I hope you all remembered to pay your taxes. On the off chance that you haven't, feel free to claim one of my kids as a dependent. Don't worry, it's not like the Waffle House dumpster can claim it.
Vermont legalized gay marriage last week. You know who's gonna get married now? Every single person in Vermont. Yeah, that doesn't really make sense, but what the fuck, it is Vermont.
A major earthquake recently devastated Italy, killing hundreds and leaving thousands more homeless. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the Mario Brothers, the Boyardees, the Corleones, pizza flippers, and those guys who play music while a little monkey gathers change.
Madonna's most recent attempt to adopt a child from Malawi was stopped when the child's biological father came forward to claim ownership. "Oh no," said Madonna. "Where will I ever find another poor black kid?"
The Hannah Montana movie hit theaters last weekend. On a related note, it was recently announced that every single movie critic in the world is an atheist.
Last week it was announced that Farrah Fawcett's cancer had spread to her liver. I could give a shit about her, but I am a little worried that this will inspire a bunch of hot chicks to shave their heads to retain that Farrah-Do. Also, I'm having a hell of a time adding a heart rate monitor and an I.V. tube to my poster.
Baseball season is underway. There are some interesting rule changes this year. For starters, all outfielders are allowed to carry crossbows to deal with unruly fans; successfully raping an umpire can overturn a call; and during the sixth inning of every game, three silverback gorillas will be released onto the field. Just kidding. It's still really boring.
Well, it's too late for me to half-ass my way through some list of Easter tips, but I still wanted to use this space to acknowledge the holiday that is so special to those of us who love to see peaceful men get tortured and killed. So instead of the usual list of arbitrary nonsense, I thought I'd share with you a detailed account of my Easter Sunday.*
*Note: For purposes of having a full length article, this will be made up, instead of the factual "Got drunk on Saturday night and slept through it."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I wake up early to bake the cherry pie I prepared the night before. Upon looking in the fridge I realize I ate three quarters of it raw while baked out of my mind. If that isn't bad enough, I look in my bed and realize Kiki is still passed out, possibly dead. I have my doorman wipe her down and dump her in an alley a couple miles away.
All bakeries are closed, so I go to a convenience store and get the closest thing to cherry pie I can find. After grabbing a box of Little Debbie's Swiss Rolls and a bottle of cherry-flavored Pepto-Bismol I make my way to the counter. I notice the cashier is Middle Eastern. I shout "Terrorist go home!", shove over a rack of novelty shot glasses and run out without paying.
Arrive at what I believe to be my parents’ house. I knock on the door and a small white child without bruises answers. I quickly realize I'm at the wrong house. Remembering my biological father's advice of "Whitey need some bruises!", I punch the child repeatedly and leave in a hurry.
Needing to relieve some tension, I lure a junkie into my car with false promises of meth. After sitting in my apartment for ten minutes, he slowly begins to realize no meth is coming. His lifestyle has left him strung out and jittery, so he is easy enough to subdue with my "Drifter Club." As I dance around the fireplace wearing his skin, I feel the stress of the day just melt away. I decide to give this Easter one more chance.
I arrive at my parents' home too late to enjoy the traditional Easter brunch, but am just in time to help my nephews and nieces hunt for eggs. We are ten minutes into the hunt before I recall tying up my family in a barn and burning them alive several years earlier. More disconcerting than who these people are is why they would let a scantily clad black woman search for eggs with their children. Perhaps their cushy, suburban lifestyle has left them so numb to any emotion they don't even care.
After managing to stuff seventeen Easter eggs into my vagina, I improvise a little egg-dispensing show for the kids. I even inspire one little four-year-old girl to emulate the act. After she receives several vaginal stitches she is returned home. It's getting late, so we decide to wrap up the day's festivities. I ask if they would be kind enough to indulge me and participate in one of my old family traditions. They kindly oblige and we take turns stuffing Peeps into the asshole of the fattest person there.
I arrive back at my place. While cleaning up bits of junkie I had forgotten about earlier, it dawns on me why this holiday is so special. Sure, the junk food, Spring time, and brightly colored decorations are great. As is knowing a Jew got whipped into a bloody pile of goo by a bunch of Romans. But what really makes this day great is family. I decide that next year, I'll pay the team of midgets I use as sled dogs to dress up and act like my old family. Then I remove a couple of Easter eggs I had forgotten about, masturbate twice, and go to bed. All in all, a pretty goddamn special Easter.
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From: Nicolas G.
Did you know that picking on retards, or generally being an asshole in public is a true French sport ? Why don't you localize your site in French? Heck, I'm so nice I'd even do it for you.
Editor's Note: Sacre blow me. Yes, I realize how lame that was. It was just one of those moments where you have to suck it up and go with the shitty pun. Anyway, what were we talking about? Nicolas sucking cock? Guzzling cum? Licking balls? Something that involves Nicolas having his head buried in a dude's crotch.
As for all this French bashing, let me go out on a limb and assume that, like most people who insult the French, you have neither been to France nor do you know any French people. In other words, you sound like my kinda guy. There are those who say you need to have experience with or be informed on a subject before forming an opinion on it. Who the fuck has time for that?
6-decade-old stereotypes and haranguing from Bill O'Reilly provide all you really need to know about any subject. So, much the same way I do with cancer victims, rape victims, and any other kind of victims I will never have any actual interaction with- keep stickin' it to those Frenchies!
But before everyone tells me I changed the subject in the comments, let me get to what this guy was actually talking about. Yes, we pick on retards and, yes, people who wear our shirts in public are assholes, but... no, that's pretty much it.
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FUCK YOU stupid bitches! you are morons an stupid fuckin cursed americans!!!beeeeeeee you are smell like not shaved pussy FUCK YOU!!!
Editor's Note: Congratulations, you have successfully insulted me (sort of) while simultaneously leaving me no way to retaliate. I guess I could make fun of your grammar, but that point is so far beyond moot I think it might've gotten moot pregnant.
The reference to "cursed Americans" suggests someone of the Arab persuasion, so I guess I could go with the standard reference to Allah being teabagged by a goat, but I'm just not sure. I think it's the name SARR that's throwing me off. It's looks like an acronym for a random company in the medical field, but with all the goddamn names of all these goddamn people, who the fuck knows?
But for everything wrong with this email, it did manage to diagnose in two seconds what over 100 doctors couldn't diagnose in nearly ten years: I smell like not shaved pussy. Not even the most senior team of surgeons at the Mayo Clinic could figure it out. The closest anyone came was Dr. Farber when he said I might have lupus of the cancerous clit.
He was in the right area, but a misdiagnosis just the same. I tended to that area for the first time since August of '97 and I feel 100% better. I just wish I'd gotten to it before that nest of baby blue jays died in there. Poor things never had a chance.
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I love your hateful, vindictive, harmful statements with our sentiments proudly displayed for all to view. I do however feel the need to say something about your atheist prints. I know you will probably have something terrible to say back to me; however, I would not be a God loving person without mentioning that I wish they could be taken out of circulation and you would not be who you are without saying something ugly in return.
There is freedom of speech and you have the right to sell these types of shirts with the right to put me down for my belief. It's okay, I'll still purchase your shirts. I also know that you probably feel the need to sell to the God haters as well. Take care, I still love you.
Editor's Note: Nicely done. Few people can be simultaneously magnanimous and douchey, but you pulled it off nicely. Thank you ever so kindly for allowing me to continue doing what I've been doing for several years. I know us lowly dimwits who rely on facts and knowledge discovered after the year zero would be lost without you, so I sincerely appreciate your blessing.
Incidentally, who are these "God haters" you refer to? You do know what an atheist is, right? Atheists don't believe in God. Labeling an atheist a "God hater" is like labeling me a "Holocaust hater."
It is the certainty and inflexibility of you religious types which leads to these confrontations. You can believe in your bastard child of a 13-year-old whore and some magic sperm, or whatever fucking God you believe in, but you can't KNOW that shit unless you are God. At least scientists have the decency not to call it the Big Bang Fact.
And the "God haters" reference is also a good example of how presumptuous religious people are concerning others. Someone doesn't slap a fucking fish on their bumper and dip their kid in magic water and all of the sudden they oppose everything you stand for. "What!? You don't follow a bunch of rules written thousands of years ago by a MAN? Well you must hate love, family and goodness. Thank God for my 'with us or against us' mentality."
Okay, enough of the religious shit. You're not here for that. Melissa... you're a stupid cunt and you can eat a big bowl of my pubes and wash it down with some of my douche juice. There, that's better.
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Who writes the news letter? Is it really a woman? If so I believe I am in love. Please let her know.
Editor's Note: I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not actually a woman. This is President Barack Obama. We can still fuck if you want. I assume you're not into butt sex regardless of whether you're pitching or catching, but I'll gladly give your cock some of the silver tongue treatment. I'll even shave off all my body hair, wear a lady's wig and tuck my junk between my legs if it'll seal the deal. I'm trying to win over American hearts and minds, and I can't think of a better way to do that than to let them cum all over my face.
Hell, I'll even let you fuck Michelle. We're in this together. She will gladly let you pound that honey-scented ass if it'll help this country come together. Just do me the courtesy of pulling out. I don't need any more of "my" kids running around the White House.
Speaking of which, feel free to include my daughters in this little Oborgy. Malia and Sasha can attach the cables to your balls and Biden can work the switch. Whatever you're into, man. I'm not here to judge anybody.
Anyway, I hope this clears up any confusion about my gender/identity. Until next newsletter, keep them taints moist. Oh, and remember to wax and bleach your assholes. You'll know why when I propose the 28th amendment.
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[Vaya Con Fuck Off]
It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to say, "Two and a Half Men is actually pretty funny."