You enjoy reading vague generalities about your personality. You are special and unique, except in comparison to the 1/12 of the population that you are exactly alike. One time you stubbed your toe and it really hurt. You feel strongly about many of the people in your life, but sometimes get frustrated with them. Because of your positive personality traits, people have taken advantage of you. You have an anus.
If you’re a Scorpio, you’re a cunt and likely a rapist.
There is a lady in the place when I stop in near closing time.
She has red leather pants and a bad attitude. Which one led to the other, I wonder? There’s no way they’re not connected. A chicken and the egg scenario I’m determined to get to the bottom of.
Leather pants. Man. What could be going on in a person’s life where they think that’s some kind of solution?
She’s hostile. Surly. Mean. Just my type.
She knows it now too. Can smell it on me. Watched me metamorphose into a moth to be drawn to her flame. Now she’s engaged. Wants the power I offer her. Wants the chance to wound again.
She smiles at me. Oh man, am I ever in deep shit now.
At least I’m gonna find out if the bad attitude is something that will peel off of her along with those pants.
A warm, funky mess waiting to be discovered.
by Balls Malone
Classy Man is sitting enjoying a scotch on his sumptuous white leather sofa. He takes a sip and smiles at us. Some light jazz starts playing.
“You know, there’s nothing like a touch of smooth jazz to really loosen me up.”
Xylophone enters the musical arrangement. Classy Man closes his eyes and smiles in appreciation.
“Yeah. Oh, yeah. That’s getting into all those hard to reach places, isn’t it? That’s what I’m talking about. Why don’t you come on over here and join me?”
Classy Man shifts his weight to slide over on the sofa. As he does, he shits himself with the sound of a seasick drunk vomiting in a snorkel.
“Ohhhhhh no… that kicked in a little sooner than I expected,” Classy Man murmurs.
He gags as the smell of his shame hits him and slides off the sofa to curl into a fetal ball, his once pristine white leisure suit now an obscene ruin.
After choking down a sob, Classy Man rallies to prop himself up on an elbow with a wooden smile:
“Yeah, that’s jazz for you!”
Just twenty years have totally changed the implication of the sentence:
“My anus went viral.”
Which implication is worse, the old or the new, is hard to say. I suppose it depends on what virus your asshole has sprouted, in the one case, and whether you’re some kind of anal exhibiting sex professional in the other.
Now, a combination of the two would just be the worst. Like: “I caught a terrible ass virus, and some asshole doctor (in both senses) tweeted a picture of it, which went viral. #fml”
Tis a funny old world, isn’t it?
Olde time Yuletide
days of yore
ride up in me pantaloons!
bung up me fundament!
Oh pour me some gravy
and I’ll throttle me colon with turkey.
This morning, in her truncated press scolding, Sarah Huckabee Sanders read the following statement:
“I can assure the American people that, fake news to the contrary, there are no velociraptors roaming free within the halls of the White House or the Capitol.
“I might add, that even if there were such dinosaurs roaming free and consuming members of government at their leisure, this in no way should be regarded as anything but a failure of the Democrats.”
Following this, the White House Press Secretary exited the briefing room with more than her usual haste and could be overheard muttering something about how, “it’s always the wrong ones that done get et.”
Now, “Manic Street Preachers” is an awesome band name, don’t get me wrong. But the first time I heard the band on the radio, I misheard the name and spent a couple of days thinking it was, “Manic Tree Creatures.”
I’ve never been entirely able to shake the disappointment that it isn’t their actual name.
However, this means that “Manic Tree Creatures” is up for grabs as a potential band name. Feel free to use it, because I have already decided on my future band’s name:
Our first album will be called, “Dreams of an Embryonic Yak.”
I know! Don’t injure yourselves, ladies, in a rush to throw your panties on my stage; there’s room enough for all of them.