It’s Christmas time, so it only makes sense that I should write about last Halloween. Here’s a step-by-step guide of how to turn yourself into that herpes-infested pumpkin lady we all love to loathe so much.
“No! Don’t go in there! There’s poop!”
“What?” I asked.
“That’s The Poop Spot!” Dante screamed over the whir of his chainsaw.
“What?!” I yelled.
Dante shut off the saw and took off his goggles. He was covered in wood chips. “Kevin,” he said, “don’t go in that cave. That’s The Poop Spot.”
It’s Christmas Eve! You know what that means. Last-minute shopping! Many of you have yet to find that perfect gift for everyone on your list, but you’re in luck! There’s one universally loved gift that suits everyone: the cat sweater!
I’ve made a list of a few beautiful cat sweaters that everyone can appreciate. Your gift will touch the recipient so much, he or she might cry!
Let’s be honest. Supernatural has jumped the shark.
Once upon a time, it was an awesome show. Even now, it has a few worthwhile episodes mixed in with the turdy ones. Like, a few actual Godiva truffles mixed in with those Godiva “gems” you can buy at CVS that are pretty sucky and disappointing. But do you really want to suffer through all that crappy chocolate, those assaults on your taste buds, before getting to the deliciousness? Does anyone relate to this reference, or even understand it? No? Well, that’s okay. My point is this: no. No, you do not want to suffer through crap just for the chance you’ll see something good.
Update: I am a douchebag. The Pretty Black Chains did not open for BRMC at the Dallas HOB show. They don’t have 15 guitarists that whip people with their Rapunzel-length hair, and from the sampler I heard on their Myspace, they’re pretty good– the opposite of the band I was originally referring to. I don’t know who the band was that opened for BRMC in Dallas this past March, and it seems no one on the internet knows either. They’re ghosts, maybe? Anyway, The Pretty Black Chains, please accept my sincerest apology for my inaccurate and rude blog post. You guys are definitely not the band I was thinking of. Again, I’m sorry.
I’ve compiled a list of disgusting band names. Keep in mind that this list is not a reflection on the quality of the band’s music, just their horrible names.
Limp Bizkit: First of all, what does a correctly spelled “limp biscuit” even mean? If you don’t know, consult Urban Dictionary and prepare to barf out all your innards. Seriously, why would anyone name anything after that?! “Hey, we’re so badass that we’re gonna name our band after a super gay ‘game’, even though we’re sort of homophobes. And we’re gonna spell ‘biscuit’ wrong! Awesome.”
This is a short story I wrote for my creative writing class a couple semesters ago, but I never handed it in because I’m pretty sure my professor was gay.
“Good morning, Mr. Carole. Tell me your most disturbing experience,” Dr. Holland said while crossing his legs. He pulled out a notepad and pen from a nearby drawer and began recording the session.
Mr. Carole was slightly unnerved by his new doctor’s unorthodox greeting. “What?”
“Mr. Carole,” the psychotherapist stated matter-of-factly, “in order for me to understand the cause of your insomnia, I need you to recall a significantly disturbing memory.”
“Um, okay…” mumbled Mr. Carole as he slumped onto the chaise longue. He was uncertain about his most disturbing memory, for he led a normal, trauma-free life. “I guess my most disturbing experience was… the day my father died.”
“No, no, we’re not going to discuss that,” Dr. Holland said. “I never like to speak of death. It’s a bad omen.” He retrieved a small gong from the drawer and hit it with his pen. “Ohmmm.”
Mr. Carole was bemused, but open to discussing something else. “Alright…”
“Mr. Carole, visualize a disturbing memory and describe it to me with as much detail as you can,” Dr. Holland instructed.
“In high school, I asked four girls to the senior prom, and all four said ‘no’.”
“No, something else.”
“Ok, the only thing more disturbing than that was about 20 years ago, the day I found out my father used to be an underwear model for Calvin Klein. My sister and I were cleaning out the attic as part of our punishment for forgetting to clean out the attic, and we found an old cardboard box filled with photos and magazine clippings of some guy’s butt. We assumed it was our mom’s because underneath all the photos, we found several historical romance novels. My sister made gagging noises because they all had Fabio on the cover and she didn’t like men with long hair. I followed my sister down to the kitchen where my parents were making dinner, spaghetti and meatballs. My sister angrily confronted my mom as to why she was hoarding a box of butts when she was a happily married woman. Mom started giggling and smacked my father’s butt, which caused him to drop his stirring spoon into the spaghetti sauce. Christmas and I were both confused.”