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If #AllLivesMatter, That Means I Can Do Whatever I Want With This Dead Guy, Right?

I recently read on the internet that all lives matter. Read: since only things with lives matter, that automatically means that anything without life, any object lacking that essential élan vital, is second class scum and not worthy of our time. All of this pleases me, ‘cuz I’ve got this dead guy.

This dead guy does not matter one bit. It’s right there in the hashtag. That gives me the go-ahead to really go to town on this corpse. Sex. I didn’t say it. You were thinking it. Anyways, there are a lot of non-sexual things you can do with a worthless body that just wouldn’t fly with a live person. I plan to stab it first. After that, I’m going to throw it off my balcony and see if it explodes on the concrete below.

That’s it. That’s all I want to do with the dead guy.

 

Here’s What I Think Of The Royal Baby

Sean Hannity Enjoys Photograph Of Erect Nuclear Missile

January 16, 2013 1 comment

Sean Hannity loves a lot of things. America. Conservative values. Straight people. White people. White people who are straight, conservative, and American. During a recent interview intended to cover the ramifications of Barack Obama’s re-election, his mind seemed trained on a new muse—a framed photograph of a nuclear missile, standing upright, ready for takeoff.

“I can’t stress enough how much trouble this nation is in. The left is pushing their radical agen—wow, just look at this thing,” the nationally syndicated homophobe said as he clutched the photo.

“This missile is the embodiment of the principles America was built on—it’s tough, it’s thick-skinned, it doesn’t take no for an answer. I know if I had one pointed at me, my heart would skip a beat, my knees would weaken, my penis would become slightly turgid—out of respect—and I would submit to its every whim,” Hannity went on. “That’s why we simply can’t spend enough on defense. We need one of these trained on every one of our rival nations. Our enemies—we seem to be making more and more every day—need to be aware that if they mess with us, they will be getting a big ol’ nuclear load of America right between the eyes.”

When pressed to stick to election issues, Hannity continued:

“And the engineering behind it! Whoever designed this got it exactly right. A perfect proportion of length to girth. Enough power to survive a long ride to its destination. And, once it reaches that destination, the right amount of juice to create a massive explosion of American man-power right in the enemy’s face. Ugghhoohh,” he continued as his eyes rolled back and his tongue ran around the “O” formed by his lips. “Oooooohhhh, yes, aaahhhhh. Mmmmm.

At this point, Hannity excused himself to take a restroom break. As he was almost to his office door, he quickly doubled back to grab the photo. “Reading material,” he said with a wink.

He returned 15 minutes later, perspiring, short of breath, and visibly more relaxed.

“Okay, now where were we? Ah yes, Obama. Prepare for another four years of broken promises, reckless spending, and, and, OH GOD, CAN’T WE JUST FIRE ONE OFF, TO MAKE SURE THEY WORK!?!?! Nobody would miss Kenya, except you-know-who, right? Or San Francisco? C’mon! Let’s go!”

Hannity then stood up, and dashed off towards the cafeteria mumbling something about a meal of hot dogs and bananas, with popsicles for dessert.

Oh, This? It’s Just A Marmot-Brand Sleeping Bag, And It’s Worth More Than Some Parts Of Your House

November 14, 2012 5 comments

I hate poor people. And it’s not because they smell bad and are really, really ugly.

The thing I hate about poor people is the fact that they will never once experience the decadent texture of a Marmot sleeping bag. If even for a moment they could just brush their non-money-handling sausage fingers along the outer polyester pelt, the gravity of that experience alone would provide them with the burning drive to garner enough wealth to become a Marmot owner. But alas, Marmot owners are smart enough to never plop their sack down where poor people will be within reach. It’s like they always say: Marmot people get Marmot-ier, and the poor get less Marmot-ier.

Is it wrong that I envelop myself in the luxury of a sleep sack that can keep me alive at temperatures as low as 40°F, while there are people out there barely scraping along using bags made of rat skins glued together with the sticky stuff that comes out of rats when you skin them? Absolutely not. I earned this Marmot bag. By having a birthday so I could get it as a gift from my parents. Enjoy your rat-bag, you poor sack of crap that nobody loves enough to buy you nice things! I’ll just be over here, wrapped in the rich, robust lovin’ that the Marmot exudes, praying that one day, maybe, poor people will see the error of their ways and become rich enough to afford Marmot merchandise.

Flatulent Doofus Ruins Vikings Game

In what’s being hailed as a calamity in the world of football fandom, a freak accident has left thousands dead and even more hurting at the Metrodome in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Officials are still sifting through the details, but here is what this reporter has deduced thus far — dirty fart dust from a low-level Dome employee entered the main ventricle of the building’s ventilation network, mixed with 30 year’s worth of bacteria buildup, and then began to expand, mutate, and clone itself as it gained wide distribution throughout the structure. It went on to shut down the respiratory systems of thousands of football fans, and sent those who didn’t perish into varying degrees of dilapidated consciousness and shortness of breath.

“At first, the blast seemed to be harmless, but when circulated by the propellers used to support the roof, it was amplified twenty-fold,” said David H. Geiger*, designer of the Metrodome’s innovative roof system.

“We usually install safeguards against this type of disaster, but air filtration technology has only advanced so far,” Geiger went on.

“Filter too much, and the air gets stagnant. Don’t filter enough, and this happens,” he said. “This exact event is every inflatable roof engineer’s nightmare.”

While a good amount of blame can be placed on Geiger’s shoulders, a small amount should also be directed at the guy who farted. Emilio Consuela-Rodriguez-Smith, a backup peanut vendor who was waiting in a hallway in the event that he would be called up, reported that he was trying to lift a heavy case of pickles when “it” happened.

“I bent down to pick up the case. It was heavier than I thought, and I floated an air biscuit in front of what I believed at the time to be a vent that led outdoors. Turns out it was a vital roof-supporting intake fan. My bad.”

His bad, indeed. The intake fan immediately sucked in Consuela-Rodriguez-Smith’s effluvium, and wasted no time in distributing it to the entire crowd present at the Vikings-Titans game. The after-effects were instant.

“I’ve. Never. Seen. So. Much. Vomit,” Vikings coach Leslie Frazier said from his hospital room, using a DECtalk© speech synthesizer (the same device that Stephen Hawking uses) to communicate, after losing conversational faculties due to a collapsed lung.

Figures from the Hennepin County Medical Center cemented the incident as a Level Seven Flatulence Disaster. How a single fluff from a clueless idiot could have such a ridiculous and improbable impact remain the source of much speculation, hilarity, and hotness.

In other news, iron lung sales are skyrocketing in the greater Minneapolis-St. Paul area, creating a few jobs that will last for a couple of weeks.

*It was just brought to my attention, by me, that Geiger passed away in 1989. Everything else in this article has been fact-checked and verified.

Tampa Area Hookers Getting Ready For Upcoming Republican National Convention

TAMPA, FL — The Republican National Convention is set to kick off this coming Monday, and with it will come a substantial boost for local businesses. Restaurants, hotels, and especially hookers are preparing for the financial spike that comes with any national gathering.

“This will definitely be the busiest we’ve been in years,” replied a local hussy.

“I can’t even begin to tell you how excited we are. It’s times like this when you can really show how valuable you are to your whoremonger,” said another filthy woman of the night.

This reporter, curious as to just how much money the convention will infuse into the economy, found a few prostitutes who had already consorted with some early arrivers to Tampa. Their comments:

“As opposed as they are to using public money to fund schools or art programs for kids, they really have no problem at all throwing their personal money down at the clip of $3,000 an hour so they can strangle me and tell me I’m worthless. It’s very noble.”

“One guy gave me 500 bucks to sit quietly while he read an erotic poem he wrote about Reagan.”

“A congressman from Texas gave me more than he pays his Mexican housekeeper in a year just for me to watch him pee.”

“A group of city councilmen from Kentucky pooled their money together, probably enough to put an underprivileged inner-city kid through a few years of college, and threw empty whiskey bottles at me while I did the Macarena.”

The influx of cash will be much appreciated by the army of harlots. However, if the second law of thermodynamics is any indicator, with every boom, an equalizing bust will follow. While the hookers will all be bringing home the proverbial bacon, Tampa is expected to fall into a mini-recession following the convention, due to the uninhabitable cesspool it will become. Enclosed spaces all over town, like closets, public bathrooms, back seats of taxis, etc., will all have to be roped off and hosed down by scores of workers in hazmat suits.

“Frankly, I’m not sure if our sewer system is going to be able to handle the extraordinary volume of bodily fluids that will soon bombard it. My best advice for residents would be this: head for the highlands, and check the city’s website for updates on when it’s safe to return. May God have mercy on us all,” warned a high-ranking Tampa official.

On a side note, the enormous profits reaped by the multitudes of floozies are expected to form a sort of “trickle-down” effect within the greater Tampa area. Manufacturers of high-end stilettos, experimental herpes-taming pharmaceuticals, and crack are all expected to benefit from the brief explosion of capital into the flesh industry.

Chick-fil-A Will Now Only Serve Meat From Gay Chickens

Dan Cathy, in what may prove to be either a brilliant PR move or an incredibly misguided attempt to appease millions of seething poultry lovers who probably hadn’t even heard of Chick-fil-A just weeks ago, has announced that his company will from now on serve meat exclusively from chickens who were homosexual during their lifetimes.

The company president’s decision was met with anger from PETA, who will never be happy about anything, lukewarm support from poultry farmers, whose businesses will be bolstered or hurt depending on the sexual orientation of their chicken herds, and general confusion from the LGBT community.

“No animal should ever be used for human consumption,” a PETA official stated, not realizing the irony that humans most likely would not have evolved to the level of consciousness necessary to come to the conclusion that it is wrong to eat animals had it not been for the inclusion of meat into their diets millions of years ago.

A redneck farmer, who contracts his birds out to Chick-fil-A, was speechless, and looked more confused than a cow in a henhouse, a pig in a shower, and a horse at a hootenanny.

“Uh…..what? I don’t get it, are we supposed to be happy that they’re including homosexual chickens on their menu, or offended that they are now only slaughtering the gay ones for their restaurants?” a befuddled representative of the LGBT community responded.

Whatever the motive, you can bet your bottom dollar that this exclusive gay-chicken move will only make Chick-fil-A better than ever. That’s according to Dan Cathy, who asks you to ponder this: “Imagine, two roosters just going at it. They are both masculine, powerful, and dominant. The strenuous sexual battle betwixt them will result in more of a struggle, therefore a harder workout for each bird, resulting in a leaner, healthier cut of meat. I’m getting sweaty and hungry just thinking about it.”

This reporter, not satisfied with one-sided answers, took it one step further — what about the meat rendered from lesbian chickens? Cathy looked thoughtful for a moment, then replied, “Well, Michael, that’s a damn good question. A damn good question. While less physical than the male of the species, a lesbian cut of meat can be counted on to provide what is lacking in their penised counterparts — tenderness, juiciness, and an all-around aura of love. And that’s what we want people to experience when they eat at a Chick-fil-A restaurant — love. But not weird, ishy, homosexual love.”

When asked what the homosexual chicken community thought of this development, a local gay chicken was very tight-beaked, yet its body language betrayed the fact that it was thinking deeply about something, but what? Is it that chickens, regardless of sexual orientation, have no marriage rights whatsoever? Was she planning an escape? Was she thinking of what was going to happen in the henhouse later? Or perhaps there was no cerebral activity there at all, her brain a veritable ball of goop due to years of the inbreeding and harsh conditions that make up today’s corporate chicken farms.

Whatever the outcome, I’m still not sure what Chick-fil-A is or how to pronounce it.

 

 

 

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