Aluminum Bebe Doll Head, $45. The time I didn’t waste on this post, priceless (OBO).

Diamond ice? That’s fancy and punny. I usually make my ice in ziplock bags because that’s what I learned from Martha Stewart during our brief stint as roomies in a South Texas prison. Of course, she’s classed up since then so you won’t catch her rising dirty. That’s a little maximum security bakery humor. Laugh or get shanked.

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.

Sweet Jesus, the mere production of this thing set back women’s rights like 18,000 years. And it’s only been 24 hours, but I’ve already had my butt patted, my boob grabbed and that’s just when I dropped my dad off at the airport…oh don’t worry, that just made me throw up, too.

Surprisingly, these coasters are one of the least offensive things in the Natural Disaster, God-hates-your-hedonism collection. Waaay tamer than the Exxon Valdez Oil Cruet or the Earthquake of 1908-because-it’s-too-soon-to-talk-Haiti Salt and Pepper Shakers. And that’s a fact, um, Jack.

P.S. Please send all your hate mail to Krista. Okaythanks.

I’m too lazy and busy to actually write a post, so here’s a wall lamp thing that looks like a snake. Wall snake, pants snake. Exposition. A joke about how it’s curved. Ha ha ha ha… then the part where I tell you to go fuck yourself. Well? What are you waiting for?

If you’re enough of a pansy-ass wimpster douche to have a fucking Vespa chair, then I can assure you that I’ll ride the parts of the Vespa that weren’t harvested to further craft your tired image right into your Super Hip Loft and drive straight into your stupid face while you’re sitting in that chair video chatting with your dipshit friends about being too blacked out drunk to remember the bands you saw play last night, though you did remember giving some cruster a blowjob after you found dried-up jizz in your Ikat scarf. And then you’ll die.

It’s Friday, otherwise known as the night I get hammered on white wine and throw things at men. Why? Pregnany, war and Tommy Bahama – all your fault. You might as well all be Himmler.

You know what else is hammered? This stuff. And if you think that was heavy handed, just wait until you get punched in the groin.

I’m keeping this short because I’m super busy vomiting onto my keyboard. This Coco Mirror looks like toenail clippings and even typing that makes me want to die. OH MY GOD IT’S LIKE THEY’RE IN MY MOUTH. Gag gross puke vom oh my God, ick sick my guts are wrapped around the spacebar.

via Robin, who I will forgive for this eventually