Hey, you. Yeah, you in the Mercedes wagon. You’re a douche. If you want a Benz, get a fucking Benz; if you want a kid carrier, get a van. Driving an E-Class is like dating a mildly attractive girl with six younger sisters, all of whom are Petra Nemcova-hot, exponentially more fun to be around, kinda interested in you, and possess righteously rotund rumps, not the tank ass your lady is lugging.
On the subject of things I loathe, American Idol. A little bit because neither the parts nor the sum are great, and a lotta bit because I can’t look away. I particularly despise when contestants wave their fingers and pretend-talk (even though we can clearly hear Seacrest) to let the TV audience know what number to call or text. I’m almost inspired to take action, if only I hadn’t been beaten about the head audibly and visually with the information you are now mouthing and gesturing during 80% of your performance.
Conversation that could take place between Seacrest and male contestants:
Seacrest: Bro, let’s scene it tonight. Beverly Wilshire at eleven. We’re gonna tear more ass than hot sauce. We don’t even need blow. I’m Dick fuckin Clark.
SingerX: I’m really uncomfortable.
Randy: Jumpin’ off smidgy whaaaaaaa!
Uh oh, now I’m ranting…
Does anyone have hair as beat as Rick Steves?
"We do!!!!"
Dude’s hair has been whack longer than Anthony Mason has been ugly.
"THAT'S F'UHEVAH"
The good ship Danforth is being driven ashore by a wave of fatigue. Signing off
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