Al-Qaeda? More Like Al-Qaedon't!

I don't even think that means anything.

See, I fucking hate Al-Qaeda. Yeah. I'm going out on that limb. You may not want to come with me; the branch is pretty flimsy.

What I mean, though, is that, they're kind of saying that they're responsible for the bombings in England. Well, at least "The Secret Organization of Al-Qaeda" is taking credit for it.

First, if the name of your organization has the word "secret" in it, and then, after you commit a crime, you immediately claim responsiblity, Karl Rove must be your fucking publicist.

Second, Al-Qaeda calling itself secret is like Tom Cruise calling himself straight or sane or a good actor.

But, the reason I hate Al-Qaeda the most is because they kill 3000 Americans and, to show the British that they mean business, they kill 40 of them. 3000 Americans and 40 Brits. I know that their economy is a little stronger than ours right now, but god damn, that exchange rate is fucking harsh.

Don't get me wrong, 40 dead British people sucks, but, according to GWB, god watches over America and we got 3000 people killed. I hate to say it, because I'm such a staunch supporter of both religion and, especially, George W. Bush, but I think that god cares more about England than America. Maybe we should go to war with them now, too.

In all seriousness, I wish more British people would have gotten killed so I felt like Al-Qaeda hated them as much as they hate us. But, as it stands, I think this was a half-hearted attempt at best and was probably organized as a side project by some Al-Qaeda interns and all they're getting is some college credit and an extra 2 virgins in heaven.

Fuck you, Al-Qaeda. If you're going to hate and murder, hate and murder equally.

Interesting thought of the day:
The Hamburger Helper mascot only has four fingers because, when he was a kid, his dad (Thing from Addams Family fame) caught him masturbating in a bucket of ground beef.

Jesus: The Cliff's Notes

I went to Disneyland yesterday--you know, The Happiest Place on Earth. Well, while I was there, I was walking toward a bathroom and some old man handed me something. There's a weird response that humans have when somebody is handing them something: they take it.

Since I'm mostly human being (and part all-night sex robot), I, too, react this same way.

So I accept the flier that the old man is handing me. I'm not sure what the hell I thought it would be. I mean, it's not like he's advertising a rave at Rolling Hills Retirement Community. But, since it was already in my hand, I figured I'd look at it.I'm kind of an idiot, so I thought that, maybe, this wasn't a pamphlet about God, but, instead, maybe he was advertising a brothel or the mail-order child labor enslavement ring he disguises as a summer camp.

"Life begins at...The Battered Kitty! Come to Anaheim's only Gentleman's Club where it pays to both be a gentleman and bring a club because these ladies love physical abuse! One club to the cheekbone sends Mandi reeling with ecstacy! Watch as Sapphire bleeds from her eyes as only the ladies at The Shaved Kitty can! Wednesday nights don't miss our Vagina-stapling show. It sounds like exactly what it is--only hotter!"

Or

"Life begins at...Camp Sorethumbs! Hey, kids! Like soccer? Like sewing? How about combining two things that you like to do into one awesome new activity? I sure hope so, because that's all you'll be doing here! At Camp Sorethumbs, we sew soccerballs from the time the bugle wakes you up at 3:30 in the morning until it's "lights out" only a little over 23 and a half hours later at 2:45 AM. Non-stop sewing means non-stop fun!"

But, like I said, when I opened it up, I was sorely disappointed."When will you have an exciting, pleasant, satisfying life?"
I like the part where it says, "ASK THE ELDERLY PERSON, and he will answer, "When...when..."

I think the reason I like it is because it's implying a few things:

1. Old people are mentally incompetent.
2. Old people have nothing to live for.
   
3. Old people will burn in hell if they don't find Jesus.

But, it took a turn for the worse when it got all Jesus-y. Don't get me wrong, it's still hilarious.

ASK THE CHRISTIAN, and he will answer, "For me to LIVE is Christ and to DIE is gain. My present is glorious because God is working through me. And my future is so certain that I can hardly wait!"

So, they're certain that there's a heaven and they really want to hurry up and get there? The Heaven's Gate people were certain that there was a flying saucer behind that comet and they did something about it. I'm not saying to kill yourselves, crazy-ass Christians, but, I am. Take some initiative, pussies!

On the next page it says, "LIFE BEGINS WHEN YOU CAN SAY:" and it lists a bunch of crazy Jesus-speak. Apparently, my life hasn't begun because there's no way I can say "...that whosoever believeth in him..." In fact, maybe people would have a lot easier time digesting this completely ridiculous nonsense if every verse wasn't written like a goddamn Harry Potter spell. I read one of the verses aloud and now one of my balls is haunted by Abraham Lincoln.

I don't care if you're religious, but, for the love of whatever completely imaginary entity you believe in, keep it out of the hallowed halls of Disneyland--especially when I'm trying to spit game at the 6-year-old holding her mommy's hand in line for Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.

Interesting thought of the day:
Surprisingly, you can't get crabs from having sex with one. Even more surprising? You can get pregnant.

Wimbledon: The Cinematic Experience!

The other day, because I'm unemployed and have every movie channel available, I watched the Major Motion Picture Wimbledon.

If it was up to me, I wouldn't have watched it, but my vagina had the remote.

Anyway, there were two things that struck me as so awesome, that I had to remark on them. The first is that, during the end credits, the first title card of any sort to come on the screen is a dedication to a guy who had obviously died. Now, if you were a member of the dead guy's family, would you be sort of pissed that such a shitty-ass movie was dedicated to him? Do you think it would be rude to ask them to not dedicate it to him? I know that if the last piece of work I ever did was on the movie Wimbledon, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, or Kate & Leopold, I would haunt the motherfuckers who dedicated that shit to me. In fact, as a hugely ironic twist, if I do happen to die (probably from fatal anal bleeding brought on by my penchant for doing naked jumping jacks over traffic cones on a Slip N Slide covered in vegetable oil), I would hope that somebody would try to dedicate the shittiest movie ever to me.

The thing that bothered me most, but also made me laugh out loud hysterically, was one of those goddamn stereotypical, cliche moments from romantic comedies. The man and the woman are arguing over something that, in the long run, doesn't really matter. It's easiest to demonstrate it with fake dialogue:

Woman: I can't believe you did that. Who on earth would do something like that?

Man: I would. That's who. It's not like you even...

Woman: Well, that's just great. Why would you do something like that?

Man: I don't know. Maybe it's because I love you or because I hate the way that Indian people smell.

Woman (caught offguard): What did you say?

Man: I said that I hate the way that Indian people smell.

Woman: No. Before that.

Man: I love you?

Woman: I love you, too.

They kiss and I ruin yet another TV by flipping it on its back and shitting on the screen.

If you're not somebody who finds this kind of thing absolutely hilarious, then you're probably the same somebody who bought Sweet Home Alabama the day it came out on DVD. If this is the case, then you're somebody who really needs to up your daily regimen of cyanide.

Interesting thought of the day:
Every time a little girl is molested, Heaven gains a stripper.

Reunited And It Feels So Self-Indulgent!

Everybody can finally stop looking. Hundreds and thousands of man hours have been poured into this search and, finally, it has come to a happy conclusion.

The pretty girl who disappeared in Aruba? Oh, she's still missing (but, the attention paid to her search is a whole other issue entirely that I won't get into).

Jimmy Hoffa's body? Nope. Still no sign of that.

Osama Bin Laden? He's actually working at an Arby's in Des Moines, but nobody believes me.

However, there is something much, much more important than all of these things that has been returned to its rightful place.

Bono's goddamn cowboy hat.

I must have clicked to read the "Who Gives a Fuck?" section of the news on accident. I think he must believe his hat can cure AIDS in Africa because I used to think that that was the only thing he pretended to care about. But, take away his fucking hat and face the wrath of Bono. Fuck AIDS or poverty. When you mess with an Irishman's cowboy hat, you may as well be taking a dump in a pint of Guinness while sodomizing a leprechaun.

In other news, an old British lady just stabbed another woman in a Red Lobster for spilling wine all over her kimono. The victim, a South African woman, will have to buy a new pair of wooden clogs because they were destroyed in the scuffle.

Interesting thought of the day:
Carpe Diem is Latin for "Overused Latin Expression."

Happy Birthday...World!

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.