I'm Ready For A Cage Match: Mad Max Style.
Why do I always feel like it's perfectly okay to eat Chinese food the day after a night of heavy drinking? Because.. fuck that. It's absolutely, and unequivocally not fucking alright.
Bitches and bastards. We have a rat amongst us. If you all remember, I very recently (see: last entry) spotlighted a kid that I work with, and brought to the surface certain negative aspects of his emotional and mental state of mind (see: being Forrest Gump). To be perfectly honest, I don't have a problem with him. He's a nice kid, and for the forty-five minutes to an hour that he actually works, he gets shit accomplished. It's not like I clock in and lambaste this child prodigy to his face. I just think it's funny as hell to discuss it with other people when he's not around. Crime of an individual? Or flaw of the human race? You be the judge. The Judge Dredd. Starring Sylvester Stallone.
Fast forward. I'm working yesterday, and my general manager asks me to step into her office. She pulls a manila envelope from her desk, opens it, and presents its contents to me. Lo and behold, what do I see before me but the very entry where I skewer Little Man Tate, even highlighted with specific sections of interest. What the fuck? Some bleeding-heart, tree-hugging faggot piece of politically correct dog shit printed out a page of my journal (which fucking hammers ass by the way, check it out sometime) and turned it into my general manager. Like this is first grade, I've filled out a Mad Libs with 'hell' and 'crap' (He verb to the store. 'Hell'. Tee-hee. First graders are dumb as shit.) and had it turned into the teacher by some kiss ass fag hat that gets better grades than me but it doesn't change the fact that his dad still molests him and he's a poverty-stricken, futureless wasteland.
News flash, cock bag. I've worked in that cotton field for five fucking years now. You think something as mundane as making a vague and nameless reference to an LD co-worker in my fucking LJ is going to get me canned? Nice try, douchebag. Not only did I not get reprimanded, but my manager actually apologized to me, sympathized with my plight, and returned to me your masterpiece of artistic printing, highlighting, and circling. I win. You lose. Suck it, bitch. I know you're reading this now.. every word. Looking for something else to pin on me. So I've formulated a list of potential ammunition for you. Ready? Okay, faggot. Highlight, copy, and print:
1. Black people aren't as smart as white people. They contribute two things to the world: jazz and higher rape statistics.
2. Gay people smell like HIV and 'Will and Grace'.
3. If I had a baby and it started to cry, I'd punch its head until it stopped. 'What if it dies?' you ask? Easy. Baste and cook at 350 degrees for three hours or until golden brown.
4. Yesterday, I snorted coke off a dead hooker's ass, and subsequently raped a Chink, two minors, and my friend's dog (which is almost the same size as my cock).
5. If I had an STD, I'd give it to people secretly, and then make them think I'm the one that got it from them. Triple word score box if the victim subsequently commits suicide.
6. If I'd been a Nazi, I'd kill Jews for blinking too many times over the course of fifteen minutes. Too many times is twice.
7. America is a dumb, idiot bitch. Down with Capitalism. Um. I'm a Muslim. Your mom's a Muslim. We get together and have hot, Islamic fuckfests. I'm gonna start saving a dollar a day until I can buy a W.M.D. and hopefully kill the President. Then I'll pose his body so it looks like he's playing with his balls, and if I'm feeling lucky, I might put my balls in his mouth, snap a picture, and make a fortune on some Arab black market (which is all Arab markets, by the way. And African ones. Black market, get it? Fuck off). That's thinking big, bitches.
Whew. Let's take a deep breath. That give you everything you need? Don't you motherfuckers understand? If I piss you off, offend you, or otherwise set you on some sympathy-inspired tangent because of what I write, you might as well be injecting a syringe-full of steroids directly into my brain. I get off on this shit. I literally masturbate to you cock jockeys pissing your pants over something I said. So.. keep it coming. And I'll keep it coming. Get it? Double meaning, bitches.
By the way, look for a 'Friends Only' banner sometime in the near future, dedicated to my close, personal friend: whoever you are, bitch.
I'll never die, asshole. I'll always be here. And there. In your life, in your face, and in your mom. Fuckin' get used to it.
Note: If someone decides to turn this into the National Security Agency instead of Sharon Coleman this time, I'm not really going to kill the President. I mean.. I hate him. With hate few people are capable of. But I think the Secret Service has a one-up on a skinny pale dude from Clinton, Indiana.
Bitches and bastards. We have a rat amongst us. If you all remember, I very recently (see: last entry) spotlighted a kid that I work with, and brought to the surface certain negative aspects of his emotional and mental state of mind (see: being Forrest Gump). To be perfectly honest, I don't have a problem with him. He's a nice kid, and for the forty-five minutes to an hour that he actually works, he gets shit accomplished. It's not like I clock in and lambaste this child prodigy to his face. I just think it's funny as hell to discuss it with other people when he's not around. Crime of an individual? Or flaw of the human race? You be the judge. The Judge Dredd. Starring Sylvester Stallone.
Fast forward. I'm working yesterday, and my general manager asks me to step into her office. She pulls a manila envelope from her desk, opens it, and presents its contents to me. Lo and behold, what do I see before me but the very entry where I skewer Little Man Tate, even highlighted with specific sections of interest. What the fuck? Some bleeding-heart, tree-hugging faggot piece of politically correct dog shit printed out a page of my journal (which fucking hammers ass by the way, check it out sometime) and turned it into my general manager. Like this is first grade, I've filled out a Mad Libs with 'hell' and 'crap' (He verb to the store. 'Hell'. Tee-hee. First graders are dumb as shit.) and had it turned into the teacher by some kiss ass fag hat that gets better grades than me but it doesn't change the fact that his dad still molests him and he's a poverty-stricken, futureless wasteland.
News flash, cock bag. I've worked in that cotton field for five fucking years now. You think something as mundane as making a vague and nameless reference to an LD co-worker in my fucking LJ is going to get me canned? Nice try, douchebag. Not only did I not get reprimanded, but my manager actually apologized to me, sympathized with my plight, and returned to me your masterpiece of artistic printing, highlighting, and circling. I win. You lose. Suck it, bitch. I know you're reading this now.. every word. Looking for something else to pin on me. So I've formulated a list of potential ammunition for you. Ready? Okay, faggot. Highlight, copy, and print:
1. Black people aren't as smart as white people. They contribute two things to the world: jazz and higher rape statistics.
2. Gay people smell like HIV and 'Will and Grace'.
3. If I had a baby and it started to cry, I'd punch its head until it stopped. 'What if it dies?' you ask? Easy. Baste and cook at 350 degrees for three hours or until golden brown.
4. Yesterday, I snorted coke off a dead hooker's ass, and subsequently raped a Chink, two minors, and my friend's dog (which is almost the same size as my cock).
5. If I had an STD, I'd give it to people secretly, and then make them think I'm the one that got it from them. Triple word score box if the victim subsequently commits suicide.
6. If I'd been a Nazi, I'd kill Jews for blinking too many times over the course of fifteen minutes. Too many times is twice.
7. America is a dumb, idiot bitch. Down with Capitalism. Um. I'm a Muslim. Your mom's a Muslim. We get together and have hot, Islamic fuckfests. I'm gonna start saving a dollar a day until I can buy a W.M.D. and hopefully kill the President. Then I'll pose his body so it looks like he's playing with his balls, and if I'm feeling lucky, I might put my balls in his mouth, snap a picture, and make a fortune on some Arab black market (which is all Arab markets, by the way. And African ones. Black market, get it? Fuck off). That's thinking big, bitches.
Whew. Let's take a deep breath. That give you everything you need? Don't you motherfuckers understand? If I piss you off, offend you, or otherwise set you on some sympathy-inspired tangent because of what I write, you might as well be injecting a syringe-full of steroids directly into my brain. I get off on this shit. I literally masturbate to you cock jockeys pissing your pants over something I said. So.. keep it coming. And I'll keep it coming. Get it? Double meaning, bitches.
By the way, look for a 'Friends Only' banner sometime in the near future, dedicated to my close, personal friend: whoever you are, bitch.
I'll never die, asshole. I'll always be here. And there. In your life, in your face, and in your mom. Fuckin' get used to it.
Note: If someone decides to turn this into the National Security Agency instead of Sharon Coleman this time, I'm not really going to kill the President. I mean.. I hate him. With hate few people are capable of. But I think the Secret Service has a one-up on a skinny pale dude from Clinton, Indiana.