we have pretty much trained them to do whatever the fuck we want. If I say you are going to wear a ridiculous lizard on your back, Mr. Whiskers, then you had better believe you are going to do exactly fucking that.

       Children don't have any idea who the fuck they even are. But I for one have a pretty good idea of who this little doucher isn't. He is not Robert Smith and he is definitely not Ian Curtis, but he probably doesn't know who either of them are. That would be because he has the musical taste of a day-old baloney sandwich, and speaking of which, about the only thing I can picture him singing is the Oscar Mayer wiener song.

       I guarantee you animals would believe this shit if you told them. I on the other hand can drive to my local grocery store and get as many apples as I damn well please.

I'm starting to notice a pattern here.

       Animals have often been used in the creation of memes, but I doubt highly that they have ever been creatively involved in shit. Do me a favor, animals. Get yourself a cerebral cortex and then get back me. Animals: O, Me: Infinity

       Exactly, you are a fucking frog. You don't even have internal fertilization. You reproduce through the process of amplexus, which doesn't even count as fucking. Your frogwench is probably like 3 times the size of you, with an ass as big as a lily pad, so I wouldn't be thinking about tapping that either if I were you. And no, I am not impressed by your ability to breathe underwater. It's called fucking SCUBA, bitch, and yes, I am certified.

       Thumbs down, you little shithead. Your whole life is a gimmick. I'm sure this will go really well with your slap bracelet and Heelys.

       Once you grow up a little and grow a fucking brain you will probably get over the whole anti-establishment thing. Hopefully your stint in a nice juvenile detention center will facilitate this process, and maybe while you're there you can also learn a thing or two about capitalization you e.e. cummings wannabe douchefuck.

       Okay, I'll admit it. I'm mildly impressed. Now kindly explain to me what a double black diamond is. Oh wait that's right, you can't explain shit. Come see me when your species has an actual language, or any culture for that matter you pencil-necked dickface.


        I'm pretty sure I would fall out of my voting booth in a fit of laughter if any animals or children thought they could keep a volley going even half this long.

       For some reason I don't think Jorge's mother is the only thing standing between him and being hardcore.

       Well these are fucking hard so you get an A for effort. I'm actually kind of proud of you, you brave little bastard.

Okay, fine. I admit you have some skills.

But I don't think they would translate well into any kind of career.