Dear Palmolive,
I found a bottle of your dishwashing soap the other day. Though it wasn't expired, it definitely gave me plenty of watery poo. I've discovered that mixing it with hot chocolate or cappuccinos does not give it the type of extra foam I was looking for. I do hope that you take this letter seriously, and take my advice that you further experiment and research methods to make your soap less aggravating to the bladder. I'm not too sure if it was the cappuccino or the hot chocolate, but I'm sure the soap played a big factor in the gigantous variety of my poo in one sitting. From pebbles of poo to liquid poo to solid gourds of poo filled with air. As much as I have enjoyed your product, I was disappointed to discover that I was unable to make fart bubbles. The only advantage I have found to your product is probably the knowing fact that my brown starfish feels squeaky clean. Keep up the good work and if possible, try to make gooder work. Thank you.
Signed,
Jamal Pirruth
6.27.2008
6.26.2008
Madagascar Independence Day '08
Dear Chef Boyardee,
I recently ate one of your microwavable lasagnas three months past its expiration date. I found it in a dumpster, where, I'm guessing, it was thrown into when a squirrel without disposable thumbs realized the impossibility of cracking open the tin can. The noodles and the orange sauce resembling spaghetti sauce miraculously tasted like how it looked on the label's picture. Aside from the green stain on my teeth, everything seemed to work out fine. I did not have any problems with urinating out of my asshole, nor did I feel sick or fatigued from food poisoning, so I would almost consider myself a happy camper. (All I need is an RV.) I only write you this letter to ask that you share some food secrets with Mrs. Fields, so that other "past expiration date" eaters don't suffer from the horrible experiences I've had with her' goodies. I'm sure Mrs. Fields would let you try some of her cookie in exchange for your noodle, if you know what I mean? Please continue to make expired food better, and I will continue in the rally for the support against Raggo and Pregu sauce and shit. Keep it real and stay cool because mama ain't raise no joke.
Your pal,
Jamal Pirruth
I recently ate one of your microwavable lasagnas three months past its expiration date. I found it in a dumpster, where, I'm guessing, it was thrown into when a squirrel without disposable thumbs realized the impossibility of cracking open the tin can. The noodles and the orange sauce resembling spaghetti sauce miraculously tasted like how it looked on the label's picture. Aside from the green stain on my teeth, everything seemed to work out fine. I did not have any problems with urinating out of my asshole, nor did I feel sick or fatigued from food poisoning, so I would almost consider myself a happy camper. (All I need is an RV.) I only write you this letter to ask that you share some food secrets with Mrs. Fields, so that other "past expiration date" eaters don't suffer from the horrible experiences I've had with her' goodies. I'm sure Mrs. Fields would let you try some of her cookie in exchange for your noodle, if you know what I mean? Please continue to make expired food better, and I will continue in the rally for the support against Raggo and Pregu sauce and shit. Keep it real and stay cool because mama ain't raise no joke.
Your pal,
Jamal Pirruth
6.20.2008
Surfing Day '08
Surf's up!
Dear Mrs. Fields,
I am very disappointed in your individual cookie product. I found one of your expired, yet unopened chocolate chip cookies in the dumpster, and found it to be very delicious. It was a soft batch cookie, and I most definitely prefer those over crunchy ones because crunchy ones aren't usually soft. After eating your cookie, no more than 8 minutes later, I was running to the bathroom with the shits. Even after I was finished, wiped, and cleaned, I dropped more liquid poo before I even pulled my pants up. I will never eat one of your expired cookies again. I hope you will conduct research to fix this problem because until I hear of such research, consider me an anti-Mrs. Field's expired cookie eater. Thank you for your time and have a nice day.
Signed,
Jamal Pirruth
Dude!
Dear Mrs. Fields,
I am very disappointed in your individual cookie product. I found one of your expired, yet unopened chocolate chip cookies in the dumpster, and found it to be very delicious. It was a soft batch cookie, and I most definitely prefer those over crunchy ones because crunchy ones aren't usually soft. After eating your cookie, no more than 8 minutes later, I was running to the bathroom with the shits. Even after I was finished, wiped, and cleaned, I dropped more liquid poo before I even pulled my pants up. I will never eat one of your expired cookies again. I hope you will conduct research to fix this problem because until I hear of such research, consider me an anti-Mrs. Field's expired cookie eater. Thank you for your time and have a nice day.
Signed,
Jamal Pirruth
Dude!
6.19.2008
Juneteenth '08
Freedom!
I've finally applied for my unemployment benefits, and I hope they pay me big money (I'm talking Wheel of Fortune big money) because I work really hard at not working. If it wasn't for hard working non-workers, like myself, the world would be too busy to see life fly by. How else do you think people invent things like rubber bands and light bulbs and shit? By not working. Some people like to call me lazy, but I am very far from it. The difference between being lazy and not working is that not all non-workers are lazy and lazy people don't work. It's as simple as that. In other words, the banana that falls from the tree falls at the same speed as when it's thrown down by angry chimpanzees who can't open a coconut.
It's only been two days, but I've been sitting on this same chair for what should have been 44 hours straight. If it wasn't for my meddling bladder, I just might have gotten away with it. I'm not too sure what the origin of the smell is, but I think something is rotten in the state of my living quarters. It's almost like there is a big secret that is meant to be kept away from me. I'm going to get to the bottom of this, and when I do, I'm going to foil all plans which involve stuff that doesn't involve me.
As for my math lab idea, I've decided not to proceed with plans. Thinking that the majority of 4-year-olds are fools, I tried to peddle one of my equations to them. It went a little something like this:
"Hello. Come hither, child!"
I can't talk to strangers.
"Worry not, for I am no stranger. Now, tell me. How many space bucks do you carry?"
Why are you talking like that? All weird-like?
"Silence, traitor! Do not interrogate your elders!"
Go away!
"I shall, but not until you purchase the answer to the equation, 1+1."
I already know. The answer is 2!
"That is only but one of the answers, demon spawn. I hold another answer which stands much simpler. Even the quick-witted do not possess such mathematical acuity."
There is no other answer, dirty, old man! Now, get out of my face, before I call my brother. He's 12 and he can kick your ass all the way to Rodizio, and that's all the way in the Europe, somewhere! Go sell that, weirdo!
"You are a fool, little one. I shall begone, but know this: I have the best math in town."
As I disappeared, I laughed at the child for not knowing how to add. Perhaps when he grows more hairs on his toes, he will begin to truly understand the power of math and its components and shit.
1 + 1 = 10. This lesson is free of charge.
I've finally applied for my unemployment benefits, and I hope they pay me big money (I'm talking Wheel of Fortune big money) because I work really hard at not working. If it wasn't for hard working non-workers, like myself, the world would be too busy to see life fly by. How else do you think people invent things like rubber bands and light bulbs and shit? By not working. Some people like to call me lazy, but I am very far from it. The difference between being lazy and not working is that not all non-workers are lazy and lazy people don't work. It's as simple as that. In other words, the banana that falls from the tree falls at the same speed as when it's thrown down by angry chimpanzees who can't open a coconut.
It's only been two days, but I've been sitting on this same chair for what should have been 44 hours straight. If it wasn't for my meddling bladder, I just might have gotten away with it. I'm not too sure what the origin of the smell is, but I think something is rotten in the state of my living quarters. It's almost like there is a big secret that is meant to be kept away from me. I'm going to get to the bottom of this, and when I do, I'm going to foil all plans which involve stuff that doesn't involve me.
As for my math lab idea, I've decided not to proceed with plans. Thinking that the majority of 4-year-olds are fools, I tried to peddle one of my equations to them. It went a little something like this:
"Hello. Come hither, child!"
I can't talk to strangers.
"Worry not, for I am no stranger. Now, tell me. How many space bucks do you carry?"
Why are you talking like that? All weird-like?
"Silence, traitor! Do not interrogate your elders!"
Go away!
"I shall, but not until you purchase the answer to the equation, 1+1."
I already know. The answer is 2!
"That is only but one of the answers, demon spawn. I hold another answer which stands much simpler. Even the quick-witted do not possess such mathematical acuity."
There is no other answer, dirty, old man! Now, get out of my face, before I call my brother. He's 12 and he can kick your ass all the way to Rodizio, and that's all the way in the Europe, somewhere! Go sell that, weirdo!
"You are a fool, little one. I shall begone, but know this: I have the best math in town."
As I disappeared, I laughed at the child for not knowing how to add. Perhaps when he grows more hairs on his toes, he will begin to truly understand the power of math and its components and shit.
1 + 1 = 10. This lesson is free of charge.
6.17.2008
06.17.08
Fucking work!
How the hell did I work two days of wood carving and end up injuring myself? With a huge gash on my index finger, I can't even go to work to work anymore. The stupid boss told me to take a break and let my finger heal, which means that the stupid boss probably doesn't want to buy me a pity lunch, or take me out on a pity lunch break to the strip club. This is some bullshit. Not to mention, my freaking typing speed has been decreased from 70 wpm to 51 wpm due to my disability. It's all that stupid termite's fault.
I was carving my wood to erect a small statue of myself when a fucking termite jumped out of nowhere scaring the heeby-jeebies out of me, causing my hand to slip, resulting in a pool of blood, which looked pretty damn cool until I realized that a chunk of flesh was dangling off of my finger. To make things worse, working only two days meant I was ineligible for insurance, which means I had to just use alcohol pads, adhesive bandages, and duct tape to ensure a full and steady healing. Thank goodness for duct tape because if I didn't have that roll at hand, my finger might have been broken for good. Sadly, my life isn't over yet.
Since I was sent home early, and probably for good, I applied to a couple jobs, which include a sewing factory and a veterinarian place, but being that I eat meat, the former may be the only likelihood. I'm just hoping I can work at this sewing factory for a couple days so I can learn how to stitch my finger back together.
Using one of the great Eight Wonders of the World, creative thinking, I have taken the initiative to independently study the art of mathematics again. My goal for the next few months is to learn and do extremely well at math, eventually perfecting it to become a master of the art. Besides, according to the news shows on the televisions, math is the new drug of choice for all generations, young and old, and since drug companies seem to suck massive amounts of dollars from the pockets of the rich and poor, I can build my own math lab, and sell math to whoever may be in need of it. In a few years, I'll have built a great client base, enabling me to exponentially push all forms of math out onto the street. From basic math to linear algebra. From geometry to infinity and beyond. Everyone and their mom will be addicted to my quotient producing equations and shit. Divide and conquer!
And they all thought I was a stupid. Prepare to watch me make money, please.
Square roots, imaginary numbers, and tangents! Oh my!
How the hell did I work two days of wood carving and end up injuring myself? With a huge gash on my index finger, I can't even go to work to work anymore. The stupid boss told me to take a break and let my finger heal, which means that the stupid boss probably doesn't want to buy me a pity lunch, or take me out on a pity lunch break to the strip club. This is some bullshit. Not to mention, my freaking typing speed has been decreased from 70 wpm to 51 wpm due to my disability. It's all that stupid termite's fault.
I was carving my wood to erect a small statue of myself when a fucking termite jumped out of nowhere scaring the heeby-jeebies out of me, causing my hand to slip, resulting in a pool of blood, which looked pretty damn cool until I realized that a chunk of flesh was dangling off of my finger. To make things worse, working only two days meant I was ineligible for insurance, which means I had to just use alcohol pads, adhesive bandages, and duct tape to ensure a full and steady healing. Thank goodness for duct tape because if I didn't have that roll at hand, my finger might have been broken for good. Sadly, my life isn't over yet.
Since I was sent home early, and probably for good, I applied to a couple jobs, which include a sewing factory and a veterinarian place, but being that I eat meat, the former may be the only likelihood. I'm just hoping I can work at this sewing factory for a couple days so I can learn how to stitch my finger back together.
Using one of the great Eight Wonders of the World, creative thinking, I have taken the initiative to independently study the art of mathematics again. My goal for the next few months is to learn and do extremely well at math, eventually perfecting it to become a master of the art. Besides, according to the news shows on the televisions, math is the new drug of choice for all generations, young and old, and since drug companies seem to suck massive amounts of dollars from the pockets of the rich and poor, I can build my own math lab, and sell math to whoever may be in need of it. In a few years, I'll have built a great client base, enabling me to exponentially push all forms of math out onto the street. From basic math to linear algebra. From geometry to infinity and beyond. Everyone and their mom will be addicted to my quotient producing equations and shit. Divide and conquer!
And they all thought I was a stupid. Prepare to watch me make money, please.
Square roots, imaginary numbers, and tangents! Oh my!
6.13.2008
06.13.08
Lucky me...
Since 13 happens to be my lucky number, I decided to not show for work in fear that I would lose my job and/or possibly worse, like getting attacked by crack-driven squirrels. Since I stayed indoors the whole day, I did not get attacked by squirrels, but I did receive a phone call from my job telling me that I was fired for not showing up on my 3rd day of work. (Screw that company and their IT guys!) I did, however, get a call from another job I applied to last week, telling me that they'd like me to start come Monday. I'm a little nervous to start the position being that I applied with a fake resume claiming that I am an expert and master at wood carving. It wasn't completely a lie, since I did spend 5 1/2 months sharpening pencils with a pear knife out of pure boredom until the company went bankrupt. Oh, well. Hopefully, they won't expect too much out of me. I am very thankful for Wikipedia for enabling me to prepare for my job by providing the proper terminologies, so when I show up to work, I'll only look like a complete asshole and not sound like one, though I've been known to make crazy fart noises out of my mouth every now and then.
Wish me luck as I venture into the new world of wood carvetry, and may you one day see my fantastical wooden sculptures of pieces of wood and shit.
Get lucky!
Since 13 happens to be my lucky number, I decided to not show for work in fear that I would lose my job and/or possibly worse, like getting attacked by crack-driven squirrels. Since I stayed indoors the whole day, I did not get attacked by squirrels, but I did receive a phone call from my job telling me that I was fired for not showing up on my 3rd day of work. (Screw that company and their IT guys!) I did, however, get a call from another job I applied to last week, telling me that they'd like me to start come Monday. I'm a little nervous to start the position being that I applied with a fake resume claiming that I am an expert and master at wood carving. It wasn't completely a lie, since I did spend 5 1/2 months sharpening pencils with a pear knife out of pure boredom until the company went bankrupt. Oh, well. Hopefully, they won't expect too much out of me. I am very thankful for Wikipedia for enabling me to prepare for my job by providing the proper terminologies, so when I show up to work, I'll only look like a complete asshole and not sound like one, though I've been known to make crazy fart noises out of my mouth every now and then.
Wish me luck as I venture into the new world of wood carvetry, and may you one day see my fantastical wooden sculptures of pieces of wood and shit.
Get lucky!
6.11.2008
Kamehameha Day '08
Aloha!
I picked up some new slang from the OG's in IT. (By the way, I started a new office job, so my super hero career searching will have to be put on hold because not all of us can be a Superman. Besides, I have yet to purchase glasses to disguise my true identity.) After being warned that the office bathroom is a forbidden palace for the cubicloids, (that's my term for the cubicle desk workers, such as myself) I tried my best today to never visit it. Unfortunately, my lack of bladder control forced me to enter through these forbidden doors that my cubicle neighbors spoke badly of. Upon entering, I found it to be one of the most craziest places ever because inside were the OG's of IT kicking back on fold up chairs, puffing on J's with their laptops ironically on their lap. (Somehow, the IT guys run the third floor and the bathroom happens to be one of their three conference rooms that they use throughout the day.) I say ironically because I normally see people using laptops set atop tables or naked women. They checked me out and after taking a hit or two, they decided I was one of the few who could be down with IT OGs 3rd Floor Division. They began talking about some kind of malfunction with components in the new program, but eventually strayed off into a conversation about "blogs." I had no idea what the hell they were talking about, but apparently, Noof, one of their homies, had "dropped one of the most awesome blogs ever." Now, just from context clues, I assumed that a blog was a shit. Or the shorter term for a butt log. Not wanting to interrupt their conversation, I excused myself by saying, "Excuse me, but I must drop a blog myself. I shall return." I went and did my duty, making sure I triple-plyed the toilet seat along with wiping ten times to ensure that streaks would not be left on my inside-out underwear. When I got out of the stall, they started asking where my blog was and if I had used my phone to drop it. I thought they wanted to know if I took pictures of my shit. Walking them over to the stall, I showed them my blog, and they began laughing profusely. After realizing that I had no idea what the definition of a blog was, they joined together to beat me up, calling me a noob in the process. One bloody nose and a bruised arm later, I return to my desk only to discover that a blog isn't a piece of excrement, and a noob isn't another term for a penis. From this experience, I now fully understand why everyone avoids using the 3rd floor office bathroom.
Though I have put my superhero career on hold, I will still be practicing my martial art to ensure that my pimp hand is way strong.
If I didn't have to wait a year to take my paid vacation days, I'd be out in Hawaii, getting drunk with hula dancers, eating roasted pig with pineapples, and trying to get lei'd every 5 minutes.
Aloha!
I picked up some new slang from the OG's in IT. (By the way, I started a new office job, so my super hero career searching will have to be put on hold because not all of us can be a Superman. Besides, I have yet to purchase glasses to disguise my true identity.) After being warned that the office bathroom is a forbidden palace for the cubicloids, (that's my term for the cubicle desk workers, such as myself) I tried my best today to never visit it. Unfortunately, my lack of bladder control forced me to enter through these forbidden doors that my cubicle neighbors spoke badly of. Upon entering, I found it to be one of the most craziest places ever because inside were the OG's of IT kicking back on fold up chairs, puffing on J's with their laptops ironically on their lap. (Somehow, the IT guys run the third floor and the bathroom happens to be one of their three conference rooms that they use throughout the day.) I say ironically because I normally see people using laptops set atop tables or naked women. They checked me out and after taking a hit or two, they decided I was one of the few who could be down with IT OGs 3rd Floor Division. They began talking about some kind of malfunction with components in the new program, but eventually strayed off into a conversation about "blogs." I had no idea what the hell they were talking about, but apparently, Noof, one of their homies, had "dropped one of the most awesome blogs ever." Now, just from context clues, I assumed that a blog was a shit. Or the shorter term for a butt log. Not wanting to interrupt their conversation, I excused myself by saying, "Excuse me, but I must drop a blog myself. I shall return." I went and did my duty, making sure I triple-plyed the toilet seat along with wiping ten times to ensure that streaks would not be left on my inside-out underwear. When I got out of the stall, they started asking where my blog was and if I had used my phone to drop it. I thought they wanted to know if I took pictures of my shit. Walking them over to the stall, I showed them my blog, and they began laughing profusely. After realizing that I had no idea what the definition of a blog was, they joined together to beat me up, calling me a noob in the process. One bloody nose and a bruised arm later, I return to my desk only to discover that a blog isn't a piece of excrement, and a noob isn't another term for a penis. From this experience, I now fully understand why everyone avoids using the 3rd floor office bathroom.
Though I have put my superhero career on hold, I will still be practicing my martial art to ensure that my pimp hand is way strong.
If I didn't have to wait a year to take my paid vacation days, I'd be out in Hawaii, getting drunk with hula dancers, eating roasted pig with pineapples, and trying to get lei'd every 5 minutes.
Aloha!
6.10.2008
06.10.08
Holy Ham Sandwiches!!!
I ordered karate chops for lunch today, but the waitress had no idea what the hell I was talking about. Apparently, she must not have gotten the memo I sent out stating that pork will now be referred to as karate since racist cops tend to take offense to any word synonymous with oinker. She told me to visit next door because, coincidentally, there happened to be some type of dojo for kids with some guy named Tiger. (It sounds like a strip club to me.) She must not have recognized me as being a master, so I showed her my SHITCOCK, where she, soon after, asked me to leave. Finding that not many have been making attempts to adapt my techniques, I have chosen to abandon my style, only to create a new and even stronger technique called The PHISH. Originating from ancient scriptures found to be typed in an outdated, incomprehensible language, this martial art's literal translation is "The Pimp Hand Is Strong Hand." With this newly discovered artform, bitches that steal my cash will feel my wrath. Though I am still in the process of translating these ancient papyrus writings that was originally wrapped and tied around a brick possibly falling from an alien planet, I have found one of the important, ingenious adages of which many of The PHISH live by. It goes, "Hoe money for me. No money for you. Yo' money is my money. The fuck you gonna do?" This goes to show that whoever had written these ancient scriptures must've knew what the hell he was doing with his intelligence because no normal person in their right mind would be able to contrive such masterpieceful shit.
Sort of on the same topic, but not, I held two different conversations with womens today, and after a few laughs and an exchange of an embarrassing story, both declined my offer forhot and sweaty sex coffee and further motions for love and companionship? (Stupid whores!) Perhaps I wasn't being persistent enough, but they missed out on the good time they could've had, hanging with an alone, but not so lonely guy like myself. I, then, spent the rest of my day callousing my hands. That's how I learned that driving is a lot more fun when the destination is unknown.
And I found this video, while trying to conduct further research on the whereabouts and origins of this newly developed style of The Phish I just made up a couple minutes ago. Enjoy.
Time wasted well is well wasted time. Whatever that means.
I ordered karate chops for lunch today, but the waitress had no idea what the hell I was talking about. Apparently, she must not have gotten the memo I sent out stating that pork will now be referred to as karate since racist cops tend to take offense to any word synonymous with oinker. She told me to visit next door because, coincidentally, there happened to be some type of dojo for kids with some guy named Tiger. (It sounds like a strip club to me.) She must not have recognized me as being a master, so I showed her my SHITCOCK, where she, soon after, asked me to leave. Finding that not many have been making attempts to adapt my techniques, I have chosen to abandon my style, only to create a new and even stronger technique called The PHISH. Originating from ancient scriptures found to be typed in an outdated, incomprehensible language, this martial art's literal translation is "The Pimp Hand Is Strong Hand." With this newly discovered artform, bitches that steal my cash will feel my wrath. Though I am still in the process of translating these ancient papyrus writings that was originally wrapped and tied around a brick possibly falling from an alien planet, I have found one of the important, ingenious adages of which many of The PHISH live by. It goes, "Hoe money for me. No money for you. Yo' money is my money. The fuck you gonna do?" This goes to show that whoever had written these ancient scriptures must've knew what the hell he was doing with his intelligence because no normal person in their right mind would be able to contrive such masterpieceful shit.
Sort of on the same topic, but not, I held two different conversations with womens today, and after a few laughs and an exchange of an embarrassing story, both declined my offer for
And I found this video, while trying to conduct further research on the whereabouts and origins of this newly developed style of The Phish I just made up a couple minutes ago. Enjoy.
Time wasted well is well wasted time. Whatever that means.
6.08.2008
06.08.08
It's about fuckin' time!
I have finally moved one step forward in my dream to becoming a super hero, discovering the two of the many super powers I possess. While outside, in the early mornings of sunrise, I was frolicking on someone's front yard, practicing my Super Hero Intense Tai Chi Of Crazy Karate. It's a new martial art form I'm currently in the process of inventing of which I have shortened the name to SHITCOCK. While strengthening my chi with my kata, a mosquito latches itself onto my sweaty bicep, at which point, I began to flex until the mosquito was bulging my blood. After flexing my muscle to capacity, the mosquito exploded, leaving just it's straw of a mouth sticking out of my arm. I'm guessing the mosquito must've called for reinforcements when it had realized the doom I had put on its soul because a bee came tumbling around, possibly drunk, aiming for my jugular. Luckily, my sloth-like reflexes did not prevent me from being stung. I say luckily because had I not got stung, I would not have discovered my newly found power. As the bee plunged it's little ass-penis in my super powered skin, it jumped off and fell to the ground in convulsions. Though it hurt like hell, I noticed that it's ass-penis was still stuck to me. As I laughed at the dying bee, I realized that I was blessed with mutant powers. For a second, I almost felt like the Incredible Hulk, only not so green and mean. I felt so much more powerful knowing that I had the power to dismember any being to come into contact with my skin, along with the power to inject them with my blood until the point of gluttonous explosion.
Soon, I may have to put my power to the test against my arch-enemies, some of which include the Junk Mail Senders, the One-Up Mushroom, and the Low Paying Employers. Justice will be served, and you can count on that. But for the moment, I will continue to master my SHITCOCK which will eventually lead to my ceremony for being donned a national hero, holding the key to the city and the love of the hearts of good-hearted citizens of my imaginary world I call Earth.
"You can do what you want to do in living color." -Heavy D
I have finally moved one step forward in my dream to becoming a super hero, discovering the two of the many super powers I possess. While outside, in the early mornings of sunrise, I was frolicking on someone's front yard, practicing my Super Hero Intense Tai Chi Of Crazy Karate. It's a new martial art form I'm currently in the process of inventing of which I have shortened the name to SHITCOCK. While strengthening my chi with my kata, a mosquito latches itself onto my sweaty bicep, at which point, I began to flex until the mosquito was bulging my blood. After flexing my muscle to capacity, the mosquito exploded, leaving just it's straw of a mouth sticking out of my arm. I'm guessing the mosquito must've called for reinforcements when it had realized the doom I had put on its soul because a bee came tumbling around, possibly drunk, aiming for my jugular. Luckily, my sloth-like reflexes did not prevent me from being stung. I say luckily because had I not got stung, I would not have discovered my newly found power. As the bee plunged it's little ass-penis in my super powered skin, it jumped off and fell to the ground in convulsions. Though it hurt like hell, I noticed that it's ass-penis was still stuck to me. As I laughed at the dying bee, I realized that I was blessed with mutant powers. For a second, I almost felt like the Incredible Hulk, only not so green and mean. I felt so much more powerful knowing that I had the power to dismember any being to come into contact with my skin, along with the power to inject them with my blood until the point of gluttonous explosion.
Soon, I may have to put my power to the test against my arch-enemies, some of which include the Junk Mail Senders, the One-Up Mushroom, and the Low Paying Employers. Justice will be served, and you can count on that. But for the moment, I will continue to master my SHITCOCK which will eventually lead to my ceremony for being donned a national hero, holding the key to the city and the love of the hearts of good-hearted citizens of my imaginary world I call Earth.
"You can do what you want to do in living color." -Heavy D
6.06.2008
D-Day '08
Goodness gracious!
I was on some website talking about how numbers and math can explain any kind of phenomenon, whether natural or man-made. First, it went on about the Great Pyramids and numbers aligning with the stars and galaxical shit. Then, there was some kind of numerical evidence that proves there's a secret society which controls the shelf-life of Twinkies. After reading, I mean, researching for endless hours at the library, I noticed today's date, and things began to make sense. Today's date, being the 6th day of the 6th month in the 8th year after 2000, can equate to the events of today. Since 6+6+8=20 and 20 equals a score, it can only mean that 6+6+8=score, which proves the whole theory of numbers equaling out to letters, explaining the very existence of today. I'd delve deeper into the subject, but the vast knowledge I may or may not possess will make one's brain hurt from information overloading. That, or the information might decrease one's intellectual capacity. Either way, my point is proven.
For years on end, I've been trying to figure out the correct way to fold my hands. Does my right thumb sit atop the mountain of man-fingers attached to my hand, or does my left thumb hold the title of king of the folded fists? This is the type of stuff that smart people should be trying to figure out. These silly doctors shouldn't be concentrating on cloning people, unless it's women with gazongaboobs holding my ice, cold beer for me while I pee. And these scientists need not work out the origins of mankind and existence, unless it involves naked women wearing beer-drenched, white t-shirts. Instead, they should be investing their funds, researching ways for me to finally get laid for the first time. And if their researching works, they should research again so that my getting laid doesn't stop. So, the question stands. Which is the best way to fold my hands?
After extensive research of important events of this D-Day, I would like to wish Ikea, Sweden, and their stunningly gorgeous, Swedish women a Happy National Day.
Sometimes, the lack of sense I make makes me feel a lot more smarter.
I was on some website talking about how numbers and math can explain any kind of phenomenon, whether natural or man-made. First, it went on about the Great Pyramids and numbers aligning with the stars and galaxical shit. Then, there was some kind of numerical evidence that proves there's a secret society which controls the shelf-life of Twinkies. After reading, I mean, researching for endless hours at the library, I noticed today's date, and things began to make sense. Today's date, being the 6th day of the 6th month in the 8th year after 2000, can equate to the events of today. Since 6+6+8=20 and 20 equals a score, it can only mean that 6+6+8=score, which proves the whole theory of numbers equaling out to letters, explaining the very existence of today. I'd delve deeper into the subject, but the vast knowledge I may or may not possess will make one's brain hurt from information overloading. That, or the information might decrease one's intellectual capacity. Either way, my point is proven.
For years on end, I've been trying to figure out the correct way to fold my hands. Does my right thumb sit atop the mountain of man-fingers attached to my hand, or does my left thumb hold the title of king of the folded fists? This is the type of stuff that smart people should be trying to figure out. These silly doctors shouldn't be concentrating on cloning people, unless it's women with gazongaboobs holding my ice, cold beer for me while I pee. And these scientists need not work out the origins of mankind and existence, unless it involves naked women wearing beer-drenched, white t-shirts. Instead, they should be investing their funds, researching ways for me to finally get laid for the first time. And if their researching works, they should research again so that my getting laid doesn't stop. So, the question stands. Which is the best way to fold my hands?
After extensive research of important events of this D-Day, I would like to wish Ikea, Sweden, and their stunningly gorgeous, Swedish women a Happy National Day.
Sometimes, the lack of sense I make makes me feel a lot more smarter.
6.04.2008
06.04.08
Global Warming
I've noticed, lately, that there are too many people out there who don't brush their teeth and don't keep their breath stinking fresh; me being one of them. Sometimes, people don't have access to good toothpaste, or breath mints, or sometimes, there's just people who talk too damn much. That type of shit is fucking up our solar system and shit. It's pretty obvious that the more talking that comes from people with bad breath, the more global warming temperatures go up and shit. This is why I propose that everyone in the universal, stratospherical world shut the fuck up. The less bad breath that enters my air, the less problems we'll face concerning global warming. That's why I'll usually restricticize my views and opinions to the internet. That and because too many people have complimented me on my stank breath, which can't be a good thing, no matter how nice the compliment sounds. When the worldly population is silent, at the end of the day, Earth might just thank you for helping to save its environment with chocolate milk and a ginormous 12 foot long PB&J sub or hero or hoagie, or whatever the hell you want to call it.
Speaking of science: These astrologers over at NASA keep trying to think outside of the box. They're always looking out in space and beyond, trying to find new stars, black holes, and flying nebulae and shit. They stay sending morse code messages to pieces of rocks, which they believe to be some type of alien life form and shit. Not to sound too egotistical, but if there are any living species existing outside of this planet, it's because we flew them out there in a rocket ship. How the hell else could they have got out there?! I got a news flash for NASA. I've just discovered a brand new star existing in our solar panel and shit. That star is me, and I'm over here, bitches. Open your telescopic eyes and watch the birth of a star that will live past the days of telling time of scientifical theorizationizing and shit. And know this: If some bitch's black hole is going to try to consume me, you best believe that I'm going to wear protection. Believe that!
On the more intellectual and sophisticated tip, 2 + 2 = 4. Sip your spiked tea and put your pinkies in the air if you feel me.
These messages were brought to you by an idiotical genius.
I've noticed, lately, that there are too many people out there who don't brush their teeth and don't keep their breath stinking fresh; me being one of them. Sometimes, people don't have access to good toothpaste, or breath mints, or sometimes, there's just people who talk too damn much. That type of shit is fucking up our solar system and shit. It's pretty obvious that the more talking that comes from people with bad breath, the more global warming temperatures go up and shit. This is why I propose that everyone in the universal, stratospherical world shut the fuck up. The less bad breath that enters my air, the less problems we'll face concerning global warming. That's why I'll usually restricticize my views and opinions to the internet. That and because too many people have complimented me on my stank breath, which can't be a good thing, no matter how nice the compliment sounds. When the worldly population is silent, at the end of the day, Earth might just thank you for helping to save its environment with chocolate milk and a ginormous 12 foot long PB&J sub or hero or hoagie, or whatever the hell you want to call it.
Speaking of science: These astrologers over at NASA keep trying to think outside of the box. They're always looking out in space and beyond, trying to find new stars, black holes, and flying nebulae and shit. They stay sending morse code messages to pieces of rocks, which they believe to be some type of alien life form and shit. Not to sound too egotistical, but if there are any living species existing outside of this planet, it's because we flew them out there in a rocket ship. How the hell else could they have got out there?! I got a news flash for NASA. I've just discovered a brand new star existing in our solar panel and shit. That star is me, and I'm over here, bitches. Open your telescopic eyes and watch the birth of a star that will live past the days of telling time of scientifical theorizationizing and shit. And know this: If some bitch's black hole is going to try to consume me, you best believe that I'm going to wear protection. Believe that!
On the more intellectual and sophisticated tip, 2 + 2 = 4. Sip your spiked tea and put your pinkies in the air if you feel me.
These messages were brought to you by an idiotical genius.
6.03.2008
06.03.08
Hardy har har har!!!
I came to the realization that briefs are the shit to wear. Especially when wearing shorts with white sneakers. My short story goes like this.
Thinking that boxers are better for breathing balls, I decided to rock a pair with my khaki shorts and white sneakers. A big mistake by me. After enjoying my 5 eggs with rice and sausage patties for breakfast, I went on my daily walk through the streets, highways, and parks to collect any dropped change. After stopping by a Quik-E-Mart for a bottle of V8 juice, I immediately felt my stomach brewing like a pot full of brew and shit. Feeling a flop of flatulence rounding about, I let one loose, with an accidental, little squart to finish it. Me and my boxer-wearing ass felt that shit hit my leg and watched as it landed on my brand new pair of Champion sneakers. That shit fucking sucked. I wouldn't have minded so much if I had jeans on because I'm sure the squart would have just stuck to the inside of my jeans. Instead, I had to walk around all morning with a pair of shit-stained shoes. That shit pissed me hard. I'm going to yell at Hanes if I ever see him, for not warning me that shit could fall out my underwear. To make shit even worse, after pissing on a tree today, when I put my junk back in my pants, i dropped a drop of urine that landed all up on my thigh. That shit was grosser than a grossball made of boogers and snot and shit. They say that if you shake more than once, you're playing with yourself. Well, from now on, I'm going to play with myself after pissing because that sure as hell feels a whole lot better than getting droplets of piss on my leg. That single experience today has learned me that suffocating nuts is way better than shit on the top of your shoe.
Boxers or briefs?
Depends.
You're right. Diapers are way better.
I came to the realization that briefs are the shit to wear. Especially when wearing shorts with white sneakers. My short story goes like this.
Thinking that boxers are better for breathing balls, I decided to rock a pair with my khaki shorts and white sneakers. A big mistake by me. After enjoying my 5 eggs with rice and sausage patties for breakfast, I went on my daily walk through the streets, highways, and parks to collect any dropped change. After stopping by a Quik-E-Mart for a bottle of V8 juice, I immediately felt my stomach brewing like a pot full of brew and shit. Feeling a flop of flatulence rounding about, I let one loose, with an accidental, little squart to finish it. Me and my boxer-wearing ass felt that shit hit my leg and watched as it landed on my brand new pair of Champion sneakers. That shit fucking sucked. I wouldn't have minded so much if I had jeans on because I'm sure the squart would have just stuck to the inside of my jeans. Instead, I had to walk around all morning with a pair of shit-stained shoes. That shit pissed me hard. I'm going to yell at Hanes if I ever see him, for not warning me that shit could fall out my underwear. To make shit even worse, after pissing on a tree today, when I put my junk back in my pants, i dropped a drop of urine that landed all up on my thigh. That shit was grosser than a grossball made of boogers and snot and shit. They say that if you shake more than once, you're playing with yourself. Well, from now on, I'm going to play with myself after pissing because that sure as hell feels a whole lot better than getting droplets of piss on my leg. That single experience today has learned me that suffocating nuts is way better than shit on the top of your shoe.
Boxers or briefs?
Depends.
You're right. Diapers are way better.
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