I was sitting in a Principles of American Journalism lecture the other day when I came to the not so startling conclusion that Journalism majors absolutely love the smell of their own shit. If you have ever seen cup chicks and thought to yourself, “Holy shit, you couldn’t pay me enough to do something like that,” you’re going to be extremely sick to your stomach to know that not only do people regularly produce, waft and sample their own shit, but they pay upwards of $30,000 a year to do so. And if that wasn’t enough to make you want to jab yourself in the vas deferens so that your offspring might never have to experience this pinnacle of idiocy, picture this: an entire fucking college campus of these self-important cocks. Never before has such a blatant case of redundancy made me cringe so much.

The fact that you go to the best Journalism school in the nation doesn’t make you something special if you were born an electrical-outlet-fucking putz. Saying you got into the best Journalism school in America is like saying you’re really good at not getting your penis caught in a pair of button fly jeans: it’s harder not to do so than to do. At the end of the day, it’s still a state school and you’re still a stupid fucking cock squeezer. It doesn’t make your inane opinions about the “polarization of morals and ethics in American Journalism” any more valid than that one-pound-load-of-shit-in-his-pants bum’s opinion that mayonnaise is the cause of anal herpes in white Kenyan hot dogs; neither makes any sense and both give me the overriding urge to throat throttle you with a rusty shank.

We get it. You think you’re going to change the world and that everyone is informed only because of your hard line reporting and insight about everything around you. You think that sitting around in a classroom for eight hours a week and writing barely intelligible news stories for the University newspaper somehow makes you better than everyone else around you. You are completely convinced that when the professor said you had a good point when you asked the rhetorical, “Well, what’s the difference between news and gossip these days,” with your shit eating grin and stupid fucking patchy goatee, he wasn’t simply trying to numb the fact that he is teaching a bunch of mouth breathing shit tossers and working at The Podunk Times instead of realizing his dreams of writing for Time Magazine and giving hand jobs in public restrooms for “the next big scoop.” Son of a bitch Freud, if you had at least a semblance of an opinion on the topic the class was discussing instead of a pretentious free flow of egotistical, asshole-fingering uselessness, I might be able to salvage some respect for you. You’re supposed to be a budding journalist, not a fucking dime store psychiatrist. Stop answering questions with questions. No one is impressed.

What pisses me off most about these morons who major in Journalism is that way too many of them take themselves too fucking seriously. Oh you got directly admitted into the Journalism school? And you have a $1,000 scholarship that identifies you as smart? Guess what jerkoff? I have a streak of gray hair that runs down the center of my taint. No one cares about that either. Quit talking about how much more qualified you think you are because some hillbilly decided to let you into the Journalism school early and gave your dumb ass a few extra bucks to piss away on glory hole blowjobs and your meth addiciton or you’ll end up with a mouth full of my skunk dorf. Scholarship, early admission and pretension don’t make you some kind of all-star journalist. You aren’t Ted Koppel. You aren’t Daniel Pearl. You aren’t doing anything other than reporting on how some schmuck got his bike stolen while he was busy jerking off in the bushes. On the list of things I would rather do than slam my dick in a hot oven door, writing irrelevant news briefs ranks only slightly above shoving a scalding cattle prod a foot up my own ass. Don’t tell me how you’re gaining valuable experience writing things people don’t give a shit about because unless you’ve always wanted to grow up to be an obituary writer, you’re lying through your fucking teeth.

The fact of the matter is, having a degree in Journalism is akin to having a certification in ass wiping. Anyone can fucking do it, you just get a piece of paper that says you can. Congratulations, you accomplished nothing.

-Asshole journalism majors hate having their own shit shoveled at them.

Apparently the English language is a hard concept to grasp for people who aren’t superheroes like me. There are people who can’t properly distinguish between your and you’re, along with other befuddling linguistic conundrums, that I run into daily. With my car.

So unless you’d like to be the newest hood ornament on my Mercury shitbox, heed my English advice as follows so I don’t smother you with my nuts in a fit of rage:

* Your vs. You’re

Throughout my daily ritual of downloading pornography and admiring myself in the mirror, I chance upon people who share their opinions about my website via the internet with me as if I gave a flying fuck. I’m both lauded and despised, as is evidenced by praises of “YOUR A GENIUS!” and blasphemies like, “your so fcuking wrong about everting. your dumb lol.” Not only does the first guy type like he mixes concrete for a living but he also uses the possessive “your” incorrectly. My what is a genius? My penis? I agree. My what is so “fcuking wrong”? (Hint: nothing) My dumb what? Friends? Co-Workers? Enemies who write poorly structured emails about how my website sucks to complete strangers? Use “you’re” when you want to say “you are” you stupid cock chafer.

I wouldn’t mind the mistake so much if it weren’t made so damn often. What’s worse is when someone is trying to present an (incoherent) argument to me and I have to stop reading three sentences into it because, in the course of attempting to bust my unbustable chops, the jackass uses the possessive “your” four times. Incorrectly. In three sentences. If you’re going to insult someone’s intelligence, make sure you’re not sending emails that look like you bashed your keyboard with a hammer and clicked send. See how the English language works? Good, now go jump off a cliff.

* There vs. Their vs. They’re

How people screw this one up so consistently is beyond me. Again, the reason it’s bothersome is because it makes you ass hats seem even dumber than you already are. You’re all bottomless pits of stupid. In my ever righteous grace, I have created an easy-to-remember guide concerning when to use there, their or they’re. It’s like flashcards for morons starring Will, the burger-flipping former high school jock and Elizabeth, your friendly neighborhood cum-dumpster. I suggest you print these out, cut them along the bold black lines with your eyelids (because only pussies use dotted lines and scissors) and teach your children with them. Better yet, just get sterilized. Then hang yourself. You can’t be too safe.

There isn’t any lesson that my nuts can’t teach. Shit, look how much Will aged after my nuts collided with his stupid fucking face. Bad ass. They’re so fucking fantastic. Now, whenever I see people write the wrong there/their/they’re, I’m just going to fling my nuts at their faces. So, the next person who mixes these three up, either in or out of context (you’re inept enough to fuck something like this up out of context; don’t sell yourself for more than you’re worth) is going to get an epic, face ruining teabagging. Fair warning.

* It’s vs. Its

Here’s one that a lot of educational institutions call a “tricky” rule and if you’re a stupid fucking shit-for-brains cock, I agree. Observe as I point out the tragedy of the homeless and their uselessness to society using both the contraction form (it’s) and the possessive form (its).

These aren’t hard concepts. How you numb-nutted half-wits manage to not swallow your tongues when you eat defies all empirical evidence proving you’re dumber than a sack of horse shit. My next tutorial would concern how to not get your cock caught in your zipper but I’m going to go ahead and assume that it’s already too late for you morons. Choke.

-My Mercury shitbox has all kinds of new hood ornaments now.

The other day I was beating a wall at a staring contest when this really putzy cock holster asked me why women didn’t pay attention to him. He proceeded to tell me he was risk-adverse and needed advice as to how he should correct this. “I guess you have to crack eggs to make an omelet, am I right?” he chuckled. So I split his thin shell, threw him into an oven and made him into an omelet. Then I cracked his sister’s eggs with my bacon hammer.

However, this guy’s conscious thought train wasn’t finished as his charred remains continued, “…because I really need a girlfriend.” I stared at him sharply and he melted into a thick ooze. Then bears came and tried to lap up his remains but I hate bears so I wrestled them all and made them tap out with the Sharpshooter. Then Owen Hart came back to life and he, Bret and I all exchanged a thunderous high-five. Then I ate them all because wrestling sucks now.

For my own entertainment, I fielded his question while I admired my excellence in the gigantic lake of hymen I’d accrued from being such a cocksure bad ass. My answer was so simple and poignant the earth’s crust proceeded to tear itself from its mantle in its inability to house my greatness. Fortunately for mankind, I slammed by salubrious sack down and earth conceded to defeat. Then my nuts solved world hunger. Fuck, am I righteous or what?

Anyway, the answer is simple. You don’t have a girlfriend because you’re unsavory. You suck and you know it. No one wants to fuck a loser so make yourself not a loser. Dumbass. That’s too easy. The thing that appalled me most is that this assbag said he “needed” a girlfriend. Chances are, you need a girlfriend less than you need a dick in your ear.

I had a friend who decided to date a girl once. He treated her well, bought her all kinds of shiny, expensive trinkets and had the utmost respect for her. Then she decided she didn’t have a wide enough variety of sperm inside of her dirty whore stomach. So one day, while my friend took a nap after building an entire fucking patio for her, she went on a dick sucking expedition, but not before she placed his balls in her purse. Imagine what he thought when he went to take a wake up piss.

“My man satchel has been pillaged!”

I know this won’t pervade your thick, ape-like skulls, and probably defies your shit-flinging gorilla logic, but don’t go out looking for a girlfriend (unless you’re a hot girl). The last thing you need is a girlfriend (unless you’re a hot girl). Since you’re too dumb to call women on their bullshit in the first place (see also: a pussy), all they’ll do is complain and whine and bitch and won’t let you play video games and hold out on you because they have your balls in a vise.

What you need to do is realize that your potential girlfriend is a money grubbing, cock hoarding prostitute who will leave you when the first big-dick Prince Charming comes along to violently rearrange her cervix. Why? Because you suck and you know it. Fix that. Or, failing that, find a girl with loose moral values (especially if you’re a hot girl). A great man once said that fellatio won’t fill the hole in your soul. Prove him wrong. If she’s not letting you stick your finger in her ass the first night you’re out with her, then she’s girlfriend material and you don’t want that because it’s a dead end street for a failure like you. Try again.

-Unsavory people took my constructive criticism poorly.