Thank You


This won’t be up long, so I’ll keep it uncharacteristically brief before I pull the site:

To those that enjoyed this site – thank you.

To those that hated it – thank you even more.

To all, as always – go fist yourself.

(I’m still on Twitter – do with this information what you will.)

Die. Or Do Nothing, Then Tell The Internet


Observing a small group of non-threatening adolescents commit a lazy act of tomfoolery should not lead me to contemplate my own life ending within the hour in a shootout with the overzealous and entirely unnecessary SWAT team of the local police department. But in the progressive 21st Century West, all actions other than self-emasculation and enthusiastic surrender are countered with a swift paramilitary response and/or “#AntiHate” hashtag campaigns, so my own death – courtesy of surplus Pentagon weaponry disseminated into the overcompensatory hands of brave local law enforcers itching to use their trigger fingers for something other than writing traffic tickets to minivan moms for rolling stops at trafficless intersections – was the only logical outcome of taking any basic, sane, principled and needed action. So what did I see that required such an unremarkable response and how would this lead so swiftly to my demise? Read on – but first make sure you hashtag #AntiBullying. Oh, and #FuckIrony.

Tomorrow is trash day. My neighbors got a jump-start and put out their trash bins this afternoon. As I glanced out the window, three middle school shitbirds on bikes passed by and one kicked over a bin that was overflowing with bags of garbage. My immediate reaction was to chuckle. I actually felt relieved to see a thirteen year old boy do anything other than send a text message, sag his too-tight jeans below his ass, draw the Monster Energy logo on his body, or generally piss, moan, and menstruate about how hard life is despite living in greater comfort than most royalty throughout human history. It’s nice to know that some kids are still out there causing safe, traditional trouble rather than soliciting rape on the internet or planning record-breaking schoolhouse slaughters, as popular culture seems to believe are the only options available to teens.

As the initial chuckle wore of, though, I realized that this type of trouble, safe though it may be, must be addressed. If it’s not – one overturned trashcan turns into blocks of rubbish scattered by increasingly brazen little assholes, and before you know it, not only is the neighborhood littered with infant feces and rotten banana peels, but you’ve got big assholes to deal with because they’ don’t stay thirteen. Unchecked, thirteen year old assholes eventually penetrate the walls of the anal canal and, by eighteen, enter full-fledged cunthood. Neighborly is one thing that’s actually worth being, especially in the pursuit of cunt prevention. If someone else saw my trash overturned, their intervention in the matter would be most appreciated. We’ve yet to formally establish a Neighborhood Cunt Watch and erect signage, but right about now it’s time for me to do my neighborly duty and intervene. I don’t have to be Mr. Tough Guy. I don’t have to hoist my slacks to my nipples and draw down on them with a rifle like Walt Kowalski (I mean I should, but I don’t have to) – they’re only thirteen. I just have to go out there and tell these three zilches to pick up the garbage they knocked over. That should be all it takes.


Fuck your caption, pusscake.

But what if it’s not? What if they run? Worse – what if they’re a bit too stupid for their own existence, or are already so emboldened by the “nothing is your fault, please defecate into my mouth” philosophy of their parents and schools that they choose to talk shit? Well, that’s no insurmountable dilemma. It’s quickly remedied by grabbing the one that toppled the garbage by the collar of his stupid fucking Monster Energy t-shirt, dragging him across the lawn back to the scene of the crime, and not letting go of his stupid fucking Monster Energy t-shirt until everything gets picked up, no matter how much shitty cologne he sprayed on his stupid fucking Monster Energy t-shirt and how hard it is to breath because of the aromatic holocaust resulting from cheap chemicals and pubescent body odor homogenizing in the fabric of his stupid fucking Monster Energy t-shirt.

But why take this simple defense of decency upon myself at all? Why not just call the police department and tell them what happened? Then they can come and deal with the boys, right? Wrong. And fuck you for asking. And burn in hell for perpetuating the sackless mindset of “call the authorities, I think my vagina hurts!” that has decimated all traces of productive human interaction. Cinch up your diaper, plug your nose and asshole, and prepare to be deeply offended by a practical perspective: not every single disagreeable human action that occurs on planet Earth requires police intervention.

You may now dial 911.

The fucking cops are not the fucking referee-nanny-mommy-daddy-judge-jury-executioner of all that happens everywhere at all times, unconditionally. Except that they fucking are. Because pisspantsing halfwits refuse to intervene in their own lives on their own behalves because what used to be real life is so unendurable for them that everything existing outside of social media and butthurt litigation is to be overseen by armed mongoloids recruited specifically for their low intelligence. Unless of course something gets posted to social media that reddens someone’s delicate cyber-heinie – then the badge-adorned ‘gloids are dispatched to bring the big bad cyberbully to justice – which is to say lock him inside a rape cage or slaughter him should he not assist in his own abduction. Because, again: #AntiBullying.


[A brief aside: That “cyberbully” is an existent word commonly used and understood by the average person is the surest sign yet that humans have overstayed their own existence and should self-detonate for their own good.]

And that’s why, aside from both sheer principle and complete lack of necessity, I will not call the cops. Nothing escalates violence and stupidity more rapidly than police presence. Police don’t keep the peace, nor do they restore it. There is no peace that police don’t stand ready to breach with an unlubricated rape. With this being the mindset of modern American “law enforcement,” why ever would I call them to report three middle schoolers toppling a trashcan? I’m not trying to destroy these kids’ lives, I just want them to pick up the fucking garbage and not do that shit anymore. They don’t deserve the cavalcade of weaponry, manpower, and authoritative assholery that would descend upon them after a call to 911. Nor am I interested in having that same swarm of frivolous military surplus come crashing down on me because some mustachioed madman that uses a riot shield as a huggy pillow at night decides the kids are alright so let’s go find something wrong with the guy that called us. If nothing else, at least one non-aggressive neighborhood dog will end up on the receiving end of 794 rounds of ballistic service and protection because specialweaponsandtactics, motherfucker!

More likely, though, before the arrival of the full SWAT unit, some four-foot-zero female in a police outfit would materialize. Things would quickly deteriorate when I ask her why she has handcuffs and a sidearm instead of a broom and dustpan – since she can only possibly be here to assist with garbage cleanup. ID would be demanded… laughter/refusal would follow… mounting gynic frustrations… references to my dick… shrill, impotent cries for compliance… references to my ballsack… eventually, I would be told to put my hands behind my back. Of course at this juncture I’d be left with no choice but to disarm the flustered lass, confiscate the keys to her big-girl zoom-zoom cruiser, pat her on the head, and tell her to go shave her pussy. If she pushed the issue further, my only remaining recourse would be to pick her up and place her inside the trash receptacle until such time as she was able to regain her composure, acquire a razor, and – without fail – shave her pussy. Sometime soon after this, the events described in the preceding paragraph would take place.


Actual photograph of a duly authorized police officer in my town. PS: DO NOT FUCK WITH HER. Seriously guys.

All the above is the thought process that occurs within three seconds of witnessing three teens topple a garbage can. All the above is the thought process one must endure en route to total inaction if one wishes not to become the story on the internet about the guy that got slaughtered because he stuck up for his neighbor’s trash can in a brief moment of negligence wherein he failed to remember how fucking insane it is to take any sane action in a Tolerance Or Death culture where doublespeak is disseminated by triplespeak, emotional hashtagging trumps fact finding, and every day is Opposite Day.

And this post should now be done.

But just as I thought the agony of analyzing my own mental cage was subsiding in the fallout of the downfall of my neighbor’s trash – not five minutes having passed – the same three zit-riddled shitcunts came lollygagging right back through the scene of the crime without a goddamned care in the world. Wait, did I say lollygagged? Sorry, bruh – I shoulda said they fuckin’ swagged back through like fuckin’ YOLO.

Son of a bitch bastard cocksucker motherfucker. Are you fucking kidding me? This is where the nightmare becomes reality. They’ve never been dealt with. They’ve never been scared – I mean, other than when Facebook crashes and they don’t know if they exist because they can’t post selfies – but, like, they’ve never at any moment had it enter their Monster Energy minds that human fists are a thing – a thing that can be smashed at high velocity into their underdeveloped faces. If I’d only not seen them pass back by, or even if they’d rushed by sheepishly, clearly hoping not to be caught – my bottom lip might still be attached to my face instead of causing the indigestion I’m suffering as I type this. Just show me something that shows you’re self-aware. But no. Three give-no-fucks peckerwoods that have not, and will never, earn the right to give no fucks. Fuck!

And whose fault is this? Mine. Dammit to hell. Well, credit where due, it’s firstly the fault of their absentee fathers, their dating site mothers, their government school administrators, their victim-identity-philosophy espousing guidance counselors, the culture they’ve inherited of self-empowerment through empty gestures (#Awareness, anyone?), and a relentless societal psy-op against any and all things masculine. But it’s me that’s aware of this reality. And it’s me that saw three kids kick over my neighbor’s trash. So it’s on me to be the impetus for a reversal of course back toward sanity – the kind of sanity where thirteen year old tools still kick your trash over, but have the common sense/self-preservation instinct to stay the fuck away from your property for a timespan greater than three hundred seconds after they’ve kicked your shit over so as to not get Walk Kowalskied.

So what do I do? Nothing, of course. Because, yet again, my functioning self-preservation instinct informs me that any act of logic will be met with deadly force. This is true, and is the precise reason why I keep telling my self-preservation instinct to look around and reconsider its own existence so that I may do the same for mine, but, ironically, logic holds no appeal for instinct. The conversation always ends with self-preservation condescendingly telling me, “Why don’t you go blog about it, fag?”

So here I sit, bitterly existing, fingershitting onto the internet at the tail end of 2,000 wasted words, seeking solace in the fact that, despite everything else, at least these three reprobates-to-be weren’t wearing the same goofy fucking helmets that every other marshmallow-domed middle school milksop’s helicopter mommy shoves on his cranium before he leaves the house. Safety first, fags! But also #ToleranceAwarenessEqualityAcceptance equally first! Because there are #NoLosers in #Equality. Except for sanity. And my neighbor’s trash can.

Last Christmas, I Gave You My Cart

[Regifting… reposting… it’s all lazy, uninspired shit. And since there’s nothing I dislike more than websites reposting old shit, here’s a shot of Christmas cheer from a couple years ago.]

This evening, I made the unwise decision to join herds of holiday shoppers in search of saleable items to give others instead of time and love. While it’s widely acknowledged that the rules of the road have long since been abandoned by nearly all Americans – Arkansans being the only exception – the fact that shopping cart etiquette has gone to hell in a one horse open assbasket goes largely unaddressed.

So let’s address it.

Hey, lady with the hippopotamic ass in stretch pants, get the fuck out of the way! I understand you can’t support your own body weight and thusly you are doubled over the handle of the cart, breathing like a short-circuited vacuum cleaner, but that doesn’t mean you have to obstruct all traffic with the vacillating Christmas hams you call ass cheeks. Have you noticed that all customers in the Lego aisle have entered and exited at the opposite end? That’s because you’re lodged between the Star Wars and Harry Potter Legos at your end and haven’t even noticed yet. Just make sure you hit IHOP on your way to the Waffle House once your shopping’s done – the insulin surges are clearly working out for you.

Hey, middle-aged balding Euro-trash guy with the receding hairline, ponytail, and shitty leather jacket, get the fuck out of the way! You’re one-tenth the weight of stretch pants lady, yet by some Christmas miracle, you’re able to occupy more space than her as you swerve your empty cart unpredictably through the store while speaking into your cell phone at a deafening thunder-roar. Nobody is impressed by your Eastern Bloc accent or the profane body odor that accompanies it. Get off the phone, stop weaving through your imaginary obstacle course, and make a straight line for Bath & Body Works. Better yet, follow that line straight back to Croatia. Either way, keep yourself out of my path and keep your odious scent out of my nostrils.

Hey, submissive father with three out of control girls, quiet the Future Cunts of America club and get the fuck out of the way! It’s great that you and the girls are out buying Mom her Christmas presents, but it’s clear from your sunken shoulders and dead eyes that Mom has your penis and testicles in her purse back home. Actually, Mom, her purse, and your dick and balls are all at Bob’s house right now, and he’s in nothing but a Santa hat and your wife. But you won’t know this until she calls you his name during some drunken, unenthusiastic New Year’s Eve sex. But the fact that you’ve failed your gender, your wife’s New Year’s resolution is to leave you, and that all three of your daughters will eventually sleep with strangers on reality TV doesn’t excuse the fact that nobody can get by you in either direction because your all-vaginal offspring are swarming around the aisle, filling your cart with any items that tickle their fancies because they know Daddy is too sackless to exercise even a modicum of parental control. I’ve never advocated child abuse, but with this being the season of giving, how about a few jabs, an uppercut or two, and maybe even one great big haymaker?

Hey, adolescent girl driving the handicapped cart, get the fuck out of the way! I know, I know, I totally know. Your mom dropped you and your fugly friend off while she went to go anywhere you’re not for an hour. Now you’re really excited and can’t think of a better way to make your dumpy sidekick with even less personality than you laugh than some crazy shit like driving the cart reserved for cripples and the morbidly obese. I have news for your ninth grade ass; this is not how you rebel. Driving the cripple-mobile around Target doesn’t raise your status to punk rocker or Bam Margera. It makes you the annoying ninth grade girl at Target driving around in the motorized shopping cart, getting in the way of people with more than seven dollars in their pocket. I have more news for you; even when your boobs finally come in, your personality won’t, your sense of humor won’t, you still won’t be rebellious, and your chunky friend will still be the only one that likes you. Oh, and do something about your complexion in the meantime. There’s stuff for that in aisle fifteen.

Hey, old lady whose upper back is parallel to the ground, get the fuck out of the way! The reason you keep running into men, women, children, and product displays is because your arms are extended like Superman pushing your cart while you’re looking directly at the floor beneath you! How does one shop in such a condition?

“Aw, man! Great Grammy got me a chub-pack of maxi pads for Christmas. What’s a six year old boy like me gonna do with these? My vagina doesn’t even bleed yet! This is worse than the piña colada flavored massage oil and sandblaster she gave me last year!”

“Shush now, Johnny! You know your Great Grammy can’t actually see what she buys. It’s just as much a surprise for her as it is for you! Now hold your maxi pads up by the top of Great Grammy’s head and smile while Mommy takes a picture!”

Unlike Superman, who moves faster than a speeding bullet, The Hunchback of Elder Age moves slower than an amputee turtle. How are you alive? And why? Shouldn’t a bus you never saw coming have hit you by now? What’s it like to not have seen the sky in two decades? Can I hang you on my Christmas tree like an ornamental candy cane? So many questions! I will tell you this, though; if you don’t take your slow-creeping wrinkled ass out of the middle of the aisle and move it either to the side or to the cemetery, I am going to shatter your hip. Sure, that may sound violent, but all it takes is one well-placed “errant” toss of a Nerf football from the toy department and Great Gram-Gram is late for Christmas dinner. Alright little Johnny, run a flag route towards that lady that looks like a lower-case “r!”

Gymtards II


My original Gymtards post comes from way back in the Crapping Common Sense days. Things certainly haven’t improved since then, so what the fuck, here’s a little list of some of the unmitigated assholes that have been bothering me lately at the gym – besides these two and this bitch.

Toxic Cologne Guy A: The Purple African

This motherfucker. There’s body odor… and then there’s third-world feculence. That smell that can only be produced by those that, geostatistically, should be dead. It’s as if mother nature – knowing that this human should have years ago succumbed to malnutrition, malaria, human sacrifice, or some similar standard fate of Sub-Saharan life – has condemned his body to produce the same smell that would otherwise be emanating from his carcass had he died at his originally scheduled demise. Instead, he’s been swept up in a refugee net and brought to the West to remind gym patrons, via scent, just how bad life can be.

Just as there’s no better way to make human feces smell worse than spraying fruit flavored chemicals into the air thus transforming the bathroom into an Apple Shittamon gag locker, there’s no better way to not-quite-mask the smell of death than with the Dollar Store’s finest men’s fragrance. You know, for when you want to make a good impression on your new continent by smelling like a burning shitlog that’s being doused with buckets of cheap cologne. Somalia Spice: Let them know you’re here to lift… but also to burn the lining out of nostrils.

Not only does this dude make unbreathable any airspace within thirty feet of him, but he also doubles as “The Guy That Attempts To Use Every Piece Of Equipment In A Busy Gym Simultaneously, Leaving Others In Total Disbelief Of His Lack Of Etiquette, Wishing Silently To Themselves That He Was Back In The Motherland, Wearing A Super Bowl Championship T-Shirt With The Losing Team On It, Being Butchered By A Sudanese Warlord.”

Toxic Cologne Guy B: The Pot-Bellied “Trainer”

And then there’s Broni Spray – for the middle-aged, out of shape, Italian trainer that wants to emit the same chemicalized fruit scent worn by sixth grade girls everywhere. This guy got fucking hired? When your waist outmeasures your chest, no one’s interested in your fitness regime… even if you smell like cotton candy and magic. This guy fucking baffles me. He has that bizarro, full-sized midget structure, looks like he wants to fight, and smells like he’s trying to attract infants that have an insatiable sweet tooth. Whoever hired this clown must have a severe blood sugar imbalance and was simply intoxicated by his candylicious musk. It really is that overpowering. It’s like he’s distilled the essence of Sweet Tarts into liquid form and replaced all flowing water in his home with it. Why do you smell so retardedly delicious? Why do you take such short strides with your weird baby legs? Why does your pursed-in cupcake ass swallow up your track pants so severely? How long until you get fired and I no longer have to put up with a smell so overwhelmingly sweet that it makes me feel like I’m molesting children when I’m actually lifting weights?

Look How Big My Arms Aren’t Guy

This twenty-something asshole just looks like he has a name that unto itself would piss you off. Like Tadd. Hey. Sup Tadd? What are you doing, just like a total arm day? Cool. Apparently Tadd lost his entire t-shirt collection and, month after month, just hasn’t found the time to pick up any adult-sized shirts. That’s no worry, though, because Tadd’s kindergarten sister has an extensive collection of colorful v-neck tees that she’s outgrown and been kind enough to hand down to him. They’re simply perfect for Tadd. You see, whereas most guys come to the gym, lift, and trigger muscle growth, Tadd comes to the gym, rolls his shoulders forward, bows his arms out, occasionally twitches them, and mostly just stares at them as though his gaze alone will inspire their growth. So the way these technically short-sleeved shirts fail to extend beyond the rotator cuff allows for maximum bicep exposure.

Now, it would be slightly less offensive if such ridiculous attire accentuated his musculature, but it simply showcases his lack thereof. He does not have muscular arms. Of course, he doesn’t have to have muscular arms… but he does if he’s going to wear his newborn infant sister’s shirts. Of course, one thing that might help him build muscular arms would be working out. And what better place to work out than the gym? I mean, he’s at the gym already. The only problem is that he seems to think having a seventeen minute staring contest with his arms, getting a drink at the water fountain, and leaving is what constitutes a workout.

And the worst part is that he doesn’t know that he doesn’t hold the world’s record for largest biceps. You witness the disconnect when he looks directly down at his upper arms and twitches them as though the tremors induced by his underdeveloped bis could split the foundation the gym rests on. His complete lack of shame is almost admirable, but would be more impressive were the whole production some kind of Kaufman-goes-to-the-gym character he was doing for his hidden cam YouTube channel. He must find it endlessly frustrating not being able to masturbate exclusively through bi friction. But what a sight it must be when hunches over himself and delivers a facial on his own left bicep. He could try cleaning it up with one of his gym shirts but there won’t be enough material.

Predetermined Conversation Guy
a.k.a. Bacterial Pneumonia Guy

“Some of these people,” he says. What? Is he talking to me? I’m the only other person in this locker room so I suppose he must be talking to me.

“How’s that now?” I reply in a tone intended to indicate my disinterest to this guy that I regularly witness measuring people up for forced conversations but rarely witness lifting weights up for strength. Fuck taking my social cue to shut the fuck up, though – this hot bag of coffee-and-halitosis-breathed gas has a full conversation holstered on his tongue and it will be spat with or without consent from the receiving party.

“Some of these people, man. There was just a guy in here that took a piss and didn’t wash his hands!”

Why is this creep reporting this to me like it’s a newsworthy scandal? Why do so many men believe their dicks are receptacles for filth and that their hands must be cleansed in the immediate aftermath of the slightest shaft contamination, as though their dong is made of poison oak leaves and the disease-laden feces of the Purple African kid? I don’t know about you, but if the cleanliness of all my body parts were ranked, the Little Hulkamaniac In My Pants would place a Spic and Span number one.

“Eh, that don’t effect my day,” I tell him.

“Nah, man. The people here… oh man. And they don’t wipe down the machines! When they’re out there, lifting, and they finish with a machine, nobody wipes them down! I got bacterial pneumonia from this place because nobody wipes down the machines!”

And we’ve quickly reached the point where I walk away without responding. Apparently Sweaty McMicrobiology over here has done due scientific diligence and, despite all odds and interference in a wildly uncontrollable environment, concluded without doubt that he fell ill to bacterial pneumonia “from this place” due precisely to the cause of “nobody wiping down the machines.” This is all outside of the fact that everyone wipes down the machines because they are all germophobic dolt-bots.

Do I actually have to mock this? Am I seriously going to sit here and illustrate the intricacies of this locker room scientist’s absurdity? No. But I will point out that this was the first time I’d ever wished I had AIDS, because if I did, I would have dragged Bill Nye the Bacterial Pneumonia Guy into the showers and transmitted it to him by force. Bacterial fucking pneumonia…

Forearm Workout Guy

Why? What are you doing? Where did you learn this? It’s not like you’re a competitive body builder where some excruciating detail is going to make or break you in the eyes of someone whose life has gone so far off course that they’ve ended up judging a bodybuilding competition. You appear to be a normal dude. I should say – you would appear to be a normal dude – if it weren’t for the fact that you’re on your knees with your arm slung across a bench, dumbbell in hand, curling at the wrist, allowing yourself to be seen in public, volitionally engaged in a motherfucking forearm workout. I ask again: Why? Your forearms don’t strike me as needing this particularly intense training regimen that you’ve engaged them in. A good portion of weight-bearing exercise will naturally engage your forearms, thereby freeing you of this self-imposed burden of forearm isolation work. I promise.

Okay, you’ve gotta stop. You’re actually distracting me from my workout because I can’t believe you’ve been on forearms for 45 fucking minutes. I lost count of my own reps because I was staring at the 100th set of this insane masturbation rehabilitation ceremony you call fucking forearm day. No, on second thought, fuck it. Keep going. I was starting to gas out but the hatred you’ve inspired in me is going to fuel me through the back half of this workout. You and Big Brother/Little T-Shirt Guy should put a program together on how to most effectively avoid positive results at the gym. Have the Pot-Bellied Trainer implement it with his clients.

90 Degree Inclined Treadmill People

Before we even deal with the incline part, let me say that unless the weather outside is genuinely frightful, get off of the motherfucking treadmill and go outside. Holy repetitious fuck. What a beautiful day it is. Sunny, 75 degrees, just perfect! What better time to lace up my Asics, get into my car, drive it to the gym with the windows up and the air conditioning on, and hit the ol’ treadmill!? What could possibly compel a human being to voluntarily walk, run, or lurch on a stationary machine indoors? Is it the bank of televisions hanging from the ceiling? Can you just not bear to miss whatever program E! is running for 90th time today? Is it the earth-shattering thud of the cinderblock feet of strangers on either side of you as they pound yet another day of the lifespan of their knees away with horrific running form and contorted faces? Or is it the chance to bask in the undigested fast food musk pouring forth from their open pores and open mouths that you just can’t live without? GO. OUT. SIDE. No matter how many miles you put in on the human hamster wheel, you’re never going to outrun your vitamin D deficiency so shed your overpriced Under Armour “I wish I was an athlete” Halloween costume and go move around in the fucking sun.


Setting aside the absurdity of using a treadmill in the absence of a life threatening weather system, the single most absurd act executable by man on Earth is walking on the treadmill, ramping up the incline until the front of the machine is aimed at the ceiling, and then holding on to the top of the console so that the body is still perfectly straight, thereby negating the purpose of inclining the machine in the first place – which would be to simulate a motherfucking incline so as to increase the degree of difficulty/output for the human. But hey, at least you look bitchin’ as you take one effortless stride after another, ascending the 90 degree path to uninspired fitness heaven. You hopeless, hapless, meticulously-outfitted jackass.

What are you doing here in the first place? Trying to lose weight? Of course. And in classic assclown fashion, you’ve come to waddle at the gym rather than fix your diet. Well, today’s your lucky day. Because I’m such a selfless fucking giver – and a way better trainer than that retard with the Pixie Sticks-powdered balls – I’m going to give you free advice guaranteed to start taking pounds off now. First – get off of the fucking treadmill. Now, do you see the power chord running to the outlet? Unplug it, wrap it around your neck, and tie it off as tightly as you can – no, that’s okay, you’re not supposed to be able to breath. Now run in place and count to 100 or until you die – whichever comes first.

Cum On Retards – September Search Terms


Dear Internet: You never let me down. Here, as always, is a selection of search terms that led a healthy blend of well-adjusted people to UTB last month:

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“Why Can’t I Hate You In Speech?”

 Shut up and listen to the most intuitive motherfucker that ever walked the Earth. And if you’re one of the social derelicts that reads this site as though it’s an intentional member of the “manosphere,” do yourself this favor: Delete all of your shitty bookmarks, unsubscribe from all of your shitty podcasts, take your dick out of your non-scrolling hand and quit porn, and absorb everything that’s ever emanated from the mouth of Patrice O’Neal. Start here. Just don’t tell anyone I told you this, you know, because Patrice O’Neal is black and, as evidenced by the last few posts here, I am a virulent racist.

Great Moments In Insensitivity


Between last week’s tranny post and Monday’s Uncomfortable Whitey post, I’ve gotten some great emails from dudes with stories about doing shit that was once called “fun” and is now called “insensitivity,” “bullying,” or some synonymous ovarian term du jour. It got me reminiscing over my favorite memories of insensitivity down through the years. Granted, every memory in the annals of my mind involves some degree of insensitivity or intolerance, since all of my relationships – familial, sexual, friends, and enemies – are based largely on judgment, sarcasm, and verbal abuse, so I decided to pick my favorite and offer it for your enjoyment in the form of this post.

There are a couple of honorable mentions that I must acknowledge first, though. In their time, they were nothing but fleeting moments of funny, but to this day, when they cross my mind, they still make me laugh out loud, particularly contrasted against this new era of prioritizing emotional delicacy over all else.

Somewhere around my sophomore year in high school was the pinnacle of Puff Daddy’s unfortunate popularity as a recording artist. Yes, before becoming “that black dude” that people just know without knowing why, P. Diddy was a hugely popular hip hop artist. Sometime after the release of the Puff Daddy hit “It’s All About The Benjamins,” a senior student in my high school was diagnosed with bacterial meningitis. Word spread quickly through school of the severity of the disease and its potential for death. This still being the 90s, however, no feel-good 5k was frantically organized on behalf of the meningitis kid. No Livestrong-style meningitis awareness bracelets were manufactured, either, since, fortunately, neither Livestrong nor awareness bracelets were things yet. Instead, we members of the student body traveled the school hallways relentlessly singing the refrain: “It’s all about the mengimins, baby! It’s all about the mengimins baby!” Yes, the fucking mengimins. Because why wouldn’t you lampoon the potential death of a fellow student by a horrible communicable disease? The kid survived, but the rest of us died laughing every time someone sang those words.

Then there was Crystal. Crystal was about as low as one could be on the social totem pole. Crystal wasn’t retarded, at least not officially, but she was somewhat disconnected and crazy. Crazy in a good way, though – where if you fucked with her, she didn’t get angry over being fucked with, she got excited over the attention. Crystal also only had one human leg – the other was a prosthesis she had no doubt spent much of her youth being picked on for. One day in the cafeteria, our friend, Wheel, was in the lunch line. It should be noted that Wheel is the closest real life comparison to South Park’s Cartman in terms of immediately attacking whatever is most off-limits and soul-shattering about any other human, friend or foe. So we called Crystal over and stationed her in Wheel’s seat just to fuck with him, because no opportunity to fuck with anyone could be overlooked under any circumstance. Crystal was only too happy to oblige, so she gleefully set up shop in Wheel’s seat. He returned, placed his chickenburger and tots [Hat-tip to Gert, the happiest 100 year old lunch lady in the business] on the table, and requested that Crystal vacate his seat as politely as he could:

Wheel: “Get out of here.”

Crystal: [Cheerfully] “Hehe! No! I’m sitting here!”

Wheel: “Seriously. Get out of here.”

Crystal: [Basking in delight over the attention] “Hehe! No! This is my seat! Hehehe!”

Wheel: “If you don’t get out of here right now I’m gonna sand off that fucking peg leg of yours.”

To this day, it remains the cruelest, funniest, and arguably greatest thing I’ve ever witnessed.

But my favorite insensitive high school memory is dedicated to Uncomfortable Whitey, as it will surely shrivel his dick another notch. It took place in the football locker room my junior year, before a Friday night home game. Despite hip hop’s massive popularity at the time, and the similarly massive epidemic of wiggerdom in my whitewashed town, the official pre-game soundtrack played over the locker room stereo was Guns N Roses’ Appetite For Destruction followed by Pantera’s Vulgar Display Of Power. Pre-game amp up would culminate with Pantera’s “Walk” rattling cinderblocks loose from the walls as it blared through the locker room immediately before we’d take the field.

On this particular Friday night, just as “Walk” began inducing visions of fully-padded savagery throughout the locker room, something peculiar happened. No sooner had lead singer Phil Anselmo begun to ask in the song’s opening lyrics, “Can’t you see I’m easily bothered by persis-” than our musical ritual fell silent, moments later replaced by some unholy cacophony of electronic beats.

What in the fffuck???

As this question raced through everyone’s mind, a team captain – “Bones” – came stalking from the far end of the locker room, where he had been conducting his psychotic, isolated pre-game psych-up ritual, in search of the answer. What he found was our token black guy – a great big brother (he had a white mom but was clearly black) that played the line – had taken it upon himself to introduce some dope ass beatz at what should have been the peak of pre-game insanity.

Bones, not with murder so much as as single-handed genocide in his eyes, silently pressed “Stop” on the stereo. He removed and discarded the source of noise that had moments before interrupted Mr. Anselmo and company, re-inserted Vulgar Display, and pressed “Forward” twice to arrive at Track 3 – “Walk.” He then turned to Big Brother, stepped directly into his face so that their noses touched, looked him in his eyes, and with all the intensity of William Wallace pre-battle or Mel Gibson on the phone, said:

“Don’t forget motherfucker; you’re half white.”


For the record, we won the game. Only time that season Big Brother allowed zero sacks.

Kill Uncomfortable Whitey


In response to Friday’s walk down MySpace Memory Lane, a few emails trickled in from the kind of white guys that are so piss-pantsy and diffident that you just want to rape them – not in a gay way – but in an educational/dominant way; to make clear to them how utterly pathetic they are and see if the shame inspires them to turn their lives around.

Basically, the undescended testicles of these self-appointed language police volunteer crossing guards were trembling over the fact that in the post, while corresponding as a pretend female with online creeps, I used such terms as “nigga,” “noodle nigger,” “bamboo coon,” and even “niggaz” – which was used as a quote mocking the wigger that initially used the term. Now, if you’re not already in stitches just reading the words “noodle nigger” and “bamboo coon” then I don’t know what to tell you other than I am thrilled that I don’t know you and that I’m not your friend. But to the point – the comments from these gynic wonders reminded me of the last time this came up. So rather than make their pee pees shrivel further back inside themselves by posting and dissecting their emails, I’ve dug up what was the bones of a post I never finished that deals with precisely the same dilemma from an earlier post and email (and, more importantly, allows me to put less effort into this shit).

“…but I gotta tell you man, I felt uncomfortable as a white guy to see you even print the n-word, nevermind post a video of someone saying it…”

And I gotta tell you, man, how uncomfortable I feel as a human being knowing that:

a) Words typed by people that have no association with you can make you uncomfortable

b) You would express this to another person as though there exists some chance that person would give a fuck

c) You don’t feel uncomfortable actually using phrases like “n-word” and “I felt uncomfortable.” You’re an adult male. Finding a grizzly bear in your home should make you uncomfortable – not words on the internet.

“N-word” is the most patronizing term in the entirety of the English tardicon. While I normally rail against the childish stupidity of anyone offended by words, the inherent stupidity of “n-word” is so inhumanely stupid as to be legitimately offensive. Saying “n-word” is like spelling in front of your kid so he doesn’t know what you’re saying – “Honey, don’t go p-o-t-t-y quite yet, I want you to s-h-i-t on my c-h-e-s-t tonight” – only your kid is 30 years old and a former Scripps National Spelling Bee champion. Why is he rolling his eyes? Because he hates you. Because he’s smarter than you. Because he resents having been treated like his intellect is on par with that of Mr. Potato Head for the past 30 years. Because you say things like “n-word.” Say the fucking words! There is no discussion regarding usage, context, intent, or interpretation. That’s just holding a flame to an existing pile of bullshit. There are enough boogiemen – real and imagined – on this planet. There’s no need to make boogiemen out of units of language. Oops, I said “boogie.” Cuz I’m a racist.

The “uncomfortable” quote above was excerpted from an email written by a fan(!) of the site in response to this audio I posted of a blitzkrieged drunk friend leaving me a rambling, barely coherent voicemail. The video was prefaced with a warning reading:

If you’re offended by drunk white guys calling their white friends “niggerlips,” skip this. Also, if your friends don’t leave you drunken voicemails featuring live banjo and the assumption of jail time, get better friends.


The emailer, like many silly white people, holds himself hostage to the imaginary language laws popularized by rainbows of vacuous humanoids that dedicate their lives to inanities.

I received exactly two emails regarding the video. Not that it makes a lick of fucking difference, but it’s somewhat fantastic that, in light of tender Whiteboy’s email, the other email came from an N-person that’s also a fan of the site (he is a verified brother, so spare me any conspiracy theories that it’s some white maniac waging a language-based race war by encouraging the authors of mildly popular websites to use the word “nigger”). It reads in part:

“I was a little bit what the fuck when I saw the whole ‘skip this if you don’t like niggerlips’ part, but that was the hardest I’ve laughed at someone saying nigger in a long time… It’s getting to the point where black people say it so much it just gets annoying… and the only time it’s really funny is when white dudes say it but none of them actually will.”

For purposes of this post, I emailed our resident N-factor for some follow up, which reads in part:

“Tell Whiteboy not to be such a faggot, but he might get offended by that so you can just tell him its the f-word… I used to be brainwashed that I was supposed to attack anyone that said that shit but I grew the fuck up and learned how to think for myself and consider how its being used and who’s using it… what their agenda is. Tell your boy from the video this nigger will buy him a drink anytime.”

GASP! He said “nigger!” Wait, but he’s black… so… it’s okay, right? WAIT. No. Because it ended with “er.” Even colored fellers can’t drop an N-deuce that ends with “er.” Full blown “nigger” is never allowed, right? Give me a moment while I download today’s updates to the Racial Slur Usage Guide and see what rules have changed since yesterday.

I followed up with Sir N-salot and asked him if he’d accidentally deleted the “gr” and “pe” before and after the “a” when said he’d buy my friend “a drink.” His reply:

“Godammit you know that’s true.”

Venomous racism, no? Or a hacky yet timelessly funny joke shared between two relatively sane human beings that haven’t voluntarily placed their nutsacks into the lion’s mouth of politico-vaginally correct social castration.

Seriously: Fuck you. All of you: moon crickets, peckerwoods, fingernail ranchers, goat ropers, snow chinks, and hatchet packers. Fuck men, women, children, trannies, puppies, and goldfish. Fuck everyone I know. Fuck everyone I hate. Fuck everyone I love. Fuck you all simply because fuck you.

Words, people. Grow up.

But seriously, fuck trannies.

MySpace Memory Lane


Once upon a time there was an enchanted internet wonderland called MySpace. It was the big kickoff to social media before “social media” was a phrase. Needless to say, it rapidly devolved into a predator’s playground where undersexed maniacs aggressed against females via keyboard in the hope that, by sheer force of their unshakable e-will, something with a vagina would be dumb enough to type back “yes :)” to their poorly crafted solicitations for a meetup/rape/murder.

During this time, there also existed a landmark website called It’s proprietor was known for his dashing good looks, as well as his ability to effortlessly produce stool with a higher IQ than the average human being. Before ultimately closing down the site only to later resurface even better looking than before and under the new moniker of, the beautiful mind behind these internet juggernauts created a profile on MySpace under the false identity of a smoking hot, Boston-based blonde chick named “Jessica.”

As “Jessica,” the creative megaforce behind The Pictorial Guide To Wearing Johnny Cash Shirts and the Instant Idiocy Series would receive unsolicited emails from desperate e-deviants and then fuck with them. He would post the correspondence for the entertainment of his throngs of inferiors, otherwise known as his readership.

Despite the current presence of this MySpace correspondence deep in the UTB archive, the mesmeric author had not read them in years prior to linking to them in a recent post. Upon reading them as though they were new again and being wildly entertained by his own ability to harangue web-based simpletons, he decided to whip together a “Best Of” post with choice selections from the archived series, call it “MySpace Memory Lane,” and act like he’s actually posted something for the day even though re-posts and best ofs are complete fucking horseshit and he’d be the first to criticize any other asshole for doing the same.

Thus and thus, enjoy the nonsense.


“Jason” in Boston, MA says:

monday are tough but surfing myspace has it’s advantages.  Like being able to send sweet messages to what seems to be a beautiful, vibrant girl like you.  Ha, okay enough cheese.  I dig your style and would love to bore you over a great glass of wine.  Maybe at a bar trivia night or something.
What do ya think?

A bar trivia night?


Did you honestly… wait, no, ok yeah… did you honestly just invite me to a fucking bar trivia night? Good work, stinky pinky. Who the fuck invites another person, especially a total stranger from the internet, out to a fucking bar trivia night? You must have all kinds of stang just dripping off your trivia-loving dick, huh fella? Hey girls, get a load of Mr. Bar Trivia Night over here. Look out for him, ladies, he’s a handful!

Sure, Jason, let’s go to a bar trivia night. Then, you can take me back to your place where we’ll leave our inhibitions behind and engage in lustful, uncontrolled, passionate rounds of Scrabble.

I hate you.

wow I was only trying to be nice. You are really a bitch.

Am I, Jason? Am I really a bitch? I guess you’re right. I’m sorry. That was bitchy of me. Just to show you there’s no hard feelings, I will go to a bar trivia night with you. Don’t mind the gun I’ll be carrying, Jason, I mean you no harm – it’s just that suicide is the only “Plan B” I can imagine if I’m attending a bar trivia night with you.

I’m so excited for trivia now I don’t want to wait. Let’s do trivia here until we can find time to meet. I’ll go first:

What human being, currently residing in Boston, is the least likely to ever come into direct contact with a vagina because he spends his time emailing complete strangers and asking them out to BAR FUCKING TRIVIA?

(Hint: it’s you, Jason!)


“Cavalier” in Virginia says:


I figured you must be tired of cheesy “I think you’re hot” lines from strangers. So this is my way of respectfully saying hello and you have a nice profile:-) Have a great day!

you don’t know me it’s true
nor can i claim to know you
yet seeing your face as recent as i may
still compels me to send this message today

For such is the admiration your smile would inspire
that one should praise your gaze for hours and never tire
For its the smile of an angel lifting all spirits higher
or from a distance, leaves me to only humbly admire

You were right! I am SO tired of cheesy “I think you’re hot” lines from strangers. Before I opened your email, I was thinking, “Fuck, I need to get more cheesy elementary school level poems from strangers.” So, thank you. I must also say that I LOVE black men. Not only do I love black men, I love the Transformers. So after falling in love with your poetic magnificence, I went to your profile and noticed the giant Transformers background on your page. Let me get this straight… A 23 year old black man who loves the Transformers and writes poetry that wouldn’t even earn D’s in a freshman English class? Can you say “man of my dreams”???

So to return the favor, here is a poem from me to you…

Roses are red
My vagina is blue
That was until the day
I got an email from you

I read your poem
Then I flicked my bean
Then came the Transformers
And then came my cream

I’m sure that you’re hung
And wanna get in my steeze
Actually wait, you’re a black nerd…
Nigga please

well ur a skanky ugly whore with shit for brains. have a nice life bitch. ur smile looks like u just swallowed a bucket of human shit

I thought my smile inspired admiration? I thought your gaze would never tire? I’d smile if I could eat a bucket of your shit. You are a hot ebony poet. You can shit straight into my mouth if you’d like. One hot lunch, please.

Luv ‘n’ hugs,


“Jeff” in Methuen, MA says:

Who excepted whose friend request. I dont remember sending one. You’re not really good at responding to emails huh?

You’re tricky. Is this some kind of reverse-myspace-psychology? “Hmmm, maybe I’ll get her attention if I pretend I didn’t send her a friend request. Yeah, that’s the ticket!” Do I look that dumb? I mean, maybe I do. If so, please tell me. I’ll go to the library and have some pictures taken there – that way everyone will look at my page and think I’m super-smart and won’t send me any more emails trying to trick me into thinking I requested their friendship and thus owe them immediate return emails.

How about this…

Next time you reach into your bag of tricks, pull out a dictionary and/or basic grammar manual and use it to craft your email. Your first sentence SHOULD read as follows:

“Who accepted whose friend request?”

However, it ACTUALLY reads:

“Who excepted whose friend request.”

Using a period instead of a question mark is bad enough, but “excepted” instead of “accepted”??? Are you kidding me? What self-respecting 24 year old college graduate makes that mistake? Apparently, one from Methuen, who, by his own admission, is “not a big reader.” Well, Josh, reading those four words tells me all I need to know. Maybe I should rethink my exceptance of you as my friend.

You may also want to adjust your rating of my responsiveness.

Write back soon!


PS – Out of curiosity, what college admissions department excepted you?

Ok, I am having some difficulty in sending this message. There is something wrong with Myspace today. Anyway, I applologize for my grammar. That is an embarrassing mistake. I will be sure to keep my dictionary and thesaurus handy for our next conversation. I am at work and do have to act with haste when sending messages. Thank you for basing me though. I didnt remember sending it to you but apparently I got a response from you finally. I guess when you dont know someone you have to resort to email until another means of communication is used. I made this effort for a reason and cant help but see some qualities in you that are attactive. How else am I suppse to get to know a total stranger?I did graduate from UMASS Lowell and no I was not an English major. I did get my degree in Business specifically in Finance and Marketing.

applologize… attactive…

UMASS Lowell?



Nick in Shrewsbury, MA says:

hey wuts up…ur lookin beautiful in all ur pics so i was wondering if itd be aight if we culd get to know each otha a little more so halla @ me if u want thanks baby

Dude, like, if you were trying to do a satire and make fun of idiotic white kids who dress like they’re black thugs in all of your pictures, you’d be a borderline genius. Congratulations would be in order on perfecting the “skinny, pathetic, suburban white kid rocking the oversized jacket and stiff Yankees hat trying to become black by sheer force of will” look. The problem is, I can tell that you’re completely serious.

Turn off BET, pull your jeans up, pick up a book, and stop plaguing society with your assholish existence.


ooooo soo ur one of those rich prissy ass white girls that SWEAR they look better and are better than everyone else LMAO but look at it like this…your NOT even close to being a rich and famous model and guys arent attracted to ugly girls like u that think they look good and have a bad attitude so do me a favor and look in the mirror again and loosen up a little and get a real guy that wants u for ur personality and not ur looks….u dont know me and u never will so dont go running your mouth about how i dress and what i do….

a couple pieces of advice: 1.) you NOT paris hilton so stop acting like it. 2.) stop acting fake because everyone sure as hell knows that your not a blown up barbie. 3.) stop acting rich because your NOT even close. 4.) nobody likes dumb blondes that buy expensive designer clothes and think they look good in it so buy some real clothes and then see what guys really think of you 5.) dont flaunt your money because thats obviously the only reason guys talk to you(if they do) 6.) dont TRY to insult people that are most likely 100 times smarter than you are.


100 times smarter than me.

Nicky, Nicky, Nicky…

See, now what you’ve done, in all your thuggish brilliance, is expose yourself as a complete fraud. In composing your indignant response, you completely forgot to maintain the “street” persona you play off so well in your profile and came dangerously close to speaking like a normal human being. Compare the almost-proper English you used in your response to me with your magical “About Me” section, which reads:

“wutup ya’ll its ya boy into partyin, ballin and shit like that u kno what im sayin so get at the kid, shoutoutz to all my niggaz that stay tru u feel me…..”

I don’t feel you, Nicholas.

Besides this, there is no basis for anything you said to me in your response. You have no support for any of your comments. At no point in time did I come off like a “prissy ass white girl” in my response to you. All I did was point out how absurd your existence as a pasty-white pseudo-gangbanger is. When you emailed me the first time, I was “beautiful.” Then, I called you out for being a pathetic phony, and now I’m “ugly.” Get your story straight, Marshall Mathers. Guys are clearly attracted to me. I’m fucking hot. I’m well out of your league, too. Now I’m getting prissy. Homo. Would you have sent me an email expressing your admiration of my beauty if you weren’t attracted to me? Of course you wouldn’t have. You just didn’t foresee some chic not “feeling” you.

How exactly, Nick, am I acting like Paris Hilton? Is it my proper use of the English language? Is it where I talk about how much I like playing sports? Your analogy failed.

How am I acting rich, Nick? Do tell. Did I say I’m worth lots of money and not hear myself? Does my profile say I swim in pools of my own cash for leisure? Pulling things out of thin air doesn’t work on people that don’t have to wear helmets to protect their soft heads. What’s even better is that after you tell me I’m “NOT even close” to being rich, you tell me that the only reason guys talk to me is because I flaunt my money. Well, which is it, N-dawg? You can’t have your 40 and drink it too. But at least that glaring contradiction segued nicely into your proclamation that you’re 100 times smarter than me. Phat chance.

I have to say, though, that the absolute HIGHLIGHT of your stupidity is when you tell me to stop acting fake and tell me to buy real clothes shortly thereafter. Um, homie, homeskillet, homius maximus… have you looked at your pictures? You’re the original wigger. When you see skits on TV and they have white guys acting like OG’s and it’s supposed to be funny because they’re making fun of the idiots who act that way in real life… well… you’re the idiot they’re making fun of. You’re a parody of yourself. You don’t have street cred. You’re not a banger. The “Dem Franchize Boyz” video in your profile does not reflect how thug you are. Being in the “gangsta pride” MySpace group doesn’t make you a real gangsta – it makes you a real fucking jackass. And it makes me weep that you won’t see the irony in what you’ve said.

Realize something: You’re 140 pounds of snow white. All the various street poses featuring your dog tag, alcohol, your Yankees hat, and your one black friend will never make you legit. But at least you’ll still be 100 times smarter than me.

Shoutoutz to all my niggaz


“Bostonian Ken” in Revere, MA says:

Great pics. Have you ever done any promotional modeling?
I manage promotions in Boston and I’ve got something coming up. If you’re interested, email me back.

Hi there Ken! Thanks for the compliment. To answer your question, I have done promotional modeling before, only it’s never been through online solicitations. Your message strikes me as though it may be from someone who doesn’t manage promotions in Boston as much as someone who likely pretends to manage promotions in Boston as a means to lure unsuspecting females into his perverted, deadly grasp. If that’s not the case though, and you don’t plan on slitting my throat, fucking the hole, cutting me up into tiny bits and pieces, bagging me up, putting me in the trunk of your 86 Chevy Celebrity, and dumping me in the Charles River, then I’d like to hear more. You know what? Even if you do plan to kill, necro-rape, and discard me – I’m still interested. Let me know.

Ummm, thanks for the response back. It kinda freaked me out a little bit.
Anyway, I am legit. I can leave you my number or I can call you…but promise you’re not a guy pretending to be a model so you can kidnap me.

I can’t make that promise, Ken. I’m pretending to be a model – but not so I can kindap you. I only want to take you into my basement for an hour, strap a dildo to your forehead, and have my dog photograph us while I vomit all over your body. If you’d be interested, leave your number and I’ll get in touch with you.

Or, if you’d still rather me do promotional work for you, we can just go that route.

Strange. How about you leave me your number and tell me a good time to call.

So……… ‘no’ on the forehead dildo and vomit? Or was that a ‘yes’? I think it was a ‘yes’.

No” on the forehead dildo and vomit. “Yes” to you doing some promos for me. Cool?

No deal.

* * * * * * * * * *

“ChiChi” in Boston, MA (by way of China) says:

Think of You, Jesssssssss

So thrilled to hear from ya…
You make my long day short.
Whenever ya want sombody
Stand by your side,
Just take me along.

I am your Chinese boy,
Let me make you look cool so,
And so you are prettier than any soul.
Let me say as USHER sings,

“All the time I think of you
Holding on to someone new
Don’t make me lose my mind
Seems like I been here before
Baby I can’t take no more
Of you trying to play me out baby”


Cool, my first poem from a Chinaman! Thank you so much. Here’s one for you, Chichi…

Bamboo-coon, bamboo-coon
Where are you?
See the bamboo-coon
Eating crab rangoon

Noodle-nigger, noodle-nigger
Why must you eat
So many puppy dogs
In the land of Chinee

Bowl haircut, bowl haircut
Covers the head
Only bowl haircuts
For the rice packing Red


Thanks for the Bamboo Coon poem.
I wonder if you know the meaning of coon, rangoon, nigger, etc.. . I don’t know what they mean in either English or Chinese.
Can you tell me what they mean to you personally? It won’t hurt my feeling.
chic Hi

ChiChi, you are quite welcome for the Bamboo Coon poem. I worked very hard on it so I am glad that you like it. To answer your question; yes, I can tell you of their meaning. They all refer to Confucius’ great proverb:

“Never trust man who get hair cut with bowl on head.”

Confucius would say:
“Never judge people by what they wear on their head but what they have inside their head and heart.”

What would Confucius say if I inserted quarters into his eye sockets, having mistaken them for coin slots on a parking meter? I sure he rould be velllly angly.


Steve in New Hampshire says:

Hey hun, how are you? Im good here. On my day off from work and enjoying it too. I worked 6 days in a row (yikes) lol. Anyways, I found your profile and I like what I read and from the looks of your pic, youre very beautiful *kisses her hand* =). If you wanna contact me, feel free to do so. My AIM is XXX and my yahoo is XXX. I hope to talk to you soon =).

Nice neck.

Nice neck?


Thanks? Yes?

Nope. Your neck is fucking gross. Why would you kiss my hand? That would be fucked out in person, but you pretend kissed my hand on the internet. That really ups the fuckedness. And you topped that off with a smiley face, which, aside from the unmitigated gayness inherent in such an act, in real life it means your weird neck would be shifting all around and stuff. That’s not good, Steve. Not for me, not for you, not for anyone. I don’t wanna lose my hand in the creases.

Im sorry. You dont have to contact me if you dont like to.

Holy christ Steve, you legitimately bum me out with your lack of testicular will. Let your balls descend, dude. I’m a bitch you don’t know on the internet who made fun of your horrific looking neck. And YOU apologized to ME? Tell me to fuck off, man. Wish rape upon me. Tap in to your scrotum occasionally, there, Steve. You’ll like the way it feels. You’ll also notice sudden decreases in unnecessary apologies, the usage of phrases such as “yikes” and “lol,” and fucking smiley faces. I can’t promise it’ll help with your neck, though.


“Mr. Nice Guy” in Lexington, MA says:

i just got through reading your file and just HAD to say hello but i see it be very strange to meet girls on this thing but you diffenly had cought my eye and now i know why, its Bcuz your the sexyest girl alive. no but really i just thought that mybe even though i’m a little oldier than you, thought mybe see if u would give me a try. but dont leave me hanging, because we might just get aong, hit me back so we can chat, LATER

italian staillion out !!!!!!!!!!

Before I respond to anything in your email, I have to know if English is your primary language or not. If it is, then what you sent is entirely unacceptable and I can’t imagine any circumstance under which I would ever communicate with you again. I feel like I’ve gotten ‘oldier’ from just reading your message.

English Speaking Jessica out!

wel i’m sorry that my online grammar is not up to par with my 8 grade english teacher, but what do you care it only took you to months to respond. so i dont know whats worse you not liking the poem i wrote for you or you not responding because i misspelled a couple of words. well i’m sorry for what i’m not sure but if you can’t take a complement then begone.  ITS FUCKING MYSPACE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

1. What poem? Unless you consider that shit-pile of mix-n-matched letters you emailed me to be poetry, which, even by your room temperature IQ standards seems unlikely, then you never sent a poem. I would blow whomever I had to for a chance to read your poetic masterwork, though.

2. Conservatively, you misspelled nine words in your original email. That’s discounting capitalization and punctuation errors, which, if included, would bring your total to twenty. Improper usage is a whole other issue that I’ll refrain from addressing here. For the record, your second attempt at communication via English contains sixteen errors.

3. Your shift / exclamation keys are jammed. Look into fixing that.

4. “begone”? BEGONE? BE-fucking-GONE?

5. You realize you used the word “begone,” right? You’ve voluntarily come into contact with penises, haven’t you?

FUCK YOU BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Congratulations on your first technically error-free email. You’ve won me over.

Butch Cassidy And The Dickdance Queen

Cheer up, man - I mean - You go girl!

Cheer up, man – err – You go girl!

You say ‘black’ I say ‘white’
You say ‘bark’ I say ‘bite’
You say ‘shark’ I say
‘Hey man! Jaws was never my scene
And I don’t like my biological reproductive organs’

Apparently it’s tranny week here at UTB. So bend your bangers and mash back between your legs, apply lipstick as necessary, and read on.

In the latest totally non-ironic tranny news, a sixteen year old with a dick and a wig was crowned homecoming queen at Huntington Beach, California’s Marina High. Lance “Cassidy” Campbell said “she” was “doing it for the kids who can’t be themselves,” adding that people should “just be true to themselves,” and that “it doesn’t matter – you can be yourself.” Profound.

And what better way to embrace who you are – in this case; a dude named Lance – than to call yourself Cassidy, don a wig, slather your face in makeup, inject yourself with estrogen [Boner Warning: Super-sexy voice and crazy hot bod ahead], and pretend you’re a broad? It’s common knowledge, after all, that those posing as the diametric opposite of their own self are truly embracing their own self. That’s logic in the judgment-free era – or are you too intolerant to understand that, you “words have meaning” cave-nazi? Just as Michael Jackson embraced his blackness by bleaching himself white and embraced having a nose by gradually whittling it off of his own face, Lance Campbell has embraced his maleness by forsaking his penis and testicles and living life as though he’s a natural-born menstruator.

This is the Tolerance Or Death culture I made reference to in my previous post. This is how a culture tolerates itself to death. The notion of tolerance has been bastardized into implying unrestrained glorification – and outright demonization of those caught not pledging allegiance to the flag of non-judgmentalism. But back on Planet Words Have Meaning, tolerance and glorification are two very different things. If I’m gone for eighteen hours and my dog shits on the floor, I can tolerate that – I accept that. But I don’t put a crown and a sash on that pile of shit, carry it to the mountaintop, and tell the world of its majesty. It’s a pile of shit – I know how it got there and I know what to do with it. That a pile of shit is on the floor is a clear indication that something went wrong. Luckily, I know what went wrong and how to prevent such shit piles from appearing in the future.

Nice giraffe shirt, bro - I mean sweetheart - I mean - ah fuck it.

Cool giraffe shirt, bro – err – sweetheart – err – oh fuck it let’s just sword fight.

Something went wrong in Huntington Beach, CA and it ended up calling itself Cassidy. Yet another unfortunate event that I’m perfectly capable of tolerating. I could offer suggestions on how to prevent Cassidys from appearing in the future, but they would hinge upon men being men, and that’s just unacceptable. So – this being the age of acceptance – accept the fact that I’ll tolerate the lifestyle of some sixteen year old would-be-mental-patients’ hatred of his own cock n balls, but I won’t zip up the back of his dress, stick him on a float, and send him down Main Street as the homecoming queen while a thousand young pieces of ass with authentic vaginas regret not publicly declaring phantom dick syndrome so they could have fulfilled their dreams of making homecoming court, even if it’s as king.

What about them, huh? Actual hot chicks. You know, the kinda broads that used to get elected homecoming queen – back in the weird old days when homecoming queens were attractive females with vaginas and not ugly dudes with dicks. Aren’t we treading into anti-feminist waters if everyone in the homecoming court has a cock? You want to elect a chick with a dick? Fine! But at least fool me! At least make sure he looks like a hot she. It’s a fucked up fact of life that there are some legitimately attractive trannies out there – but Cassidy ain’t one of them. Under no circumstance would I mistakenly end up with this chick’s dick in my hand before vomiting and committing ritual suicide for the sake of my own honor. She’s built like a series of bread loaves mooshed together with a $7 wig from the party supply store thrown on top. Look at those marshmallowy legs. Is she injecting estrogen or creamy mallow filling? Fuckin-a dude, forget your dick, do something with those half-deflated flotation device legs of yours.


Yo girl! Drop outta dem shorts and show me dat cockpussy!

Forget Butch Cassidy and her elective gender for a minute. Is fun even a thing anymore? I know the only competition allowed in this era is who can out-tolerate who, but… like… has the quest to become the world’s least offensive and thereby hip person replaced any form of doing fun high school shit? This is homecoming week for Christ’s gender-neutral sake – and the student body at Marina High turned it into nothing but one big self-congratulatory progressive-fest. These future arbiters of societal decline spent homecoming week electing a dude as homecoming queen not as a practical joke but as a social statement? Wow, what fun. “Flaming youth” has evolved into – well – flaming youth. Let us lament the death of fun and general teenaged assholery.

And now to sound like an old guy longing for what used to be. Cue Springsteen’s Glory Days.

Homecoming in my town wasn’t even called homecoming. It was called Egg Wars. The sale of eggs to anyone under the age of eighteen was banned for the week. Cashiers carded people the same as they would for cigarette sales. You had to stock up ahead of time, drive to neighboring towns, or get adults to buy your eggs for you. Each class had an alternating series of homes meant to be kept secret where they’d gather each night of the week to work on their “hallway floats” – yes, “hallway floats” – because parade floats had been banned in a failed attempt to quell the mayhem of Egg Wars. Portions of each class dressed in full military fatigues and waged war with eggs against each other all week long, while simultaneously avoiding the massive detail of cops patrolling martial law-style like the Marathon bombers were on the loose. Humans, cars, homes – everything was destroyed via egg and various other projectiles for the duration of the week. Five nights of reckless driving, physical assault, trespassing, property damage, property theft, evading police, and illegal possession of eggs.

Being on the football team, we were strictly forbidden from any participation in the nefarious Egg Wars so, naturally, most of us led the charge for our respective classes Monday through Thursday, culminating in Friday night’s homecoming football game. Each day we were interrogated about the previous night’s wreckage and warned that, if caught, consequences would be severe. No one was caught, no consequences were dealt, and our homecoming queens all had birth canals. Senior year, as a team captain, I spoke in front of the school at the homecoming pep rally. In hindsight, I deeply regret not using this platform to glorify the mental illness of gender dysphoria promote tolerance, but instead using it to deliver a paraphrased Scott Hall/nWo “Hey yo” survey degrading our opponents, capped by a plagiarized DX “If you’re not down with that…” tagline, crotch chop and all, that included the entire student body screaming “Suck it!”

Which homecoming week do you want? Gender Reassessment/Male-to-Female Hormone Replacement Therapy Week or Homicidal Egg Wars/Wrestling Promo Week?

Did you pick Egg Wars? Figures, you narrow-minded intoleramus. You’ve probably never even questioned your own gender. You were just born with a particular set of reproductive organs and decided, “I guess based on this vagina I must be a broad/I guess based on this dick and nutsack I must be a dude,” when – as Cassidy Campbell knows – gender is a feeling and there’s no dick or balls big enough to stop a boy from feeling like a lady.

Cassidy Campbell won her crown “for everyone out there.” That includes me. And when I goaded my high school into screaming “Suck it!” little did they realize I was referring – in tolerant tribute – to the cock of a then two year old boy that would grow up to be Marina High School Homecoming Queen, thus blending irony and reality into a fool’s paradise that would make Freddie Mercury cream his jeans and rename his band.