You and your warthog balls
This was a post from 2009 that I recently decided to re-post as a fond farewell to/pissy rant about my friendslist. It was supposed to be funny, but I guess it came across as a little too bitchy. So I've done a proper farewell post now, with nary a mention of your noted propensity for orally servicing porcine mammals. Which you totally do.
I was going to tell you that you suck mule balls. But frankly mule balls are too good for you guys. You suck... warthog balls
Your diet is mainly warthog ball-based. You spread warthog balls on toast, like some grotesque, hammy jam. You sprinkle bits of warthog balls in your morning coffee, so you can start the day with the taste of the warthog balls you crave so.
You go to restaurants and ask if they serve warthog balls, and when they say no, you ask if they know of any places in the neighborhood that do serve warthog balls. And when you ask, you have this pathetic, hopeful expression, with a little tear of longing in your eye because you fucking love warthog balls so much. In a pinch, you'll go to a Mexican restaurant and order albondigas, then you'll eat it with your eyes closed, pretending it's warthog balls.
When you were a child, your family learned not to ask what you wanted for your birthday, for the answer was always the same. Now when your relatives ask you to visit, you tell them, "Sorry, but I'll be busy tonight... Busy sucking warthog balls, that is!" They just sigh and shake their heads wearily, wondering why they are so cursed as to be related to a warthog ball-sucker. Your poor old uncle, he cries himself to sleep each night. Over you. Over you!
You watch The Lion King like six times a week, vainly hoping that this time, you'll catch a glimpse of the cartoon warthog's balls. You buy all of the special editions, hoping that one will contain some deleted scenes featuring the warthog's balls.
When your mom asks you to grab two packs of Halls at the liquor store, you have a shrieking orgasm because "grab two Halls" is an anagram for "warthog balls". You actually cream for anagrams, you twisted fuck.
You got a job at the zoo, so you could be close to the warthogs and their balls. You wanted to believe you could keep your hungry lips to yourself, because you finally had your dream job and you didn't wanna fuck it up. But then you got fired - and we all know why - and now one of the warthogs has taken out a restraining order against you. In hindsight, it was all sadly inevitable, really.
You've registered warthogballs.com with Godaddy. You regularly post mpegs and erotic fiction, hundreds of megabytes every month, all of it warthog ball-related. You take photos of Salma Hayek and PhotoShop warthog balls over her face. You scan in pages from old Sears catalogs, and superimpose warthog balls on all the men with their bad '70s hair.
You will surely die in some warthog ball-related misadventure. And when you do they'll roast you up and put your ashes in an urn shaped like a warthog's balls, because that's just how you would've wanted it. You'll leave instructions saying so, in your video will. You'll finish the tape with a little poem of your own composition. It will be composed largely of anagrams - about warthog balls, of course. Your grave will feature a large, marble statue of a single warthog ball. It will stand as an eternal monument for your love of warthog balls.
I could happily carry on, insulting you like this well into the night. But I feel like I'm actually starting to work my way up to something amusing here, so I'll stop now. After all, why should I waste my withering disdain on you? You won't even notice, because you'll be too busy... busy doing you know what.
(Sucking warthog balls.)
I was going to tell you that you suck mule balls. But frankly mule balls are too good for you guys. You suck... warthog balls
Your diet is mainly warthog ball-based. You spread warthog balls on toast, like some grotesque, hammy jam. You sprinkle bits of warthog balls in your morning coffee, so you can start the day with the taste of the warthog balls you crave so.
You go to restaurants and ask if they serve warthog balls, and when they say no, you ask if they know of any places in the neighborhood that do serve warthog balls. And when you ask, you have this pathetic, hopeful expression, with a little tear of longing in your eye because you fucking love warthog balls so much. In a pinch, you'll go to a Mexican restaurant and order albondigas, then you'll eat it with your eyes closed, pretending it's warthog balls.
When you were a child, your family learned not to ask what you wanted for your birthday, for the answer was always the same. Now when your relatives ask you to visit, you tell them, "Sorry, but I'll be busy tonight... Busy sucking warthog balls, that is!" They just sigh and shake their heads wearily, wondering why they are so cursed as to be related to a warthog ball-sucker. Your poor old uncle, he cries himself to sleep each night. Over you. Over you!
You watch The Lion King like six times a week, vainly hoping that this time, you'll catch a glimpse of the cartoon warthog's balls. You buy all of the special editions, hoping that one will contain some deleted scenes featuring the warthog's balls.
When your mom asks you to grab two packs of Halls at the liquor store, you have a shrieking orgasm because "grab two Halls" is an anagram for "warthog balls". You actually cream for anagrams, you twisted fuck.
You got a job at the zoo, so you could be close to the warthogs and their balls. You wanted to believe you could keep your hungry lips to yourself, because you finally had your dream job and you didn't wanna fuck it up. But then you got fired - and we all know why - and now one of the warthogs has taken out a restraining order against you. In hindsight, it was all sadly inevitable, really.
You've registered warthogballs.com with Godaddy. You regularly post mpegs and erotic fiction, hundreds of megabytes every month, all of it warthog ball-related. You take photos of Salma Hayek and PhotoShop warthog balls over her face. You scan in pages from old Sears catalogs, and superimpose warthog balls on all the men with their bad '70s hair.
You will surely die in some warthog ball-related misadventure. And when you do they'll roast you up and put your ashes in an urn shaped like a warthog's balls, because that's just how you would've wanted it. You'll leave instructions saying so, in your video will. You'll finish the tape with a little poem of your own composition. It will be composed largely of anagrams - about warthog balls, of course. Your grave will feature a large, marble statue of a single warthog ball. It will stand as an eternal monument for your love of warthog balls.
I could happily carry on, insulting you like this well into the night. But I feel like I'm actually starting to work my way up to something amusing here, so I'll stop now. After all, why should I waste my withering disdain on you? You won't even notice, because you'll be too busy... busy doing you know what.
(Sucking warthog balls.)