(NOTE TO READERS: It seems that Cliff Yablonski wrote this thinking that Valentines Day was today. At least that's what I'm assuming because I can't figure out why else he would send this to me today, especially since it's his "beer in the kiddie pool" night. Maybe he wrote it for next year's Valentines Day, in which case he's like 358 days early. -ed)
Howdy, lardsacks. It's your old pal Cliff Yablonski here, so pull your chins out of your meat troughs and pay attention because I've got more hard-won knowledge to shove into you useless heaps of moisture. You might think I'm wasting my time trying to hammer any wisdom or intelligence into your potato-shaped skulls, and you'd be right because God knows it's like leaving your false teeth in tapioca pudding, but you can shut the hell up because I'm a damn veteran and a hero to my country and I deserve a few privileges like that now I'm getting on in years. This Christmas Betty Grable asked me to be the Mall Santa for the PTA and I told her "what has the goddamn PTA ever done for me, Mable? Where were you when I was lying in a trench with a dozen Jap bullets in my arm pulling our troop carrier out of the mud? You want to think about that a little before you ask me to give up my precious time which I could be using to think about shooting Japs or working on my toolshed, Shirley?" and then I picked up her cat and threw it at her crazy rat's nest of a head because I hate both her head and her cat and I figured I could kill two birds with one stone like that time I took a stone and threw it at two birds that wouldn't stop making noise at 3:00 am. I think they were trying to mate or some shit. My roof isn't a goddamn bird whorehouse, it's a roof and it's going to stay a goddamn roof until I tell it to stop!
This man is in the mood for "glove." I didn't write that caption, Richard changed my original caption which was "I want to strangle this jerk" because he thought his was funnier but I think he's wrong.
Anyhow before Labor Day and New Years comes around it's Valentines Day. You internet geek bastard shitwizards probably don't even have a damn clue about what goes on during Valentines Day, so let me give you a couple pieces of advice and answer your stupid questions before you even have a chance to pry open your filthy cake-filled maws.
Valentines Day is one of the many, many, many days when your hopelessly pathetic advances are turned down by whatever doughmountain zitfarm of a female you set your blurry sights on. Now you're probably wondering how you can trick some broad into getting within a 10 mile radius of you on this stupid day but you've got no clue because you're about as smart and charismatic as a skeleton at the bottom of a well. Well fear no more, dumpshovels, because once again ol' Cliff is here to save your ugly faces from getting kicked in by dingy broads, not that anybody would notice the difference afterwards. And you're damn lucky I'm around, because most of you jam-smeared turdmerchants couldn't get laid if you crammed yourselves up a chicken's ass.
Speaking of chickens, the first thing you gotta remember is that all women are crazy, so you gotta be crazy too. Crazy like a junkyard dog that is, but not smell like one, which will be the tricky part for you muck-encrusted pisspumps. If you can remember that then you can't go wrong because crazy people are predictable unless you add milk cartons or bamboo into the equation. What the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah, broads are all nuts and that's why they do nutty-ass shit like talk about laundry and cry when someone dies and drive cars like goddamn skagged-up chimpanzees. There's no explaining it so I'm not even gonna try. You just have to remember that when some broad does something that seems completely fucking stupid it's because she's got crazy dust in her hormones or some shit like that and you should buy her some cream to make her vagina smaller or whatever the hell that crud is. I think women are "on their period" like 29 out of 30 days a month or at least that's what they act like when I see them at the K-Mart and I start shouting encouraging comments regarding how to fix their various facial irregularities. They get nuts like when you drop a hubcap into a pen full of werewolves.
This pasty custard farm is on the internet just like you cretins, maybe she's stealing your Mario Brothers you clueless dipshits.
Okay so you got some hagfaced sea whore in your eyes and you don't know how to make the first move because you're a nerd assmechanic who spends all day downloading Super Marios on your Internet video and getting the power up to win the game, way to go there you social suckfuck. Well assuming that you remember to wash the three-month buildup of grease and meat particles off your caved in chest, the next thing you gotta know is how to make a good first impression. You gotta be careful how you act around women because like I said they're crazy and you can be doing something perfectly normal and they'll suddenly start screaming like a goddamn air-raid siren and the next thing you know you're in a ditch and your lucky hat is gone and then you go home and see that you've been whacked with a six-month restraining order. So don't punch them or knock them around like you can with your male buddies. Save that shit for marriage. And if you're really shitfaced, and God knows I know I would be if I was as incredibly pathetic as you are, try not to throw up on any women nearby because then you get your beer-soaked ass kicked out of the joint and you gotta walk home through the park with bushes full of hobos and child pornographers and aliens and hens and shit. One time I was walking home through the park and I saw a UFO in the sky with "GOODYEAR" written on it so I got home and wrote to Goodyear telling them unless they gave me fifty million bucks then their dirty little space secret was out. They never wrote back so now you know what they're up to and if you buy some of their tires you'll be funding Martian death fleets and guess who will be laughing when your corpse is frying like bacon on the hood of my Chrysler? Me, that's who. I'll be the one laughing, not the dead one. That will be you, you the dead guy, and me the one laughing. At you.
Where the hell was I, oh yeah the broads thing. And don't you fucking DARE accuse me of being drunk you shitshark flabfactory or I swear to God I'll come around to your house and beat you in the face with a sack full of rusty doorknobs and broken bathroom tiles. Oh shit I think I left that bag at the McAnderson's garage last week when I was giving their freakish gutterslumping maggot kids a little "attitude adjustment." I only drink for the flavor and I can hold my liquor unlike some of you drunkass stinkwads and if you'd stared death in the face in the form of a Korean flamethrower batmobile then you'd need something to help you sleep at night and in the mornings and afternoons too. Anyway once you've bolstered your flabby ego to the point where you can ooze over to the object of your desires, you'll need something impressive to say because women love guys who can talk shit about shit and if you're on the internet then that means you have the conversational skills of a seaslug. Not like me, I can charm up broads like nobody's business. Now for fuck's sake don't start asking her to come home and play on your Internet because chicks hate dorks and so do I and the only difference is that they won't kick you in the malesack and cram your bloated carcass into a wood chipper like I will. You gotta be smooth and sophisticated and at the same time rugged and manly like Frank Sinatra or a samurai. When I was fighting in Korea a goddamn samurai infiltrated our camp and jumped us in the middle of the night chopping shit up with swords and screaming like a witch. Then we found out it was really our CO hopped up on goofballs or some shit and Lieutenant Battenberg had to hose him down with a fire extinguisher. I hate broccoli now!!!
I think these are dogs with glasses or something.
Okay so anyway you've successfully persuaded Miss Slobbersaurus to go out on a date with you. You might think that the difficult part is now over but you'd be wrong and stupid. Now you have to figure out how to get that broad to not smack you in the mouth and call the cops on you, and believe me that is not easy. I remember the first date I went with my screaming harpy of a wife Ethel (God rot her vicious soul) to the drive-in movie theater and she wouldn't shut up through the whole movie. It was a good movie too, about cowboys shooting the crap out of Nazi astronauts or police corruption and a giant bug that attacked some guys in a submarine or something, I think it was called "The Return of Darth Dracula" or some shit like that. Anyway I ended up cramming my popcorn tub over her head to shut her up and then I spilled my whiskey on the hood after she tried to get out of the car and couldn't see where she was going and fell over. Then when I was reaching forward to get my whiskey bottle I accidentally stepped on the gas and ran over her leg and smashed into the back of the guy in front and everyone was screaming and jumping out of their cars because the people in Appleton City are all goddamn mental rejects. Fucking funniest shit ever, I tell you. I had to get the hell out of there before someone called the cops and the next day I read in the newspaper how Susan had fallen down a manhole with the popcorn tub stuck on her head and had to be pulled out with a cattle winch. Goddamn fat broad, it served her right for the time 20 years later when she dropped a cigarette in my garage and my car caught on fire and blew the roof off. And don't believe the fire report because that's how it REALLY happened and that German bulbheaded fireman guy doesn't know shit from granola. Crazyass sow, I guess it must run in the family since her son is a good-for-nothing dicktwist too.
If you ratfuck shitscrews have any goddamn sense at all, and you don't by the way, you'll stay the hell away from screwy fatass broads because one day you'll wake up to find them with their gigantic sagging butts parked on your chair and cramming their bloated faces with food out of your freezer while you work your ass off all day for the privilege of some obese hag making your life a goddamn living hell all the time. I'm tired of my Internet now so I'm going to go work on my toolshed, and DON'T SEND ME ANY ELECTRIC LETTERS OR WHATEVER THE FUCK BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO KNOW WHAT SOME INTERNET HERO JUNKWART HAS TO SAY ABOUT ANYTHING. If you send me any more Internet telegrams I swear to God I will track down your computer smash it over your malformed head and put you and the computer in an oven and then shoot the oven into space. I'm not fucking kidding. The last time I kidded was back in Vietnam and I think we all know how that ended up, so take my advice and just quit before you draw attention to yourself and make me run down to your computer house and cut off your masturbation hand and then put a knife in it and use it to cut off your other hand.
Write Something About Computers Here
Richard tells me there's something new in my armpit and I don't know what the hell he's talking about so I'll just copy it here:
Okay that didn't work, I don't know nothing about computers except that this computer machine I bought is a goddamn lemon and it starts smoking if I leave it on all night and water the plants above it, I think it hates plants. Let's see if this works
The game starts off this title: "Use Game Controller on This Level," and there is a picture of the Nintendo controller. Thank God for the cunning skill of the people working at the offices of Konami; I don’t know what I would do without them. I would've probably tried to use
Okay that kind of worked but I'm too tired to mess around with this nerd shit so you dork hordes can go piss your collective panties if you have a problem with it because frankly I don't care what you geek computer crampasses think about me.
Facebook must remain unflagging in its vigilance against titties even in these troubled times of rising fascism.
It needs to consume human tissue! It needs to speak to your manager!
Reason 9: Ongoing mechanical issues with the internal Superman 64 fog machine.
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