I’m in London, which means I’m typing to you from beeeeyoooooond the graaaaaaave.

Or, wait, I mean from acrooooooss the pooooooond.

blah blah

Yeah, so I pretty much just wanted to rub that in. Hey, look at this London cab decal! It’s so not the same as being here!

I’m a sucker for a gimmick. I’m also a sucker for those phishing scam emails that say that foreign dignitaries have left me their life savings. Just give you my social security number, bank account numbers, pin numbers and a copy of my birth certificate? Okay! It’s no wonder I’ve lost all of my life savings and I’m living in a cardboard box behind a Best Buy in Del Rio! Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because I can surely panhandle the $8.50 it takes to buy this pathetically gimmicky spaghetti measure that I spent ten minutes playing with at the grocery store last week. Especially if I flash my boobs and hide my rampant case of gingivitis.

Listen, if you want to eat food from something that looks like it came out of your nose, I suggest you skip the middleman and just regress to the time when you used to eat boogers. Otherwise known as “earlier this morning.”

This Monster Party looks like a total snooze-fest. Lemme guess: you’re playing Band of Horses songs on that fucking ukulele. I love a Monster Party as much as the next guy, but I prefer loads of booze, a medicine cabinet full of pills, and some drunk nineteen-year-old monster slut flashing her multiple set of tits.

Wall-Mount Test Tube Vases? More like Wall-Mount Condom Vases. I can’t help it: when I look at these I see condoms. Also, when I look at hot dogs, I see penises, when I look at coin purses, I see vaginas, when I look at apples and oranges, I see butts and boobs, and when I look at Oprah, I see hope for humanity. What? I may be a pervert, but I’m still a woman!

Oh boy, this came from Oh Joy!

The Como Sofa looks like a row of teeth, so it’s no wonder it eats change! Get it? Eats change? Because it’s like teeth? In a mouth? Like the mouth of that high-dollar hooker you’re boning during your lunchbreak on said couch after your wife saved up for months to buy it? Where the frantic half-removal of your business casual Brooks Brothers pants shook the change out of your pockets and into the cushions? The couch where she’s going to make you sleep for nine months when she finds lipstick on your collar and herpes on your dick? Before stabbing you to death in a fit of rage after a restless night filled with nightmares of renewing your vows, only to have that slut stand up and give you a bj when the minister says, “Speak now or forever hold your peace”?

Yeah, it’s nice right? I think you should buy one.

slutty, slutty slut pants

via Breathe Modern

This is a good idea in theory, but the book choice is totally wrong. See, in Texas, you’re issued a flask at birth, so there’s never any need to hide it. The hospital puts it in a care package with your six-shooter, your future trophy wife and your inflated ego. Then they wrap you up in swaddling chaps, plop you in your Mama’s arms, and send you out into the big, bad world to flourish, secede, and die early of barbeque sauce-related heart disease.

Oh, Christ. I got Scabies just looking at this Comb Over Rug. Why would you want to envelop yourself in feet and dirt and errant pubes and nail clippings (Gaaghgh accchhh glaaaagh) and scab flakes and crumbs of every variety?

What I’m saying is, you lay down on that rug looking like this:

And you get up looking like this:

Not only are you a greasy, flaccid loser, but I can smell your dick cheese from here.

The only thing I have in common with the owner of this dry erase clock is that we both spend time vibrating at 4:00, if you know what I mean. (I mean masturbating). But instead of dreaming, loving and all that crap, my daily breakdown looks like this:

12:00 – Drunk Driving

1:00 – Raping

2:00 – Arson

3:00 – Reflecting on My General Awesomeness

4:00 – Vibrating (wink, wink)

5:00 – Buying Myself Gifts

6:00 – Gazing at Myself in the Mirror

7:00 – Judging Others

8:00 – Pillaging

9:00 – Vehicular Manslaughter

10:00 – Naptime

11:00 – Body Shots

My days are clearly pretty full. Speaking of which, I gotta run. It’s past Rape :45 and I’m late for an “appointment.”

The holes on the Amen Salt and Pepper Shakers are totally the nail holes from Jesus’ crucifiction, right? Wow, that’s pretty fucked up.  I know for a fact that blood makes salt clumpy because  I’m really good at pouring salt in people’s wounds. And I don’t mean that as a metaphor… I used to work for the KGB.