Louis Armstrong said to himself, "What a wonderful world!". And, it is...except for the parts that suck.
You ever get punched? Jesus, it hurts! Not like in the ring where they shake it off and continue fighting or the movies, where the hero beats the bad guy to death with his own severed arm. There is a very important part of the brain that tells us that our nose has been broken and where the nearest exit is. It definitely doesn't like the little light that goes off when we get hit in that magic spot just behind the ear.
First Rule of Fight Club: Don't join the fight club...
Some folks assume that the first time that they get their noses broken, the blood will flow sweetly down the back of their throat like a fine Spanish wine. In reality, you are doubled over, blowing blood bubbles into the thighs of your jeans while your opponent is finding something heavy and cheap to finish you off with. If you survive, the broken nose is your trophy; moreover, your experience will teach you things about fighting that you never would learn from a movie or a book: Such as the value of agreeing strongly with the guy sitting at the next barstool, no matter what crap he is spewing.
You're probably wondering how the wealth of this country makes it to remote areas, such as the Appalachians. This is done via the Craft Fair, a gathering where West Virginia's heaviest and surliest women take a break from buying bologna and ho-ho's for their inbred, rusty-knife-toting children and stand guard over priceless wooden replicas of fat women gardening. Maybe wind chimes! Can one have too many wind-chimes?
One too many wind-chimes...
If you tire of buying crap to keep in your attic, you can alway buy crap for the body: Funnel cakes, sausages, kettle corn and other high fat, high carb treats to keep husbands busy and diabetic. Frankly, if they are at a craft fair with their wives, their balls dropped off years ago anyway. Why not end it all with a fried bread induced heart attack on the long hot walk back to the Lexus...
What if I told you I could rid your house of mice and rats without dangerous poisons? What if I told you that said solution to your rodent problem carries with it the inherent possibility of being stalked and killed by what is essentially a remorseless moving syringe full of toxic poison. If you are like me, you'd be intoning the words, "Screw that!" and laying out the glue traps; however, this is the most common reason given as to why we shouldn't burn down the jungles where the cobras live and then ride lawn mowers over them as they flee the flames. Cobras, like war, are good for absolutely nothing.
Hi, I eat rats and kill people for imagined slights!
Cobras don't have a warm loving side. Disney has never created a lovable cobra sidekick for any of its cartoons. They don't smile, nurture or ride unicycles in circuses. The only trick that they are known to do is being "charmed". Essentially, this means that they can be trained not to bite you in the face if you have a flute in your mouth. For an animal to suck more than the cobra, it would have to explode on sight into a cloud of acid and farts...
Imagine a post apocalyptic wasteland; now, imagine that wasteland has been nuked. The result would look something like West Texas. The only difference would be that the zombies go to church less often and zombie cheerleaders have saner mothers. It is a simple place with simple values: Kill homosexuals and always remember to check under the bed for Jews before going to sleep.
Two gay robots visit Lubbock, Texas. Pictured in background: Texas Tech University
On fields so flat that you can see Canada, West Texans try to grow cotton. This is adorable, due to the fact that the top soil leaves the state every spring in huge brown eye-stinging clouds. Using strains of cotton specifically bred to grow on the moon, the West Texas cotton farmer manages to eke out a living and even finds time to become an alcoholic. Tornados occur so often you hardly notice them...
If you disagree with my assessment of West Texas, please answer the following question: If West Texas is so great, why is God continually trying to erase it from the face of the earth?
And old cat is just a toothpaste tube full of shit that walks. Unlike a toothpaste tube, you cannot put a cap in an old cat's anus. You can try, but it just shoots out like a rocket the next time the animal farts, which is probably while you are putting it in. And forget about plugging up the anus with a tampon; there have been animal cruelty laws built entirely around tampon insertions.
I ken makz sheit on yer bedz now?
But, you can't kill Mr. Mittenz. You promised the family that you'd let nature take its course and, from the look of things, even though the cat can no longer control any of its bodily function, walk, eat or purr without coughing up a bloody hairball, it will be a part of the family for the next two decades. Actually, the cat spends most of the last twenty years of its life choosing the perfect place to be found dead, face twisted in death rictus, children gently absorbing the images which will transform them from future doctors, into dead eyed serial killers.
Stubbing your big toe hurts. Stubbing your little toe is an adventure in pain and mystery. The big toe is much stronger than the little toe. The big toe is composed primarily of bone, callous and ugly; whereas the little toe is made mostly of skin, nerve endings and wishful thinking. Stub your big toe and you are in pain; stub your little toe and you are in pain and have to look down at what you expect to be a bubble-gum sized wad of blood, skin and splintered bone hanging by a single nerve from the side of your foot. Most of the time, it's nothing but a bruise; however, every random time, your first impulse is correct.
Phooey. Holy Motherfucking Goddamn Shitpiss Phooey.
Why we were built with an appendage no stronger than a felt-covered Rollo bar sticking out of the sides of what we walk on we will only determine when someone can tell us why our balls are on the outside of our body cavities.
There's a fine line between marketing something the public wants and just covering your garbage with chocolate and selling it. Can you imagine the development meeting for this confection? "I think if we balanced savory with tones of acid sweetness, we might just--aw fuck it! Let's just take everything we make and sell it to the pigs we call 'consumers'". This is the least evil scenario I could come up with...
Hi, I'm eating a blend of chocolate and floor sweepings and so is my sexy friend!
Do pretzels belong in a candy bar? If so, are anchovies far behind? I'm sure that, in Japan, there is already an anchovy candy bar being marketed, possibly under the name Supah Happii Famorii Fishu Baru. If so, more power to them. But, we are Americans. If someone puts chocolate on something it shouldn't make it candy...it shouldn't even be food necessarily.
Bacon and Chocolate: Because we can...
I think it all goes back to when our parents told us to finish eating what was in front of us or, no dessert. Food companies have taken the place of our parents and have even corrupted the reward. We've become a bunch of Pavlovian dogs salivating at bells with no food afterwards.
And, that sucks!