Maybe it’s because I’m a child of the 80s and a teen of the 90s that, sometimes, when I look out into the vast realm of the internet, I get disgustipated.
I mean, suffering fuckballs what the hell happened?
I know this is an old man rant, but holy shit. Generation “meh” is now Generation “waah.” Nevermind the repackaged, repurposed, rebooted, race-swapped, and gender-swapped IPs. When tasked to come up with something original, they dish out something like this:
What does one reflect about in these corona-times?
Well, first off, fuck China. As if Birdflu, SARS, H7N9, etc., is not enough. Now they’ve taken away our plans and pursuits; our daily routines and jobs; and have placed people around the world in body bags, urns, and six feet down the dirt.
That’s right, I said it.
I mean, why the fuck would you drink bat soup or eat a motherfucking pangolin? Have you seen these things? I mean, look at this animal.
I hate weakness because I hate pity; I hate strength because I never have enough; I hate popups that ask you to sign up without moisturizing sweet talk or foreplay; and I hate x-ray procedures where they put a bib on your balls and expect you to “just relax.”
If I lose a testicle, doc, I’ll be waiting for you outside with a big knife!
I hate cross contaminating depression; I hate the linear regularity of meaningless routine; I hate traffic jams, rubberneckers, and slow-ass drivers who insist on driving on the left-goddamn-lanes.
May they all get bone cancer!
I hate baristas who automatically assume I need syrup in my coffee when the default should always be black; I hate the Kaiser Permanente bitch who comes on the radio, deluding perishing old people by telling them to “thrive;” I hate fundamentalists, fatalists, feminists, atheists and any other -ists that have sacred words and ideas that cannot be questoned, scrutinized, mocked, joked about or attacked; but most of all I hate people
who
write like this
because they think it’s
poetry, where in
fact it’s just a
pile of pretentious
shit.
Go suck on a fat baby’s balls, you bastard! (more…)
“Declaring intent is not execution.” —Mark Twight
The other day I found myself bitching again. I didn’t know I was doing it at the time, but I knew something was wrong. A girl that I was trying to seduce was not responding to my advances. Try as I may, the pimp juice just wasn’t working. But that is the canary in the coal mine, so to speak. The girl was trying to tell me something, but she was trying to be nice to spare my ego. Nevertheless her actions spoke loud and clear.
Why are you acting like a little bitch? (more…)
You got the blueprint in your head, the dreamscape in your heart, the unquenchable thirst in your bones.
You’re tired of living as a dignified paragon of self-moderation. You think a touch of Ebola is a blessing-and-a-half compared to spending another minute as a cubicle-dwelling non-entity. In fact, despite your mannerly appearance (your conscious compliance to become a lonely nothing), you’d like nothing more than to shake things up, to call attention to yourself, to run around giggling like an elf and go too far and feel like a goddamn boss.
And yet what do you do?
Nothing. (more…)
You’ve heard it before. Using profanity means a lack of sophistication, a lack of education, a lack of creativity, a lack of vocabulary.
Well respectfully what I say to that is, go fuck yourself.
Saying poop, crap, butt, freak, freakin, effin, flippin, fudge, screwed, dang, darn, shootdarn, doggonit, golly, geez louise, shiittake mushrooms and sufferin succotash is not creative, it’s god-abhorringly retarded. I mean either say it, or don’t say it at all.
Whether it’s the s-word, the c-word, or the f-bomb, pseudo-swearing is a halfhearted attempt at an empty gesture. It’s like saying “I don’t eat meat,” and then buying fake meat. It’s like saying “I’m an atheist,” and then going to an atheist church. It’s like feigning offense when in fact what you’re really afraid of is getting disapproval from other people—mainly from your version of the ruling class.
Despite its commonly accepted purpose, these squeaky-clean, prim and proper “frustration words” are not there to protect children or display poise and refinement; instead it is there to offer an illusion of righteousness and respectability for the would-be adults. I mean, these fucking sausage-jobs are so uptight you couldn’t slide an American Express card between their asses. (more…)
Maybe it was because the car in front of me was leaving too much space in front of him; or maybe because it was the fifth road traffic collision of the day; or maybe because there was nothing playing on the radio except that stupid Bastille song with the chanting monks going “EH-EH-OH! EH-EH-OH!” which is probably the lamest chant in chanting monk history, which then forced me to turn to NPR. (more…)
R.G. Tamaki 