What Happens to Boys Instead of the Giggles
Have fun at the pub, bitch. The extent of my social life is telling the clerk I've got the two pennies to make even change for my pack of starbursts. I can't even get a second glance from the underage skanks buying twelve packs of 3.2. Coors at the Kwik Shop. The only thing of-age about these girls is their cold sores.
Swat a monster mosquito for you? These damn things are so built that if you got one in a strapless dress she'd be prom queen. One guy trapped one underneath the hood of his 78 Pinto and is out every night drag racing the El Caminos downtown. Three of the top Tour de France riders now disqualified? It's not the doping; they're actually mosquitos.
This is the comment I left Galen on his blog. I imagine it will leave him properly chastened.
Wait. Don't run...
We're here to help you. You see, we know that these very annoying, seemingly endless, and completely incosequential quiz postings are a MOTHERFUCKING CRY FOR HELP. Now, now, you know that denial is the first stage, then comes resentment, and then acceptance. Galen, you have a problem. And that's ok. We're all human. We're not all shamefully addicted to meaningless internet quizes, trying to validate our pathetic existence by allowing a computer program designed by a 13 year old girl named Brandi to tell us what kind of unicorn we are, like you, but we all have our problems. Mine is this condescending tone. It's the biscuits to my gravy. But this isn't about me. This is about you, and the juvenile, simpering, emotionally masterbatory habit you've developed for telling us what color your inner kitten is: "Pink with baby-blue tips." As interesting as that is, are there perhaps better ways of communicating, are there not? I thought so. See, we're making progress already.
Now cut it out or this intervention will turn into inter-nal bleeding. Ow! My wit's so sharp I got razor burn!
Hm. Maybe this solitary life is getting to me.