Yesterday I just accomplished the 3rd level of "prestige mode" in Call of Duty: World At War . . . and my son's mother text me and said my son had broken his ankle . . . and then I reached level 24 yet again and finally got Bouncing Bettys back, so I was happy.
It must really suck ass while thinking of me. You mother fuckers must grind enamel off your teeth just picturing me getting away with murder while palavering horse shit onto every stripper I come into contact with . . . and even when the white lights shine, they still wanna nuzzle in my cranny. You can't even believe how I can get away with this shit, can ya?
Son of a bitch, how do I do it without using Twitter, you ask?
Well, it's because I'm a fucking asshole; I drink a lot, which aids in my
cocksuckeryexpodaliosis.
It's actually a very simple formula:
My stomach's capacity divided by ounces of liquor = the amount of time it takes me to tell you to go fuck yourself. While every other male in the bar seems to be drooling over your useless tits and fake hair, I can easily put shit into perspective using my vodka-addled cranium by simply announcing my dishes haven't been done in two weeks, therefore you in bodily form is simply a cocoon of life support for your vagina if you don't pick something up.
I'd like to quote Dennis Miller if I could: "Women love to fuck . . . but men NEED to fuck."
On or off the pole, women nowadays can't do much except complain. It's coming to the point where I don't even believe in rape anymore; I simply assume the bitch wanted it in some way and she got stuck like the pig she is.
You should hear me on the microphone; I'm a fucking dick.
Walk into any other strip club, get a table and a drink, within 2 minutes you'll hear some hack over the speakers pronouncing these girls as calendar models or the next best thing to a prone Jenny McCarthy.
Not me.
I'll fuse 13 Coronas with stomach bile and tell you how many kids that chick on stage has, hence more money you should feel compelled to part with. At 9 pm, I'll announce customers should get private dances since the booths are still semi-free of foreign sperm, and if a guy comes in with his girlfriend, I will make it a priority to belittle him for bringing that wannabe dyke to the stage to begin with, afterwards have the audacity to walk down to the stage and hand her an application simply because I'm shit-faced, all the while knowing she treats Little Debbies like vitamins and couldn't possibly get up on the stage to begin with.
Twitter bitch.
Now, I don't blame the "engine" people who use Twitter, as I'm sure it's ego-pumping to have functioning members of society so intensely interested in you to feel a need to be updated as to whether you're on the toilet, grocery shopping or on your 3rd masturbation session of the day, but I do blame the "cabooses" who sign up to any certain individual's account. I mean, I thought US Weekly and National Enquirer were bad since one is investing their time into an entity that doesn't really do anything to better their lives or pay dividends, but Twitter is basically just a stalking service for the severely bored and mentally challenged.
What kind of dipshit, basement-dwelling, slob of cock snot uses Twitter as a contemporary PC tool as to communicate with people? For the love of Christ, txt messaging pretty much wrapped up the "Shop-N-Go" method of communication, but I guess that wasn't impersonal enough. Now there are armies of people out there who say to themselves, "Yea, I just want to know what my buddies are doing every hour while I'm stuck at my shitfuck job for the next eight, so I hit them up on Twitter because like my sports ticker, I demand constant updates since my own life is vapid and void of purpose."
Fucking douche-bags.
As to give an example of what I'm talking about if you're hopefully NOT accustomed to this service, check the
faggotry:
Twitter is a social networking and micro-blogging service that allows its users to send and read other user's updates (known as tweets) which are text-based posts of up to 140 characters in length (Wow thanks for the big 140!! As if the 160 in txt messaging wasn't already a pain in the ass.)
Updates are displayed on the user's profile page and delivered to other users who have signed up to receive them. Senders can restrict delivery to those in their circle of friends (delivery to everyone being the default.) Users can receive updates via the Twitter website, SMS, RSS, or through applications such as TwitterMobile, Tweetie, Twinkle, Twitterrific, Feedalizr, Facebook, and Twidget, a widget application. (Keep your eyes open for
TwitterRimRock; an application I'm devising where somebody messages you and a small explosion occurs in your chili hole.)
Bored yet? 'Cause I just went from midnight to six just typing it.
So basically Twitter is like txt messaging, only it's like sending mass txt messages, and as we all know those are oh-so wondrously conceived.
For me to even assume you would give a shit about what I'm doing at any given time is already absurd. I mean, really. How interesting could it possibly get? (Twitter is what we would label as "time-stamped," which means in order for the forthcoming to make sense, you're probably going to want to read from the BOTTOM to the top of these images.)
I can imagine the insecure women out there forcing their boyfriends to use Twitter if his workplace allows computer access. That fucking bitch must insist Twitter to load on the Windows start-up list. So since he's forced to keep her "updated," if he has some balls, I can only hope the conversation goes something like this: (Once again, read from the BOTTOM to the top.)
Boy, that Gary sounds like a fucking awesome dude. Too bad he uses Twitter to talk with a
twatter.
Cheer up. It gets worse than this, believe me, because not only is Gary's girl a raging cunt from Hell, he has also tolerated shit from what he believes to be a large woman, which is just silly in itself. I'm gonna have to have a talk with 'ol Gary and tell him that if he throws a Twinkie in the air and his girlfriend catches it like a seal does a fish, he better have that ho stargaze from outside.
Twitter is so lame, I could perp anybody, anywhere and pretend I'm making a goddamn difference. Check out this discourse I've thankfully created before I officially become banned. And I don't even need any words if I set up the account appropriately (Read from BOTTOM to top again.)
Twitter: Great for people who've aspired to wallow in mediocrity. I imagine people who take full advantage of Twitter's service, their collective IQ bares semblance to the man's who was last standing after a pig orgy in Kentucky.
And in the end, you'd all like to think this post was strictly about Twitter . . . but really it's about how you might be allowing nonessential persons to entertain your growth until you're old and find crosswords and talk shows amusing. Don't be lame.
You're in control, assuming Twitter matters . . .
In other news, I'm using a new dating service since the clubs I work at keep bringing in these useless, moronic clowns who the general public willingly pay a cover charge to see, which has impelled me to finally use a condom for the first time since 2003, but didn't post it up on Twitter (I doubt I could anyway.)
This is big for me, so if I actually HAD a Twitter account, I might've put this up; scanned it for ya'll, as to keep readers close to
"My Dick."
