I hate new years. They never go anywhere, they just add up until you end up on a hospital bed dying of Emphysema. You tell yourself that at some point, before you reach that death bed, you’ll do all the things you’ve always planned to do. But it’s nonsense, happy thoughts to keep you going, subconscious fake happiness that pushes you on, to pay the mortgage.
All of those goals will pass without you even attempting them. You may as well just put your favorite pajamas on, climb up onto that hard hospital mattress, and wait for death. My favorite pajamas are grey with red pinstripes, and I never take them off.
I got outta bed too quick this morning and stepped on my own dick.
I didn’t even know that was possible.
oh, blackula!
you’re like dracula,
but with a bigger dick.
and you never knew your dad.
oh, blackula!
with your ridiculous grape flavored blood.
you make me nervous
when you hang out with me and my girlfriend.
I’ve never understood the appeal of a TV series, you know, the CSIs, Criminal Minds, House, Without a trace. Whenever anyone tells me they watch such shows I note them down in my little book of fucking mental people. To tune in, twice, sometimes even more, per week..to watch rather bad actors solve tonight’s fabricated national threat, or diagnose thorax AIDS caused by cat fur….it’s banal. I can’t begin to fathom what level of utter fucking loon would sit for an hour watching these televisual turds slowly squeeze from the depraved anus of entertainment.
“no really, give it a go…last week Al Qaeda had infiltrated the Pentagon with remote controlled wig bombs, but Rock Rockwell saw sparks coming from one of the terrorists foreheads and he shot the hairpiece off just before it exploded.”
You are then obliged to politely fake interest.
“Ohhhh? No…I haven’t seen that, what night was it? I’ll try to watch it this week”.
Right after I shit into my open hand, and smear it all over the television screen.