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Wednesday, June 30, 2010

You Know Who Can Kiss My Ass...?

... Aaron Copland

Because I'm an effete snob with an ostrich feather up his ass, sometimes I listen to classical radio. While I'm driving my Volvo. Yeah, that's right. I said it. Classical radio, in my Volvo. With leather seats and ass-warmers.

Uh-huh. You heard me, Truvia-Tits.

Well, when I'm listening to classical radio inside my Volvo with leather seats and ass-warmers, every time Appalachian motherfuckin' Spring comes on the radio, I want to floor it and plow my car straight into the nearest oversized vehicle bearing a "HAZMAT" warning placard. If that fucking guy's candy-assed, jack-in-the-box, hyperactive, schlocko music accurately represents the American experience, then you can burn my passport and call me Pancho.

Fuck you, Aaron. You can kiss my Volvo-warmed black ass.

... Every Indian Person With the Last Name "Gandhi"

Come on, stop it. I know they just want to bask in the reflected glow of The Mahatma, but, seriously, get a new last name. I mean, aren't they sick of every American retarded person going up to them while they're checking into a motel or filling out a credit card application going, "OMG, are you, like, related to Mahatma Gandhi?"

No, Clusterfuckhead. They're not. And neither was Indira Gandhi. And they need to stop pretending that they are related to him just to get more clients for their private MRI/Radiology suite business venture. Kiss my ass, Gandhis.

... The Kid With the Empty Water Bottle

At the Sunday matinee performance of "Peter Pan," I looked out into the house and there was this really cute little boy, maybe five or six years old, wearing khaki shorts, a blue Oxford dress shirt, and a neck-tie. He was sitting on his impossibly obese father's lap. I thought to myself, as I threatened to slap Smee's head for some sort of piratical insubordination, "Hmpf-- I like this kid. He's a snappy dresser and whatnot." Then, though, during "Hook's Tarantella," he started playing with an empty spring water bottle. He was crushing it and letting it expand with air and then he'd crush it again, over and over and over again, because children like to both perseverate and make noise and, when they can combine the two tasks, they're in 7th fucking heaven. You cannot believe the decibel level this empty bottle in this child's little hands created. I was prepared to stop the show and threaten to eviscerate him with my hook, but I was afraid Dad would sit on me. And I wouldn't dream of telling that fat motherfucker to kiss my ass, and, if I kissed his, I could do it all night and not hit the same spot twice.

... Politicians Who Appear on "The Today Show" With Their Neckties Askew

Seriously? You're all 60-year-old white men. And those of you who aren't 60-year-old white men are white men who are even older than that. You're telling me your racist, corrupt-assed daddies never taught you how to tie a motherfucking Windsor knot? I highly doubt that. Can't the little chippy who works your front desk and your cock when nobody's looking tie your tie for you? You're a politician, you're representing your constiuents, and you're sparring with Matt Lauer, whose neckties are always impeccably tied. One side-by-side shots with him, you may have more hair, but your ties look like shit. Get ahold of yourselves, tie your ties correctly, and then kiss my ass. Because I know how to tie a tie-- neck or bow, thank you-- and you don't.

... Drivers of 1996-2010 Model Year Toyota Camrys

Honestly, you people are fucking killing me. Don't you have anywhere important to be? No? Because I do and, more often than not, I am behind you, and I sit there in my car sweating, digging my fingernails into my steering wheel, checking my watch, checking the car clock, squirming in my seat, muttering, "Is this going to take long, bitch?" and having mini-panic attacks. I don't know what it is about you fuckers, but you're beginning to spread your peculiar taciturn driving style disease to drivers of 2000-2010 model year Honda Accord drivers, and I am not happy about that. I blame you exclusively, and I hate you unendingly, and, with your plastic bumpers, you can kiss my hairy, balloon-shaped, treacle-colored ass. Suck it!

... My Middle Sister

Yeah, in case you were all wondering, she's still fucking annoying the piss out of me. Nothing specific, she's just, you know, existing. And that's pretty much enough to set me off. Kiss my ass, hon. Is there a way I can see my nephew while you're, like, out of the country or something? Yeah, that'd be great. Could you schedule that with my secretary/knob-polisher/neck-tie-tier? K, thanksbye.

... Singers Who Say "Bay-beh"

It's "baby," you asslickers. Bay-bee. Bae-bi. Yeah. Like that. You sound like constipated, affected moosefuckers. Stop it. Bad boy, Bryan Adams. Bad. Now pucker up, you little Canadian bitch. Bay-bee!

... My Neighbors

I can't stand how on-top of lawn care EVERYBODY ON MY STREET is. There are, like, thirty homes on my block-- can't just ONE OTHER PERSON be an irresponsible lout so I don't look like the only dickhead around? Is that really too much to ask? Honestly, the guy who lives five houses down from us is around 89 years old. His lawn? Immaculate. Sure, he hires three Mexicans to do it for him, and, if I did that, mine would look immaculate, too, but I kind of don't have disposable income for such purposes. I mean-- there are Gilbert & Sullivan operettas to attend and weird, random things on E-bay to buy to support my various fetishes. I mean, "interests." I can't pay people to mow my fucking lawn and clip my fucking hedges. I also can't be bothered to do those aforementioned tasks more frequently than once every other month.

Sorry. Like, kiss my clippings.

... People Over 60 Who Say "My Bad."

Forget about kissing my ass-- why don't you just take a rusty penknife, saw your lips off with it, and glue them to my ass-- one lip on each cheek, please. Because, really, you don't deserve to speak anymore. You're old. Talk like a fucking old person. Say, things like, "cracklings," "Modess pads," "Jehosephat" and "support hose." Oh, and while you're doing your little self-mutilation thing, go ahead and cut your tongue off and staple it to your own forehead. That's a good old girl.

Sorry if any of this offended anybody-- especially you, Aaron Copland, you little dyke's milky-bitch. My bad.


  1. Not only are we the slackingest slackers in the lawn care department in our neighborhood, we live next door to a man I wouldn't be surprised to see crawling around on his lawn with the ruler and the scissors. That is how much he cares about his lawn. He also conscripts his bajillion children into service. And if our grass is even a little taller than his he calls the city and we get weird little lawn care compliance orders on our door. I hate him so much I don't even want to tell him to kiss my ass because the idea of that makes my stomach churn.

  2. Don't hate on Justin Bieber, Prince of the Behbes. He can't get thoughts in or out of that helmet hair.


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