This old hag tried to pick me up last week. I would've caved in her face with an iron, but from the looks of it, somebody already beat me to the punch, by about one million times.
Before I start writing this computer screen Inter-web page thing today, I just want to say that I'm going to fucking stab whoever the hell stole my 1965 Sears Recliner. I'm gonna pick you up by the throat and shake you like a bag of grits falling off the back of a pickup truck and teach you some goddamn respect for your elders because this shit is just crap I tell you. I went to watch "Law and Order" a couple nights ago and when I walked over to sit down, I fell on my grizzled war veteran ass because, hey guess what, MY GODDAMN 1965 SEARS RECLINER WAS NOT THERE. Some puking bastard apparently broke into my fortress of solitude the night before and stole my goddamn 1965 Sears Recliner while vomiting all over my brand new carpet which I just had cleaned in August of 1987. The next time you little punkshit fuckbuckets try to break into my house and rip off some of ol Cliff Yablonski's hard earned loot, you're going to be greeted by a fireplace poker jamming through your eye socket and throttling that rotting gray stuff you got growing in between your ears.
I'm gonna have this puke on my carpet analyzed with this DNA anaylzation machine I built out of a record player and a piece of metal that I think fell off the Challenger before it crashed into the WTC. This DNA machine thing can analyze the unholy hell out of your DNA and bones and shit and then it will play some classic Sinatra tunes in the background like "Lady is a Tramp," which is one of his best songs ever because all women are tramps and if you give them an inch, they'll steal your damn ruler. Hell, it was probably some dumb broad who swiped my 1965 Sears Recliner so she could sell it and buy makeup or new shoes or lamps or groceries or whatever the hell dumb broads these days buy. I'm going to program my DNA machine to pick up women's DNA and shoot lasers at it once I figure out how the hell to program machines. I think I gotta use a screwdriver or change the wiper fluid or some bullshit like that, so fuck it, I'm just going to go to Batty Grable's house and beat the snot out of her hairy punk kid because she was probably behind this crap and I swore revenge against her after the last time I ran for PTA and lost and she called me some words which I can't remember right now because I was drunk when she said them and I'm sort of drunk now too so shut up or else I'll push over a wall on you and throw your kids down a well like in that one movie about the fighter pilot who came home to find his wife had a wall pushed onto her and his kids were down a well. I think that one guy who screams all the goddamn time was in it, Al Casino or whatever his name is, the crazy Italian shithead. "Hi, I'm Italian and I'M CRAZY AND I'M ITALIAN AND I'M GONNA START SHOUTING NOW FOR NO REASON WHATSOEVER, YAAAAAHHH!" That guy.
Alex Jennings, the Pimplesbury Dough Boy.
So I went to sit down this morning and fell down again because my 1965 Sears Recliner wasn't there, then I rolled out my door because my house is on some fucking uneven foundation. Did I tell you about that? Yeah, the worthless grubslob who sold me this hellhole house back in '56 didn't bother to tell me it was built on a goddamn Indian burial ground, so every time it rains their coffins start coming up out of the dirt under my house and fucking up the foundation which I think is mostly stucco and duct tape. And let me tell you, it's been raining like a broken goddamn piss faucet here in Appleton City these past few days or weeks or months, I don't know, I haven't been able to keep the days straight since that one time last year I tried brewing my own beer with battery acid and paint varnish and then my eyes started getting all fucked up and I swear to god I saw a bunch of VCs sitting in my lawn, which is why I went through six magazines of hollowpoints that night and bulldozed that goddamn Shriner billboard off Highway 228.
So all this rain is fucking up my foundation and I went to go grab my nightly 2:38 AM beer which I drink every night in between my 2:36 AM beer and my 2:39 AM beer, and this fucking casket came launching out of the ground like a gerbil from Richard Gere's ass. The door swung open and this Indian corpse came lumbering out at me with his arms out like a brown zombie so I shouted "GET A JOB TONTO, YOU DRUNK INDIAN PIECE OF SHIT" and threw some casino chips at his head in the hopes that his primal instinct to gamble would distract him from knocking over my new coffee table I stole from Henry Grimmington's yardsale last week when the circus was in town. As you can probably guess, even the corpses in Appleton City are dumb as punch spit, so this Indian kept coming at me and then I got REALLY pissed off. I said, "okay Chief Cocksnuggle, you want to play? Let's play" and I took a shovel and started digging through the tiles in my kitchen. After a few hours, I pulled up the corpses of his wife and kids and I started giving his dead broad skeleton wife a big deep tongued kiss in the mouth while shouting, "how do you like this, you dirty drunk Indian chief? I'm making out with your goddamn dead whore wife!" Then I took my shovel and knocked her head off and threw it into the creek while calling the homeowner's association because there's no way in hell I'm cleaning up this mess that I was clearly not responsible for in any way whatsoever. I'm now using the Indian's ribcage as a tie rack in my closet, but since I don't own any goddamn ties, I just throw used tissues at it and use it to clean out my gutters.
The secret lives of Jiffy Lube employee #1 and 2.
Anyway, tomorrow is the 4th of July I think, so this computer screen Inter-web page is now about how you little faceless fucks need to respect us Vets and learn about our glorious country of America. See, we got this little thing in America called "freedom," and if you don't like it then I have the freedom to kick your teeth in so far that you'll have to sit on top of your next McDonalds Fat Fuck Meal to chew it down like the greasy landslug you are. Brave people like me and Manny Johnson down the road are the reasons why you currently don't have a hammer and sickle branded into your forehead and you're not running around shouting "hail Hitler" at robot statues all day. When freedom was threatened by the Krauts in WWI, me and a bunch of other patriotic men were shipped overseas to bomb the hell out of the worthless commie fucknuts who were threatening our precious democracy and stock market and booming coal industry. I was one of the brave men and younger men who was in the trenches of Grenada, sucking up mustard gas grenades that the lazy German Kraut pinkos were tossing at us for 58 days straight. All I had back then was a Graham Chapman 1102 .223 rifle which could hold one single bullet and that bullet weighed 19 pounds because they filled bullets full of concrete back then (lead was too hard to find, which is why we had to turn trash cans into scrap metal so Uncle Sam could build anti-helicopter missiles). My rifle also had a big stabbing spear at the end of it, and I used that thing to disembowel about 200 Germans, most of which were during the war or at least somewhat afterwards. One time I was stationed at Mount Scheiße and the Krauts had these tanks which shot fire and acid everywhere and my field captain just had his spine removed by a German infantryman who snuck in to our base with one of those metal rods which are laced with gunpowder and barbed wire. Anyway, I took over the squad and we rushed that hill and killed ourselves 19,000 Germans and captured their secret tank base which they were using to build tanks that turned into helicopters that turned into jets. When I came back from the war, people spit in my face and had the nerve to call me a "babykiller" and outrageous shit like that just because I killed a lot of babies in the war. Hey let me tell you something, you yellowbellied redfaced pinko commie treehugging liberal hippie environmentalist Sasquatch carpet salesmen: foreign babies grow up to be anti-American soldiers, so if I wipe out a foreign maternity ward or two either on purpose or because I've been drinking so much that I'm convinced Christmas trees are trying to rape me, then I'm helping save this country.
Patty "Big Mac" Dunkins throws one of her own shoes.
As you drooling clownjobs all know, I have served in every major war since WWI, including WWII, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, the Battle of Bunker Hill, the Shootout at the OK Corral, the Earth vs. the Moon People (the government will deny any knowledge of this, but I swear to god IT DID HAPPEN), and that battle where I drove a tank and ran over the foreign guys in the sand. I thought at first that was Dessert Storm, but then I remembered the cops showing up and saying I had blacked out and ran over Ed Bishops at the East Appleton City River View golf course (sandtrap on the 14th hole), which is perfectly fine by me because Ed Bishops is a goddamn worthless liar who claimed I borrowed his weedwacker last June, even though there was no goddamn possible way for me to steal his weedwacker because I had set fire to his garage the night before. So in summary, I'm a fucking war hero and Ed Bishops is a dirty bastard who will try to frame you for public intoxication when you're sitting around and minding your own business and watching his wife undress from the bushes outside her bedroom's window.
Last year me and Gary Feldhor were celebrating the 4th of July down at the VFW on the corner of 18th Street and Monroe, and we were having a great old time. Gary sells propane down at the Lunch N' Munch, so we were throwing the propane cans off the roof and shooting them with these armor-piercing rounds we found locked in the storage room of the police station. We were told that there wouldn't be any problems with this because that's what we assumed since the parade had already passed by and most people were off the streets and going back to their homes to do god knows what. It turned out that those roaming chucklefucks hadn't started the goddamn parade yet, and Gary and me were blowing holes in the Boy Scout troop practice below us. Now that's fine by me because I've seen those news stories about the Boy Scouts these days and how they're letting in homosexuals and child rapists and illegal aliens, but Gary started bitching about how his drooling little snotfactory kid was in the Boy Scouts and he might be the next kid trying to dunk his head in the water runoff grate in some futile attempt to keep the flames from getting inside his skull and charring the precious half-ounce wad of crap that they use to think about transsexual porn. Since Gary was getting on my goddamn nerves, I told him to go downstairs and get me another bottle of whisky because I only had one or two or six bottles left. He said he was too tired to go and he didn't have the ability to walk straight thanks to my patented "Cliff Yablonski Double Vision Punch" which is made up of gin and used motor oil. So then I told him his wife was on the phone and wanted to speak to him, but he made up some bullshit excuse like "my wife died from breast cancer in 1987" so I told him that if he didn't go downstairs, I'd put a lump inside his chest, only it wouldn't be full of cancer, it'd be full of my goddamn fist. Because I would punch him. You know. Anyway, I don't think Gary was listening at that point because his eyes were open and he didn't have a pulse, so I went home and watched some show on TV about zebras fucking each other.
So that's why the 4th of July is a special time of the year and you should start respecting people like me because I served this country and served it proud, and you haven't done jack shit except fuck up my order at White Castle, you drooling blobs of sweating lard. And I swear to god, I'm going to find that 1965 Sears Recliner and beat the shit out of whoever the fuck stole it from me to sell it for meth money. I don't care how many elementary school students I have to run down in my Chrysler to get there.
Plump Your Lip's $24.76
Ryan "OMGWTFBBQ" Adams here on a lovely Tuesday, mere hours away from a four day weekend, in which I will play lots and lots of Planetside, as long as the squad I'm leading doesn't decide to recall back to the Sanctuary without telling me. That's some real leadership there folks.
I've got all this extra time to waste on Planetside because I finished up the newest Harry Potter book, "Order of the Phoenix." Poor, poor Neville. I really didn't think he'd be the one to bite it, but as long as it isn't the holy trinity or Dumbledore, I'll be right as rain.And this brings me to today's Comedy Goldmine, Harry Potter books we'd like to see. With all the hype and excitement surrounding the Harry Potter tales, can you blame the goons for coming up with a few off the wall versions of the books? Well, can you? HMMM?
I'd copy that on my Tivo if they ever made it into a movie, I tell you what.
Ernest Cline, writer of Ready Player One, shares his newest poem.
The Something Awful front page news tackles anything both off and on the Internet. Mostly "on" though, as we're all incredible nerds.