Brandon Mullinary, the mobile chip n' dip unit. At least I hope that's dip.
I'll cut to the chase right now and admit to all you pastry-choking hogfucks that I'm not writing this update myself because my piece of shit Jap-trap computer machine refuses to turn on no matter how much water I pour inside of it. I swear to god, I warned you little bastards years ago and I'll warn you again: never buy anything from Japan! Way back in World War I when we bombed that yellow menace and were slinging napalm around like a hornet's nest on a stick, our fearless leader Harry S. Truman said to the leader of Japan, General Whatever, "okay, we'll promise not to bomb you cretins back to the ice age if you promise to stop ripping off hard working Americans with your cheap cut-rate crap" and the Japanese said okay because you don't say no to a bunch of dedicated, patriotic, red-blooded American soldiers who aren't afraid to get in the ditches and choke as many women and children as necessary. Me and Jack Gates were stationed in the Philippines in either 1943 or 1986 and I was in charge of calling in airstrikes whenever the natives started getting real uppity and pulling tricky shit like hiding guns under their children or thinking about communism while going to the store. Me and Jack saw all kinds of shit you wouldn't believe there pal, and if you think I'm lying then I'll be more than happy to tell you the story about the dog that we threw out of the window because he didn't believe in Jesus Christ.
So like I said, I ain't writing today's update, I'm dictating it to my friend Eddie Guesslings over at his piece of shit trailer home which will hopefully burn down and consume his bloated, tick-like wife with it in the world's largest uncontained grease fire. Not that Cliff's house is any nicer, because if you walk in there and make the mistake of opening your eyes, you'll see at least 20 unfinished Sizzler dinners scattered all over the rotting linoleum floor hallway. My computer started acting all possessed and stupid and fancy and crazy last week around the time I got into a shouting match with it about how much the new TNN evening lineup stinks to high hell and back. If those ad executives at TNN had an ounce of intelligence, which they goddamn don't, they'd simply rename their zero-bit TV station to "The Law and Order Network" and have Jerry Orbach do all the commercials because I'd fucking buy whatever that man wants to sell me. Hell, Jerry Orbach should buy the whole network and do all the programming and hosting and advertising and everything, I've seen what kind of amazing shit he can pull off on "Law and Order" and I have absolutely no doubt that he'd be able to run a TV station smoother than a Crisco-chugging whore shot out of a clown cannon in an roller skating rink. Did you guys see that episode of "Law and Order" where that stupid little fat fuck bastard kid murdered the retired man outside of the tire store and Jerry Orbach was called to testify and he got up and shouted, "YOU, YOU LITTLE BUGEYED FUCKER, I'M GONNA GET OFF THIS WITNESS STAND AND STRING CHRISTMAS LIGHTS THROUGH YOUR LUNGS AND USE THEM TO FLOSS YOUR COLON YOU LITTLE FUCKING SHITBLIMP!!!" That was a great episode, especially in the end when the guy's car exploded and you could see his pregnant wife flying through the air and flipping off the camera. If I knew how to work my Betamax, I would've taped that. My idiot son bought me something called a "Tivo" which is a black box that is supposed to play television shows and record all kinds of junk from Portugal, but I couldn't get it to do anything except prop up the back wheel of my Chrysler after the transmission fell out because I used the car to open a keg of beer I found behind the bait and tackle store which burned down that night.
FUN FACT: Cliff Yablonski has borrowed and never returned the following items from me: my lawnmower, 40 square feet of insulation, a shovel, my wheelbarrow, my gasoline tank, three of my four hubcaps, the southwest plaster wall in my basement, two of my wife's gold teeth, my collection of carpet samples from across the world, three gallons of weed killer, a broken window pane, my son's toy train set, and a barrel full of cigarette butts and sand.
Okay I just found out Eddie is writing some lame-ass "fun facts" thing here because he obviously isn't aware that this is my computer page web-screen and not his little soapbox where he can bitch and moan about every single little stupid thing he thought I did and paid the Patterson kid to frame me for, so if he feels like making these little snide retarded comments in the middle of my story about how I caught the Boston Strangler last February, then I guess he can just knock himself the fuck out. Anyway, yesterday was supposed to be Veteran's Day and I was supposed to legally be able to take the day off, but since I never bothered coming into work and I don't even have a job, I didn't really get shit from the government except for reruns of that show on PBS about the puppets who teach each other how to comb their hair and avoid getting molested by fat hairy Italians on the subway. I've spent over 80 years of my life fighting for the great USA and old Uncle Sam won't even pay for me to have the day off? What kind of Veteran's Day is this shit? I've given so much for this country that this unpatriotic treatment of me is a downright embarrassing disgrace for all Americans and especially that big green statue deal of the broad in New York, the Statue of America Freedom or whatever. For example, one month in 1973 I gave the United States 400 rounds of automatic gunfire by putting it in the library's wall after the atlas there really pissed me off.
A NIGHT ON THE TOWN WITH HOT EATS AND COOL TREATS!
I woke up Monday morning around 6:00 or 7:00 PM and put on my family pants, which I call "family pants" because I once beat up an entire family and stole these pants from their attic. I don't remember who the family was, but I know I was fucking pissed off at their little piss hustling kid who was standing in my bushes and throwing tiny stones at my bedroom window all night so I couldn't sleep or concentrate on making my topsoil recreation of the Battle of Gettysburg. Every 10 seconds I would hear this obnoxious "PLINK!" noise come from my window and I looked outside there one day and saw a bunch of tiny stones in the gravel below it, and then I looked over and saw a house which had kids, so it was only a matter of time before I put two and two together and figured out what was going on there. Anyway I had my family pants on and drove over to the Denny's on the corner of 19th Street and Blaketon Ave., that decaying road which has been under construction for about the past six decades or so. I have no goddamn clue what those reflective orange cram cretins are spending all day doing, but I can tell you what they're NOT doing: fixing the fucking road. How hard is it to fix a bridge? When I was in the Army Rangers back in the 30s, we used to build bridges all the time, and it usually took us under five hours to build a six-mile bridge, complete with anti-aircraft cannons and sniper land mines. All we did was build bridges. Some German town would get shelled and we'd come in and toss up bridges everywhere. I don't even remember why the hell we built the bridges to begin with, our unit killed our commanding officer about 10 hours into the first day, so we were pretty much operating on our own there. Sometimes we'd roll into these burnt out German joints and start pouring concrete and asphalt all over the goddamn place, and the fat dogleg villagers would come out and scream shit at us in some commie German secret code, so then we'd dump all this concrete into their houses until they either shut the hell up or disappeared under the concrete. We eventually got such a great reputation as the world's best bridge builders that we'd get near a town and the mayor or president or whatever of the town would come out and give us a crapload of money just so we wouldn't come into their city and turn it into a parking lot with Kraut chimneys sticking out of it.
FUN FACT: Cliff Yablonski once broke into a bakery and ate three pounds of fudge before falling into the basement and trying to tunnel out through the storm drain.
Eltroll has her eye on you.
That fudge story is a goat inseminating lie, and anybody who believes that shit is more dense than Eddie's cholesterol-collecting hag wife. So I was wearing my family pants and driving through the orange cones Monday morning or night or whatever, and I see that crustacean-on-wheels Betty Grable and she's driving around in her little shitloaf red Kia shoecar, acting like she owns the place and everything. I sideswipe her car because she fucking pulls out in back of me on my blind side and I don't see anything until she's right on top of me and her little toy car is trying to hump my back windshield like a poodle in heat. She pulls over and gets ready to start giving me the third degree, so before she can say anything I shout, "before you say a single word, you better remember I'm not afraid to hit women in the face." Then she launches into her little dog and puppet show about wah, I almost killed her Nintendo-jockey droolbit kid who was either in the passenger seat or trunk or Wichita and she just bought this car and I don't have the right to drive around drunk. Then I got really pissed off because she doesn't have any say in how I run my life and I point to the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels in my hand and shout, "hey you gussied-up withered spinster, this bottle gives me the right to be drunk" and I tried to break the bottle in half and stab her through the heart with it because that's the only way you can kill leprechauns like her. No wait, that's how you kill werewolves. Hell, I don't remember, but I guess it doesn't matter because I missed her and fell down that hill which has been coated in mud and medical waste ever since that tanker truck fell over on it a couple years ago and the assbarn city government was too lazy to pay some illegal immigrant 39 cents and a coupon for a free six-pack of black cherry cola to clean it up.
A couple hours later I finally got to Denny's and my family pants were just absolutely covered with this completely disgusting mud which smelled like the orangutan make-out rooms that they have in the back room of the West Appleton City Zoo and charge four dollars to enter. I've never personally been in there but once I went to the zoo and saw these two guys give this other guy money and then they went through a door and came out later and they were acting pretty fucking weird, so you can see the connection here. I called the cops on those two simpering halfwits but the police refused to do jack squat because I think they were mad I spent the previous three hours calling in bomb threats using my Charleston Heston voice. I walk into the Denny's and start shouting, "I want a window booth and I want one right now and I want my coffee and I want my free Veteran's Day buffet and I want the chick with the uneven tits to be my waitress and I want it all RIGHT NOW" and the manager comes out and pretends like he doesn't know me, even though it's damn obvious that he remembers me from when I dug a moat around his house and tried to fill it with lighter fluid to keep out the hobos. To make a long story short, the wa
FUN FACT: Cliff Yablonski can't hear out of his left ear and hasn't been able to see the color blue since the time he tried to wrestle a horse and got kicked in the face.
what the hell is this shit, I'm tired of these goddamn "fun facts" taking up space on my computer webcam screen page and I swear to god once I get my computer back, I'm going to take Eddie's photos and put them all over my sitepage and write the words "CONVICTED CHILD MOLESTER" in huge letters so when people see him they'll say to themselves, "hey, that's the child molester!" This is real bullshit and I demand respect and not this clown college mumbo jumbo that I'm getting pulled over my eyes here. So anyway I had the cash register in my right hand and the "no parking" sign in my left hand and the manager of the Denny's comes over and s
FUN FACT: Cliff Yablonski is a stupid mental invalid who wasn't able to get it up even after he paid the Vietnamese hooker an extra $20 to put on the Naura Hayden wig.
okay this is bullshit and I'm going to stop writing this instant because I'll be damned if some cock-talking mo
FUN FACT: More shit runs out of Cliff Yablonski's mouth than the entire Appleton City sewage system, even after Oktoberfest.
FUN FACT: Cliff Yablonski lost all his teeth over a decade ago, and has since replaced them with wads of wicker that he dunked under white model paint for an hour.
FUN FACT: Cliff Yablonski is picking up my kitchen barstool and is coming over here to b
Ryan "OMGWTFBBQ" Adams with a chip on my shoulder and some dip on the other shoulder. Me and the little woman have been shopping for a new couch to replace our futon. Apparently, every furniture store in existence is going out of business RIGHT NOW. Ikea may have questionable quality here and there, and God knows they are usually filled to the brim with the same folk’s ole Cliffy Y talks about above, but dammit, at least you don't have to deal with furniture dealers. Conversations went like this:
Me: Hello fine sir, I would like to purchase this couch for which to sit upon and watch Family Guy.
Furniture jerkoff: I'm sorry this couch is part of a set, we can't break the set up! IT IS A SET!
Me: Understandable fine sir, what about the couch over in that corner?
Furniture jerkoff: IT IS PART OF A SET! A SET FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!
Me: Is anything in this place not part of a set?
Furniture jerkoff:BUY THE WHOLE SET OR BURN IN HELL YOU BASTARD CHILD OF MICKEY ROONEY AND TED DANSON!
I digress. What the world needs now, is love sweet love. And more camwhores. Everyone thinks so. Including the Goons. So they decided to recruit a few fine specimens for camwhore duty.Click here for my wishlist and nude xxx pix fo reals!
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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