Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Hi, welcome to your nightmare

Hello, and welcome to your nightmare. If you'd like to have your balls murdered, please press ONE. (beep)

You have selected "Murder my balls". If this is correct, press ONE. (beep)

If you'd like to have your balls murdered while you sleep, press ONE. If your balls have already been murdered, and you'd like to arrange to have it look like they committed suicide, Log On to our Internet Web Site at www.balls.org/murder and answer the questions provided. If you'd like it to look like one of your balls murdered the other one and then took its own life, Log On to our Internet Web Site at www.balls.org/murder_suicide and answer the questions provided.


If you have a child, and I'm not saying that you should have a child, because you obviously shouldn't, but if you do, perhaps due to prophylactic malfunction or other mishap (sperm gun misfire while cleaning it and it's pointed at your vagina or your S.O.'s vagina), you should immediately teach it to play the guitar. This will provide it with a solid foundation for a life of not only financial stability, but artistic and aesthetic fulfillment, not to mention a skill that will set it apart from just about everyone else in the world. It definitely won't grow up in a sea of identical individuals that believe they are also unique and gifted, and certainly won't waste like 7 years learning to play the guitar while everyone else does, I don't know, whatever everyone else does that sets them up with a reasonable marketable skill for the rest of their lives. You should also teach them to ride a skateboard.


Welcome to Satan's Dentist Office waiting room. You have been provided with an 8-ounce can of Coca-Cola, for which you will be billed $3 USD.


I'm not going to sit here and pretend that I know what I'm talking about. Even if I did, probably no one would have read through that godawful block of text to get this far anyway. I'm working on a total overhaul of this site. It will consist, in the future, of photos to reblog, lists of things, and simulated humor.

It's nice out today, but I don't really like it when it's nice out, so for me it's not really that nice (to me). But it's, let's say, objectively nice. Great weather to pull up a stretch of barren earth and cook your face until it's a different color than it was when you first lay down (unless you have a face that remains unmodified by continued exposure to sunlight). Yep, just a nice day to put on some short shorts and let your ten-inch dick flop out of them, and walk around with your tongue hanging out of your mouth, and you know, get an iced coffee. Just fuckin juice up your brain with weak meta-amphetaminic chemicals and slop around with your fat ass plopping along behind you. Maybe grab a Monster or a Red Bull. Buy a dog and drag its miserable brainless body behind you, or walk slow and let it drag you. Fuck it, buy two dogs. Get the leashes all tangled and giggle and let liquid leak out of your mouth. Ride your bike to the beach and take a picture of yourself standing on the beach, with your bike in the background. Don't forget your fuckin sunglasses. Smile.

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