Flock of Seagulls

My single favorite haircut of all time WITHOUT QUESTION...what the fuck was anyone who sported this piece of shit-do thinking...the reinforced hair walls on either side of the head give the top of the scalp a bowl like function used most commonly to place fruits, nuts and carbs in for 7* seagulls to actually flock to...how come the hardworking, slaving-away, "day light come and me want to go home" people didn't rock this unreal hairstyle. It would have made carrying those pineapple's on their weary noggins a hell of a lot easier.

* 7 seagulls constitutes a flock...fun fact** motherfuckers!

** Although this fascinating piece of knowledge may be exactly what the fun doctor ordered, it is in no way, shape, or form factual...

Put One More Ticket On My Windshield and I'll Rape Your Pores

You can never know exactly what everyone around you does for a living. You could unkowingly be standing next to the assassin who killed your best friend with some licorice and a dimmed EXIT sign right this minute. A lot of people hide their professions from the world because, let's be honest fuckers, a lot of them are embarrassing. You don't want your neighbors, or the meat slicer at the deli counter knowing that you're the jack off who works on a pre-made salad factory assembly line with the noble task of crumbling the gorgonzola before the dip-shit next to you applies the candied walnuts as the finishing touch. No wonder why your cheese is "bleu"- it's the saddest fucking thing I've ever heard. There are jobs like this one, that people hide for fear of public humiliation, but they don't even hold a candle to the ones that people conceal out of fear for their bodily safety. If this genre of person were standing around just shooting the shit at a cocktail party and it somehow slipped out just exactly what they did as a profession, their eyeballs would end up on a cheese plate watching their severed legs float lifelessly in the punch bowl...

YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE...YOU GODDAMN PARKING METER MAIDS!

Being a meter maid means you are quite simply the biggest makred man/woman on the planet. The rage that one feels as they happily approach their guilty vehicle after completing a day of errands, only to find a bullshit $70 ticket slapped tightly betwixt the wiper and the windshield, goes unrivaled. To be brutally honest, I hate you all with a burning passion. If I return to my car even 9.6 seconds past my expired time, then you assholes will have undoubtedly already written me a ticket for a handsome chunk of change. I just want to park a shotgun in your a-hole, blow you to bleu cheese crumbles, throw you in a hearse and park it in a No Stopping Anytime zone.

Come to think of it I would also like to change my profession from Candied Walnut Technician to another one that people try to keep 6 feet under wraps: Cemetery Monitor.

Founding a cemetery reserved solely for parking meter maids would create a buzz bigger than Disney World. Just hear me out. Each gravesite would have a shiny, new, parking meter directly in front of it with a miniscule, confusing, bullshit sign: 1 Hour Death Zone Only-You Can Be Dead Here For A Maximum of 60 Minutes Between 8am and 6pm Mon. - Thurs. Except Sunday - Violators Will Be Exhumed.

Once you were buried there, it would be up to you're family to stop by and feed the meter periodically. Then, people like myself, would march up and down the graveyard slapping bright red VIOLATION stickers on every time expired headstone. You're family would go beserk always having to stay on top of this chore and eventually give up...in which case I would drive over to your plot in my off white Mazda equipped with a menacing yellow siren, dig you up, throw a 60 pound hook and chain around your legs (scratching and denting you up) and tow you over to a junkyard where your loved ones can come bail you out for a mere two hundred and twenty dollars a pop....Go Fuck Yourselves....

Actually Parking Meter Cemetery Monitor is a respectable profession if you ask me...Send your resumes to murdermetermaids@hotmail.org and you can be a P.M.C.M. too!

STREET BLADES

Rollerblading a few feet away from people who have no fucking clue how to dress for the beach…”How ‘bout I throw on my chocolate brown chinos and the seat upholstery from my dining room chair, and head down to Santa Monica for some fun in the sun!”…There’s no way there isn’t an aquarium of runny shit swishing around in those tree-bark ass carriers like memory challenged goldfish…Hubby can’t even walk next to his stench ridden misses.

A Run For Their Money

Everyone has a dream. Mine is very simple...or at least I think it should be: I want to have sex while on a light jog out and around the town.

Running has always been a favorite past time of mine...and I suppose sex has always been high on the list as well (although in order to classify something as a past time you probably need to do it at least once a year, in which case sex would qualify more as a bi-annual special occasion for me and less of a hobby).

It seems as though everytime I lace up the sneaks and hit the pavement there are at least 25 gorgeous fucking women that I cross paths with. They are out there jogging as well and I cannot help but ponder the reasons why. By nature girls are not outdoor-sy types. I contend that they would much rather be exercising at some fucking overpriced top notch gym where beefcakes stand in the mirror and sweet talk their veins into growing just like flowers. Seeing as how these chicks do not own a gym membership and are sauntering through the streets, I can only help but think that they are broke as shit and therefore have no reason not to lay with me. This logic makes minimal sense, but if you lived in my brain I'm sure you would see the light.

They may also be exercising because their husband forgot to take that "through thick and thin" clause in their marriage vows seriously and feels as though his wife is getting blubberchunked, while in turn, he is getting a raw deal. So he comes home with a brand new pair of Asics for Valentine's day instead of his usual flowers and a 5:30 reservation at the Cheesecake Factory (just early enough where he won't have to shell out a goddamn dime because she isn't even remotely hungry yet - cue World War III). She is most definitely annoyed, insulted, vengeful, full of spite, and therefore has no reason not to lay with me.

They may also be exercising because they are simply supermodels. Supermodels are the shit. They are in-shape, insanely hot, and smell like an average sized bowl of potpourri that you would love to shove stem by leaf up your cock hole...that's probably not true...at least for you guys. They jog because they have to keep their flawless bodies in check. They have agents to impress and runways to dominate. They need to give 110% at every photoshoot so that they can one day snag the cover (and for those of you who don't know, "snag the cover", i think, is the most commonly used industry term, my favorite, and has withstood the test of time...Ex. Christina Aguilera snagged the cover of Maxim. If you need me I'll be in the bathroom for 45 minutes.) These girls are society's eye candy, on top of the world, and therefore have every reason under the sun not to lay with me.

So maybe my dream will never happen, and I'm okay with it. I just fucking wish that once, one of these girls would stop dead in their tracks and admit that they want the exact same thing that I do when I'm jogging...guilt free sex in the cherry bush near the interstate next to the red house with the pale yellow fence (what? you think I haven't mapped out a location yet...fools) But until that day comes I guess I'll just go home, jerk it in my bed as I fall asleep wanging out until mom comes in to snag the covers... pulling them up to my guilty mug, tuck me in, and lay with me for a little while....not like that assholes.