Pull Your Pants Up
In no particular order, ten (horrible) things I would like to say to people when I can get away with it:
- This is my private island. Get the hell off my property or my personal army will open fire in two minutes.
- You liked the soup? Why, thank you! The secret to the recipe is I ate a lot of garlic before I pissed in it.
- Yes, that dress DOES make you look fat. In fact, you look like an electric blue walrus in a tutu.
- No, it WASN’T good for me, actually.
- Shut your ignorant piehole, boss. (Current employer excluded.)
- You smell like stale curry. Please maintain a distance of at least twelve feet, and stay downwind.
- I hereby sentence you to death.
- Buy a belt, pull your damned pants up, and walk like a man. You’re shuffling around like a toddler with a loaded poopy diaper. Furthermore, I don’t care to see your butt crack or your boxer shorts. Street cred, my ass.
- You’re over fifty. Burn your tank tops and get a frigging BRASSIERE, granny. Nobody wants to see your nipples swinging around your waist like half-deflated tetherballs.
- Suck my dick. (This is rhetoric, people. I don’t actually want to have a penis. Well, not as part of my own body, anyway.)
This post is all Moog’s fault. I was briefly tempted to make horrid, funny graphics like his to accompany my snotty remarks, but I’m just too fricking lazy. Use your imagination.