What A Monster

Gail-Posner

 

This soulless piece of leather just bequeathed an eleven million dollar estate to her pet chihuahua. That’s right, three million cash and a Miami mansion worth $8.3 million dollars.

I’m over here getting physically ill trying to imagine the sheer magnitude of malignant narcissism it would take to think that it’s okay to waste that kind of money on a little rat dog.

I don’t care if the evil cunt was a world class philanthropist (she wasn’t, by the way) because that shit is totally unacceptable.

She could have chosen to alleviate a lot of human suffering. Instead, her fucking chihuahua wears diamond necklaces and farts through pink silk.

What a monster. I hope the cancer killed her slowly.

 

Best Buy

Don’t get snippy with me, bitch. I know you’re pissed at wearing a name tag on a Saturday, but that’s no excuse for insulting me. You’re used to the company of morons who don’t know the difference, but I’m picking up on your shit loud and clear. By the way, this is the wrong time of the month to throw attitude in my direction. If I gotta bleed today, you might as well too. My teeth are sharper and I’m on the shiny side of the display counter. I promise this doesn’t end well for you.*

* I just communicated this entire sentiment in one brief instant of stone cold eye contact at Best Buy. Lemme tell ya, bitch got the message. It felt good.

You know that ugly feeling when a smug little man smiles at you like he just bought you on sale and suddenly your spine turns to glass and your ears become refrigerator coils and your guts squeeze dry and you’re filled back up with the warm oily urge to cross the room for no other reason than to smash all five of your ring encrusted knuckles through the soft meat of his lower jaw and relish the sound of his teeth hitting linoleum like you’d just dropped a handful of Skittles?

That is how I feel about Jason Schwartzman.

Ask your coke dealer to start stocking clove cigarettes.

Just when you thought the world couldn’t get any more outrageously hypocritical, the authoritarian douche-tanks in DC have up and banned flavored ciggies.

For the record, this bill was sponsored by a republican from Marlboro Country, so don’t kid yourself into thinking it will have any effect on public health. All this restriction will do is frustrate pretentious euro-trash and make a few goth punks run out of safety pins.

Oh, and don’t worry black people. Newports are still legal. Despite them being a legitimate teen gateway to a pack-a-day habit, Menthols make up 28% of the market, and Philip Morris wouldn’t put up with that crap for a second.

Once again, the bullshit that stuck to the wall was that they’re protecting the kids, this time from the evil candied temptation of sweetened smoky-treats.

Nothing makes my cunt pucker more than the phrase “protecting the kids.” Fuck your kids.

Fuck every fat, stupid, overprotected little crotch trophy whose mother’s inability to parent is infringing on my god-given right to blow vanilla flavored smoke all over a cute Frenchman to mask his post-sex body odor.

Fuck anybody anywhere who thinks they have the right to tell me what should go into (or come out of) my body.

Fuck Obama for signing this piece of shit bill.

And finally, fuck clove cigarettes for being the next thing that I have no desire for whatsoever, but will soon crave for no other reason than that they are illegal.

Freeganism

dumpsterdivers_australia

 

Freeganism?!

Oh, please. Fuck you and your blonde, lice-ridden dreadlocks.

You pathetic neo-hobos aren’t “beyond capitalism” — you’re frolicking in its shit.

Just because daddy bought you a college degree in bisexual eco-political studies, it doesn’t make you any less of a dumpster diving bum. Actually, your inflated sense of self-importance makes you infinitely worse than the poor bastard who does this out of necessity.

This is a smug, elitist lifestyle choice just like the rest of them.

Put a velvet rope in front of this alley and you’re a Bonnaroo B-list band away from creating the next trendy hipster underground scene.

I may be a shallow scavenging whore, but at least I’m not deluded by the pretentious notion that I exist on some bio-ethical high ground.

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