You Wanna See Something Really Scary?

Try this.

This is from a site called PostSecret, which has been around for awhile but is still kind of cool. Anyhow, for some reason now he’s branching out onto facebook, which means people get to freely post comments about the postcards, which I think is possibly the worst idea ever (Bush administration ideas notwithstanding).

So some girl sends this card about how she loves the characters on her favorite shows more than her boyfriends, and judging by the characters she pictured on her card, this ain’t no 15-year-old. I mean fucking Chandler? You gotta be what, 35 at least?

But what would you expect the comments on such a thing to be? Maybe people saying, “ummmm…the reason those guys are so perfect is because they’re written that way”? Nope. Hundreds of women lining up to say “OMG me too doctor house is so dreamy and that other guy too.”

Ladies. Seriously. Those aren’t real people. They’re characters. Here in the real world, charming handsome witty rich young doctors with twelve inch cocks are actually quite rare. And the few that do exist? They can get women who are a lot better than you are. You know, beautiful, intelligent women who aren’t obsessed with characters on a fucking TV show.

You know, shit like this makes me so damn glad I’m married, because a shockingly large portion of the female population is just too fucking stupid to be bothered with. While they’re obsessing over the perfect TV boyfriend, I’m sure they’re busy in the real world dating pricks who treat them like shit and fuck their friends.

Now somebody call me sexist. I fucking dare you.

“The funny thing is they never even found out about the laundry basket.”

With those words, Ernest Pinkerton pressed the muzzle hard into the roof of his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Dr. Evans calmly put down his drill, removed his mask and latex gloves, and picked up the nearby phone. “Janice,” he said, “call the maintenance crew and warn them they may want to come in early tonight.” He hung up the phone and gazed out the window. “I think I’ll have chicken tonight,” he said to no one in particular.

Across town, his ex-wife Bess was trying in vain to capture one of her own farts in a mason jar.

We Can Be Happy Underground

I realize my posting frequency has dropped to about once a month these days. It’s not that I’ve gotten lazy, busy or depressed, and it’s not that I’ve run out of things to say. Truth be told, I’ve been forced into hiding.

You see, it’s recently come to light that an angry mob has been scouring the country looking for everyone who hasn’t tried Honey Bunches of Oats, and well, without going into too much detail, I’ve decided it would be in my interest to lay low for awhile. I’ll continue to post stupid crap as my situation allows.

Vive la résistance!