Well judging by my calendar I stole from the Stuckey's bathroom in the summer of 1986, today is apparently Christmas, that godawful trainwreck of a holiday when you're supposed to give your retarded kids some gifts in the hope that they might try to eat them and choke to death so you don't have to hear them screaming and whining about how they don't like being forced to hold up a 1974 Zenith Console television set because you broke the TV stand the night before while throwing it at what you thought was a burglar but turned out to be a pair of pants glued to the window. Usually Christmas here in Appleton City is a complete disaster zone full of screeching mental failures wandering around and emitting noises from their throats that sound like bullfrogs trying to mate with heated fireplace pokers. They parade around like headless ferrets, asking for me to give them free candy and light firecrackers and all kinds of crazy shit and sometimes they dress up as ghosts. I usually respond by throwing cans of gasoline into their eyes and cramming a combat boot through their stomach like I was stuffing a bunch of big, fat, retarded turkeys who always fuck up my order at Wendy's. So I don't know where all the shrieking shitpiles in this city went off to this Christmas because they sure as hell aren't prancing around town and spreading their heartwarming message that it's okay to use asbestos condoms whenever screwing the neighbor's dog. I can only hope that they went on a Christmas cruise aboard a ship being used for Navy target practice or as an anal applicator for Godzilla or Mudzilla or Mothmonsterman or whatever that giant lizard thing was from Japan. All I know is that it's the most quiet Christmas in the past 37 years here and I'm sure as hell not going to ruin that by wondering what highway reststop all the rockmouthed white trash dumpsters here got stuck in.
Merry Christmas you white sacks of shit, your gift is one of tire tread marks on your ugly-ass skulls.
I was going to write this on my award winning computer screen web screen, but my asshole brother Enoch broke into my livingroom last night and threw an air conditioner at my computer machine and now I can't get in to write on my own goddamn computer screen. So I wrote to Richard Kayayakaka and told him to put this shit up on the web screen for me because I lost my Internet and now all I got is this computer that says "TANDY" on the front and smells like burning tires whenever I turn it on. I don't know if he actually put this paper into his web screen because I don't have any Internet now, but I assume he has because he knows I'll punch a hole through his damp skull and use his brains to clean my oven if he doesn't do what I say because I'm a goddamn war veteran and I deserve respect and little shitmolesters like him should be lining up to serve me peach juice for all the time I spent serving this proud country, the US of A. Once we go to war with those goddamn Jap Chinese Arabs and fuckwits like him get drafted, shipped overseas, and shot full of nuclear bullets, I'll be sitting here and watching them eat sand on my 1974 Zenith Console television set which now gets CNN, although I'm not sure why or how.
Like I was saying before I got distracted by that bug flying around my head, since it's Christmas and the shitty, shitty year of 2002 is wrapping up, today I'm going to give you computer cretins my yearly list of stuff. I was going to give this list a great name to just wow all you simpletons out of your collective welfare-soaked socks, but then I remembered that I don't really give a shit since most of you pathetic pussriders have to hire an outside consultant just to read this to you. I'm going to try to keep this list brief because I got my goddamn foot stuck in that green laundry basket that was on the roof of my toolshed (which I am almost done working on) last week, and I need to get it off before the new shift of clueless Mormons come by and I deliver the Holy Word of "your god brings PAIN TO YOU" back at them. Anyway here it is:
MERRY GODDAMN CHRISTMAS 2002, CLIFF YABLONSKI'S LIST OF STUFF
This looks like the computer machine I'm using here, except you can't smell the burning.
First off, I'd like to point out that the first thing I'm going to do once I get untangled from this cheapass laundry hamper is head on down to the Appleton City Council and treat every board member to a little surprise I like to call "me beating the shit out of you and breaking windows until I pass out or the cops frame me for crimes I sure as hell didn't commit." As you douchebags out there probably know, I've been trying to build a moat around my house since Fall of 1993, the year those government fuckwipes tore down my barrier of electrical fence. They started saying all kinds of bullshit like "oh Cliff, wah, you can't put up this electrical fence because you simply stole a section of the Patterson's fence and hooked a wire from it to the electrical outlet in your kitchen, wah." Yeah right, I'm supposed to believe that using my own goddamn electricity that I pay for is suddenly now illegal? If I didn't have my entire right leg tangled up in this laundry hamper right now, I'd start administering beatings like a cafeteria, a cafeteria of PAIN. So after they tore down my fence and I stole another section of fence from the Patterson Household of Mental Parasites and made it electrical, the city came in and tore down my fence AGAIN! I can't believe the goddamn nerve Appleton City has towards war veterans like me who put my ass on the line to fight off the Commie Nazi Japs in the Korean War so you could live free and spend several hours a night at the all-you-can-eat Sizzler's glutton buffet.
Anyway, the city council keeps fining me and sending me bills whenever I start tearing up the sidewalk in the front of my house so I can dig a moat around my house. I tried ripping down the telephone pole but that's when a whole shitload of cop cars came and I had to run out back and use my jungle warfare skills to hide in a pipe which I had to eventually be removed from by the West Appleton City Fire Department. So this new year better be a whole lot better or else you're going to start seeing a lot of city council members disappearing and then being found in oil drums at the bottom of Lake Meatshores.This is the jetplane I flew in the Vietnam War. See those two jumpsuited simps up front? They're both dead now.
It's okay to cheat on your wife if the broad looks nothing like her. I mean, it's only cheating if you get caught sleeping around with some bimbo who looks like your wife, if she looks different then it's not really cheating because she's a whole different person. I told my friend Eddie Carver this and he said I should write an advice book because I'm better than that crazy harpy on the radio, Dr. Laura Shitslinger, and he's probably right because what the fuck does a woman know about giving advice? Women shouldn't be giving advice, they should be GETTING advice like "I advise you to make me a steak" and "I advise you to go sleep on the couch tonight because you smell like a hog."
Anybody who is over 25 and drives a Camaro is a scumbag. Same thing applies for people under aged 25 or younger.
I plan on beating up more Russians outside the smoothie booth of the Silt Farms Mall. I ran into one of these fuckfuckers last week and I could tell he was a Ruskie because he had a hat and I couldn't read what it said on it and the Russians are sneaky like that and just because now you'll get jailtime for punching the crap out of these red menaces doesn't mean it's wrong or illegal or shit. So I'm going to spend more time at the Silt Farms Mall by the smoothie booth, more than likely on the Hickory Farms side because there's some cheap Jap China shitshop named "Hot Tropics" on the other side and it's just an anthill of high school Mary Manson fans who need to have their spinal cords adjusted via monkeywrench. I'll be more than happy to do so once I get my leg out of this stupid plastic hamper thing that's really starting to piss me off.
I heard that video game machines are turning kids these days into killing machines, and that makes sense to me because there's this video game machine at the laundromat and I'm sure that I saw some punk kid play the game and then go out behind the Dairy Queen and stab a toad to death with a stick. I threw that fucklick through a car window (the kid, not the dead toad) and then headed over to the laundromat to investigate this theory and discovered a few startling facts about this video game machine, facts which undoubtedly prove that they're turning kills into kidding machines. I wrote the following points down and mailed them to my Congressman so he would hopefully ban video game machines or kids or both:
FACT #1: THIS VIDEO GAME MACHINE FEATURED GRAPHIC VIOLENCE OF A MAN FALLING INTO WATER AND AN EXPLOSION SHORTLY AFTERWARDS
FACT #2: THIS VIDEO GAME MACHINE FEATURED A NAME WHICH I CANNOT REMEMBER BUT WAS VERY VIOLENT
FACT #3: THIS VIDEO GAME MACHINE FEATURED BUTTONS WHICH, WHEN PRESSED, DID SOMETHING THAT I CANNOT REMEMBER.
FACT #4: THIS VIDEO GAME MACHINE WAS LOCATED IN THE LAUNDROMAT
As you can see from these obvious facts, video game machines are turning our kids into killing machines or knitting machines or whatever and all I know is those are the fact and Congress is just sitting around and doing jack shit while you and I and both of us have to watch all our favorite episodes of "Law and Order" interrupted by news reports about somebody dying somewhere and I think it's about time whatever's happening stops and does something else, something which doesn't piss me off so goddamn much.My television set, a 1974 Zenith Console.
I don't give a shit about the ocean so I wish those New York flaptops would stop showing me pictures of oceans in their advertisements. I don't know what the hell they're selling but I'm sure as hell not going to buy it because I hate the ocean and I'd rather throw my money into a tar pit than support some filthy New York rug salesman and his magazine ads with ocean pictures. While I'm on the subject, I demand to know who was responsible for those "Nut N' Honey" commercials from the 1980's. Those analtastical ads were so horrible, there would always be some guy eating his cereal and minding his own business when his haggard old leech of a wife stumbles in and drunkenly asks "what are you eating?" and he says "Nut N' Honey" and she says "you are too eating something, what is it?" and he says back "Nut N' Honey" and this idiotic cavalcade of retarded banter goes on for what seems like 400 hours. If those New York pussfarms were smart they'd just make the commercial end with the guy burying a hatchet in the back of his wife's skull and saying "NUT N' HONEY, THAT IS THE NAME OF THE PRODUCT YOU STUPID BROAD, IT IS NAMED 'NUT N' HONEY' AND SOUNDS LIKE THE PHRASE 'NUTTIN' HONEY' SO NOW YOU KNOW WHY YOU ARE DEAD" and then he'll fill her corpse with candy and ship it off to some sun-soaked jobless Mexican kids.
I hope the stock market keeps going down because I've been saying for years that the stock market is nothing but a bunch of made up numbers and flying paper. My idiot son invested all his money in the stock market and now his cash is all gone because the stock market crashed like I was saying it would. I kept on telling my stupid kid, "you fucking moron, don't invest in the stock market, do the smart thing and bet on horses instead," but he never listened to me. Now he's flat broke and I just won a trifecta on "Momma's Coalbucket" as #1, "Lightning Dogfood on Wheels" as #2, and "The Horse Used Secretly For Sex" as #3. Who's the smart guy now, huh?
So that's my list and now I'm done writing this list so I can go back to trying to take this fucking laundry hamper off my leg because it's really starting to cut off circulation there and it feels like the time I found an abandoned refrigerator in the Patterson family's kitchen so I broke in and started rocking it back and forth so all the stuff inside would come out of the icemaker hole, but the goddamn white whale of a appliance fell on my leg and when I woke up, I was in the restroom of a Chinese restaurant and my pants were gone. Merry Christmas and all that shit.
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Hows about you, me, and five uncomfortable minutes in my basement apartment next to the dusty Christmas tree that's still up from my last visit with my estranged children.
The Upper Kitchen Cabinet Where Your Roommate Keeps His Food: You’ll 'need the footstool' to reach your roommate’s 'fine selection' of 'stale cereal,' but he'll never notice if 'only a little is missing from each box.' Feel less guilty by reminding yourself that Jeff 'acts weird around your girlfriend,' and always 'asks about her.' What a 'creep.'
This ain't your daddy's globe...! .... or is it?!
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