Tuesday, September 21, 2004

Let's be illogical

Some shit just doesn’t make a lick of sense to me. Like Rhode Island. Why the fuck is Rhode Island a state? Can’t you just nail it up against Massachusetts and be done with it? Bam bam, all done. Rhodechusetts. That frees up a star on the flag, does away with the hassle of yet another seat in Congress and giving that strip of dirt 4 electoral votes is a fucking joke anyway. If Rhode Island gets 4, I want 108 for Texas, 19 just for Houston.

There’s another thing I don’t understand, and trust me this list is a mile long but I’ll stop after just the first few. Michael Jacks-Sons. A 45 year old man has no business sleeping in a bed with other people’s little boys. And holy mother of Christ what I would like to do to these parents who pimp their young sons out like their very own little whores to the Prince of Punching. Jacking off 13 year old boys is bullshit. A 13 year old boy can jack himself off. TRUST ME. He doesn’t need your freak help. Somebody put a red dot on his back and alert the NRA he’s coming their way.

Lastly on the agenda today: morons who pay good money for a fucking dog. When you have to call your broker to make a sell in your investment account to finance an animal with snowballs of fur around her ankles and pink toenails you ought to be the one sleeping in the cage. Let that new bitch sleep in the bed where she deserves to be for snookering your ass into dropping a cool G on her worthless ass. You want a pet that will love you, you save one’s ass from death row. He’ll love you forever. A dog’s a dog. It eats, it shits, it barks (unless you buy them fucked up ones with no vocal cords), and it sleeps. And I don’t care how much you pay for it, it won’t do any of those things any fancier than it did before. Go get you one with a blind eye, no hind leg, a crooked tail and so fucking old you’re afraid he’ll die in the car on the way back to the house. The Cocker Spaniel does not need you. But Lucky will love you for the rest of his short, hard life.

I lied, lastly again, women who get mad when men look at their titties. Well what the fuck do you want me to look at? I know you're wearing a black turleneck and a parka, but goddammit, they're still there aren't they? You just made it harder for me to do the covert glance & turn maneuver is all. Now I've gotta stare a while and see if the nipplage is pointing through, beckoning to me to appreciate them whilst in a state of seclusion. It's how I'm wired. Don't chastise...help. Help me. Wear something low cut and flimsy without a bra. I'll get my fill within a nanosecond and neither of us will be embarassed or angry after I'm caught staring well beyond the 2 second rule.

The world would be a far different place if everyone shared my logic.