I'm Onto You, M. Noir Douchebag...

..

While cleaning out my basement and going through some old magazines, I came across what may very well be the most reprehensible piece of douchebaggery ever produced – M. Night Shyamalan’s American Express “My Life, My Card” ad.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with the “My Life, My Card” ads, they feature a black and white picture of some celebrity (Tiger Woods, Ellen DeGeneres, Martin Scorsese) and show the celebrities’ handwritten answers to a bunch of questions like, “Fondest Memory,” “Wildest Dream,” and “Perfect Day.” I guess it’s supposed to give the reader a “window” into the lives of these people and let us know that those fabulous lives include heavy usage of the American Express card.

Putting aside the idiotic and insulting nature of these ads (like I’m gonna want to buy shit with the American Express card just because that’s the card Ellen uses to buy her strap-ons), the pretentious douchery of M. Night Shyamalan’s answers simply demand recognition.


Here's a recap:


Name: M. Night Shyamalan

Okay, first things first. That’s not your fucking name. Your real name is Manoj Nelliattu Shyamalan.

While I understand your wanting to change your name for use in Hollywood, choosing “M. Night Shyamalan” (just typing it makes me feel like less of a human) violates the two time-honored goals of Hollywood name changes – (1) making it easier for the semi-literate American public to be able to identify you and (2) concealing the shame of your non-WASP ethnicity.

I could understand if you’d gone with, say, Monty Shepard or Michael N. Shanley, but M. Night Shyamalan? That’s a bitch to pronounce and it it does nothing to cover up the fact that your ancestors didn’t come over on the Mayflower, so what the fuck?

And don’t get me started on that pretentioius first initial-middle name-last name thing. Why don’t you, C. Everett Koop, and C. Thomas Howell go jerk each other off in front of J. Edgar Hoover’s grave?

Fondest Memory: Kissing my wife in the rain

This answer is offensive on multiple levels:

First of all, the only thing worse than married people publicly and un-ironically expressing their love for each other is artsy married people artsily expressing their love for each other (in ways that force me to envision M. Night Shyamalan making out with someone).

Secondly, this answer sets the hypocritical, pseudo-artistic douchebag tone that pervades the entire ad. You’re trying to let everyone know that despite your fabulous cinematic success, you stay grounded, you keep it REAL, and you focus on the things that really matter in life, like loving your wife. And you don’t just say, “I love you, Sugar Boobs,” like most guys. You do it with the delicate artistry of a true auteur who remembers sensual moments like a rain-soaked kiss.

Well I got news for you, cock breath – true auteurs don’t do credit card ads. And exploiting your wife’s personal romantic memories to make yourself seem more authentic in an AmEx ad won’t make you the poster child for authentic family values. (As a result, that job will continue to be held by Shawn Kemp). 

Soundtrack: My daughter playing Chopin

Your douche-osity goes to new heights with this one, M. Noir.

First off, people who make their kids play classical music are child abusers. No kid likes classical music. Even the daughters of pretentious douchebags like you prefer Hilary Duff to Chopin. That poor girl probably has to hide in her closet to listen to Britney’s Greatest Hits while her father tells his chardonnay-sipping guests about the sonata in D-minor that his little girl just mastered.

And once again you’re trying to look like a guy who wants to deflect attention away from himself, but in reality you just want to let everyone know that your little prodigy can play Chopin. You’re just so punchable. 

Retreat: Our farm

Listen up, Nighty – the 380 million people in your native India who earn less than $2 a day trying to coax rice out of the desiccated soil of the Punjab – those people are farmers. You’re a guy who gets paid millions of dollars to keep making the same movie over and over again. You don’t have a farm. You have an estate on what used to be a farm. Instead of grazing livestock, you have little girls running around playing Chopin. And when it starts raining, you don’t celebrate the fact that your subsistence crops are receiving badly needed nourishment, you run outside and kiss your fucking wife. Again.

Wildest Dream: Living in the South of France and writing a novel

The South of France? Really? You might as well have just said, “Living in Generic Artsy-ville, a place that everyone who reads this credit card ad will instantly recognize as a place where fabulously talented artists go when they get tired of working in integtrity-compromising media like film and want to explore the bounds of their boundless artistic talent.”

I’m so on to you. 

Proudest Moment: When I see my children overcome fear

Wow. I would’ve thought that a guy who writes and directs big successful movies would have said something like, “Being nominated for an Oscar,” but damnit, Manoj, you are just so genuine and down-to-earth! Makes me want to drive down to Pennsylvania and treat you to a proud afternoon of watching your kids overcoming their fear of being forced to play Russian roulette - how’s that sound? 

Perfect day: Walking with my family in the woods

Okay, okay, you love your fucking family. We fucking get it, you queef. 

First job: Promotional video for a law firm.

Did they sue you when the video you gave them turned out to be a photo collage of your wife and kids? 

Indulgence: Basketball

Seriously, there are about seven non-wheelchair bound people in the United States who I can beat at basketball and I’m pretty sure that you’re one of them. So just stop with the, “Hey, I’m a regular guy who shoots hoops” shtick. You’re not fooling anyone. 

Favorite movie: The Godfather

Now you’re really starting to piss me off. “Godfather” used to be one of my all-time favorite movies. But now my enjoyment Duvall collapsing as he says “They shot Sonny on the causeway” will be forever tainted by the knowledge that somewhere, on a “farm” in Pennsylvania, M. Night Shama-lama-ding-dong might be enjoying that same scene (on a screen that makes my TV look like an iPod). 

Inspiration: The three black-haired angels that live in my house

Your obsession with your own family is now officially scarier than any of your movies. I’ll lay even money that one of those black-haired angels has a restraining order against you within the next ten years. 

My Life: Is about finding time to dream.

Finding time? Dude, people who work real jobs have to find time to dream. You’ve got all fucking day. Or is all that hay baling and crop harvesting on the farm taking up all your precious dream time? Do ol’ Kimmie a favor and kill yourself. 

My Card: Is American Express.

And that’s why I’m taking a scissors to mine right now. Die, douchebag.




Thank you, Rob Sanford

A Few Bad Men...

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Daily Douchebag Double Feature

Hi Kids! I've got a mixed bag today, and lots of shit to cover, so let's skip the gristle and get straight to the bone, shall we??

I'd like to announce the Douchebag Of The Day. Actually, make that a plural... "douchebagS".  I've got one for Halloween AND today.  So without futher adieu, here they are folks - all the way from a vaginal cleansing product factory somewhere in New Jersey or Michigan, your Daily Bags Of Douche:

Massengill Man # 1 - The creep who reached under my costume and grabbed my cat Halloween night.

Your name is unimportant, as is your entire existence, actually. Since I don't remember it, I have dubbed you "Mr. Rapey McViolater",  but ohhhhhhh;  you can bet your genetically inferior ass that I will never forget your fleshy, pink, and swollen face. I won't forget the sneer it wore when you attempted your charming little barside pelvic exam, but more than that, I'll always remember the way it scrunched up, all mongoose-like and pouty when you realized you were barking up the wrong tree. I think that moment must have come right after I said, "Listen, bitch. If you ever make the foolish decision to try and touch me again, EVER, I will shatter your fucking jaw. Are we clear, motherfucker? I'm not the one. Now GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME."  And you did, without a fight, which surprised me. Because I was preoccupied*, I put you in the back of my head, and even though I saw you at a couple of different places that night, I wasn't bothered by you in the least. The night went on without incident, and I managed to salvage my mood and enjoy Halloween.

At least for a couple of hours. BUT once a low-rent swine, always a low-rent swine, and true to your porcine nature, you went and shoved a forearm up my friend's skirt too.... I caught it out of the corner of my eye, and for a split second, I thought you were about to pull some kind of figure skating lift and twirl move out of your bag o' tricks, but sadly, you were simply fisting my friends box. You ARE quite the charmer, you.  Because my friend didn't blow her rape whistle or donkey punch you, I snapped a pic for posterity and kept my mouth shut.

(yes, I DID say "snapped a pic"... saving that tasty treat for later in the post)

Alas, the mouth can never stay shut for long, thanks to bottom-feeding cretins like you... When I realized it was YOUR headlights in my rearview mirror on the drive home from the last party, I knew it was time to sound off. And when I pulled into the parking lot where my friend's car was parked & you pulled in behind me, I knew it was time to mentally rehearse all those self-defense for women moves I've learned over the years. You fucking scared me, and I don't scare easily.  Hey - you gotta give me credit, I was straightforward & honest with you, remember? I told you "Listen, parasite... If my friend wants to talk to you tomorrow when she's sober, that's HER stupid decision - but right now, she's smashed, which means she's MY responsibility. I'm telling you LOUD AND CLEAR there's NO FUCKING WAY you're getting near her, so please exit... stage left even."  But you stood your ground and refused. I asked you again, this time getting out of my car to confront you. Any self-respecting douchebag would have been ultimately embarrassed by now & would have left. Not YOU, Mr. Duct Tape In The Trunk... Nooooooooo. I had to have one of my male friends physically threaten you to get rid of your lecherous ass. (BTW - you're "Pussy of the day" too.... ran like a little girl THEN, didn't ya?) I was so relieved to see you pull out of the lot that I almost peed.

And then I almost shit. You know when? OF COURSE YOU DO, you creepy fucking insect... I almost shit when we pulled around the back of the building to drop my friend off at his car. You know why? Again, OF COURSE YOU DO, you slimy predator... I almost shit because there you were, in the back lot, car running & headlights off, just WAITING for the 2 women to drop off their male friend. We KNOW what happened at THAT point... no need to rehash the ugly details. Bet you never plan another rape again, though, will ya? Freak.

For your ruthless stalking, undeterred violations of personal space and total lack of morals or social skills, you are THIS YEARS NUMBER ONE DOUCHEBAG. Your parents must be awfully proud. Oh - I almost forgot... I promised to show you what you look like when you're in "hunt" mode. So here's the lovely visual:

If this were me, I'd have kicked your teeth in... consider yourself lucky that my friend (the molestation victim above) didn't take your eyes out...

Oh - and as an added bonus, I have taken the liberty of tacking this to every telephone pole within a 5 mile radius AND in every ladies room I happen to visit. You're welcome.

Nobody, not even someone as altruistic and charitable as I am, relishes unsolicited drunken groping, especially yours. And you actually thought I'd be okay with this, or even ENJOY it? Ugh! What a self-righteous dickshaft.



Douchebag #2 -

You are a human stain... and since I don't remember your name either, I will refer to you you as THE STAIN.

You are the pathetic cunt who said this to me on Full Tilt Poker Monday night:
"I hope you get AIDS and cancer bitch."

Let me try and remember why you said that..... oh yeah - I REMEMBER NOW: I beat you out of a petty 450 dollar pot. Maybe you have some sand in your vagina, but buddy, it was A FIVE DOLLAR FUCKING BUY IN. What went wrong in your life that night?? Did you lose your favorite pink dress???

Cancer is not something to be thrown around so lightly - ask anyone who's had a mastectomy recently.

You need to take a long hard look in the mirror... a mirror doesn't lie. And lucky for you, it can't laugh either.

Eatabagadix Twitter!! No God = KNOW Censorship

**NOTE:  To hear more about the terrible atrocities of yesterdays trending topic war on Twitter, please go pay a visit to my atheist blog:  Goddities

(and be sure to add yourself as a follower & leave comments while you're there!)

Hi kids! Without any mincing of words, the Douchebag Of The Day (by a landslide) is Twitter. For their undeniable censorship & bias, they are awarded my raised middle finger, a bushel basket full of disappointment, and a one year supply of bad-mouthing and mistrust.

SHAME ON YOU TWITTER! Even Jesus thinks you're a douchebag.

*Honorable mention for Douchebag Of The Day goes to the Christian who tweeted the following, in response to the #NoGod thread: "if there's no god how did balloon boy come safely to earth?"

Yeah. He really said that.






.

Pack up your eyeliner & get the hell outta my poker room...

The honor of Douchebag of the Day is awarded to the emo brat who has taken up residence in my favorite poker room. This mouthy little asshole just turned 21 two weeks ago, and has been standing on my last nerve ever since. I hate his attitude, I hate his style of play, I hate his voice and I hate his face. If there wasn't a rule against verbally attacking another player in the poker room, this is what I'd say to his smarmy little moon face:

Listen up you little punk... you don’t like me, and I’d rather date an amputee with chronic halitosis than deal with you. But seeing as how we share the same oxygen in the same poker room, and even though you are the CEO of FuckingAnnoying, Inc., I feel compelled to tell you a few things. I know you just turned 21, so you're still technically a "kid". I'm well aware that conventional standards dictate that you should be playing stickball and catching frogs, or something... what do normal kids your age DO, anyway??? But I’ve had it with you and your pissy attitude & horrific poker table etiquette. There are kids one quarter of your age making t-shirts in Malaysia. Why don’t YOU go out and get a job; make yourself useful. Cut my lawn. Wash cars. Pirate DVDs. Make me some fucking pants.

                               I win!! Just in time too... gotta hurry home to check my MySpace messages

While we're on the matter of clothing... what the fuck is your problem? How many shades of black can you possibly have? Did I miss the part of "Being Hardcore 101" that states, "The amount of black t-shirts with shitty band logos owned is directly proportional to the wearer’s intimidation factor"? I must have. Because even with your Cannibal Corpse tee and Valium-level Relaxed-fit jeans, you're still about as scary as a cartoon bunny riding a My Little Pony through a rainbow.

You know what IS scary, though? How much your parents are going to have to pay the shrink when you start screwing cats and taking apart the stereo to "stop the government from monitoring the tracking device in your penis." Or the lawyer's retainer when you start acting out because Daddy didn't nurture your sports skills and you didn't get to hang out with the jocks. Honestly asshole, even with a Hall of Fame coaching staff and his own stadium, Stephen Hawking (like you—minus the intelligence and good looks) would never make it to the big leagues. Some people were meant to play ball and others were meant to play WITH balls. You’re the latter. Deal with it, Queerbait. So you didn’t get to hang out with Joe Quarterback and bang the head cheerleader in your Mustang. WAAAAAAAAHHH. Cry me a fucking river. Does this mean you have to play poker? And more importantly, does this mean you have to play poker WITH ME?

Don’t give me the whole, “I'm not really the complete asshole I make myself out to be... there’s just so much pressure on young adults these days, man. You don’t get it.” Sorry that the huge burden of turning your parent's basement into your own little slice of heaven and living there for free IS SOOOOO unjust. You should probably freak out and burn the casino down, you little sociopath. I know it must be hard to learn any adult social skills... I mean, you don't have that kind of time, what with all your extra-curricular activities like MySpacing the shit out of Katie DiPastillo because Kurt Bradford said he touched her boobs UNDER the bra and playing micro stakes on Full Tilt Poker. Maybe you should spend a little less time being depressed and wearing mascara because its cool and jerking off to Hannah Montana.

Perhaps I’m being a bit optimistic, but I think you'd probably pass for a half decent poker player if you and the rest of the Shitstain Crew took a break from spray-painting your lame gang signs on the parking garage. Trust me, no one is concerned about your claimed turf, including the 1400 people that park there. If you want to boost your street cred, I'll be more than happy to drop you off in South Providence so you can get some pointers from the experts. If they don't make you an ashtray or a pin cushion for used needles, maybe you can get some wardrobe advice and career counseling. Sound good, Sport?

Although you’re going to continue to annoy the living piss out of me until you turn 25 or decide to permanently shut the fuck up, you do have some redeeming qualities... If I knocked you unconscious, I’m certain you’d do a bang-up job as a doorstop.

Please go make like a mime and bleed to death in my trunk.

And speaking of the walking dead...

.

Once again, I must apologize to my loyal (and obviously insane) readers for my recent lack of posts. What I've been doing in my absence is simply enjoying the outdoors before the last weeks of summer are gone. I HAD to get a little sun time - I was starting to look like a vampire.

And speaking of the walking dead, what the fuck is up with grown adults incessantly  talking about how they love to read the 'Twilight' series? Seriously, these books are meant for teenagers. I don’t care that you think adults can enjoy them too...they’re not for you. Sweet Imaginary Baby Jesus - just let it go.

Inevitably these stories-for-tweens-lovin' freaks corner you with the relentless and infuriating bloodsucker inquisition. I’ll usually try to politely break the news that 'Twilight' isn’t really my thing, and hopefully gently deflect the topic. Very rarely does the information that I haven’t read any of the books get a pass. Thus begins the conversation I've had a thousand times:

“Really, you haven't read 'Twilight'?! Oh, you should, they’re great.”
"Yeah, I've-"
"They're not just for kids! You should read one, you'll love it!"
“Nah… I don’t think I’d really enjo-“
“That’s what I thought and then I read just one, and now I’m hooked!”
“Great, but I’m still not –“
“Just read one, I promise you’ll get into it! You can borrow mine.”

Damn people, back up OFF my puss - are you getting paid for this? Is this a pyramid scheme? Wait, I get it…this is Scientology, right?

I swear these people are a hair cut and a robe away from crazy. I’m talking matching turquoise running suits crazy. 

Listen 'Twilight' people, I haven’t read the books. I will never read the books. Ever. Understand? Actually, you know what? I don’t think you DO understand me, so let me make it very clear…

I would rather swallow a roll of razor wire.

I would rather eat a used baby diaper.

I would rather forcibly shove a glass thermometer deep into my cervix and smash it with a hammer.

I would rather ride a unicycle with a machete for a seat.

I would rather sucker punch a gang member and try to run away wearing ski boots.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I get invited by Bill and Ted to travel back in time to cut Jesus’ umbilical chord with a lightsaber.

I would rather drink a gravel and Drano smoothie.

I would rather wipe my ass with fiberglass insulation.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day Mr. T stops pitying fools.

I would rather have unprotected sex with a Taiwanese transsexual.

I would rather swim in a dumpster full of vomit.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I stick my tongue out at the Pope and knock his hat off.

I would rather siphon a septic tank.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I breakdance fight a sasquatch, and lose.

I would rather open mouth kiss a crocodile.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I have a three way with the Green Lantern and Skeletor on the back of a unicorn.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I pull a switch blade on E.T. over an argument concerning Brazil’s steadily growing agricultural market, and the impact on U.S. farming economy.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I have a harmonica jam with the FOX news anchors.

I would rather brush my teeth with shitpaste.

I'd rather be buried alive.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I give Papa Smurf a beej in the bathroom at Castle Greyskull.

'Twilight' fans, listen to me. And listen good, you vile buncha conformists... STOP trying to recruit me to your inner reading circle! I will NEVER read 'Twilight'. Ever. Truth be told, I would prefer to read a more creative work of fiction. Something that's REALLY 'out there', as opposed to yet another tired vampire saga. You know, something a bit more imaginative... like the bible.

You have all been named douchebag of the day for your poor reading list choices. On a scale of one to ten, fuck off.

It was so romantic, I swooned.

Right off the bat, I'd like to announce the winner of Monday's Douchebag of The Day.

Here's how it went down:

I was at a fairly crowded pub yesterday, having a beer with a friend of mine. We were engaged in deep and philosophical conversation about religion and the meaning of life. Um... Okay, I lied. We were actually talking about lip gloss... so what? Even sarcastic and cynical girls like to look pretty. A well conditioned lip is very important, in fact it is practically a law in 48 states. Is it okay with all of you judgemental bastards if we move on now? Gee, thanks.

Anyway, out of the corner of my eye, I could see him approaching. I see him at this bar frequently. I almost talked to him once, but his attire alone told me he was "one of those". His pants were like a cheap hotel - no ballroom. They were so tight, I could make out his camelnose from a distance of thirty feet. Gross.

My plan was to make the ol' fake call to my imaginary boyfriend, but he got to me before I could retrieve my cell phone. Damn this huge purse! Damn it to the bowels of hell!

I was just about to say "I'm married. To a UFC fighter. A BIG one. Plus, I'm a lesbian. A crippled lesbian. In fact, I'm a married, crippled BLIND lesbian. Oh, and did I mention that I'm bipolar to boot? You wanna take me out?" but he beat me to the punch, and came out with this brilliant one liner:

"Have you always been this cute?" Ugh. Really? That's his big opening dazzler? I wanted to punch him in the neck. But before I could make a fist and wind up, he continued his charming introduction with another question;  "My face is leaving in 5 minutes. You wanna be on it?"

Say whaaaaaaattttt !?!?  This guy obviously has a death wish. I just sat there, speechless, debating about whether I should hurl my drink at his face, or donkey punch him in the balls. But before I knew it, I was talking. Aloud. Without knowing what I was about to say. Uh oh.

What I ended up saying was "Hell yeah big daddy! Lets go - I lovvvve to party!!! Wait. Do you have a condom? Eh, nevermind. I'm already 5 months pregnant anyway... Hey, can we grab some whiskey and a little bit of meth before we go? And I have to stop at my house because my "business manager" is supposed to come by to collect. Oh, by the way - you DO have cash on you, right?" Then I shut up and just looked at him.

He blinked a couple of times, then turned around and ran to the exit. Literally jogged... Hah! Take THAT, asshole. How'd it feel to be degraded? And I heard your friend, who was obviously embarrassed, say "You can WALK home. What the fuck! You ALWAYS gotta fuck with someone!"

So in recognition of his illustrious accomplishment, this pitiful caveman is awarded my raised middle finger, along with a two year supply of behind-the-back trashing of his character accompanied by snickering, pointing and snide remarks. It'll be impossible for him to live it down.

There's one more thing.  To honor his bravery in the face of danger (kimminentdanger, that is)  his name will be engraved on the well known and much talked about "Wall Of Scumbags None Of The Girls At Any Of The Bars and Clubs Will Ever Even THINK About Sleeping With, Even Out Of Pity or Desperation" . 

Congratulations fuckface; your parents must be so proud.


Ok - with that business out of the way, I want to announce that tomorrow's post is already in the works, and it features an actual transcript of one of the funniest conversations I've ever had via instant messaging. It DOES get a bit politically incorrect... some people may even call it insensitive and obnoxious. If you can't stand controversy, don't come around to read it.

I do have a disclaimer to protect myself from lawsuits, and will be posting it by morning.

Retarded Bag Boy, Fuck You

Okay, toots, I admire your whole endeavor here, but I can’t handle this shit any longer. The job description probably read something like, “Put things in bags,” and at first glance, I would have considered you mildly capable. I believe I am a rational person, but you have stretched me to the limit of my patience. You carry on blindly as you routinely perform CPR on various bags of Doritos and other potato chip products. You fucking annihilated all of my Pringles a few weeks ago and they don’t even come in traditional bags. Uncool, buddy. You handle my bread each week like it’s the first boob you ever touched. Speaking of that… why in the fuck do you keep hugging me? Do you think I can't feel you playing grab ass? How far does this have to go before I’m allowed to maliciously attack you? I have to be honest. Your awkward forward lean, combined with the proximity between your head and my foot, doesn’t make me want to kick you any less.

Okay, hold on. Let me count to ten. That was wrong. Sorry about that. I lost my cool. I know you’re trying your best. I should be more sympathetic. I guess what I want to say is that I’ll be taking over the bagging duties here. Let’s just say I have a very precise way that I want my groceries bagged. You can go away now. Here’s a bouncy ball. And something shiny.

Okay, you're not stopping. What is your fucking deal? 

Man, what are you doing? Close my box of Ritz. C’mon toots, I need those for a party. Holy fuck. Is this really happening? You would at least think that you would try to face the other direction or make a slight attempt to hide the fact that you are devouring my groceries in front of me. No, instead you just smile at me and dribble Ritz crumbs all over your boobs. It really compliments the apple sauce that is smothered across your chest. Did you get any of your lunch in your mouth? Alright, enough with my crackers already. Should I be delivering a left hook to your nose right now? How am I supposed to react in this fucking scenario?
Okay, are you done? Have you had enough crackers? You could close the box at least. Hold up, toots. Don’t put them in the bag upside down.

Wow, I'm heavily sweating and my teeth are beginning to grind violently across each other. If I give you some candy, will you let ME bag the groceries? Um... how 'bout some Skittles? Okay, yeah, um - you're not supposed to put those in... oh never mind.

Paper? What are you fucking talking about? After the shit you just pulled, all you can say is, “Paper?” You’re kidding, right? You seriously think I’m focused on thinking of what type of bag you should use to pack my half-eaten and fully crushed groceries?

You are raising some serious ethical questions right now. I have a feeling that today’s events will produce several future chapters in college ethics books. Would it be fair if I spun around in a circle thirty times and then attempted to rip your throat out? What if I wore a blindfold? I could tie one arm behind my back and hop on one foot. God, there has to be a way.

What? You like Nintendo? What in the hell are you talking about? I hate you.
Wait, don’t put that heavy chicken on top of the fucking eggs. Jesus Christ in heaven riding a brontosaurus backwards. Yes, I understand that chickens and eggs are categorized together, but you don’t ever put heavy shit on top of… forget it. I’m counting to ten again. You know, I should really just take over from here, champ.

You’re still going. Do you fucking speak English? Oh, wait… please don’t separate that banana from the bunch. Hey! Fucker! Holy shit! You just ate half of that banana with one bite. You didn’t even peel it. That’s terrible. Call the police. Someone call the police. Hurry up. I need to go out like a werewolf and get myself arrested before something horrible happens. Hey Goth-chick cashier girl, you can stop ringing this order up. Counting to ten isn't working too well anymore.
Wait! Hey pal, why are you awkwardly winding up with my box of Cookie Crisp? You’re going to throw it at me, aren’t you? Yes you are. It is really taking you a long time to accomplish this task. This would work a lot better if you tried to catch me off guard. Alright, it looks like you're about ready. Here we go.

Wow, my vision is literally turning red. I didn't know this really happens. Oops, I’m grabbing your Dragon Ball Z t-shirt with clenched fists. Shaking you intensely is slightly relieving my anger. Stop laughing. You are such a cocksucker. Just hold still and keep your nose right where it is. Forgive me for what I’m about to do.

Oh shit, ouch! Fucking pepper spray? My fucking eyes! You let this fucking kid carry pepper spray? Oh, great, it sounds like security is finally arriving.
These handcuffs are a really nice touch to this embarrassing situation. Yes, I understand my rights. As I am being pulled out of the store, I fight through the searing pain to get one last glance at the mentally challenged bagboy. Of course, his arm is halfway into my box of Cookie Crisp and he is hugging various concerned women that surround him. I bet this story is going to look fantastic in the newspaper tomorrow. Fuck you, retarded bag boy. Fuck you.

Even A Blind Guy Can See That This Design Is Stupid

So, I was pouring all the quarters from the bottom of my purse into my spring water jug-slash-piggy bank just like I do EVERY time I notice that my handbag is tipping the scales at around 15 pounds. But for some unknown reason (unknown because the only thing that would have made my mind go off in this direction at 4 in the morning would be if I was stoned on marijuana - you know, that stuff the kids smoke... they call it "The Pot", which I most certainly was NOT! - hi mom -  In fact, I don't even know what stoned MEANS...)
Um. where was I? Oh yeah... quarters. For some unknown reason, I could not get past my delirium induced notion that I was "Top Dawg State Quarter Design Critic Extraodinaire".  Here's my final analysis and official report. Bottom line: least appealing design goes HANDS-DOWN to Al-er-bamm-er.

Alabama dropped the ball with their quarter.... I mean, Hellen Keller! What the fuck, guys?

For some states, choosing a design was probably tough. States like California (Condor) and New York (Statue of Liberty, of course) have so much cool shit to choose from that it must have been hard to decide. For other one-trick pony states like Indiana (an Indy car) and Kentucky (a racehorse) it was probably a no-brainer. Even the most useless states like Iowa (lame-ass school house) and West Virginia (some stupid bridge) came up with something that at the very least didn´t make the state look any shittier than it did before. Then there’s Ala-fucking-bama!

The top minds from across the state got together and decided that the most fitting symbol to represent their state was none other than Helen Keller. Helen Motherfucking Keller. Nothing against her, but what does it say about your state when its most distinguished citizen’s greatest achievement was being forced to learn how to communicate with the outside world. Stupid rednecks! How did it come to this?

Alabama’s Governor: OK, listen up people. We need a symbol for our state Quarter that captures the essence of our citizens, history, and culture. So put down your moonshine & grits and get to it!

Top Aid: Uh, how about a blind, deaf mute?

Alabama’s Governor: Bingo! Now crank up the Skynyrd while I cook up some Meth for the NASCAR rally. Robert E. Lee was a great man. I’m so poor and illiterate.

As the cheap joke above demonstrates, Alabama, and the South in general, already has to contend with enough in the way of negative, mostly undeserving, stereotypes. Being compared to Helen Keller, with all her preexisting jokes (…so you can read her lips; …you’d be sad too if your name was ararhahrgahaghgraghagr), is just going to add to Alabama’s image problems. Not to mention the fact that she wouldn’t have been blind, deaf, or mute had she been born in good state, or at least one that wasn’t a scarlet fever-ridden hellhole. Is that something Alabama wants to publicize? What the fuck, guys?

A lot of people are going to say “Listen bitch, Helen Keller is a stirring symbol of overcoming adversity.” Granted, overcoming adversity is something Alabamans probably need to learn about, since they have to live in Alabama. But surely there were other stirring symbols of humanity that that could have been chosen. A quick trip to wikipedia.org’s list of famous Alabaman’s brings up lot’s of great candidates. If it’s inspiration you want, why not Jesse “Fuck Hitler” Owens? Why not Hank “Babe Ruth was a pussy” Aaron? Why not Rosa “I’ll sit where ever the fuck I want” Parks? Oh, wait. Alabama. Never mind.

In Birmingham they love the gov´ner...
And when it comes right down to it, what did the woman accomplish?

“Well, she learned to read Braille and write! Pretty impressive for a blind, deaf mute.”

Bullshit. Her movie isn’t called “the Miracle Worker” because she taught herself to read. Anne Sullivan, her teacher, was the miracle worker. If anybody should be on the fucking quarter it should be her. She taught a blind, deaf mute to read and write, for Christ’s sake! Nobody fawns like an idiot over the people J.C. miraculously cured. They give props to the J-man himself. So why does Helen Keller get to hog Anne Sullivan’s limelight? What a fucking sham!

“But what about all the books she wrote? That’s pretty impressive!”

Big fucking deal. The only way she could communicate with the outside world was by writing things down. It’s pretty easy to write a book when you have to scratch out a paragraph every time you want to pee. That’s like being impressed by a crackhead who’s good with a lighter. It’s what they do.

Now if she had written a graphic novel, even one that was kind of shitty, that would have been fucking impressive. But she didn’t. Maybe her story was inspiring to people in 1902, but in today’s world where exploding alligators are fighting with pythons and pop stars are having crack babies, that shit just IS NOT gonna cut it. By the way, what was your favorite book by Helen Keller?
Exactly.  Me either.

The only things that could have made this design seem like less of a really bad  decision would have been if Idaho's choice was the Aryan Nation compound, or Wyoming chose Matthew Shepherd’s death fence. Way to go Alabama. You’ve lowered the fucking bar yet again. 

Note: When you are done trashing this post, why not list some other shitty state quarters, or even Hellen Keller jokes? Hey - my blog is NO PLACE to be politically correct.  

I Couldn't Find A Baby To Shake... I think Jane Has Them Bound & Gagged In Her Basement

Jane unravels under pressure

*twitch* *twitch*........  My work here is done.

http://intentions.wordpress.com/2009/06/14/angry-bipolar-patient-posts-personal-attacks-about-my-hair/#respond

Sounds like SOMEBODY could use a Xanax! 

I'm so angry I could shake a baby

                   WARNING: HEARTLESS MOCKERY AHEAD! 

If you are a bleeding heart softie who feels sorry for the underdog even if the underdog is an aggressive beast with beady eyes and rabies, this is not the post for you, and you should turn on your heels and get the fuck out of here. If you choose to keep reading, that's fine too. Just know that my goal is to publicly discredit, humiliate and embarrass, so.... you've been warned. You big pussy, you.


A couple of days ago I had the shit luck of finding a video on YouTube entitled "Preventing Bipolar Mania Naturally". The title alone told me that this video would piss me off, but I'm always up for a challenge, so I began watching. I could not believe some of the things I saw and heard, but I was powerless to stop watching.

At about 8 minutes in, I heard a strange sound and realized that I had been punching myself in the face.

The author of the aforementioned video is a crazy person. Not crazy like "That's what she thinks? If she believes THAT she's crazy!" Nooooo... no no no.  She's a whole different kind of crazy. She's the "sneak into your room at night and watch you sleep while she smells your shirts and cuts the eyes out of all your teddy bears" kind of crazy.

SFJane claims that not only is bipolar "not real" but that she had bipolar and cured it. Do you see a problem here already kiddies? Yeah. Me too. I won't give it away for you, but this broad says some things that will make even a bipolar skeptic say "Well THAT doesn't sound right....." and rub his chin in that creepy way skeptics rub their chin.

I took issue with a plethora of things that splattered on me during her verbal shitstorm, so I commented on YouTube that she should get herself an education.
She replied, in what I have now come to know as her usual cuntified way, but has since blocked me from commenting back. I have taken that as a challenge; one which I intend to WIN right now.  So grab your popcorn kiddies, because the feature presentation is about to begin.  ..... roll film.




Jane,
I want to thank you from the bottom of the middle finger I'm holding up for making this so easy for me. The insults practically write themselves!  I was subjected to your massacre of the truth for over a fucking hour, now you can endure my uncensored character assassination which, by the way, is totally justified. I don't know what your problem is, but I'll bet it's hard to pronounce.

 **The opinions stated here are those of MYSELF and do not represent the thoughts or opinions of assholes like YOU, who should do us all a favor and go play "Let's Drink What's Under The Kitchen Sink".

Why You've Officially Been Named Douchebag Of The Day

1. You are a coward. Your asinine opinion makes me want to snack on live powerlines but I will defend until my death your right to speak your mind uncensored.  You obviously do not feel the same way, because you blocked my comments on YouTube. How do you stand up so straight without a spine?

2. You speak in a creepy Madonna-esque dialect. Listen; you can't fool anyone unless you're consistent. "MEM-WAHHR" or "MEM-HWAH"??  Pick one. And stick to it. On a scale of 1 - 10, you're an idiot.

3. You are redundant. You say the same thing over and over again and you repeat yourself alot. Many times, you say the same exact thing you already said and you'll also keep saying that same word and you repeat it a lot. And you repeat yourself. (sarcasm there... learn it. love it. suck it.)

4. You quote directly from a thesaurus. When you AREN'T being redundant, you sometimes manage to spit out some pretty impressive words, but if you want people to believe they didn't come directly from Mirriam-Webster's, it's probably a good idea to TAKE THEM OUT OF ALPHABETICAL ORDER FIRST. Duh. Did the little hamster in your head fall off its wheel again?

5. Nothing you say is factual. Over the entire span of the 28 minute video, you only managed to make 2 points. And both of them are underwhelming and inaccurate. You think you are an inspiration? You are! If what you're trying to inspire is pity. *sigh*  Soooo many freaks, not nearly enough circuses.

5. You say that you can't get intelligent conversation from a bipolar person. Intelligence? Intelligence????? The most intelligent snippet of wisdom I witnessed in your entire 28 minute festival of delusions was somewhere near the 5:10 marker. You said "I beat my mania when there were slowages at work. SLOWAGES?? REALLY?  C'mon. A fetus could tell you that 'slowages' isn't a word. But just to be certain, I looked it up. In 3 different dictionaries. All of them had the same results.... 'word not found' but they did recommend another word...


Yes, I DID mean sewage. And slag. Yes, I did. Thank you, dictionary.com, thesaurus.com and mirriamwebster.com for that correction.


6. You say that you cured yourself of SCHIZ-EE-OH-AFFECTIVE disorder. SchizEEEoaffective. Jane, If you can't SAY it, you never HAD it.
(FYI it's SKITZ-OH-AFFECTIVE. there's no ee before the oh...)
  ~~~Old MacDonald had a farm  ~~~no ee just an oh...~~~ 

7. You say "we" when you mean "you"... UGH. That's worse than referring to yourself in the third person. In my experience, people who say "we" when they mean "you" are arrogant assholes who treat other people like minions in an effort to disguise their own self-loathing.

Even kindergarten teachers sound pathetic saying it....  "What do we say when someone gives us a compliment Little Johnny???"  If I were little Johnny, I'd shove the nearest writing utensil up her ass, and before she could react, I'd say "But Teacher, WE like that." Then I'd strut away and say "Bada Bing! I think she got the point."

8. You are a blatant liar. Do you really expect me to believe that you've written a book about mental well being? A BOOK THAT'S BEING PUBLISHED???? I doubt you could get a PHONE NUMBER published, much less a book.


Jane, I could go on and on but I have more pleasant things to do, like shove pencils through my tongue, so I'll close this little diatribe now.  But before I go, there's just one more thing:

You say that you are not depressed AT ALL anymore and that you have "found" yourself? My guess is that you found yourself crouched, wild-eyed, in the corner of a Krispy Kreme with little bits of dough and glaze stuck to your unwashed hair.

Nobody goes from THIS:

(skinny pic)

To THIS:

(fat pic)

in less than a year because they are joyously celebrating how happy they are with themselves...  Smells like depression to me. You reek of fear and self-doubt Jane. And if you would take a few minutes to actually SPEAK with someone living with bipolar disorder rather than ATTACK them, you might learn how to love yourself. 

But I'll still hate you.

** Dear readers: If you think you can stomach it, here are 2 of this douchebag's videos which I think you will find particularly repulsive.  Try and get through even 6 minutes of each one without lighting yourself on fire. It's tough, but I know you can do it!  Then, if you're so inclined, leave your comment for Jane to chew on... 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BnJPfMhasQA

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZG8HJ1DJOBg

Michael Sick

Hey Michael Dick... er - Vick:

DOUCHEBAG.

Dog Abusing Douchebag

I betcha you can all guess who today's douchebag is. Yup, you guessed it. Michael Vick. This assface has the NERVE to announce to the world that he will now be an animal rights advocate? Really? That's like Michael Jackson becoming a foster parent. Sickening.
*ring ring* Hello? Do you have any douchebag repellent? *click* now if I could just stop twitching...ouch...


I wouldn't let this monster get within 3 feet of my dog.

In fact, I'd rather:

** Contract Swine Flu
** Sleep with Dr. Phil (another douchebag)
** Dip my face in a vat of battery acid
** Pull my toenails off with a pair of pliers
** Shave my head
** Drink a hobo's urine
** Wear a hobo's socks
** French kiss a hobo
** Let a hobo spit in my mouth
** Rub broken glass in my eyes
** Wash my face with vomit
** Sit on Jerry Falwell's lap
** Give Pat Buchanan a massage with a happy ending
** Slice my nipples off with a serated steak knife
** Jam an ice pick into my ear canal
** Beat myself with a trout
** Have planet's axis inserted up my ass sideways with no lube,wrapped in
several layers of barbed wire and drenched in rubbing alcohol).
** Jump into a kettle of simmering tar and cardboard box full of feathers


Hey Michael Dick, I mean Vick: fuck off and die in a fire screaming, you heartless douchebag.

Douchebag In The Elevator May 13, 2009

TELL ME ABOUT YOUR KID'S SOCCER GAME!

Because, goddamn it, I want to know! When I said “What’s up?” to you in the elevator ten minutes ago, I certainly didn’t mean “What’s up?” as a convenient and all-but-universally acknowledged euphemism for “I know you and must acknowledge your presence but I have no actual desire to talk to you and/or hear about what has been happening in your pathetic joke of a life.”

No siree, I asked you that obviously heartfelt question with genuine interest and a burning desire to know what you, that wooly mammoth wife of yours, and those just-as-dumb-as-they-are-ugly kids of yours have been up to. And I was especially hoping that you would be kind enough to share a George Michael Sports Machine-type recap and analysis of nine-year-old Taylor’s latest adventure in the world’s least watchable sport.

And you were definitely hip to the excited subtext that I was laying down. Most people would’ve responded to my seemingly innocuous query with a simple, “Hey,” or perhaps a perfunctory “Not much,” in some misguided attempt to abide by the unspoken rules of workplace conversation.

But a guy like you isn’t constrained by such generally agreed-upon social conventions. No, you’re too much a maverick to play society’s little parlor game. And for that I salute you. When someone asks you “What’s up?”, by golly, you’re going to give them their money’s worth!

Or perhaps you’re just a raging egomaniac who has convinced himself that whatever happens to him and his physically repellent family must surely be of interest to others—even when those others have easily discernible bags under their eyes, two days of facial growth, and several other unmistakable indicia of the severely hungover and thoroughly uninterested.

Whatever the reason, you jumped at the chance to give me an excruciating little summary of your family’s weekend. As a result, I am now the proud owner of way too much knowledge regarding the following events:


I'm just saying, 'What if?'

1.) The Sears run you made on Saturday to get a replacement filter for the air conditioner in the den. That was some fascinating shit. That part about how they didn’t have the right one for your exact model so they had to order it? Ri-goddamn-donkulous. I’m amazed you didn’t kill yourself right then and there. You might actually want to think about that. Seriously.

2.) The “little one’s” Sunday morning swim class. Words can’t begin to express how little I care about that or how much I’d like to douse your genitals with hot coffee.

Quick question: what would happen if one of the kids at the swim class drowned? Say, for example, your kid? Would they cancel the rest of the class that day? Would the other kids get a partial refund? I bet if your kid drowned – or ended up dead some other way – you would have to miss work and wouldn’t be able to tell me what’s been "up" for at least a week. Interesting.

3.) Taylor's soccer team's thrilling 1-0 victory over the Lions. By the way, “Taylor” – is that a boy or a girl? (I guess I never asked because I never really gave a shit.) A boy, huh? Nine-years old – has he come out of the closet yet? What am I “suggesting”? I’m not suggesting anything, douchefuck. I’m straight up implying that your son is gay. Newsflash: when he asked you after the soccer game if he could go over to Todd’s house to watch movies, he was really asking if he could go and smoke Todd’s pickle. And Evan’s. And Jacob’s. And Todd’s grandpa’s. Seriously, I read all about it on gaysonsofguysIwanttokill.org. Hey, I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but that’s “what’s up” with that kid.

Okay, you got me – I’m not all that sorry to be the one to tell you that your son’s gay. In fact, I enjoyed it almost as much as little Taylor enjoyed licking Todd’s grandpa’s wrinkled shaft.

Die.

I've got a label for YOU, pal. - (Kim)

We're always telling people to share their feelings... "Don't be ashamed," we say. "Having bipolar disorder is not shameful and it's not your fault!" However... those of us that stick to that line of reasoning and start talking to others about our disorder are still a problem for the general public. AARRGGHH!! Damned if you do, and damned it you don't. Some douchebags take issue with people who DO publically share the knowledge that they are mentally ill. Especially those who announce it for all to hear (like me!) .

There have been many accusations chucked at me, but the most frequently used accusation (by a landslide) is “You’re an attention seeker”.

What the general population doesn’t know is that THIS attention seeker went through ten years of hellish episodes and denial, denial, denial before I accepted that something was mentally wrong with me. The reason for the denial??? I thought I was an attention seeker. Ha! And I thought all my problems were so insignificant that if I did try to get help, the doctors would laugh at me and say "Do you need a little atten? Ha Ha Ha"...

I have always been fairly open. The VERY DAY I was diagnosed with Bipolar 1, Rapid Cycling with Mixed States, I went out with my friends and told EVERYONE IN SIGHT!

What I was seeking was general reassurance, naturally. (DUH!) I know that left to my own devices, I would have self-destructed. I openly discuss my mental illness because I'm working on SELF PRESERVATION; NOT ATTENTION! Jackasses.

Another reason I am open (especially now) about this is because I don’t want people like

me to be tarred and feathered, then labeled "seekers of attention". Manic depression is an illness, like diabetes; like any incurable disease that needs to be treated ...

There's just something about mental illness that makes the general population blink from the glare and look the other way. We are falsely accused - we're told "You're bringing this on yourself" or that we're doing something to cause ourselves to spend all our money, talk really fast, not sleep, not eat, fight with everybody, cry, think of dying... Yeah - you're right "Einstein"... all of that stuff is something I love so much that I intentionally bring it into my life... Asshole.

Bipolar, as you probably already know, is something that's difficult to explain, BUT IF MY STORY HELPS JUST ONE PERSON TO UNDERSTAND AND ACCEPT THIS DISORDER AS A REALITY, THEN I'LL SPEND THE REST OF MY LIFE EXPLAINING IT!

There’s more to this than documentaries interviewing fuzzy haired artists tell about in their litle indie flicks... And more than the mental wards you see on 20/20 or 60 Minutes. It isn’t all about crying in your bed, or just sitting, always simply being mentally ill. Nor is it about running down the streets half dressed (although I have done a fair amount of that, too). Our life revolves around taking medication and coping with the problems that go along with it..

Pills for the Mentally Interesting have pretty tragic side effects. I really don’t blame people when they go off their meds. It seems to me that they'd prefer going insane over having side effects like the dreaded Lamictal rash from the pills they're taking. I've been tempted to throw the little fuckers down the toilet too! But because of the hundreds of thousands of banner-waving depressives, boasting about their “meds” and wearing t-shirts listing their mental problems, people get nervous about it and put it on their politically correct list of "Things You Must Never Talk About". They raise their eyebrows at the mentally ill; they can't stand it when we bring it into the light and encourage open conversation about our disorders. "Taking medication & mentioning it means you’re proud" they say. You’re showing off. You’re oh-so-fucked up. Blah blah motherfucking blah. How DARE they put a label on me?

I've got news... I have a label for YOU too: "IGNORANT"!!! I'm not a fucking dress on a rack at Macy's... I'M HUMAN!!! (I just live in technicolor while they have to settle for a black and white world)

Darwinism and Say Whaaaaattttt?

I am the kind of person who lives by the motto "I'll believe it when I see it".  Because of my limited range of trust, I have always been skeptical of the whole Jesus, Mary & Joseph thing. I never believed that Noah had a boat stuffed with animals, and I serious doubted that J.C. rose after 3 days... Even with the technological and medical advances we've made since then, we still can't manage to magically raise the dead. That's some David Blaine shit. The thing is, I may have discovered a hole in Darwin's theory of evolution by natural selection because there is absolutely no way that the guy I had the misfortune of meeting today online is of the same species as the rest of us. Sorry Charles - you fucked up and missed something - like I said, this guy can't possibly be of the same species. During a heated game of online poker at Full Tilt Poker , the aforementioned  cretin actually spewed this tidbit of verbal sludge - "Hey Danger, you're  pretty hot. Wanna meet in a private room and have a little fun?" 

Say whaaaaaaat?  

For those of you who aren't familiar with the site, this is what I look like on Full Tilt:

YUP.... I'm a friggin' cartoon character. A cute cartoon character, but a cartoon character nonetheless. There must be some kind of animation fetish that I'm not aware of... Ew. So when this caveman asks me if I'd like to meet in a private room, my first reaction is to throw up in my mouth a little bit. My second reaction is to consider the proposition. Would I like to meet him in a private room for some "fun"??  Hmmmm.....

No. Absolutely not. In fact, I can't think of anything I'd rather do less. 

I can, however, think of things I'd rather do more...

- I'd rather gargle with broken glass.

- I'd rather drink a tabasco and shit smoothie.

- I'd rather eat a popsicle made of hobo drool.

- I'd rather straddle a running sand belt.

- I'd rather watch Gary Busey dance in the nude.

- I'd rather try to stop a lawn mower blade with my tongue.

- I'd rather jump into a lion's den wearing a catnip suit.

- I'd rather fall asleep on a killer ant hill covered in kool aid.

So thanks to "creepy poker game guy", I guess I need to rethink my position on Darwinism.