Category — Dumbass

I like to use my writing as an emotional release. And things have been tough lately. So I’ve decided to list all the insults I can think of. Feel free to use them next time you are dressing down some cock-sucking retard.

You couldn’t fuck a whore with dual pussies if someone loaned you a two headed cock.

Every soul is worth saving, but only some souls deserve to starve to death on an ice-burg.

What you lack in smarts you make up for in good ol’ fashioned cluster-fuckidity.

Jesus would punch the shit outta you.

The Buddha thinks you look gay in that shirt.

I’d rather have my balls chewed off by a rabid pit bull than waste anymore time waiting for a comeback from this douche.

Mother Teresa would just let you die.

You are the stupid person’s Paris Hilton without all the good-looks or money.

Your wildest intellectual fantasy is to get a triple score on the word “Exit” while playing Scribble.

You possess the charm of a worm, the agility of a retarded kangaroo and the grace of a tampon.

Your intelligence is matched only by your lack of hygiene.

You chew gum at a remedial level.

I am impressed that your puny brain can generate the electric impulses necessary to move your arms and legs without shitting all over yourself.

You were deemed inedible by Jeffery Dalmer due to tasting like an idiot.

Your mom’s pet name for you is Cunt.

You think Pepto is the cure for having a thumb up your ass.

After years of extensive study you have a solid chance of bringing your IQ up to the level of a headless turd eating maggot.

You are the world’s least successful abortion.

You dream in blocks.

I’d rather eat sushi made from my own taint than have coffee with you.

The way you dress makes me want to rape the salesperson from Academy who picks out your clothes.

It is better to stay quiet and have people think you are an idiot than to talk and remove all reasons not to stomp you to death.

Ah, I feel better. Hope this helps you too.

I’ve been hearing a lot lately about this guy Leonardo Da Vinci and his alleged role in the Kennedy assassination. Everybody seems to think Da Vinci’s ancient drawings of helicopters and naked ladies contain some kind of code that predicted the biblical flood and Kennedy assassination and the eventual end of the world at the hands of Tommy Lee Jones. However, I think this is wrong.

Candy in disguise after killing spree

I took a meeting with Jack Lemmon at the Driskill Hotel bar late one night in the early nineteen-eighties. Years before that Oliver Stone movie (JFK), Jack told me the story of a very sweaty John Candy’s role in the JFK assassination in New Orleans and the cover-up that followed. Jack told me that if the real John Candy had lived longer, then Kevin Costner was really going to prosecute him in an actual court of law, albeit this time in one with air conditioning.

Jack was very nervous that night and was drinking more heavily than usual. Within half an hour of arriving, he was soused. He kept saying, “What does that have to do with the price of rice in China?” and “You can’t make an omelette,” driving home every point by banging his glass on the table. He shouted at the bartender, over-enunciating every syllable as if to prove he wasn’t yet drunk, “Set them up, Joe. You can’t make a fucking omelette?”

The bartender, who was not at all pleased with his behavior, replied, “We don’t make omelettes in this bar, Mr. Lemmon, sir.”

Lemmon in happier days

“What’s that got to do with the price of rice in China?” Jack said, then elbowed me hard in the ribs. “This guy says he doesn’t make omelettes!”

“Fuck, Jack…” I said, “Can you forget the omelettes and tell me some more about the connection between Da Vinci and Tommy Lee Jones?”

But the sixteen bourbons on the rocks had done their job, and instead of answering me Jack broke down in a quivering heap on the bar, sobbing and crying, “I can’t! You just don’t get it, do you, Mark? I can’t…you can’t make omelettes.” He shouted “omelettes” at the top of his lungs, but suddenly realized he was making quite a scene in the posh hotel bar. “Take me to my room, put me to bed. I can’t be here anymore.”

Destroyer of Worlds?

I helped him up and we walked together to his room, he having summoned enough dignity and balance to walk on his own, only occasionally leaning on me or grabbing my arm to catch his balance. When we arrived at his door, he grabbed my collar and pulled me in close, as if he were going to whisper some kernel of truth that was eating him up and killing him to be released. Instead, he spit in my face and, in the same precise voice he had used with the bartender, told me, “You’re barking in the wrong tree. There’s plenty of Leonardos in the sea.”

I haven’t seen Jack Lemmon since that night, but I saw JFK, which he made shortly after our conversation at The Driskill. Suspiciously absent from the film was any mention of Da Vinci or his secret code. Many people say this omission signifies that Oliver Stone attempted to cover up the true events leading up to that fateful day in December, and that the absence of Da Vinci in the screenplay is practically iron-clad proof that he was involved at a very high level in predicting and planning the assassination.

Developmentally disabled or criminal mastermind?

I don’t buy it. I believe that this is a very clever ruse to cover up the real truth-that Da Vinci was a patsy and that Tommy Lee Jones, John Candy, and Leonardo Di Caprio are not only responsible for the murder of our 61^st president, but also Presidents Abraham Lincoln, Chester A. Arthur, Zachary Taylor, and Franklin Roosevelt. History will bear me out.

Bears probably not involved in plot

Man. My Saturdays are explosive little balls of jizm. I start the day around 9am with a good whack. I call it my Good Morning America Whack!. I typically do it while my girlfriend is still asleep beside me. If she wakes up I pretend that I am having a seizure then laugh, you know, cause she knows I’m not epileptic. She doesn’t suspect a thing, though.

When I’m making breakfast and my girlfriend is in the shower, I like to do a little whack right there over the hot stove-the combo of sweat, butter, and jalapeno juice really gets things moving. I like to watch the cat clean herself for this whack. She always just kind of looks at me with the same empty, disapproving eyes, and when I finish, I usually have to grab something to hold onto (cause bustin nutz can make you dizzy) and last Saturday it was a hot burner and I cursed all holy hell and my girlfriend heard me in the shower, so she yelled, “is everything okay, honey?” and I say, “Yes, dear.” Man it was close, but a good whack nonetheless. I sometimes wonder if the thrill of getting caught doesn’t heighten my enjoyment of a good whack.

After breakfast we usually go shopping. Usually that means we stop at Target to buy some pillows and shit. SCORE! I love whacking one at Target! The color red totally puts me in the mood for a good old fashioned whackfest. I just go, “Babe, gonna go grab a popcorn or a pretzel and maybe take a dump, cool?” She doesn’t know I usually go and get a whack in. This one is kind of an influenced-by-the-fluorescent-lights sort of whack. Usually there is a crying kid in there, or an employee taking a shit, or some teenager ripping the tags off clothes. It’s not like the best most ideal spot for a whack, but it’s cool cause it’s in a store, and you just leave it at that. I’ve cried after one of these whacks, and held my penis extra long afterward.

Sometimes on the drive home I try to fit in a whack while my girlfriend is driving. This is usually the most difficult whack of the day. You have to be real cool, like that magician David Copperfield. Like, I have to distract her to perform this whack, which is hard, so usually I get her started on naming stuff she sees out the window, which she likes doing anyway, so I don’t feel bad that she’s doing it, cause we are both benefiting, you know? Sometimes when I bust the traveling-in-the-car nut, I have to grab like the gear shift or the wheel, and the car can veer into another lane, which is scary, but worth it for a good whack session. Man, sometimes I wonder just how many whacks a dude has in him!

Finally, at the end of the day, I gather round the computer, make a whiskey La Croix, and find myself sort of reminiscing on the whacks of the day. Man–that is a funny name for a movie: Whacks of the Day. I might actually watch that one. It’s funny. As I write you now I realize I may just have another one in me..Ahh let’s go for it. It’s been that kind of Saturday. A Saturday for the record books. She’s in the…let’s..oh man…oh man here she>>>>…..lsd ,,, ,//../… …”’…

Here is the Colbert Report from Obama’s first day.