I want to congratulate the world on having good breath today. What a pleasant surprise.
Order water at a fast-food restaurant, get a miniature cup.
Are the small cups necessary to keep costs down for a free item? Do they deter soda theft?
The truth is these establishments are bullying you into buying a drink.
Six ounces can’t quench a lunchtime thirst. You’ll require frequent, humiliating refill trips, parading your cheap ass around the place with your Dixie cup exposed for all to see.
You press a little lever on the lemonade slot to get the water. How dainty do you look pressing it, shot glass in hand? How many germs are on that thing? Poopy index fingers all over it.
All the other beverages are activated by pressing a mostly germ-free cup into the soda fountain. Magic does the filling.
Why don’t you just make me lick the floor to earn my tiny water?
When I hear “failed stimulus,” I think of someone not appreciating a finger in the butt.
Prince Adam turns into He-Man by yelling “By the power of Grayskull, I have the power!”
How does He-Man turn back into Prince Adam? Does he have another phrase? Does He-Man wear off after awhile, and you become Prince Adam again?
My guess is he reverts to Prince Adam immediately after coitus with Teela.
Take me, Battlecat
If I were an enterprising hotel proprietor, I would have a sign: “Complimentary black light and toothbrush available upon request.”
The black light assures guests a clean room, while also encouraging them to avoid spilling fluids all over the walls. This isn’t a whorehouse.
This will never happen, as we simply love rolling around in each others dried up goo.
Even a plain man with a mustache can get on TV as long as he has “Fox” on his cheek.
What drives a grown man to sellout so hard just to have his face known for a brief second?
I wonder what my killer will be texting when they run my ass over.
It better be at least OMGWTF worthy.
Baseball: Buy some close seats and curse at someone who makes more money than you.
I’ve picked a scab or two.
Removing a scab is like removing a body part that regenerates.
If we could do the same thing with arms, we’d be tearing them off left and right.
And the majority of its visitors are from searches for “purple candy corn.”
You meant to be looking at this post.
I wrote a song.
I’ve placed calls to KCP&L and the Kansas City Star in the past week. Both robot operators told me to “Listen closely, as our menu has changed.”
I’ve heard this message many times from other automated greetings. Why is the menu changing so much? Are there new things on the menu? Or is it something far more sinister?
The point of a robot operator is to prevent you from talking to the human operators, who make their livings by getting you off the phone as soon as possible, so they can move onto the next person who beat the system to talk to a real person.
By changing the menu, companies prevent frequent callers from memorizing the sequence of numbers necessary to reach a fleshy operator. You will pay attention and earn your way to the customer service rep, cheaters.
If you own a dog, you are likely awful.
Sure, there are decent dog owners. They train their dogs.
But the majority of dog owners are shit. The dog trains the owner.
Bark all night, and your master finally comes out to bark back, “shut up!” Apparently this astute owner thinks dogs understand English. If this is the case, why not put the peanut butter away and simply say “blow me.”
Dear Olive Garden,
If I wanted to eat things I couldn’t pronounce, I’d go to a real Italian restaurant.
Now, where are those fresh breadsticks you promised?
The Dusty Bookshelf sells previously owned books. One of the sections is “New Arrivals.” I avoid this section, as these books have been near feces more recently than the books living in other sections. “New Arrivals” should really be “Hot off the toilet.”
I’ll meet you at six. Actually, you get there at 5:55. I’ll be there at six. I’ll know to look for you when I arrive, and you’ll know to look for me at the door. This will spare us awkward looks.
I quit Facebook two months ago.
I no longer know the pets of people I barely spoke to in high school.
Worried about the cold weather affecting your golf swing? Worry no more. With weather.com, you’ll know just how to dress for the golf course tomorrow.
The link brings us to this page, which leads with:
Low temperatures won’t keep a hardy soul off the golf course. Why should they? Take the following steps to make sure you enjoy yourself##and play to your potential##in the chill.
The random “##” aren’t mine. They belong to the page in question.
Unfortunately, the article doesn’t mention how to get out of the rough in a foot of snow.
If you live in a place where Winter destroys you in January, it doesn’t make sense to enact your massive self-improvement goals on New Year’s. Sure, a new year is a great time to evaluate yourself and plan some changes, but a frozen brain isn’t all that malleable.
Put those goals off until Spring – that’s the time to kick some ass. Plus, you won’t be the douche who shows up at the gym at the new year and then vanishes after two weeks. You can bet your ass the staff is rating your chances.
Does this bother you? It feels a little dirty to me.
The Stoss has made the jump to Fox News. The man we know and love is no more.
This move earns a rating of “No Stashes. Clean shaven.”
Just needed to get that out of the way so I can continue to refer to myself as a blogger in social situations. Carry on.
Why not consider legalizing public urination outside courthouses and city halls? It would save on water and sewage infrastructure. Plus, everyone would score a mental benefit from literally pissing on the government.
Ninety percent of my job involves face-to-face interactions with the general public. A fair number of these people emit foul odors.
Today, I was working with a lady and her male companion. Both were in their 50s. Toward the end of our long discussion, the smell of liquid scat filled the air. Was it truly a fecal discharge? Unlikely. Even the most vile person would flee the area upon a pant deposit. It had to be none other than the dreaded diarrhea fart.
While the smell was disgusting, I was more concerned with my customers thinking I had dealt it. The suspects: me, the lady, her dude, and a lone passerby. I can immediately rule out myself, and I’m fairly certain the lady didn’t concoct that rancid ass. I didn’t get a good enough look at the passerby to give him better than even odds with the lady’s dude.
I couldn’t help but make a face when the smell hit me, but I didn’t notice the lady and her dude recoil. Maybe the dude has some funky ass, and the lady has accepted it?
This is the ideal scenario, as the alternative horrifies me.
What if the passerby was the skunk? Did he deliberately plant his seed right in our laps just to make an awkward scene? Does he get his jollies going store to store, looking for victims of his gaseous talents?
If so, what an evil, brilliant asshole.
Is it really that hard to make severe weather look tolerable on a widescreen TV? I shouldn’t lose 50 percent of my screen to thunderstorms.
Fox 4, consider yourself “4WARNED!”
I rarely watch local network broadcasts, and when I do, I’m reminded why I shouldn’t.
In order to plant myself firmly in the thick of the whole “Here are some pictures of food I made, and a list of things you need to do to get food to look like these pictures” craze, I’ve decided to share one of my favorite dishes with you: Beef Ravioli in Tomato & Meat Sauce.
Looks tasty, doesn’t it?
Here’s what you need:
Add one plate.
Throw in one finger.
Combine can contents with the uppermost surface of the plate.
Cook in my microwave for precisely one minute, nine seconds.
Remove from microwave.
Put it in your mouth and digest.
Unless a bucket of cash shows up on my doorstep, I won’t be buying an HDTV soon.
I have a 24-inch LCD computer monitor on a cart. If I want a giant TV, I just have to cart the thing to my face. Take that, HDTV pushers!
Meanwhile, I have a feeling I will be ostracized by society for my meager TV size.
PBS pledge drives never looked sicker.
Prices are plunging! If you have cash and job security, you can pick up some cheap crap you and your loved ones don’t need this holiday season.
For the rest of us: Liquor prices have to come down soon, too.
USA! USA! USA!
For a three-bedroom, two-bath house, the answer is this many:
Why can’t I opt out of this waste? Shezzus.
If it weren’t for SPAM, I wouldn’t have logged into the site to delete a SPAM comment, and you wouldn’t have had a new blog post to read.
Aren’t you lucky?
I got a free landline and cable with my Internet from SureWest.
Today, I found a cordless phone in one of my boxes and decided to give the old landline a try. I enjoyed talking to my parents without worrying about frying my cell battery.
However, I got two telemarketer calls tonight. One was going to give me a free cruise, and the other was magazines. My thought upon the second call: “Maybe I need to go ahead and put this phone number on the No Call List.”
Then, I realized I need to interface this phone with the computer so I can mess with telemarketers’ heads and post the results here as MP3s. Plus, I don’t know my phone number.
I voted today. Can you guess which municipality received my help? No fair guessing if I hung out with you immediately before or after voting. As an added bonus, we will see how few people still read this crappy blog.
USA! USA! USA!
When looking for the perfect booze to enrich your night or morning, just follow my easy, one-step process. Look for the “Lightweight Plastic” seal of approval.
On my drive home from work on Ward Parkway, several war protestors were stationed at the fountains roundabout.
Among their signs was one that read “Honk for Peace.”
I would say a bunch of cars honking during rush hour leads to the exact opposite of peace.
Now that I have a job dealing with the general public, I realize the importance of breath mints to our society.
Seriously, it seems like some people eat butt at every meal.
I don’t appreciate the ad you served up for me today.
Your “targeted advertising” needs to make the girls in the ad a little more slutty looking before I fall for this trick. Have you learned nothing from MySpace on how to net some morons?
Can you believe the crowd at the Republican National Convention taunted Sarah Palin’s pregnant teenage daughter with chants of “Drill, baby, drill” this week? What won’t the Republicans do?
Do you know how many times “God bless America” has been uttered this week? Yeah, lots. In prime time, too. And it’s always at the end of the speeches, when everyone is paying attention. And then we drop balloons or shoot off fireworks or some combination of the two.
According to my count, you’ve got lots of blessing to get to.
Alaskan for oil drilling: Check
Penchant for power abuse: Check
Unaborted Down Syndrome baby: Check
Pregnant teenage daughter with parental support: Check
Son in Iraq: Check
Sexy Librarian glasses: Check
Aggressive foreign policy rhetoric: Give us some time. We just found this woman last week.
Mr. Goodcents is about as good of a sub as you can buy for the money. It puts Subway to shame. If you don’t have one in your city, I pity you. That being said, Mr. Goodcents puts a tip line on your credit card receipt, hoping to guilt you into poneying up a tip for someone who prepared your food. Fancy restaurants don’t offer a chef tip line on the receipt, so why would a sandwich shop? Asinine.
Meanwhile, the Red Balloon karaoke bar has a tip jar for the DJ. During karaoke Wednesday night, the bar’s other DJ got up to sing a song, and scolded the crowd for scant tipping. First off, don’t you tip at the end of “service?” Shouldn’t you tip when you leave, if you were to believe a karaoke DJ does anything to justify a tip? I’m fine with someone bribing their way to the front of the karaoke list, but the dude is still just changing out CDs.
The tipping culture in this country needs a serious readjustment.
I’m not worried he’ll die in office. His longevity concerns me, nonetheless. If he causes the world to explode, he really didn’t have much time left, anyway. It’s like letting a rapist go on a Girls Gone Wild photoshoot right before you castrate him. Sorry, that’s the first analogy that popped into my head.
As I was leaving Wendy’s for lunch yesterday, a young woman was sitting, Indian style, just outside the door. She was on her cell having a loud, uncomfortable, bitch-out session with her boyfriend.
What the hell is wrong with people? And you just know her and the douche on the other end of the phone are going to have ten dumbass kids together.
Like a child distracted by jingling car keys, we’re all too busy creaming ourselves over Phelps to see anything else.
John Edwards cheated on his cancer-stricken wife during the Presidential campaign she encouraged him to run, even though she was in awful shape.
Russia worked up a massive boner and has been waving it in Bush’s face with its invasion of U.S. ally Georgia.
At least the opening ceremonies freaked out a lot of people. You can pull off quite the scene when you force all your citizens to play their assigned role to perfection.
My roommates’ dog Berry likes to chew on anything (too much teeth, not good for recreational purposes). But Prewitt’s wifebeater has been available for chewing all week. The dog sniffs the shirt, gets Prewitt’s scent, and leaves it alone.
Moral of the story: If you don’t want your dog chewing on something, piss on it.
The Royals are 27-32 at home. After last night, they are 1-9 when I attend.
Home winning percentage: 46%
Me winning percentage: 10%
I must be emanating some awful aura that spreads through the stadium and affects this team.
A plant, whose existence would be meaningless, found meaning by messing up my existence. Feel free to chew on that hefty load of profound before reading on.
I’m pretty sure you could power cars with the crud that seeps from this crap. I know I won’t need to buy Pennzoil for awhile.
Screw waterboarding. If interrogators use poison ivy on terror suspects, you’d find Osama in seconds. Okay, not seconds, but seconds after symptoms heighten 2-4 days after contact. Do you think poison ivy grows in the Middle East? Sand dwellers would freak at the powers of this mystery plant. USA! Note to CIA: Why haven’t you hired me yet?
Something good will come of this. I will stop being a pissy little bitch about bug bites for maybe a whole week.