I'm Guessing He's A Republican

If creepy anamatronic hillbillies leave you a little unsettled, I would skip this video.



When I was 13, Uncle Klunk raped me.

He used the banana.

(Also, they serve pizza. Apparently.)

If it's melted, it counts as a food group.

A word to the wise: Don't let yourself get so hungry that, as soon as dinner is made, you forget to turn off the stove.

I'm Gay For...

The tiny little tables in the middle of a pizza. Sure, the adult in me knows it's there to prevent the cheese from sticking to the top of the box. But the 8-year old girl in me knows it's there so that my Barbies have a table to gather around while discussing the current Book Club selection.

"Oh Barbie, don't be so naive. Moll Flanders is no victim."

"Dammit, Skipper, you did this last month with Heart of Darkness! I have an opinion, and it shan't be stifled!"

"OK you two, simmer down. Here, have some petit fours and we'll choose our book for next month. Now, I've been hearing a lot of interest in Pynchon. But I would like to suggest Edith Wharton in honour of Stacie's upcoming trip to Boston. Now, who's for some port?"

Faded Beauty, Faded Dreams

It ain't easy being a dime-dancer. Fellas coppin' a feel wherever they please, stinkin' of whiskey and trouble. When I left the farm, Mama told me about the city, she told me "Bootise, you ain't never gonna make it in that big town!" But I had myself a dream. I's gonna be the star of the stage. They's was all gonna come from miles around, just to hear me sing and watch my twinklin' toes dance all over that stage.

But Mama was right. I shouldda listened to her, and stay put at the farm. Ain't no one in this town wants to hire a chubby farm girl. They all tells me "You're too damn fat!" and they're right.

So now, I keep my figure down. I work at the Swingin' Pigeon, givin' it away for a measly dime. I still get to dance, and I really shouldna be complainin'. But I just gets hungry. I gets so hungry.

An Open Letter to Manwich Sloppy Joe Sauce

Hey, bitch.

It's me, your #1 fan. I know, that sounds so Annie Wilkes, but I really don't care.

Why are you so fucking great?

I mean, all you are is glorified ketchup. Sure, there's some garlic salt and worchestershire sauce in you, but that's about it.

I usually save you for special occasions, like when I'm camping and I've blitzed myself retarded at 2 am. Why do I limit my consumption of you? My life needs you in it, every goddamn day. Sure, I might be inviting tapeworms into my colon, but true love is all about sacrifice.

You exist in a perfect cylindrical-shaped vessel, waiting, wanting me to open you. And then, a perfect climax--dripping dowm my chin, into my decolleté.

You are all I ever needed. Whenever you're around, all I have to do is find some meat, and get it near my biscuit.

Story of my life.

Love,

Michelle

I'm Pretty Sure This Is Covered Under The Geneva Convention

The slider revolutionary.





via Dlisted

Freud and Marx Were Right-- We Fetishize Everything

In my search for Cakewrecks, I typed in 'cake' and Google auto-predicted that I might be instead looking for Cake Farts. Sure, Google, you've never led me astray before. I trust you. I'll just click on this link and....

Hmmm. I see. Excuse me, I have to go jump off my balcony now.

WARNING: Links to adult content. Not for the faint of heart. Please don't watch this. Ever.

http://www.cakefarts.com/

I Like Mine Double Stuffed

As promised to one Ms. Tara Clancy,

I present.... all 31 ways.

• With a firm hand
• With a soft hand
• With curled fingers
• With your mouth
• On the go
• On the rag
• On the run
• With a nun
• With a bun
• Naked
• With a naked nun
• With a hand full of Vaseline
• With extra tomatoes
• With extra pickles
• With Don Rickles
• On the way to work
• On the way home
• On the way to Nome
• With a gnome
• With a gnu
• With Apu
• On your birthday
• On my birthday
• On Don Rickles' birthday
• On brown bread
• On white bread
• With Bill & Ted
• Without a haggle
• Without a Fraggle
• With a lit Bic
• With a lit mick

Hey Tara, remember that time YOU woke up in a shopping cart??

Restaurant Review: Mother Tuckers

Ok, so I've been here many times. I grew up in Calgary, and this place has been around since before Woody Allen fucked his daughter.

A friend and I decided to go out for dinner, and he left the restaurant up to me. What shall I choose?

Being a red-blooded Canadian girl, I like a piece of meat between my teeth. Steak. But where?

"Hey Ryan, we haven't been to Mother Tuckers in a while. You wanna meet there at 6?" "Sure", he concedes, and the date is set.

Now, a little background: Said friend and I go way back to Grade 8, when one day, he walked into my homeroom classroom wearing a T-shirt that read "Ask me about my cat", with a picture of a kitten peeking out of a coffee mug. I commented on how much I loved it (still do), and we have been friends for lo these past 15 years.

We go out to dinner whenever he's in town (flight attendant), and Mother Tuckers has been one of our 'places' for many years. But for some reason, we stopped visiting the establishment about a year ago. Memory provides no apparent motive, hence my (ill-fated) decision to return.

That was mistake number one. Mistake number two came when we sat down, ordered our dinner via the transgendered server, and skipped off to the salad bar.

Horrors. Absolute horrors. Apparently, since we've been away, the restaurant has rented out much of it's salad bar to a family of fruit flies. I concetrated most of my attention of dry goods, such as croutons, and hoped for the best.

Shortly thereafter arrived the entrees. My scalloped potatoes were covered in brownish-tan chunks. Curious, I asked the server "What's this in the potatoes" and the prompt reply? "I don't know".

"Wait wait wait" I call after her as she walks away, "could you find out for me?" "Ya, ok" she agrees begrudgingly. Upon her return, I am informed of the ingredient in question: "Cheese" she says, "but probably way overcooked". Confident that this has cleared up any doubt surrounding the culinary merit of the dish, she again turns on her heel and walks away.

Left with nothing but my wits and "way overcooked" cheese, I err on the side of safety and decide not to consume the carbohydrate element of the meal. Focusing on my sirloin, I dig in. I didn't know it was possible for meat to be flavourless. Like, entirely deviod of flavour. I add salt. No dice. Pepper. Mmmm, my steak tastes like pepper now.

My friend fared mildly better, but his prime rib looked... off-colour. Nothing really obvious, but, you know when you look at someone's face and you just know they're about to puke? Now you see what I mean.

Upon procurement of the bill, I toddle off to pay my portion by means of debit. I ask the host "Where can I pay this on debit?" and he walks away. I follow. He turns around and sneers "No, wait over there, I'm going to go get it". A wireless debit machine! So modern. But he doesn't come back with a wireless debit machine. He comes back with a second copy of my bill. I explain I've already recieved it from the server. And-- here comes my favourite part of the evening-- he says "Well, you didn't have it in your hand when you came up to me the first time!" and snatches it from my hands. Not having moved more than two feet from where he left me, I certainly did have the bill in my hand. Stunned by the sheer rudeness, I handed him my debit card. He swipes, I punch away, and the transaction is completed.

Later, in the movie theatre, my friend's stomach starts to hurt. Big fucking suprise.

Rating: 2 fluorescent dinner rolls out of 5

Wrong Wrong Wrong

Jesus Christ on a cross. What the hell did you have to smoke for this to be appetizing?

Let's examine each component of this specimen separately.

What I assume to be bread, (however this assumption may very well be as wrong as an ironing board in the kitchen) seems to have been given a greenish tint. I cannot comment as to whether this is the genesis of mould, a food additive extracted from crash victims found near Area 51, or if the tint was added to intensify the redness of the tomatoes slash 'spaghetti'.

I use this term loosely, because it does not resemble any spaghetti I have ever known. It could possibly be better described as earthworms wriggling in the afterbirth of a jack'o'lantern. Have you ever dropped a string of spaghetti in the sink, and then you see it days later, water logged and repulsively swollen? I take comfort in the fact that I don't have to smell it.

The tomatoes are fine. They will help clean out the inevitable clog of goo that will form in your colon after eating this abomination.