This one time I was taking a shit in a water purification aqueduct and there was a pregnant woman crying in the corner. I asked her why she was sad and she said it was because she’d had an unplanned pregnancy from a migrant gangbang she’d participated in weeks earlier, but she was morally opposed to abortion. Being hungry, I shoved my head into her womb so that I might consume the fetus in one bite. However, I was immediately crippled by a hauntingly comatose, yet rage inspiring melody. As I searched for the source, my eyes fell upon the rapidly developing and unwanted fetus. But as it stared back at me, its cold, soulless visage void of warmth or lovability, I realized this wasn’t the bastard of a yard worker seeding marathon, but the physical embodiment of Phil Collins’ In the Air Tonight. Incited with fury, I consumed the parasite, tearing it limb from limb so that the world might never be burdened with such a tragic mistake.
Unfortunately, from the shits I later took arose the perverse phoenix that is Phil Collins’ career. However, as with all tragedies, there was a positive side, and as a result of my Phil Collins spawning shit, Roe v. Wade continues to prevail lest we risk producing another Phil Collins as a result of a should be abortion deferred.

Phil Collins sucks. The combination of synthesizers and his miserably warbling voice sounds worse than a giraffe being ass raped by a bear getting face fucked with buckshot point blank while having a painful miscarriage. What pisses me off more than just the fact that Phil Collins is allowed to make such horrible music in the first place is that people allegedly get really into his music. How, I don’t understand. Listening to In the Air Tonight is like being water boarded with your own piss. Anyone who has ever “rocked out” to the drum breakdown probably watches snails fuck for fun.

I would let Shaquille O’Neal put his fist in my unlubricated asshole if it meant I never had to hear Phil Collins again. Fuck, I’d let his spread his fingers out as wide as he could if it meant eliminating Phil Collins’ entire body of work from the annals of rock history. Phil Collins is the shit stain of the wedding dress of rock music, and I’m forced to douchechill every time that tin-eared shitcunt is trotted out as legitimate music.

Fuck Genesis too.

If there’s one thing that gives me blood-tinged diarrhea worse than a Crave Case, it’s people who mumble and get pissed when you ask them to repeat themselves. What’s worse is when you have a contractual obligation to help people, and instead of providing relevant information pertaining to their problem, they mumble off a list of completely unrelated problems, be it how many times they’ve bitched about the same problem in the past or how all the worry over the problem has given them a rash on their crotch and the dog’s tongue burns when she comes in for her twice daily slob-job. Then, on top of making your attempt to help more unbearable than sitting cheeks spread on hot coals with an anal fissure, this asshole will deem your help as less than satisfactory if it doesn’t automatically and immediately turn piss into gasoline. It’s like giving to St. Mary of the Festering Areola Orphanage only to have an orphan come to your house and kick you in the dick because your donation didn’t lead to them finding loving parents. Fucking orphans. MORE »

Over the past few months, I’d heard nothing but good things about Watchmen. From what I’d heard, it’s touted as one of the greatest comic book adaptations of all time by greasy-faced, wedgie-burned, mattress-fucking nerdlingers Internet-wide. Naturally, my first reaction was to avoid it like a screaming baby that shat spiders and puked AIDS. Shit, I won’t see Slumdog Millionaire based on the fact that everyone who’s hip in their little social circle liked it. That, and because I hate Indians, game shows and Indians who are on game shows. MORE »

In addition to attempting to find some semblance of my own voice in my writing, I’ve been trying to find some semblance of my own sound in playing music. So, I’ve begun posting videos on YouTube.

Now, I pimp to you, my YouTube channel.

Three coffins, one lead, one silver, one gold sit in a room, one of them containing Dracula. Each coffin has a description.

Lead: Dracula is here.

Silver: Dracula is not here.

Gold: Dracula is not in lead.

At most, one inscription is true. Where is Dracula and why? You may only open one coffin. If you open the wrong one, you die. If you open the right one, you are granted one wish.

There are no trick answers. Dracula is in one of them.

A gypsy told me this riddle. No joke. I thought about it for two hours before I got it. It should take no more than five minutes.

fmylife.com

I hate the phrase “fuck my life.” The only people I’ve ever heard use it are fat hipster fuckwits who don’t shave their fucking vaginas but still have the fucking gall to wear spandex as pants because it’s so tragically hip to dress like a fucking bag lady. Then they wonder why bottom feeding, backne-plagued, pencil-dick box-fuckers are the only ones who will plummet their dipsticks into the fetid puddle of sick they call vaginas in the first place. We get it; you think you’re ironic. If you want to be really ironic, go mine some iron ore, but instead of coming out of the mine lauding yourself on how ironic you are in both a literal and philosophical sense, set off an explosion, get crushed and fucking die a slow painful death you “too-cool-for-everything-and-nothing” posers. It’s asscunts like you that make government funded eugenics projects seem like a brilliant fucking idea.

Anyway, while I may loathe the phrase, I do love to laugh. So although I was hesitant to visit fmylife.com at first, I realized that it is a cesspool for the world’s biggest sad sacks. It’s a site that  makes you believe you aren’t the sorriest fucking excuse for a human life and allows you the pleasure of laughing at morons all at once!

Enough bullshitting: http://www.fmylife.com/ For every boring, useless, twitter-esque post, there are five posts that will make you simultaneously laugh and believe you don’t suck all that bad. Don’t let it fool you though. You do.