The First Honest Obituary

Recently, my grandfather passed away at the age of 88.  I won’t bore you with the details.  He was a great man, lived a great life and he died.  That’s just life.

As my family prepared his obituary for the local paper, it got me thinking about a couple of things.  Have you ever noticed how obituaries are always positive and always portray the dead person as a freaking saint?

Now, this has nothing to do with my grandfather, he actually was a saint and never hurt a soul.

But, I would like to prepare an obituary for a hypothetical dead person who was a real piece of shit.

Billy Ray Bumpkus 1980-2012, from Anytown, USA

Well, we all knew it was coming.  Satan finally cashed in Billy Ray’s soul ticket and took him to the depths of hell where he belongs.

We all wondered how it would happen.  Hell, the whole family and neighborhood had a death pool going.

Congrats to Billy Ray’s cousin Lula Bell who correctly predicted that he would die by being bitten by his pet Black Mamba named Hitler.  $100 to you Lula Bell, well done.

Early Life:  Billy Ray was a fairly destructive child.  At age 7, while still breastfeeding, he stumbled upon his neighbor’s meth lab and set the entire trailer park on fire when he tried to light a Newport.  After that incident, Billy Ray began drinking heavily and became known as the “Trailer Park Firestarter.” Continue reading

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I Would Like To……

I would like to dip Paula Deen in butter, roll her in flour and then drop her into a huge deep-fat fryer.

Then, once cooked, slice her into little bite-sized pieces and feed all the hungry kids in the world.  I’m sure she would taste like a yummy, plump chicken.

I would like to make people understand that praying does absolutely nothing and waving your hands to the sky only makes birds and aliens very nervous.

Thanks a lot religious freaks, I’ve been waiting for years to be captured by aliens and taken away from this planet.

I would like to lock all the Kardashians in a rubber-walled room with three dictionaries and see who figures out how to open it first. Continue reading

My Addiction

I’m embarrassed, I’m ashamed and I’m weak because I have an addiction.  I’m not proud of what it does to me.  I’m not proud of what I do to get it.  But I do it anyway.

When I first roll out of bed, it nags at me like a hangnail.

“Come get me, you know you need me.  You know you can’t make it an hour without me,” it whispers knowingly in the back of my mind.

I look around my house in odd corners hoping to find a couple of quarters or dimes.  If I can’t find enough there, I lift up my car seats and scour underneath to find the right amount to pay for my it.

Once I find enough change, I get into the car.  I don’t brush my teeth, I don’t bathe, I simply put the car in drive and get there as quickly as possible. Continue reading

John Travolta and the Creepy Van

(I wrote this years ago before any of this “gay” rumor shit was in the news.  And by the way, who gives a fuck if Travolta likes to give rim jobs to hot, male masseurs?)

Am I the only person around who thinks John Travolta is just a bit too creepy and might be that guy you see driving a weird, old van in your neighborhood right after school lets out?

I’m not even talking about the whole Scientology aspect either.  His smile is just a little bit “off” for me.

When I see him on television doing an interview he kind of looks like that guy who drives the old, decrepit van with the tinted bubble window on the back offering kids in your neighborhood candy.

You know the van I’m talking about, the one with the airbrushed wizard mural on the side.  It was the type of van your mother told you to stay away from.

The van that was always circling the elementary school playground, the van with the mini air conditioner unit in the back window speeding away from playgrounds like a convict was driving.

Then, on the rare occasion that the van actually parked somewhere, the guy getting out had bad, green prison tattoos and that crazy Travolta-like smile.

That smile that someone only has when they have one hand down their pants and are alone on their couch watching a neighbor sunbathing.   That smile. Continue reading

The Best Dream Ever

It starts with me walking down a poorly lit hallway with several doors on each side, some cracked open and some closed.  I want to look in each door, but something is making me nervous to look.  But I look anyway.

The first door is numbered 666 and I open it.  There is a huge bed in the middle of the room and I see Rush Limbaugh dressed like a catholic school girl and he has black mascara dripping down his bulbous cheeks like he’s been crying.  He looks at me with his God-Fearing eyes and points to the corner.

In the corner there are two Filipino adult midgets tied together with ball-gags in their mouths, smiling and sitting on top of a very worn out Twister board.

Then out of the closet, Justin Beiber runs out dressed in a lederhosen t-back carrying a crystal magic wand.  He flips his hair, points the wand at Rush and says, “Lady-Boy Alive.”  Immediately Rush grows HHH titties and starts giggling like he’s on laughing gas.

He gets down on all fours on the edge of the bed and Justin mounts him and starts riding him like a donkey.  Rush squeals and Justin just keeps flipping his hair.  Then Usher appears with a video camera and starts taping the whole thing and tells me he’s going to put it on You Tube.

I’m starting to feel a little weird about everything so I try to help the Filipino midgets get untied.

They start blowing me kisses, so I run out of the room and slam the door shut.  At the end of the hallway I see my 5th grade teacher standing next to a urinal and she says, “I told you that you wouldn’t amount to anything.”  I wake up and realized I pissed myself, again.

Because Male Hygiene is Important

(I’m re-posting this for my new friends who may have missed it, enjoy)

Medicated Powder.   I don’t know about you, but I am always cognizant of maintaining my male hygiene.

It’s something my father taught me when I was child.  “Son, there is nothing worse than a guy with a stinky crotch,” he used to tell me.

When I was about 12 years old, while most fathers were teaching their young boys about sex education, my father took me to Walgreens to introduce me to my first medicated powder.  I remember that day like it was yesterday.

We walked into the store and headed directly to the back where all the powders were kept next to the Vaseline, lubricants and condoms. (back then, condoms weren’t locked up)

The pharmacist asked my father if we needed any help.  “No thanks buddy, just buying my son some crotch powder.  He’s about that age now,” he said with a proud smile.  I looked straight down and wanted to jump off a bridge.

I didn’t want anyone to think that I had a smelly crotch.  I was praying that I didn’t see anyone from my school in the store.  It was one thing to be the shy kid or the new kid at school; but the kid with the smelly crotch, that would surely lead to me becoming a serial killer one day. Continue reading

Rednecks Don’t Need Spell Check

(I’m not sure why, but this post gets the most views of anything I’ve written.  Apparently, rednecks are polarizing.)

“No one has anythang agenst rednecks” Chris from Independence High

 

(I used to run a website where I made fun of people who posted stupid shit on Facebook.  This was one of my posts about rednecks.)

One group of people who always help me feel intelligent is “Rednecks.”

I absolutely love the fact that they jack off on their bibles, wear camouflage, hate all non-white people, hate northerners for no reason, use the word nigger, hate gay people, fuck their sisters/cousins/aunts/uncles, go mudding, hunt anything with a pulse and bitch and complain all the time about Hispanics taking their jobs.

Rednecks are the best.  Society always needs a continuous stream of racist, sister fuckers with non-chlorinated gene pools to keep the white race alive.  Sometimes, I am so proud to be white (sarcasm).

Please do not get confused between “Rednecks” and “Country People”.   There are actually many good country folk out there and those are not the people I am speaking about here.

But, for the love of God, Allah, Buddha and Krishna, WHY CAN’T REDNECKS USE SPELL CHECK???  I just do not get it.  The following posts are from Redneck Groups on Facebook.  Just read and enjoy.   And remember, this is real; I could not make this shit up. Continue reading