Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Fat Scooters

Sure, I can nosh a bag of Cheetos with the best of them. And I tip the scales well onto the heavy side, but I swear if I ever get so fucking fat that I qualify for a "medical" scooter and an excuse to be a lazy prick driving 15 miles an hour down the snack aisle at Wal Mart, I will put a fucking icepick into the wobbly fleshroll of my neck and wiggle it around till my giant bloated corpse falls to the ground and registers on the Richter scale three states away.

Hey you. In the motorized seat. You do not need a wheelchair. You are not sick.

You are fat.

And If you are sick, it's only because you are so goddamn fat. Knees ache? Yep fatty, that's why. Diabetes? Gee Lardass I wonder why.

This isn't about pure laziness either - I'm actually a big fan of doing as little as possible. But how did the cure to fatty fatness become even LESS exercise?

Providing complimentary go carts at grocery store entrances so these bloody pustules can get their Ding Dongs and Mountain Dew without even moving their fucking bodies may have been the most brilliant marketing move in history.

And now any fatty fucktard with a sore back or the inability to see their genitals can just get a medical scooter for free. At least in years past the only option was a wheelchair, which at least meant you moved your arms to get from one fucking point to another. But these monstrosities require nothing more than a flick of the thumb or a gentle twist of the wrist to send 800 pound of festering flesh hurtling down the sidewalk, blocking the path for every normal size human being and once and for all cementing America's reputation as the ugliest, stupidest fucking people on the planet.

Of course, there are a few people out there who really benefit from these things. Like the 80-year-old WWII vet who left an arm and leg in Normady, Sure, give the guy a scooter. Odds are he'd look around at the company he's in and choose to keep hopping down the fucking road.

Monday, August 3, 2009

Hammer Pants Comeback

This the-'80s-were-awesome retro bullshit has gone far enough.

Mullets, leg warmers and mall hair are perfectly rad to 15-year-old kids trying to look like their parents when they were in high school fucking other people and snorting meth when it was still called crank.These kids are also fucking retards, but they're not really hurting anybody.

But lately there's been a resurgence of the low-crotch drawers, genie jeans – otherwise known as Hammer Pants.

This is in no way OK.

Really. Why would these things make a comeback? Is it that the I-just-shit-my-pants-and-have-crap-smeared-asscheeks look is just so fucking sexy? Are thighs that rub together and create a bloody, painful rash near the genitals suddenly an indispensable fashion statement?

If you're helping to bring this trend back you deserve both. Stop now.

Unless you're hiding a midget in your pants to warm your crotch (which would be really fucking awesome) there is no earthly reason to be wearing these.

Look. Even Hammer, the shitburger who started this in the first place, has moved on. He's still a douchebag, but at least he's a douchebag in normal pants.

But you? A douchebag who also wears hammer pants? The death penalty still exists for people like you.

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Celebratory Headgear

"Wow. That hat is funny! You're so crazy and original! Wanna have sex in the men's room?"

How many times has this phrase been uttered? In the entire history of the universe? Exactly less than fucking never.

Wearing headgear to let everyone in a 10-mile radius know that you are out on the town and having a crazy time screams, "I am an insecure, self-loathing twatsquatch! Look at me, Please! Notice me!"

Like we have a fucking choice.

And drawing attention to your head doesn't mean we don't notice that you're fat, ugly, sad and/or alone in the world. Just that you're all this and pathetically lacking every single rudimentary skill needed for any type of life or simple social interaction.

I don't care if it's a holiday, your best friend's bachelorette party, or just good-old-fashioned alcohol induced doucherry, you're still a loser. Man, woman, tranny... doesn't matter.

All those people are laughing at you. Not with you.