Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Juicy Asses

Excited about that title? Don't be. Unfortunately, this post has nothing to do with J-Lo, Beyonce, Jessica Biel or Shakira. I'm sure everyone has seen it; the old/fat/shapely woman with the sweatpants on that have the words "Sexy", "Juicy", "Bootylicious", or some other word that obviously does not describe your wrinkly, fat-pocketed ass.

I really don't even feel comfortable reading words off of hot girls asses, let alone having to physically walk from one side of you to the other in order to read the 4 letter word that has somehow managed to completely wrap itself around your derrière. It is in my opinion that there should be both an age AND weight limit on this type of clothing, which includes more than just the pants. For example, a woman in her mid to late 60's came in to my place of employment earlier this week wearing a bright yellow spaghetti-strap shirt (no bra.......) with the word "SEXY" bedazzled into it. Did you just gag? I thought so.

Obama, get on it.

- Dr. Jones

Monday, July 26, 2010

An Open Letter to Eminem

This is an open letter to one of the most annoying human beings on the face of planet earth: Eminem.

   Dear Eminem (AKA Marshall Bruce Mathers), let me first start off by saying how much I love hearing your shitty songs on the radio. Every time "Not Afraid" or something similar hits the airwaves, I know it's time to change the channel. It's like the DJ just saying "you should definitely turn the dial now, I'm about to play some REALLY shitty music". So, thanks for that, Marshall. But let me actually get on with this.

Eminem inexplicably lighting dynamite.
     I feel the need to write you and say that I am ridiculously fucking sick and tired of young girls and the occasional dumb guy telling me how great you are: "Eminem is like, SO GOOD. LIKE, he got over all those problems and now he's NoT aFrAid!" WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU HAVE TO BE AFRAID OF? BEING A MILLIONAIRE?
   Ok, now I admit when I was a child I went out of my way to get some album of yours, which my Mother and Father promptly returned; and I'm 109% sure that that was the best parenting move of my parents entire life (and not letting me purchase Hot Topic pants with chains all over them, but that's another fucked up story). Anyway, I could see your appeal then: white rapper against the world, a fucking shit-ton of issues to get past, a divorce (or something), a daughter you couldn't have, way too many Mommy issues, blahblahblah. Well, this is 2010, buddy, and by now you've cleaned out your closet, got some custody of that daughter, and adopted a few other kids - oh and you're more famous than you've ever been. So what the fuck is your appeal right now? I guess my better question is how are you still angry? Or afraid, for that matter? 50 Cent got shot 9ish times and you don't see him all afraid of shit. In fact, he's reinventing himself to be an actor..or something to that effect. But, I guess I'd be pretty pissed off if I had a ton of money, my own record label, and an untouchable career too.
  Wait a second, NO I WOULDN'T. I'd fucking love it. My rap songs would be all: "I got a ton of money. And I really love honey. And I can afford honey because of all this money. The sun is sunny! Woooo!" And people would blare my music and be like "He's appealing because he's so happy but he's rapping! It's such a new concept!"
 But then I'd probably get addicted to coke or something and start writing some dark songs and I'd just be normal. Maybe that's what happened to you, Em? Are you addicted to the rock? C'mon Marshall, this is a safe place, you can admit it here.

-Your friend, and certainly not concerned fan, Desmond

Saturday, July 24, 2010


Ever been stuck? Happened to me.

So, when I was 4, I had a birthday. Did you have one of those? I did. My 4th birthday was at McDonalds (don't ask why...I never did). The playground at this particular McDonalds had a barred fenced around it...quite prisonesque...a good place for a 4 year old.

Anyways, things got carried away. I'm not completely sure how, but my head ended up in between the bars. This would be a good time to tell you that I have large ears.

Not me (poor baby), but you get the picture. Anyways, my head got stuck. Not like, "Hey, stick some butter on his head, we'll slide him out". No. More like "Hey! FUCK! Call the fucking fire department, this child is stuck."

I like math...lets do some.

Not the best equation, but you get the picture. In order to avoid all the screaming and lawsuits, I'll skip to the end. McDonalds employees had to actually do work and call 911. head (ears) was (were) stuck SO bad, that the mother fucking fire department had to come and CUT THE BARS in order to get my head out.

New question...ever been traumatized?

Happened to me.

- Dr. Jones

Tuesday, July 20, 2010


I've just figured out that I have absolutely no idea how to iron. Honestly, I thought it was just heating up something and running it across fabric. That is what it entails right? Ya know, I once told a girl who was complaining about not having a hair straightener that she should just warm up two bricks and run her hair between them. Same idea right? I mean, it seems like it to me. Anyway, I digress, seeing as I'm running out of clothing for my job i figured I would iron the clothing that I've left wrinkled for the past two weeks. So, in my ever macho mindset, I grabbed the iron and immediately began running the metal up and down my clothing. So what was the effect? Well, I now have flat, wrinkled clothing; and I'm utterly baffled. I think I spent twenty minutes heating up my clothing for no reason. Congratulation, hot triangular piece of metal: you've beaten me tonight.

- Desmond

Monday, July 19, 2010

Is This Real?

Apparently Kim Kardashian went to the beach...sometime. And damn. That ass seriously has to be photoshopped, right? I'm surprised the photographer caught the orbit.

The hilarious What Would Tyler Durden Do has the original story and photos: LINK!


Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Adventures In The Mange

Dear mangy cat (letter #2):

Cat, we've been warring for the past two months and, though I've written about your exploits previously, it seems you've given me more room to write. In our last adventure you proved how overwhelmingly dumb you are and, though I fucking hate you, I rescued you from a locked basement. Today you proved just how fucking idiotic you actually are.
After a long work day I came home and sat down to mindlessly wander the internet for a few hours and unwind. Let me set the scene: Where I'm staying right now, there are couches in the shape of an "L". In the middles of these couches is a chest. This chest has a large drawer for shit in the center of it but I've only ever seen it open once...until today. Today I found the drawer gaping wide open as I sat down, so naturally I slammed it shut, sat down, and became useless for a little bit.
Useless, that is, until I felt the chest begin to shake and rattle. I figured maybe my legs were tired and were twitching so I ignored it and continued to read up on Lindsay Lohan..or something. Then it happened again. So, I touched my legs, thinking I was dieing, and became scared when I had no symptoms of death. That is, until I heard a pathetic MREEEOOOOOEEOEOWEWOWOWO :(:(:(:( accompany all the shaking from the chest. I realized quickly that somehow this fucking dumbass feline had put itself inside of this drawer. So, I laughed, left my feet on top of the drawer for a second, and then decided to rescue this fucking animal for a second time.
So here comes the reveal: I pull open the drawer and this animal slowly emerges from behind the drawer, gives out another sickly MREEOOOW and bolted away. I haven't seen the animal since then. I fucking hate this cat.

Note: This isn't the cat, but it might as well be.


Sunday, July 11, 2010

You've Forced My Hand

This is it. This has gone too far. Mustaches. Mustaches, you've forced my hand; I don't like you. Not many people do like you. No man should have a furry man lip. Admittedly, I haven't shaved for a while and I've got a 'stache right now, but he's joined by his partner in crime THE BEARD. Thus, I don't look like a totally idiotic fucking stuck up prick who has nothing better to do than comb muffin crumbs out of his inevitably crumb prone mustache. Seriously. I feel like I've been plagued by mustachemen lately. My first run in came while browsing the aisles of the shitty American Apparel, where I was attempting to differentiate between what was for men and women. This ventured was thwarted simply as all their clothes apparently are made for baboons. Luckily I found a placard that would send me in the direction of men's clothes..until I looked at it and saw THIS:

NO. Nooooooooo. No!!! Kill it. Kill it now, and kill it dead. When i saw this abomination staring back at me all glinty eyed and wanting I left. Immediately. You need to do the same if this situation occurs. My second mustache mishap furthered this awful situation when I logged onto the news to simply see what was happening around our beautiful nation and planet and THIS was staring back at me!
IT COVERS HIS ENTIRE MOUTHAL REGION. One can barely call this a mustache. It's like a facial Great Wall of China. And all it's keeping out are any ladies that might talk to him.
to add a third degree of wicked, the problem gets worse. A while ago I saw a man with a handlebar mustache. It very much resembled this:
And when I say "very much so resembled", I mean it was basically this fucking 'stache. So, I inquired to the man about the creature which graced his lips and to my query he skillfully replied: "You too could grow one of these with some time and effort" and then he stroked the 'stache blissfully. I wish I could make that up but it's true. That moment I saw death; and it was a hairy mustache.