It's all the same sand-Niggers on the phone and I'm sick of it. If you're like me, you've repeated this equivalent to the number of every sunrise this quarter. I've explicitly said, "Hey, man, I don't really give a shit about any of this. Why don't you go pump a SKUD up your ass and leave me the fuck alone."
Bloody-bleedin' Hell Arabs. They're like a piñata of Mexicans exploded and there just wasn't enough police patrol to sweep up the wrappers. They still call. Always from these numbers: 201-210-3618, 866-265-7685. I blame Sprint . . . . again. (I blame Sprint for a bunch of shit: arctic caps melting, leukemia, potholes, the classy "farmer blow" because some redneck favored Copenhagen over Kleenix, but that's neither here nor there.) Not just by cellular, but I faithfully run into these aborted pap smears in person at the gas station and cigarette depots.
Picture me, pleased as peach while getting off work, having just come from 20+ broads who are dumber than Corky's shit, then having to actually hand MY MONEY over to a cocksucking camel jockey with some sort of laundry on his head whom for whatever reason is ALWAYS on the cordless house phone. Who could they possibly be talking to all hours of the day with their melodic Swahili since their families are either upstairs or with a shovel in hand? Logically it would have to be their stockbrokers, but at last check ain't a single mother fucker out there stockpiling sand fleas and sandals.
Arabs are like a wannabe Spic. I haven't a clue as to why we aren't pimping them out locally since they're so usable (females as receiving end of glory holes; males as . . . shit, I dunno . . . fertilizer.) I hate India, Hindu, Iraq, Moju, Pissinmuhazz, and all your 72 virgins. Grasp that figure. I'll flip to Christian before I look death in the face and accept a comfortable death whilst BELIEVING there are 50+ broads out there who haven't been injected with cock in the Heavens . . . sure as shit can't find a single virgin here on Earth unless you work in an Alabama nursery school and ya catch 'em before daddy picks them up from kindergarten.
These desert-alchemists call me as if my Wisconsin area code were an opening to a Muslim dating service. How do these sand-lobsters get my/your number, anyways? Not a one of them can perpetrate an actual American accent but expect respect on the phone. It's always some asshole sand-nigger saying how you're going to end up in "credit debt" if you don't water their camel hole. I'll buy a cemetery of World War I veterans before I spit in an oil-tick's direction. Middle East to me = don't speak and go start on fire somewhere I can't smell the soot.
I've been in this strip club shit for 11 years now; worked with plenty Black chicks, an ample amount of Latinos; too many decedents from Wong's Wok and mildly entertained a Serbian and otherwise on the pole . . . for over a decade!! And guess what? Never once have I
auditioned a hairy Arab. Now, what does that mean when every
male Arabian is either dropping me off, taking my gas/cigarette money or calling me at the ungodly hour of 8:00 A.M.? The question is clear:
where are your bitches?
I NEVER see them. On the street. In KFC. Post office, porn store, mall, amusement park. What, are they locked up with linens behind the bathroom door? Son of a bitch. What kind of culture hides their whores? Whites, Blacks, Mexicans . . . we're all pushing those broads out the door in the morning and taking their money at night, but Mr. Sandcock . . . .where the fuck is your Musharrafess?
"Durka Durka."
*Musharraf Special: An unexplainable phenomenon primarily encountered in Pakistan wherein prison inmates awaken with light bulbs mysteriously lodged within the anal cavity. Oftentimes patients will blame the mystery on other prisoners or guards, contending that the heinous act was performed under sedation and without consent.
COMPUTERS
Used to be "blue screens" gave you a headache; now you can't even see WHY you're about to have an aneurysm. I'm starting to hate all forms of electronics, actually: XBOX, cell phones, cordless microphones, DVD players; everything is fucking up! What's awkward is that you and I could easily go to the thrift store, buy a 1985 Speak-N-Spell for $5.00, pop in a couple batteries and guess what?
It'll fucking work. Downstairs in my basement I know I still have a ColecoVision somewhere; I bet that son of a bitch will fire up had I plugged it in, yet Sprint just can't seem to manufacture a phone that won't give me a black screen after a year.
Electronics weren't this big of a headache ten years ago. Wonder what happened, hey? Cheap corner-cutting corporation fuck-wads---that's what.
About 18 months ago I bought an XBOX Elite; the pimped-out black one with the 120 GB hard drive. That prick is sitting in Texas right now being serviced because it can't read a disc any longer. $440.00 for that son of a bitch when I bought it new in late '07, now an extra $100 for one of Gates' lackeys to blow some fairy dust on it so I can play Fight Night Round 4 when it finally comes out while I still have a VCR from the Clinton administration era that doesn't tell me to go fuck myself, which probably only ran me $75 back when we thought N'Sync would be together forever.
There's a toy chest in every state that still has a Teddy Ruxpin doll in it that still aspires to hiccupping, I bet, yet Philips/Magnavox hasn't been able to get a functioning clock/radio in my house within the decade. Philips could seriously fuck up a AAA battery. They suck so badly that if they produced fatty rations to the general public known as "fun size" snacks, I'm betting somehow every White man in the country would acquire sickle-cell anaemia simply for wanting to cure hunger pain.
And that's how we end the recession: have Philips start making foreign cars. Or operating systems since M$ can't stop fucking my computer up. I'm certain Philips could fuck it up even more, but I try not to care.
Despite having a kick-ass girlfriend, I still mildly masturbate. I have to assume electronics can't fuck that up for me, although Philips could if they ever bought-out Astroglide.
STRIPPERS
This is more self-explanatory than having a coloring book in front of you with numbers inside the black lines.
If you don't know any strippers:
good life.
If you work with them:
good luck.
If you beat one with a wire hanger:
good work.
Strippers not only rank in my top 4 annoying things of the quarter, but always the top 4 every sunset.
TATTOOS AND PIERCINGS
First and foremost, what you should really soak in is that before I attempted to write this section of the post I had nearly an entire case of Corona+ in me (22'ish bottles of from what I can tell, the sole thing Mexico has done correctly, roughly 8 Twisted Teas, some cherry bombs and probably a Panty Dropper or two: a beverage your bitch should be familiar with.)
All of that leads me to comfortably admitting tattoos and piercings are for the weak. Every one of ya are weak bitches, females and bitch-males alike: trying to post up a bulletin board on your body for the average onlooker to MAYBE take a second glance on you because you're desirous to "represent" or show something.
I suppose one cicatricial emblem is tolerable, but you want to know what your multiple tattoos say to people like me?
They say, "Hey, I never got enough attention while growing up so now I feel a need to advertise forlorness because I believe my body is a stage."
If you need attention that badly then just go cut your head off on Main St. in your city.
I haven't much time for some guy with loops in his ears and that silver ball in his nose or any other bullshit area they wish to post "originality." I won't even come to your funeral if it's down my block and I have the day off because skin adornment is seriously for bitches. Tattoos are for felons who have absolutely no vocabulary or an otherwise persuasion method to make people at their local watering hole notice them. If you have a cross tattooed on your finger, I will automatically assume you are a loser in life, and even if you have a pussy I will treat you accordingly (unless you're a good tipper.)
Women are the worst: tatted up with stars, butterflies, boyfriend's names and such. Vomit. I know what the broads say, "It's an expression of my individuality."
"Bitch, what does Winnie The Pooh have to do with your emancipation from daddy?"
"But I like Winnie The Pooh. He's cute."
"I like women's buttholes because they're cute. Think you'll ever catch me with a black wormhole on my ankle? More unlikely than Rosie having a seat at my dinner table."
Progressing, let's go with "tramp stamp."
Bitches love this shit but they don't impress anyone (having an IQ trumping 95) with this marring of their ass roof. I've yet to see a man with some pseudo-tribal shit scarifying their lower spinal column, which confirms women have found new ways after Y2K to keep making bad decisions. Shit looks like a birthmark for the feline mentally handicapped, all of whom needed to prove they'd at least crossed the line to age 30 before making this detrimental determination. That would be great: having a time in life where a chick is allowed to get a tramp stamp---Yes, at age 30 and beyond when their brains have reached maximum capacity for absorbing all possible common sense, (similar to that of there being an appropriate age to have babies . . .
which is apparently when you're a Black teenager.)
I don't have any tattoos because I already have self-esteem. I don't need some symbol or tattered graffiti on my skin to tell you I'm righteous. Sure, I could be a clone and get a tattoo of a Corona bottle on my shoulder blade, but in the end, what would it really do for me? Jack shit. I'd just appear to be desperate for double-takes at the beach.
Here's some facts:
A Third of Americans With Tattoos Say They Make Them Feel More Sexy.
A third of Americans also have herpes and Hep C.
According to the American Society of Dermatological Surgery, they stated that of all the people they treat with laser and light therapy, only 6% are getting a tattoo removed flawlessly.
