I wonder why we call Tuna, Tuna Fish Salad? I mean we don't say Bass Fish or Red Snapper Fish. Or Halibut Fish, Flounder Fish, Perch Fish, or Trout Fish. 'Some types of fish need clarification if you make a casserole or salad out of them?
I mean Tuna Fish Salad already has 'salad' on the end to indicate it's oshkoshbygoshness. Why the fish distinction? Did it miraculously become NON-fish when it was mixed with other ingredients or something? People don’t know Tuna is a fish or some such nonsense like that? I mean Charlie the Tuna sitting on those tuna cans isn’t blatant enough for them? It’s a fucking fish sitting on the tuna can, man. What – do people think he was a major Marco Polo star and is supplementing his over-inflated income by pimping tuna in a can? Can’t tell he’s of the Fish race, Tuna gender?
And why the salad descriptor? I don’t see any damn lettuce in there. And why do we have to add yet another noun on the end if we put the shit on bread? Tuna Fish Salad Sandwich. OVERKILL. We don’t say Tuna Fish Salad Crackers. Hummus doesn’t need any kind of extra English appendages depending on whether it’s served with Pita bread or Lavosh crackers. Why does Tuna get all this special treatment, all this overuse of adjectives? Can people just not streamline it a little?
C’mon. Life is already complex already. The lace just isn’t enough. We need more bling. Bring out the glitter and sequins. Jesus loves fishsticks. That’s simple enough. Leave Elvis out of it. That's really why he left the building, after all. With Jesus. In sheer disgust over the mayonaisse-fish-bread-casserole complexity situation. That, and the inanity of driving around with the stickfish on the back of car bumpers with tacky little WWJD plastic bracelets on, not to MENTION the whole cross-and-fear hullaballo. Just so ya' know...
And please, please, chopstick hearts, please....CEASE AND DESIST in the making of those crappy little candies like 'Sixlets' and 'Chik O Stix.' No one likes them. NO ONE. NegaTRON buddy boy. So stop it already.
Ah, stupid questions always assaulting the brain… But according to the Reese's commercial 'Stupid is Nice.' Or something like that. Has anyone seen this bizarre advertisement yet? That gets my raving 'WTF' award of the month. How is stupid being nice, remotely persuasive to pushing someone to partake in what is already a perfect combination of peanut buttery goodness and chocolate? Other than plaguing me with completely unrelated mixed emotions of living in tardville with a smile on my face whilst I'm enjoying my cpb or pbc snacky treat, that is. Really. If I need to be confused, I'll go hit up my Uncle, Mr. Peanut, for some mixed nuts or something. Shit-hammocks.
And speaking of munch-buttocks... here's another inquiry designed for enlightenment of the soul. Did the US of A invent American cheese or something? And what about Farmer’s cheese? Farmers didn’t come up with cheddar or swiss or gouda too? Or the "Farmer’s" adjective was already taken by the time of those little tasty inventions? They spent all their initial time creating a bland piece of shit food called 'Farmer’s Cheese.' And so the good cheese-- the ones they might really want to be credited with discovering-- gets a different name. That was fucking stupid. Should have just crammed the craptastic Farmer’s Cheese on the backburner until they came up with something monsterifically good and attached their name to that creation instead. Marketing sense people! Or simply, just some real genuine taste would work migh-T-fine.
And while I'm on a roll here [where's my butter?] --- I'd like to express my beef with the term 'Hamburger.' There is NO pork in the burger. Hence, ham is nowhere in the equation. It’s ground up, it’s meat, and it’s of the beef variety. If you have to juxtapose or concatenate words to understand what you’re eating, it should be called 'groundburger', which is just ambiguous enough to really describe a patty of that sort, since you never know what remnant pieces O' meat are actually in one. At least with my playdough bakery set I knew (know) I was (am) getting a salty red, blue, yellow, or green piece of flour rubber. Or if you just HAVE to disclose the intended origin of the grind, then call it 'cowburger.' But inaccurate smoke and mirrors BULLshit like 'hamburger' has no place in my language, and simply just pisses me off. Moo.
We used to call this guy in the fraternity "fishpig", because his last name was Bassham. That rant just made me remember that. Kinda funny. Which catapults me into another random memory, where we used to spurt out the saying 'slap a cold trout on it...' in awkward moments of silence during the early hours of a party when we were waiting on those old enough (or with viable enough fake id's) to bring the Alcohol. No one seemed to remember what that phrase referred to, or why in the hell they were saying it, but everyone laughed like they were in on the joke anyway. KINDA LIKE LIFE. I think it had some reference to some dude's bad intimate experience with a chick that didn't know how to wash up down under, a phenomenon I've never understood. It's called SOAP bitch. Learn to use it. Learn to spell it. OR just.... slap a cold trout on it. Hehe. Makes me giggle still. Now where's my Natural Light?
I think the open and close buttons on the elevator are made to torment people with Type A personality. Give them something to do, make them feel like they’re in control, while the elevator goes the SAME DAMN SPEED as it would if the buttons weren’t pressed. Takes its own sweet time, while the control freak is distracted and occupied with pressing those damn buttons over and over. The whole shenanigan conspiracy behind those rat-bastage buttons is just redamndiculous. Why? Because I don’t like being jacked around! It pisses me off. Now, every time I see one of those fucking buttons, I just want to punch it in the mouth. Condescending little smug bastards. If the elevator went faster I wouldn’t try to punch those fuckers in the first place.
I mean if I’m using the elevator then I usually need to get to where I’m going more quickly than I could take the stairs. Or I’m invalid, or fat, or fucking lazy. But they were installed to enable convenience, and to a type A -- or triple AAA in my case -- convenience means not having to wait the equivalent of walking 2 flights of stairs for the damn door to close, or open. Stupid little buttons. Fucking mockers. Now I just fuck with them to pretend I’m punching them in the mouth. I know what they’re up to. I got their number. Fucking buttons.
Church sign 1: “You can bury the truth, but it won’t stay there.”
Why? The Truth a grave digger or something? Carry around a shovel as its sidekick? So what about its nemesis-- The Lie? It just stay buried down there? Is it some mole burrowing necrophiliac, going ‘yeah baby I love me some underground!?’ So what about the Lie? If we bury it, and the truth always digs itself out, then it pops out and rats on the Lie anyway, right? Self appoints itself the fun police, while Lie’s underground minding his own bizness, partying it up, and up comes that damn truth yelling and pointing and shaking its ratty little finger- ‘Nah Nah Nah, everyone, the Lie’s underground. THE LIE IS UNDERGROUND, doing god knows what that little lie.’
Fucking Truth, that crap-faced little tattletale, never lets anyone have any fun eh? Lie should just streak around in the open, butt ass naked, pissing everyone off, pissing in the snow, talking gay, waving a rainbow flag, lifting up people’s skirts, giving wedgies, slapping people on the back, kicking out their knees, invigoratingly fondling and rearranging his genitals. Saying "Hellz yeah, look here, hey, I’m a fucking LIE, whatcha gonna do about it? Yeah. I’m raining on Truth’s parade! Pissing in his Post Toasties. Taking over his territory. See me? I’m a truthful lie. I ain’t hiding underground. Now what role do you have Mr. Truth? Nothing. You’re a fucking useless piece of shit now. Go hang out with your shovel, you brat, 'cuz you don’t need it anymore. We are all one and the same and separation is an illusion. *rasberry tongue noise and eye roll*"
Alright! Way to go Lie. You said it buddy. I didn’t have to.
But, now I have a question. Since the Lie came clean about being a lie, did it just become Truth? Well, indeedies, I do believe it did! Hand over that shovel you mother fucker Truth-LIE. You’re going underground to browntown. Hope you like earthworms.
Dichotomy merge complete.
Church sign 2: “You can’t always believe what you think.”
So now, what if I believe that what I think is what I believe?
1. I can’t believe what I think
2. I think that I believe what I think
3. Therefore, I can’t believe what I believe.
Wow, how’s that for utter fucking confusion, eh? My rhetoric and composition teacher in college would have loved that syllogism. Where’s the sand so I can go stick my head in it? Ah tastes great, and good for whitening the teeth too. Free Cheap Easy. Kinda dry though. And gritty.
Church sign 3: “We never get dizzy doing good turns.”
WTMammaJammaF? Has this church monopolized the ballet schools now? Teaching the dingle-berry congregation how to spot? I don’t even know where to start my smart-assical critique of this type of fluff-stuffing crap. It’s not even witty or insightful enough of a message to compete with that shitty pressed cotton candy knock off they sell at grocery and video stores in an aluminum sealed bag.
Here’s a tip churchie poo. Don’t fuck with either Dance or Cotton Candy, when you feel the need to impress Jesus with your witless-jisms. I need to take a meclizine before I puke all over my new shoes. Rock slobber fudgestdicks. There is NO point here. Just stop digging. Or you’re going in the ground with the truth-thats really a-lie. And I’ll personally shove the earthworms in your ears. Like that Star Trek movie that scarred me for life for which I still need to be vindicated, somehow. Thanks for the inspiration. The dilemma of how I would karmically purge my psyche of the fear of some sleazy little brain bug entered into my otic channels has plagued me for decades.
Now go spin your fart-yarn elsewhere, you spotless coyote ugly. I know a bar full of NSync and Fatnasty pseudo lesbian chicks in knock-off red striped tube socks, that are just dying to join ya. I’m sure you’ll get a real kick coming up with tooty little thought vomits to save their souls, since all they wanna do is fight, fuck, and cry. To really, incredibly horrific hip hop. Dog save us all.
By the way, I hate fucking church signs. Everyone has to have a fucking slogan.
Well, that's all the muckie-puck residing in the head tonight. Except the useless trivial tidbit about that tasty little snack-cake called 'Ding Dong' which used to be named 'King Dong' before some asshat demanded they change the name because of the sexual reference. Why, Why, WHY must sex be made into such a horrible thing? Because of the snot-tards who strive to smear their whippy cream around all whimsically and such, by being King Dongs of the jungle? Give my culturally-congested root chakra a break already!
I'm not sure being a dipshit is any better than being arrogant about your big dick, of which you'll never use the last 3 inches, and most likely get laid less often because you're the impetus of annoying cockiness (on multiple levels) and yeast/bladder infections. Better go buy some soap, 'cause she's gonna need it buddy.
I do know that calling someone a 'Tool' makes me kinda giggle, although that's a word that really deserves an adjective, since tools are supposed to assist with the efficiency of a task. I guess they got the adage confused with my rules for Tuna. Next time I place an order at the local deli, I'll be sure to ask for Tool Fish salad. But then I might get some strange composite of King Ding Dong meets Chick-no-licking-good, in which case I'll just politely hand them back the takeout bag, and go slap a cold trout on it.
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