Irritation. Irritation. Irritation.
Dear Sons Of Bitches Next Door (heretofore referred to as simply "Bitches"),
You stupid Bitches cannot sing. Ordinarily, this would pose no problems whatsoever; I am no musical gift from God, either. Bearing in mind, however, that it is fucking four thirty in the morning and I am honored by the pleasure of hearing you and all of your most-assuredly brilliant friends drunkely slur your way through "Say It Ain't So," I am inclined to believe that you Bitches are in fact the most irritating cuntrags in the history of our fair nation.
Well, you and Gwen Stefani. But let's not get caught up in semantics.
I'm going to let you dumb pricks in on a couple of secrets that the world has been keeping from you, kay?
1) Despite your apparent beliefs to the contrary, we are not in fact living in a Jim Belushi movie; no one wears sweaters emblazoned with "COLLEGE" in big block letters and no one wears a goddamned toga.
2) You'd better fucking believe that no one chants "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! WHOOOOOOOO!" No one who amounts to anything more than an insignificant blip on the giant radar screen of life, anyway.
3) You all fucking lose at life.
I've got a deal for you, though. How about you all shut the fuck up, put on your respective sweatshirts emblazoned with a string of capitalized Greek letters that-- hold on, you might want to sit down for this-- no one except your rapidly-aging 'Bros with beer guts, shitty white-collar jobs, and alimony payments will remember or care about just a few short years from now, and head back to whatever desperately-veiled dens of homoerotic tension you sleep in?
In return, I won't walk my ass over there and tear out your beer-swilling, kegstand-hooting, Weezer-slurring throats out with nothing but my clawlike bare hands, a tremendous lack of sleep, and about fifteen metric tons of searing hot rage. I've been tallying up the minutes, and each one is redeemable for an extra puncture wound at no additional cost.
I know, I know; I'm a giver. It's what I do.
But enough chit-chat. Daddy needs to sleep, before he gets earnestly homicidal. Now run along you adorably unavoidable coagulations of tangible mediocrity.
FUCK, I hate you Bitches.
Luv,
Eric
You stupid Bitches cannot sing. Ordinarily, this would pose no problems whatsoever; I am no musical gift from God, either. Bearing in mind, however, that it is fucking four thirty in the morning and I am honored by the pleasure of hearing you and all of your most-assuredly brilliant friends drunkely slur your way through "Say It Ain't So," I am inclined to believe that you Bitches are in fact the most irritating cuntrags in the history of our fair nation.
Well, you and Gwen Stefani. But let's not get caught up in semantics.
I'm going to let you dumb pricks in on a couple of secrets that the world has been keeping from you, kay?
1) Despite your apparent beliefs to the contrary, we are not in fact living in a Jim Belushi movie; no one wears sweaters emblazoned with "COLLEGE" in big block letters and no one wears a goddamned toga.
2) You'd better fucking believe that no one chants "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! WHOOOOOOOO!" No one who amounts to anything more than an insignificant blip on the giant radar screen of life, anyway.
3) You all fucking lose at life.
I've got a deal for you, though. How about you all shut the fuck up, put on your respective sweatshirts emblazoned with a string of capitalized Greek letters that-- hold on, you might want to sit down for this-- no one except your rapidly-aging 'Bros with beer guts, shitty white-collar jobs, and alimony payments will remember or care about just a few short years from now, and head back to whatever desperately-veiled dens of homoerotic tension you sleep in?
In return, I won't walk my ass over there and tear out your beer-swilling, kegstand-hooting, Weezer-slurring throats out with nothing but my clawlike bare hands, a tremendous lack of sleep, and about fifteen metric tons of searing hot rage. I've been tallying up the minutes, and each one is redeemable for an extra puncture wound at no additional cost.
I know, I know; I'm a giver. It's what I do.
But enough chit-chat. Daddy needs to sleep, before he gets earnestly homicidal. Now run along you adorably unavoidable coagulations of tangible mediocrity.
FUCK, I hate you Bitches.
Luv,
Eric
posted by Unknown at 4:22 AM
3 Comments:
damn you are eloquent
you. my friend, are my hero.
i have and occasionally (in private) wear my yellow toga.
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