farts are jazz to assholes

blue balls gone green

Like everything we grab onto in this nation, we just keep going and going and going until it’s so unbearably huge, that we don’t really even know what the hell it’s doing anymore. We tend to let trends and ideas sort of spiral out of control and spitball at an alarming pace. It’s our own faults. But we’re so typically unaware and unwilling to take the blame, we decide we should all be eco-smart and rescue poor Mother Earth.

Yet, as hard as you might think you are trying to be green and consciously safe about the environment… you can’t NOT be polluting. You just can’t escape it. Everything we have built to this day means we have to sort of rob the earth of something. We’re just filthy assholes really. Hello, remember the Industrial Age? Yeah, unless this was 1640 and we just stopped evolving, maybe it wouldn’t be such a big deal. But we wanted to continue to progress, and by the time we got here, and began to notice “Um, shit. Earth looks like it’s sorta taking a beating from our massive cultural upheavals,” we act like we give a damn now.

No. We’re still being rape-hungry pricks who want more, more, more. That’s just how we are. It’s how our instincts work. Once we made machines, we were doomed. And we just grew from there. Essentially, we’re just gangbanging the planet. Collectively, as a whole, we are all just giving it to the earth, seeing how long we can all sodomize her and bang her old bones until she collapses. The nations around the globe have circled around and are now performing the ancient Japanese tradition of Bukake… onto Mother Earth’s giant magma tits. She never really tells us directly that she’d like us to stop, so we just keep at it. I mean, we can see it in her eyes that she’s not happy with us, particularly when we all high five and send in another round of 22 guys to keep strong… but we just haven’t really cared. “She was the one who laid ‘em out on the table. Not like she said we COULDN’T do it! Once we started jerking, she didn’t like, move out of the way or anything.”

Like that scene in The Accused, just one after the other. We throw earth on the pool table, line up like a bunch of horny drunk bikers… and we just have our way with her, never stopping. Tearing and thrashing and bulldozing and… this is the analogy talking; sorry for the graphic details. Anyway, she’s gushing, well, oil in this case… and by the time we’re all done, we see this ravaged planet, lying on a barroom floor, naked and weeping. You can try to go granola, live in the woods, eat berries and then get mauled by a mountain lion, but we have just created this beheamoth we cannot prevent from eventually being destroyed by our own power. Which is ironic, since our rise up through evolution is going to be our downfall. That’s just some icing on the cake though, the amusement in our ironic apocalypse.

You have to remember: that our planet? She’s almost 5 billion years old. She’s not some spry young fawn, frolicing in the grass and carelessly dancing in the daffodils — she is no longer Laura Ingalls. She is not mean old Nelly, blinder than Mary and — okay, done with Little House on the Prarie. She’s an old fucking bitch who is seriously tired and in the early stages of dementia. We just happen to be gangbanging her to death — like, until her vagina poofs out ash — and now we finally realize, “Oh shit - she’s not responding to all this very well. I guess 200 years of hardcore raping isn’t treating her body so great, oops. Our bad, we’re dead.”

Don’t you think if we referred to our planet in the masculine form, this would all be very different? Because everybody loves their mom, right? But dad is just a bitter dickhead who was never proud of you. “I stubbed my toe on one of his stupid rocks yesterday. Why did he even make these dumb things? He probably just put them here as a reminder of how I can’t ever do anything right, like walking. Just because some of us weren’t blessed with athleticism and never wanted to take over the family business doesn’t mean we can’t be great at other things — I HATE YOU DAD!”

Going green wouldn’t even be in the discussion. We’d all be so angry at Daddy Earth, we’d be trying to kill the planet even faster than we are now. We’d be antagonizing the planet every time we hear about a disaster. “Oh, an 8.8? That all you can do, DAD?!” Pouring antifreeze down the sewer. Leaving styrofoam cups in the street. Keeping BP in business. “Looks like daddy could use a facelift!”

Let me just give you one prime example though, of how unbelievably gross we are when it comes to exploring the outer limits of human evolution; when we just continue to expand and develop and create until we practically engulf ourselves within our own spectacle of agony: the Double Down sandwich. We created all these components for greasy, unhealthy, stare-Death-in-the-face garbage… but having them spread out wasn’t enough. We had to put them all together: deep-fried chicken - AS BREAD! Mayonnaise and hollandaise and gravy - AS LETTUCE! I’m honestly shocked they didn’t shove another slice of chicken in there. Or dump in some melted hog fat or dump some Skittles on top of it. Why stop yourselves at two pieces of fried chicken? Slap another one in there, throw in some bacon and a stick of butter - voila!

God creates earth; God creates man; God creates death food.

I still think that sandwich was created due to the fact that KFC cut a deal with the American Heart Association. “A recent study showed that the percentile of incoming heart surgery patients has dropped a whopping 94% - is there anything you can do to help us get back on our feet?” “Yes. We’ll put our customers on their backs - due to heart failure!” Then watch the bypasses just roll on in. Pesky devils.

We just keep getting greener and greener, making up new solutions to problems no one ever really had an issue with in the first place. Are we discovering new problems or coming up with solutions before we notice anything, so we fuckin’ make something up? Hey, don’t act like I missed the news on that oil spill - I know that we have a whole lot left down there. And haven’t you guys ever seen Alien?! Go into space, grab some resources out there! Just, well… don’t land on any strange, seemingly-isolated planets or bring an android on board, alright? Lesson learned.

And now, it’s just sort of grown into this… unstoppable force where we’re all looking at each other, like, “Have we done all we can? We better keep going until somebody says something.” Because we’re afraid once we quit, the fuckin’ world is just going to … that’s it! Just… done. We’ve got blue balls from going green. That’s what we have here. Overstimulated problem-solving with no payoff.

Blue balls, for the record? No bueno. It feels like you’re abdomen is about to tear out of your body, but nope… just your balls letting you know how severely disappointed they are by you, the girl, and your moronic brain for not telling her you’re terminally ill and would hate to die a virgin. There is a chance that the Livestrong bracelet gets you sympathy points, however you cannot accessorize and dress to match the bracelet: dead giveaway. Now, it’s a last-ditch effort, but you have to at least try.

This is the same shit going on with the green trend: we find out earth has something it’s about to run out of, we have some ideas to cover up our own mistakes for taking advantage of her and we have no true payoff in the end. We’re left sitting there with the Hollister catalog in one hand…

…our dicks in the other…

…and a little Double Down sauce all over our bellies.

4 notes

green lent(ern)

Going green. Can we just put an end to all this now? It’s not “for the environment” any longer. No, this is for us. “Hey, going green, yeah!” It’s a cool thing to be a part of, join the revolution before it’s over with, come along & get to rescuing our dear planet. Like wearing Livestrong bracelets, you are supporting a good cause for all the wrong reasons: it’s trendy.

Shit, even Lent is a trend now. Every March, I have to deal with a select group of assholes - the kind of people that have a special place… in my trunk - who fiercely exclaim their glee for surrendering something for 40 whole days, despite the fact that they have never once delcared their belief system. Unless it’s for their loyalty to Twitter or Justin Bieber or, I don’t know, fucking Koosh balls. Something retarded, with no real sense of value, ya know? And they sort of latch onto whatever other people they know are doing.

“What are you gonna give up for Lent this year?” “I’m not going to put as much salt on all the food I eat!” “I’ve decided to only eat sushi once every other week.” “You know how I beat my kids all the time? Well, the minute they piss me off, I am not raising my hand. FOR 40 WHOLE DAYS! Then I’m back to being the abusive drunk they know and hate.”

I am in no way, shape or form religious, so call me a hypocrite if you find it necessary, but FUCKING COME ON! Lent is not about sacrificing bullshit to make you feel better about your shitty lifestyle choices, okay? Don’t stop eating bad food or watching shitty TV shows because it’s determined a “challenge,” due to your epic retardary. Give up something meaningful if Catholicism - because remember, Lent is for Catholics, you hipster cock fucks - means something to you. The way you judge others, perhaps educating yourself in a more enlightened way, beating off to girls who have their clothes on. Just a couple suggestions of movitational sacrifices you can try out for yourself, that have some real weight to them.

Yeah, Christ went and fucking died for you and you’re going to, uhhh, do away with licorice?! Fuck you, you pious piece of wasted semen. You could have been deposited inside of a sock or a dead prostitute, but noooooo! We had to make sure you were one of the sperms that got inside the egg!

But I digress. Really, I do. I know you don’t believe me… but I am so far off my original topic now. It all circles back to religion in the end, doesn’t it? How fucking annoying is everything that religion encompasses? Everything about it sucks.

Livestrong went through the same sort of trend-hopping cycle. I mean, really: you don’t give a shit about cancer or anyone who has it. Let’s be completely and totally honest here. You just know all your bros were wearing them and that the yellow complimented your pooka shell necklace and canary Hollister polo, which you initially bought because you thought it was tan. As I’ve said before… fucking lights mess with your senses, man! Now you’re playing it off like you were just accessorizing when in reality, you have been raping all potential of cancer research, you fucker.

If I ever get terminal cancer, know what my Make-a-Wish adventure will be? Hunting all these cocksuckers down with a bone saw and slicing off their arms from the elbow down. That way, if they ever decide to sport the bracelet on their nub… it will just look really weird. And nobody wants to look weird with a nubby arm. Especially if they’re rocking any sort of armwear accessories. Just looks tacky. Watches, wristbands… they don’t work on nubs. Did Jim Abbott ever wear bracelets? Seems like they’d just keep falling right off. You can only jack off with your left hand and you can’t ever wear anything on your right arm?

You know he’s done the fake glance down to a non-existance watch a few times on his nub arm while he was at a dinner engagement or some boring party for his wife’s friends. “Oh, look at the time time! It’s so late!” “Um, Jim… you can’t be wearing a watch on that arm.” “Oh? Why the fuck not? I’m Jim Abbott, goddamn it! I once pitched a no-hitter with only one hand! What have you done lately? Oh, right - pointed out I can’t wear a watch on this arm! Asshole!”

Random thought: if you don’t have a left hand and are only left with a nub… do you wear a wedding band on your right hand instead? Because I’d think that has to get somewhat confusing. Like, people just think it’s a promise ring or something. “You were at the wedding! You were there!” “Yeah, but… it’s on your right hand.” “I don’t have a left ring finger! I have no other choice.” “All I’m saying is, if you wore a specially-crafted band on your left nub, it’d be less confusing, that’s all. Did you up your left hand for Lent?”

All of this conservation and recycling and earth-friendly bullshit. What’s the payoff? Are we actually getting somewhere with this? And by that, I mean significant, scientifically factual proof that all this green-awareness is achieving some global-wide goal that we set as a precedent. And honestly, I must have missed the meeting because I have no fucking idea what the goal is or could be, and maybe we’re all like that, because it’s never really brought up. The “problem” is, we’re fucking up the earth… but the “solution” is vague. “We’re going to saaaaave the planet!”

The earth is not tied to some railroad tracks; we can’t do much to “save” the planet entirely. Yeah, sure, maybe we can stop being such assholes to the earth… but at the end of the day? Earth kind of calls the shots. Shit, I think it’s more like gravity and the moon and the sun actually run the show, and the earth is just some bitch who does whatever because, let’s face it… if you’re gonna push somebody around in the solar system? You don’t push around the sun. Dude has kiiiind of an attitude problem; bit of a hot head, if ya catch my drift.

None of us seem to know or understand what we’re all trying to do, we just do it because we look like giant dicks if we’re not being eco-friendly or whatever. “You could’ve bought the eco-friendly garbage bags. They’re only $3 more. And they’re right next to the “brand name” ones. Don’t you love the planet? Don’t you wanna save the earth and live forever and not have a carbon footprint?”

Frankly? No. I’m on a motherfucking budget, okay? I don’t have three extra dollars to cradle sweet mother earth, because that bitch isn’t putting gas in my car or paying my phone bills, so, um, Hefty - keep it coming! 50 bags for $3 even and they stretch out and never rip? Done. If I’m polluting the environment, tell the green people to slash them prices. The irony being, it costs me more money to be more green.

That is the fucked up truth to it all.

Like I said, maybe we all think we missed some big gathering to discuss this, but we’re too embarrassed to admit we’re clueless so we keep going along with it all. “Oh yeah, the uh, going green thing. Yeah. Sure. I remember that. Big discussion? Saving the planet? Right. That… that was a good meeting. There was free punch. I had a lot of that. Kept having to run to the bathroom. But I let it mellow, as the rhyme goes, because, well, ya know… saving the planet! One flush at a time. We may have discussed that, I’m not sure. Kept having to go to the bathroom. Oh, did I already tell you that? Sorry.”

(part 2 coming soon)

talkin’ shit.

So here’s a non-sequitur for you: I could really go for a gnarly shit right about now. Not that I have to take one necessarily - just that I wouldn’t really mind if I had to. This is what I’m talking about - personal information that I can only share with those closest to me, that I am sharing with strangers. This is what our forefathers dreamt of. Seriously. Read the fine print of the Constitution. It’s there. Very tiny print, it says: “And the people shall be required to share all tablets of personalized information throughout the land, whether it concern massive dump-takings or dildo usage.” You have to sort of search for it, but it’s there.

One of the easiest determinations you will ever make in your life is when it is or is not a good time to have to shit. If you’re just kicking back, life is in your control? It’s all good. But if you’re anxiously awaiting the birth of your first born, trying to save a bus of crippled albino nuns or at a funeral for the President or the Queen or whoever, then… fudgie. You’re like “Fuck! NOT NOW PLEEEEASE!” I think the degree of how you feel about an oncoming shit is ultimately determined by what’s available to you bathroom-wise. There are just certain public areas where number two is just not happening: Your in-laws’ house. Denny’s (but IHOP’s okay). The hood of a cop car.

Now somebody’s chest is perfectly fine, but you know… ask their permission first.

Needless to say, some places are not poop-friendly. Which is sad, because we all know how terrible that feeling in the pit of your stomach is when you panic, “Where can I go?!” You seriously consider just dropping trou and standing over a street grate in the middle of a downtown street. It’s gonna be heading there anyway, right? You’re simply cutting out the middle man.

If I were designing a building, first thing I’d draw up is a separate ‘pooh-only’ restroom, so we can finally rid all panic from fidgetty poopers’ minds. What a preposterous and unnecessary chore finding a place to shot is. You’re trying to figure out a way to run and clench all at once, but not look like a fucking retard. “Outta my way, outta my way, I’m pregnant!” That’s my method. It doesn’t matter who you are, because once anybody sees you running at them shouting “I’m pregnant,” they fucking move. That’s how Moses parted the Red Sea. He just ran up to it screaming “I’m pregnant,” and the sea was all like, “Oh shit, I’m sorry bro.”

I feel bad for anyone with IBS. Irritable Bowel Syndrome. That has to be a contender for worst disability to have infringed on you. No offense to, like, being born without limbs or, I don’t know, fetal AIDS, but… feeling like you’re going to shit yourself nearly all the time? Even torso people are rolling out of these people’s ways, like “I don’t even really have an ass, so go for it buddy.”

What kind of a god, by the way, creates diseases and syndromes like that? That’s just fucked up, man. God is up there pre-planning and creating all life, everything that exists within, etc. Talking to his design planner, creating all illnesses, diseases and what not. Which in itself is a really shitty design plan. We can’t all just be happy and live carefree. We have to be stricken with shit that will literally make us die or, at the very least, want to kill ourselves. Also, because God loves medical dramas. And he sort of had expectations for us in the future to create TV, so, that’s basically what it all adds up to. “Meredith and Derrick — will they or won’t they?!”

So that asshole God is up there drawing out what diseases he’s going to give us: “What say we inflict a few of these humans with an incurable syndrome that will make them have explosive diarrhea pretty much any time they eat certain foods. Oh, and make sure it’s all the really good, greasy ones, too. I want these fuckers to pay.” “I thought you were supposed to be a loving God?” “Who told you that? Are you crazy?! I’m giving these people EVERYTHING! Least I can do is have some merciless fun! C’mon guy, let me be kind of a prick about it, alright? It’s MY world!”

If God really does exist, he is a bastard. He is like, an almighty version of Ashton Kutcher. He just constantly pranks people and probably sits atop a cloud, just slapping his knee and laughing his ass off. Holy trucker hat and all. Too bad every time some disaster or tragedy occurs, God doesn’t like, run out from behind some building with a camera crew. “YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN YOUR FACE!” “Our house was destroyed and our daughter drowned in a flood.” “Yeah, but… get it? You LOST your home. It is no longer there. How do you not…? Okay, look, let me… hmm. Fine. Alright. Not funny? Don’t like my jokes? Fuck you. I just gave the kids smart enough to not drown ass cancer and your wife now looks like Patrick Ewing.” “That’s okay. I’m a Knicks fan anyway.” “Looks like you’ve already cursed yourself then.”

Everybody is standing around in complete disarray, and meanwhile, God is back inside a control room, laughing his ass off that we totally just fell for his huge prank. He expects us to be playfully coy and forgiving, like we roll our eyes and exclaim, “That’s our God! He’s such a rascal! Those buildings never crumbled - it was a trick curtain, green screen and a fog machine!”

Like, every terrible occurance the world has ever seen was just a misunderstood joke between us and God. “How do you guys not get it?! The planes flew into the — okay, okay: let me explain it.” “Because, like, there’s no way he could have been shot from the book depository! You see?!” “Alright, one more time: the hurricane demolished your entire city and left thousands homeless! And to top it off, NOT EVEN YOUR OWN GOVERNMENT HELPED YOU! How do you guys not see the humor in this?”

Of course, every Christian has a “rational” answer to these horrific bouts of suffering and peril. “It’s all a test! God is testing us.” “What happens once we pass the test?” “We die and reach eternal peace in the afterlife, where we spend the rest of our time with Him.” That’s all we get?! Not even a letter grade?! “Take this test.” “What happens when I’m done?” “You die.” And you thought the SATs put a lot of pressure on your future.

How about instead of dying, God gives me a PS3 or a 70-inch HD LCD television? I want to be able to bask in my test-passing a bit, not fucking die and then sit on a cloud with nothing to do for eternity. That’s lame. Plus, all my gay friends automatically fail the test, so they won’t be around. And what’s eternal peace without a few queers to throw some cool parties and spice up my boring white robe and sandals? “It’s after Laaaaabor Daaaaayyyyy! White is soooo passe! Add some dazzle and shine with some sequins on that gold tassel belt, Jesus. And that beard? Um, helloooo? You have the most beautiful curls ever - shave that beard off and let those locks breathe!”

“You passed the test!” “Yay! Now what?” “Well, you die and then spend the rest of your days at my resort with other dead people.” “Is there a pool?” “Well, no. But all your family and mebers of your church will be there.” “Including that one creepy guy, Mitch? I’m pretty sure he liked kids.” “Yes, including Mitch.” “How the fuck did HE pass the test?! Alright, well. Are there any atheletes or rock stars there?” “A few. But none of the fun or famous ones.” “Oh. Hmm. Well, yeah. Sure. That sounds… nice. I guess. Could you just, maybe, go over my score again to make sure I passed? Not so sure I got a couple answers right there in the middle section of the test…”

This is why I don’t believe in God. Because he’s just a big douchebag with a power complex. Pranking us and testing us. And for what?! Christians are so naive, by the way. They’re always justifying and rationalizing things because they think a two thousand year old book gives them authority to know what God’s ultimate plan is. “He loves us! He’s merely testing our strength! I saw him, Jesus and Mary in a taco salad! I was afraid it was too much salsa verde, but it was them, I know it!”

No, you idiots, he isn’t testing us! Allowing terrible amounts of violence and tragedy and war to go on is not done by somebody who loves us. That’s done by your mom’s new boyfriend or your Vietnam vet uncle who never moved out of grandma and grandpa’s house, and still dreamt of assassinating Nixon. Don’t tell me that these are things that just “happen” either. How does this shit slip through the gate without God finding out and putting a stop to it? What, did he hit the snooze button a few times the morning of September 11th, 2001? “Bah, it’s a Tuesday. I’m sure nothing too crazy is going on.”

And why didn’t he decide to step in and help out the city of New Orleans after Bush failed to do so? I’m sure some snarky prick has the answer, right? “Because it’s a city full of sex, drugs and jazz music! And God ain’t hip to that! He’s still getting into Bach! And he won’t admit it… but he digs a little Master P from time to time. Shhh!”

What sort of loving asshole is this dude? Can’t even help them out, not even a little bit? And to the people who stayed alive through all these tragedies due to their faith? Good for you. Keep at it. I just don’t see any goddamn logic to it all. How can people say God is punishing New Orleans twice in five years because one Tuesday a year, they honor flashing your titties? He was the one who made ‘em right? God loves boobs! And penis! He has to love both to make them the focal point of our entire existence.

He then let New Orleans have a break. Let the Saints win the Super Bowl. Then a few months later… “Fuck you again, have some oil.” That’s the equivalent of punching your girlfriend in the face, apologizing through the purchase of a massively expensive & gorgeous diamond ring… then punching her in the face again. Just a total dick move. Therefore, this equation has proven that God is a dick.

Well. There’s no turning back now. Just lost half my audience.

“Why don’t you talk to your sister anymore?” “I insinuated that God is Ashton Kutcher, gave some Katrina victims ass cancer and laughs at 9/11.”

Every time a person inflicted with IBS shits themselves or has a truly humiliating moment that tears down all shreds of their dignity… God is in stitches. If he were a great and loving God like everybody thinks he is, then he would have cancer, AIDS, be in a wheelchair, and unable to eat greasy foods. Because if he did? He would shit all over his malificent robe or whatever he wears. Yeah. How’s your God looking now? Just a pitiful old man riddled with disease who shits himself. “God smells like grampa!”

“Where does God live?” “Oh, he’s up there on the brown cloud.” “Why is it brown?” “God has IBS. And every other horrible, unmanagble, incurable infliction known to man.” “Can I transfer to Hell? This sounds terrible.” God is such an asshole. I mean it. He really is. He does such insurmountable destruction, gives us all these incredibly obnoxious diseases and shit. Yeah, hey, let me serve all my life for this dickhead, too. C’mon.

That’s gonna be my book title, by the way. “God is an Asshole,” by Chris Fallon. Inside, I theorize about how much of a raging cockknocker God is and why Jesus is a glue-sniffing con artist. Come with me, join the eternal joy!

I hear stories from people who have IBS… and by that, I mean, like, in passing. Not like I go to weekly meetings or counsel these people like I’m Sarah MacLachlan with those pitifully sad animals. Why do they air those ads so late at night? Do you know how quickly a one-eyed terrier kills a hard-on while watching reruns of Golden Girls? I stay up late for one reason, and one reason only: Rue McClanahan. May she rest in peace, on my cock. I’m sorry if you find that to be disrepsectful, but at her age, I was still intrigued by the idea of calling her Blanche as I nailed her, even if she couldn’t hear me or fell asleep. Just to say that I had done it. Thank you for being a friend - with benefits, honey!

I ignore the boundaries. Invisible. I see no limits, my friends. None.

I hear stories from people with IBS, about how they’ve had to knock on a stranger’s door, because they were nowhere near their home or a public restroom, and they had to shit so insanely bad… they were willing to ask a random stranger. Not only are you trying to keep yourself composed while asking someone you’ve never met if you can demolish their toilet, but what if this person is like, a 7’5” black dude with tattoos of Sailor Moon and Clay Aiken? Most people would expect like, gang tags or fucking knives and shit, but honestly, it would scare me a hell of a lot more if I saw a dude like that covered in seriously gay shit. Or what if it was like, Henry Winkler’s house, and he answers the door while you’re trying to - literally - keep your shit together. But it’s the fucking Fonz and you want to be all “What the Chachi” yet if you release, even the teensiest bit… boom goes the dynamite. All over Fonzie’s beautiful welcome mat that was an irreplacable set piece from Happy Days, that was the doormat in front of Arthur’s. Awful.

That’s why I suggest the government hands out special cards to those suffering from IBS, just in case these dire situations come about. You know, because sometimes, some places you go to have a strict “customer only” policy and it’s really inconvenient, so you go shit right outside the back door, so at the end of the night, the jerk off who said “bathroom is for customers only” totally steps in it. And you don’t want to have to do that, so having a special card would be a lot more useful, right? It’s just a free pass to any bathroom in the entire world. Secret toilets all across the land, and your “IBS permitted” card gets you into any one of them. Soon, people are creating fake-IBS cards just so they can trash any bathroom they want. Rock stars are abandoning hotels in order to destroy restrooms.

The greatest solace you will ever find in your entire life is always located in the bathroom. Think about it - the two best places to think is when you’re on the toilet or in the shower. Because you’re completely isolated from the entire world. It is just you, naked, with maybe a secret camera hidden in your wall that’s being broadcast live on the internet. Maybe! That’s not always a definite for most people. I had one in Rue McClanahan’s bathroom, but it wasn’t really something I watched often. There are only so many times you can watch somebody struggle to pull themselves out of the bathtub before it just shatters every erotic thought in your mind.

I love the shower. Everybody hates me for how long I’m in there, but it is the best place on earth. No, it is sincerely the most magical place on this planet. I don’t know where Walt Disney gets off naming his little theme park the greatest place on earth, because last time I checked? It was my own fucking shower, okay? Who needs Splash Mountain when I have hot water and an open drain - all to myself!

The shower is a brilliant multi-functional device. Think about it: it not only serves as an isolated booth where one can bathe thyself… but it’s also a urinal, a place to spice up a relationship and a very creative environment for enjoying yourself. And when I say “enjoy yourself,” I don’t mean, like, being entertained by your own imagination or your individual charm… I mean, your penis. Or vagina, I’m not going to discriminate. Don’t think we aren’t aware of why shampoo bottles are so narrow, ladies. I wasn’t born yesterday.

That reminds me: Golden Girls is on. Brb.