I Like Monkeys

I was shopping downtown one day and came upon a pet shop. I like animals so I went inside to see all the cute little buggers but instead I got a big surprise. This particular pet store was having a sale on monkeys for five cents a piece. I thought this was odd because monkeys should be a couple thousand, at least. So, not being one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, I slapped down five bucks and took home one hundred monkeys. I like monkeys.

The clerk stuffed the monkeys into a bag and I was off.

I have a big car so all the monkeys fit nicely. I was also kind of tired so I let one of the monkeys drive. I think his name was Sigmund. Sigmund was really dumb. I mean, if he was a kid he’d be ridding the short bus and wearing a helmet to school. In fact, the whole lot of them was kind of "r-tards". They kept punching themselves in the genitals. That made me laugh. Then they punched me in my genitals.

I stopped laughing.

I shuffled all the monkeys into my house where they didn’t adapt to well to there new environment. They would all scream like hell, hurl themselves off the couch at amazing speeds and slam into the wall. Although very amusing at first, ya know, flying monkeys, the spectacle soon lost its novelty. (At around the six hour mark.)

Exactly two hours after that I found out why the monkeys were so inexpensive. They all died. All one hundred of them. All at once and for no apparent reason. Damn cheep monkeys.

I didn’t quite know what to do. I had one hundred dead monkeys all over my house. I mean everywhere; on my bed, sticking out from under the couch, in the kitchen sink even in the closet-o-porn. (Don’t ask) It looked like I had one hundred throw rugs.

So, just like the best of us, I panicked a little bit. I tried to flush one of the monkeys, I thing it was Sigmund, down the toilet. It didn’t work and poor Sig’ got stuck. Now I had one wet, dead monkey named Sigmund and ninety nine plane dry dead ones whose names I did not catch.

I decided to pretend that all the monkeys were stuffed toys. It worked, for a time. Then they all started to stink. I think they were decomposing. My house started to smell a hell of a lot worse than is typical. Added to that, I found my growing desire to crap was impaired by Sigmund, who was still stuck in the toilet. I thought about calling a plumber but I was way too embarrassed.

Now I know by watching a lot of C.S.I., that cold slows the decomposition process, so I tried to freeze them. Unfortunately, there is only room enough for two monkeys in my freezer at any given time. So I had to keep changing them out to keep them all cool. This made me tired and did nothing for the smell of the food that was in my freezer. (My freezies still taste like monkey)

Well, that plan sucked so I tried burning them. I piled them up on my dinning room table and lit them on fire. Soon the room looked like the towering inferno. Who knew a wood table would be so flammable?

Now I had one dead, wet monkey named Sigmund stuck in my toilet, two frozen monkeys and ninety seven burnt monkeys on what’s left of my dining room table.

The odor was not pleasant. Or improving.

I quickly became agitated with myself, my inability to dispose of one hundred monkeys and the fact that Sigmund still occupied the toilet. I still had to shit.

So, I severely beat one of the monkeys. I felt better.

I took a crap in the yard next to mine and waited for the morning so I could toss the monkeys out in the trash. The garbage man said the he was not allowed to dispose of charred primates. I told him I had two frozen ones but he said he can’t take them either. I didn’t bother to ask for help with Sigmund.

A few hours later, Sigmund came walking out of the bathroom (after he tided up a bit) it seems they were all just sleeping after a busy day, Ooopps, my bad. Sigmund said it was o.k. cause the other monkeys were jerks anyway.

After talking things over with Sigmund (he’s a great listener) I surmised a solution. I ran down to the dollar store grabbed some tape and wrapping paper and now had Christmas gifts for all my friends. They all said they liked there presents but I could tell they were lying. So I punched them in the genitals.

I like monkeys.
Sigmund’s butt hurts.

gluteus maximus (no, not the Roman gladiator )

Ok, so I’m sitting in the lunch room of my current place of employ, and right there, in front of me is a coworker picking at his ass. What the fuck is wrong with you people?

Can’t keep your fingers out of your nose, crotch or your ass. Fuck. Fuck man, I’m trying to eat. Not to mention all the other fucks in the room that just got sick after seeing you insert a finger into your stank ass to dig out gods know what. I mean fuck, your superman under-roos can not be that far up your haunches that it takes over two minutes to get it sittin’ right. Christ-on-a-cracker man, the lunch room? The jon was five feet away. Then again, what do I expect from a guy that eats his own snot.

Fuck-tard.

My butt hurts. (and I guess so does yours)

All You Can Eat

This is to all the girls that get absolutely shit-faced in little out of the way bars;

I know you thing you are dancing like your fave pop or rock star or whatever the hell you kids are listening to these days. But god-damn, you look absolutely fuckin ridicules. Flailing around like you’re having a seizure or some shit, stumbling and drooling all over yourself, making sexual overtones to everyone in the place and offering your services as a ‘pipe cleaner’ is not a good way to find a nice friend to take home to mom. It is however a good way to contract a S.T.D. from some sleazy fuck that will take advantage of any poor drunk girl just to get his wick wet. (By the way, thanks a lot madam, for the crabs.)

See you at the pub!

My butt hurts. (and my balls itch)

goodnight sweet heart

Here’s something to think about.

You ever wonder if you mom had just finished blowing your dad when she kissed you good night as a child?

My but hurts.

WOW!! DID YOU SEE THAT GUY WALK THROUGH THAT DOOR?!?!?!

Holy Shit!

This thing is still on the net?

Fuck.

Any whoo….. Somebody shit on the coats!

Just kidding.

I was sitting in a movie theater the other night and beside me was one of those fucks that read every sign that pops up on the screen. God damn, that’s annoying. Didn’t anyone ever tell you people that. How many fuckin’ times do stand-up comics have to blast you on the T and V and people yell “Shut the fuck up!!!” in the theater? Christ, I mean, we all want to see the fucking film in peace. I know we all laugh, cry and scream when at the multi-plex (mostly crying when it’s a Tarinteno steamer) but we do it at the appropriate times. Nothing kills a good flick than having a nice quiet or suspenseful moment ruined by some ass reading aloud a sign in the background or, fuckers, loudly explaining to gods-know-who all the action on screen. I mean what the fuck, did you bring a fucking blind friend to the damn thing? Holy shit, wait till it comes out on brail fer the pink snappers’ sake.

Fuck.

Shut up.

You know who you are.

Fuckers.

My butt hurts.

the green goldmine

As I sit in front of my computer scratching the small space between my nut-sack and anus and daydreaming about tacos, I can’t help but think of something I saw today at work. A man was walking through the front half of the store, where not only co-workers could see him but customers as well, and was knuckle deep in the green goldmine that is his nose. But this was not the end of the little freak-show, no. After he withdrew his now sticky finger covered in the fruits of his passionate labors, he proceeded to….. eat it.

Now I know that we all, on occasion, feel the need to evict our little green freeloader friends that are living in our nostrils rent free and just sleeping on our couch eating all our food. Fuckers. And we all have done this at some point in our adult lives, don’t lie. It’s just like the masturbation thing. If you say that you’ve never done it, you’re a fucking lire. I know you do it, they know you do it and in you’re heart of hearts, you know you do it. So own it, be proud, you fucking wankers.

Anyway, the difference between him, people like him, small kids and us somewhat sane people is something simple;

We strive to not let people watch us pick our noses. And certainly we don’t put ourselves in positions that we would be caught eating our buggers. (if that’s what you’re into… cool…whatever) In you’re home, car at night or in you’re bosses office when he’s out for the day is fine. No one will see you. But on the buss, in the park, at church or in the lunch room when there are people trying to eat their god damn food is just inconfuckingsiderate and stupid.

jesus

Oh, buy the way, wiping you’re boggies on other people’s coffee tables and flicking them on unsuspecting customers is also to be considered to be a little rude.

So cut it the fuck out.

Fuckers.

My butt hurts.

Poop Stories

What the fuck is going on ???

After the poop story I put up here a little while ago I now have people telling me other shitty stories. Two more people from my work shat themselves… at work. I won’t go into much detail about them but to say shit happened and they were at work. What worries me is how many stories are now being told to me. I mean I guess we all have a poop story, I myself have one involving an entire 11 quart basket of cherries consumed in one afternoon when I was 5. Messy, messy…. but I was 5. It was one of many lessons learned in childhood along with not eating dirt, shoving crayons up my nose and swallowing lost of pennies and gum. All lessons that I learned and I learned them well, but again, I was 5. It seems to me that there is a lot of people out there that have never learned this don’t poop lesson in their childhood and are now having to learn this as adults. But wait…. Nope I can’t talk about this anymore, it’s making me sick.

Smarten up and put on a pull-up… fuck.

Fuckers.

My butt hurts