Dead Girls Don’t Dance

In no particular order, ten (horrible) things I would like to say to people when I can get away with it:

1. This is my private island. Get the hell off my property or my personal army will open fire in two minutes.
2. You liked the soup? Why, thank you! The secret to the recipe is I ate a lot of garlic before I pissed in it.
3. Yes, that dress DOES make you look fat. In fact, you look like an electric blue walrus in a tutu.
4.  No, it WASN’T good for me, actually.
5. Shut your  ignorant piehole, boss. (Current employer excluded.)
6. You smell like stale curry. Please maintain a distance of at least twelve feet, and stay downwind.
7. I hereby sentence you to death.
8. 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.
9. 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.
10. 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.

Tags: semi-daily //