I need to know. It’s very important. I know you’re big on the whole moves in mysterious ways thing, but we are talking about life and death. Did Satan invent weeds and you invented the shake inducing bio mechanical symbiont known as the weed eater? Or did you make them together and have a chuckle behind the moon afterward? You fucks. And what’s the deal with the fact that there is no shoulder strap included with this weed eater? The answers to these questions, whatever they may be, have collided and left my right arm shaking so bad I almost took my eye out when I went to scratch the top of my head. I may not be able to wank tonight, either. Or grab my beautiful girlfriend’s breast in a manner that wouldn’t make her think I thought it was one of those pens on a chain at the bank. If I try to give her a back rub after the day’s hard work, she will ask, “Why are you knocking on my back like it is a door and you are the most urgent Jehovah’s Witness ever?”
Why can’t the lawnmower get it all? Why wasn’t it designed to be a ball of blades and lasers that destroys the “ugly” plants? Home ownership has been awesome: First, the shower didn’t get hot. Now, the weeds and the weed eater are colluding to give me Dumbledore’s Last Hand (nerd reference, go watch Harry Potter or just pretend you know that Dumbledore’s hand is really messed up toward the end). At the least, if there was no way to get past this weed + weed eater thing, how about, I don’t know, beautiful naked ladies in the sky, singing songs I love, and pouring beer in a perfect downward arc and into my smiling mouth? Or unmessy orgasms as I go. Maybe every time I do a “section” of yard, POOF, Orgasm!
You know what? That might be a bit too much to ask for. What if the yard was just perfect. Forever. And maybe every once in awhile, I’d pay tribute by pouring a 40 in the corner by the shed in a never moving fat gnome’s mouth? I could go on and on. No, wait, I can’t because my hand just died and something funny is happening. I can’t feel my shoulder now. Just typing with the left now. Tingle in my left eye. Oh. That’s the strok…
So, sure, I don’t want people running around with guns that aren’t registered, or with guns at all, you know? So *I* don’t get shot. However, this dumb fucker shot HIMSELF in the thigh and lost his job playing a game. Isn’t that bad enough? They gotta maybe put him in jail for this? Yeah, I get it. He could’ve maybe shot someone ELSE. And as a rich and recognizable person, he should maybe invest in some security instead of a gangsta rap video equipped handgun in his boxers’ waistband. But he didn’t pop anyone else.
I wonder, if he’d shot himself in the dick, would that have made people more lenient? I really think this is a case of people being happy to fuck a famous person. This is the perfect time to use this guy. Send him to schools to teach kids a lesson. He’s going to be that guy the gets a train run on him in prison. “What’d you do?” ” I was in a club and I shot myself in the leg…” “Ok, bitch, turn around.”
They should run that poll on ESPN. Would the court have gone easier on Burress if he’d shot himself in the dick or buttocks (buttocks might give some of the Forrest Gump sympathy)?
Just a quick lil article. You can click on the songs to listen to them. I enjoyed Seether’s version of Careless Whispers. And while I love Metallica’s version of Turn the Page, I still prefer Seger’s. It’s just the version I’d rather listen to after a hurricane, rolling the streets at night with all the power out everywhere.
I don’t have any (maybe Luke) friends that do all of the following: enjoy the NBA, loved Almost Famous, and can appreciate good writing. This article is all of these things. Oh, imaginary friend, where are you? Do you want to straight cuddle?
A couple weeks ago, my boys pointed out that I wore my belt “incorrectly.”
Look how ours are buckled. Fag!
It was easy to defend myself as one of them is bald, another is growing a beard in Miami during summer because a woman told him to, and I don’t know, I think Manny was somewhere else, but..
I did not know such a standard existed. As a wearer of baggy pants (best for hiding small arms) I only cared that they kept the waistband well enough above the end of my baggy t-shirt. I don’t particularly care to reveal my Hanes or le crack du magnificence. My friends, being the curious bunch they are questioned me: why, why, why did I wear it like that and honestly, I had no answer. Until yesterday.
I was at my dad’s place, saying hello, hoping to avoid argument, and watching not even a smile appear on his face as I finished the story of my girlfriend and her mom locking themselves out of the house. It was there that I saw horses riding upside down, pulling carriages. On his belt.
Pops, your belt is upside down.
No. It is not.
They’re in the sky, pops. Upside down riding the bottom of clouds. The riders have no blood in their feet. They may fall to the earth and die. Lives hang in the balance.
Not even a chuckle from Stone Ruiz.
I wear it this way because that’s the way I like to buckle it. What’s it to you?
If only I’d had cowboy belts.
I can imagine a movie about these 3 wackily described thieves.
You die in your sleep. Mid dream. Write a poem or short story where your entrance to the afterlife is dreamlike. Do not use the words dream, dead, cloud, or cold. You MUST use nuts, cargo, lightness, and pill. Call on the Black Lagoon, if you must.
Due June 26th. Fool… nuts…
Listening to: Famous Last words by My Chemical Romance
This is a neat article about former football coach turned TV analyst, Jimmy Johnson. He’s not the center of attention anymore and he loves it. In the offseason he only wears pants maybe 3 times. I wish I could say that about half of the year. Not being completely pantsless, of course. I would wear shorts.
This is a neat lil article about comics/cartoon characters and their true origins. Thanks to Luke for popping this one at me.