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Instead of quotisms, this time I've decided to let you guys in on the most intimate parts of Georgie's mind: his stories, irritations, lists of people who should be killed and so on. Enjoy!
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Seven Things I'm Tired Of
I'm gettin' tired of guys who smoke pipes. When are they gonna outlaw this s**t? Guy with a ********' pipe! It's an arrogant thing to place a burning barrier between you and the rest of the world. It's supposed to imply thoughtfulness or intelligence. It's not intelligent to stand around with a controlled fire sticking out of your mouth. I say, "Hey, professor! You want somethin' hot to suck on? Call me! I'll give ya somethin' to put in your mouth!" I think these pipe-smokers oughta just move to the next level and go ahead and suck a d**k. There's nothing wrong with suckin' dicks. Men do it, women do it; can't be all bad if everybody's doin' it. I say, Drop the pipe, and go to the d**k! That's my advice. I'm here to help.
I'm also sick of car alarms. Not the screeching and beeping; that doesn't bother me. It's just the idea of a car alarm that I find offensive. Especially the ones that talk to you: "Move away! Move away!" "Ohhhh? Really!" That's when I reach for my sharpest key. And I put a deep gouge in that paint job, all the way 'round the car. Three hundred and sixty degrees. I might even make two trips around, if I don't have a luncheon appointment that day. And then I walk away slowly, unconcerned about the screeching and beeping, because I know that no one takes car alarms seriously. Car alarms are a Yuppie-boomer conceit, and they're responsible for most of the carjacking that's going on. Car alarms and The Club have made it harder for thieves to steal parked cars, and so instead they're stealing cars with people in them, and people are dying. And it's all because these selfish, boomer degenerates can't stand to part with their personal property. ******** boomers, and ******** their pussified car alarms!
I'm also getting sick of having to look at bearded guys who don't know how to trim the lower edges of their beards, where they extend back toward the neck. They trim too far up toward the chin, leaving a glaring, fleshy strip where there ought to be hair. Guys, you need to let the beard extend far enough back under your chin, so it reaches the point where your neck begins. Then, from the fold or angle that foms between your jaw and neck, you shave downward. If you don't have that fold; if you have a fat, fleshy pouch under your jaw with no definition, you shouldn't be trimming your beard at all. You should let it grow long and bushy, so it covers that goofy-looking pouch.
I've also grown very weary of reading about clouds in a book. Doesn't this piss you off? You're reading a nice story, and suddenly the writer has to stop and describe the clouds. Who cares? I'll bet you anything I can write a decent novel, with a good, entertaining story, and never once mention the clouds. Really! Every book you read, if there's an outdoor scene, an open window, or even a door slightly ajar, the writer has to say, "As Bo and Velma walked along the shore, the clouds hung ponderously on the horizon like steel-gray, loosely formed gorilla turds." I'm not interested. Skip the clouds and get to the ********. The only story I know of where clouds were important was Noah's Ark.
And I don't appreciate being put on hold and being forced to listen to someone else's radio. I don't even listen to my own radio, why should I have to pay money to call some company and listen to theirs? And it's always the same s**t, soft rock! That sucky, non-threatening, easy-listening p***y music. Soft rock is an oxymoron. Furthermore, it's not rock, and it's not even music. It's just soft.
I'm tired of being unable to buy clothing that doesn't have writing and printing all over it. Insipid sayings, pseudo-wisdom, cute slogans, team logos, designer names, brand trademarks, small-buisness ego trips; the marketing pigs and advertising swine have turned us all into walking billboards. You see some a*****e walkin' by, and he's got on a fruity Dodger hat and a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt. Of course, you can't see the shirt if he's wearing his hot-s**t Chicago Bulls jacket. The one that only 50 million other loser jock-sniffers own. And since this cretinous sports fan/consumer zombie is completely for sale to anyone, he rounds his ensemble with FedEx sneakers, ValuJet socks, Wall Street Journal sweatpants, a Starbucks jockstrap, and a Microsoft condom with Bill Gates's head on the end of it. No one in this country owns his personal apperance anymore. America has become a nation of obedient consumers, actively participating in their own degradation.
A Few Things I Like
-A guy who doesn't know what he's doing and won't admit it.
-A permanently disfigured gun collector.
-A whole lotta people tap dancing at once.
-When a big hole opens up in the ground.
-The third week in February.
-Guys who say "c**k-a-roach."
-A woman with no feet, because she's not always nagging you to take her dancing.
Keep It Clean
I never wash my hands after using a public restroom. Unless something gets on me. Otherwise, I figure I'm as clean as when I walked in. Besides, the sink is usually filthier then I am. I'm convinced that many of the men I see frantically washing up do not do the same thing at home. Americans are obsessed with appearances and have an unhealthy fixation on cleanliness. Relax, boys. It's only your d**k. If it's so dirty that after handling it you need to wash your hands, you may as well just go ahead and scrub your d**k while you're at it. Tell the truth. Wouldn't you like to see some guy trying to dry his genitals with one of those forced-air blowing machines that are mounted four feet off the ground?
Things You Never See
-A puppet with a hard-on
-A butterfly with a swastika design
-The Latin word for douche bag
-Someone defecating in church
-A junkie with leisure time
-A serial killer with a light-up bow tie
-A mom-and-pop steel mill
-A shot glass full of carrot juice
-A bum with matching luggage
-Really interesting twins
-Condoms with pictures of the saints
-Two homosexuals who own a bait shop
-A pimp with a low profit margin
-A Rolls-Royce that's more then 50 percent primer paint
((More's on the way!))
 Awkward Sex · Sat Jul 21, 2007 @ 08:24pm · 1 Comments |
